He bought wine. It was the custom.
In that same month, Lucius wrote to Menities in Rome informing him that he had now made a study of all the engineering books he had been sent and reached the fullest understanding of them that he could.
August came and with it the harvest. The farmers who had held their nerves took a rich yield from their own fields as well as those of their neighbours who had left immediately after the meeting with Quadratus. The legion quartermaster bought all they had to offer A few days later, a convoy of farm carts loaded with tools, wives and children lumbered past the camp heading towards Gaul and the hopes of a new start. Only three went back to their homesteads. The camp-followers’ settlement shrank, day after day. Most of the hucksters, tavern-keepers and brothel-owners drifted away leaving squares of bare earth where their huts and tents had stood for years. No itinerant pedlars arrived at the camp gates anymore.
There had been no more skirmishes than usual, the scouts had not reported any suspicious activity and yet everyone felt war was creeping up on them like a beast ready to pounce. This belief was confirmed by a despatch from the general’s aide-de-camp ordering all cavalry other than the minimum needed for scouting duties to report to army headquarters. The reason given was that increased enemy activity was threatening supply lines and protective measures were an urgent requirement. Quadratus called an officers’ meeting and gave them the news.
“One turma under the command of Principal Decurion Otto Longius will remain,” the legate said. He saw Otto mouth opening to protest and quickly silenced him. “Decurion, be quiet, my decision is made.”
“Permission to take Decanus Martellus and his apprentice with us, sir. I trust no man more with the care of horses,” Aldermar requested.
“His apprentice?” Quadratus said.
“The boy Passer, sir. Tribune Longius’ freed man. Uncle Martellus says he’s learning his trade well and is a considerable help.”
“As you wish and gods with you until we meet again, Prefect Aldermar.”
Titus Attius stood in the almost empty stables with a group of defaulters lined up behind him. He took a deep breath.
“Stinks of horse shit. But when you lads have scrubbed it out for me, it will be as sweet as a rose garden.”
“But sir,” one of them protested, “there’s still going to be thirty odd horses in here.”
“A faint aroma will be acceptable. Get on with it.”
The week after Aldermar’s horsemen had left, Lucius received an order to join to the Engineer General’s staff at headquarters.
“It seems the General and our Emperor are determined to deplete my forces without me having any say in the matter,” Quadratus commented on being shown the written command.
“The Emperor, sir?” Lucius asked.
“Oh, don’t be dim, Boxer. You write to Menities confirming you have studied the manuals he sent you and a few weeks later, the Engineer General requires you on his staff. The timing tells you everything. Menities showed your letter to Augustus and he wrote to headquarters recommending you. A recommendation from the Emperor is a command. I wish you good fortune and have every confidence you will make a fine senior artillery and engineering officer to make The Second Lucan proud. When are you thinking of leaving?”
“The orders don’t say, sir.”
“In the army that means as soon as possible or yesterday. It’s the first of September tomorrow, sort out what you have to with Cestus Valens and say your goodbyes. Start out the day after.”
Although their duties had meant they spent less time in each other’s company, neither Lucius not Otto had imagined that they would be separated. They were both in low spirits as Lucius began to pack up his belongings; even Felix had stopped whistling.
Cestus Valens had been thrilled. He felt that his young protégé deserved recognition and said so. His pleasure was genuine with no taint of jealousy. He was dyed-in the-wool Second Lucan and would have put in his papers and resigned rather than accept a transfer.
A gentle south-west breeze had blown all that day of the first of September. The Rhine was flowing cold as ever, fed by the last of the summer-melt of glaciers high in the mountains to the east. When the warm, moist air moved over the river, a dense fog bank rose high above it. As the afternoon wore on, it thickened. When the breeze dropped, it flowed outwards to cover most of the tilled farmlands in a dense white cloud. The sun sank early into the white mist and darkness came.
Chapter 3
The sentry over the Porta Praetoria squinted his eyes trying to make sense of what he had glimpsed when the fog had momentarily thinned. It might have been a faint yellow glow in the heart of the white wall over the river, solid-looking in the moonlight, but he could not be sure. Now, he could see nothing. “Trick of the light”, he thought. It was easy to be deceived on night-watch. Tree-stumps resembled crouching men and shivering leaves, spear points. The fog shifted once more. The glow was orange now and he realised what he was seeing. His throat constricted in fear. All he could hear was the hammering of his heart. He stood, frozen, unable to drag his eyes away. At last he shook his head and roared out “Alarm! Alarm!”
Boots thudded up the steps.
“What is it soldier?” a voice demanded.
He pointed with his javelin.
“There, sir, the signal beacon.”
The optio who had been first to respond stood beside him staring out. He could see nothing and was about to reprimand the sentry when an orange flower flared briefly before being hidden from view once more.
“Gods with us now,” he muttered then took up the cry of “Alarm!”.
Whistles blew, calls to arms blared out of the brass throats of horns. Men tumbled out onto the parade ground tightening buckles and freeing swords in their scabbards, javelins clattered, boots thudded. Everywhere was a tumult of noise and a mass of running men. It looked like panicked confusion but it was not. Each man had his place and his duties. They were well-drilled and knew exactly where to go and what to do. Within a few minutes relative calm was restored. The senior officers, helmeted and in full armour, stood where the sentry had hesitated such a short time ago, staring out at a band of white reaching hundreds of feet up into the starlit sky and from which occasional flashes of fire glared.
The optio commanding the forward position hated two things above all; ice and fog. It was always possible that they would be swamped by hundreds of thousands of Germans if the Rhine froze over. That had not happened yet. However, mist coming off the river was a regular occurrence but not usually as thick as this. He had the authority to remove the planks from the bridge if hostile forces were massing to cross but he could see none. He looked across the narrow compound at his men. They seemed as unnerved by the lack of visibility as he was. He walked over to them.
“Lads, I don’t like this, so let’s do what we can.”
The stronghold had two gates, one facing the river, the other the camp. He ordered both opened. Then he and three others stamped some earthenware cups and bowls into small pieces under their hob-nailed boots. They used a cloak as a sack and carried them fifty paces out on the bridge where they spread the broken crocks on the footway over a distance of several feet. He returned and gave his orders.
“I’m going to stand outside the front gate and listen. If I hear something, I’ll run back in. You and you; stand by the gate. As soon as I’m through, get it shut and fall in with the others. You two, get some fresh oil on the beacon now and find yourselves a good flint and steel. Light it as soon the gate closes, get down and form up. We shall then double-time it for the camp. I know we can’t see fuck-all in this mist but there’s a well-worn path, look down at your feet from time to time and we won’t get lost. Now, does everyone understand? Say if you don’t because if we have to do this, it’ll be in total silence. Any questions? Right, to your places, boys. No talking, not even a whisper and try not to make a noise with your kit. Fortuna with us this night.”
He removed his helm
et to prevent the sidepieces muffling his hearing and stood listening in the gloom. He leaned forward supporting himself on his vine-staff and closed his eyes. At first there was nothing but silence then his ears attuned themselves. The gurgling of the river came to him, the splash as a small wave broke on one of the piles, the creaking of the timbers. A night-bird flew close overhead making him start. Time crawled and as it passed, achingly slowly, his sense of dread increased. He was certain a malevolent force was out there, creeping inexorably nearer with murder in its heart. Two hours went by, three and then he heard the smallest sound. It could have been the noise of someone breaking a biscuit. It was repeated, repeated again. Someone was crunching the pottery shards on the bridge as he approached. He caught what might have been a muffled curse and a whispered order urging someone onward.
He turned and strode quickly into the fort. It would not do for the men to see him run. Then another sound arose. The unmistakable thump of a paddle striking the side of a canoe. They were coming. The gate swung shut behind him and the locking bar dropped into place. Sparks crackled off flints and a fiery bloom grew out of the beacon. He walked swiftly to the head of his men standing ready in two files and doubled out into the fog. The lack of visibility that had allowed the enemy to come up on them unseen now came to the aid of the retreating Romans. The invaders, he still did not know if they were there in any numbers, could not see them retreating. They all heard banging and thumping behind them as the closed gate of their fortress was attacked. Then silence followed by howls of rage as the enemy saw the beacon flaring up.
They marched at their quickest pace enveloped above, in front and behind in a wet, white blanket. Drops of moisture glistened on their helmets and armour, their faces soaked as if with sweat. They were aware of sporadic movement around them; a wave of colder air as some unseen presence caused an eddy with their passing, the padding of running feet, the clack of a spear shaft against a stone but the all-encompassing fog also distorted sound. They were isolated in a blank nightmare. A spear point came from nowhere and smashed into a legionary’s shield. He staggered but automatically thrust with his javelin. An anguished face loomed into sight and then was gone with a shrill cry.
The optio suddenly noticed that he was no longer on the path. It was difficult enough to keep up the pace without either slamming into the man in front or being left behind; to have lost the straight line between the signal beacon and the camp was a disaster. He veered slightly left for ten paces looking down at his feet but seeing only grass. He moved to his right for ten paces and felt harder ground under his right boot. Two paces more and they were back on the path.
Without any warning, they burst out into bright moonlight fifty yards from the bridge over Lucius’ new ditch.
“Run!” the optio roared. The men responded without thinking.
Figures were sliding out of the fog like ghosts passing through a wall. Lightly armoured or wearing only skins, then loped towards the small group of Romans, converging on them like wolves on a flock of sheep. Some fell suddenly with a scream as they stumbled into one of the shallow traps and a foot was spiked through. But on they came. The first spears were thrown, one hitting a legionary in the thigh. He cursed and stumbled then pulled out the spear blade.
“Halt,” the optio shouted when they reached the bridge. “About face. Close up, double rank and prepare to receive the enemy.”
Ten men with an equal number of comrades behind them formed their line, crouched and waited. The soldier who had been hit was bleeding heavily but on his feet and ready to fight as best he could before the strength drained from him. Scores of warriors were now converging on them. They should have leaped the ditch and cut them off but, as Quadratus had predicted, the bridge drew them like a magnet.
“First Spear Centurion Attius, time to act I believe, the legate said calmly from his vantage point over the gate.
Attius turned his back to the parapet and roared down at the troops ready on the parade ground.
“First cohort, century one out of the gate to the left, century two to the right. At the double to the rescue. of our lads, and don’t get out-flanked. Throw open the gate! Boxer! Take one century and smash down your sluice gate. Corvo, get your men up here in support!”
The men on the bridge were heavily engaged. In spite of their efforts to hold their ground, the sheer weight of the mass of yelling, blood-thirsty warriors thrusting and hacking at them was pushing them back. But their line held and their short swords struck out again and again, momentarily relieving the pressure. Then their optio heard the sweetest sound of his life. The gates behind him had been flung open and the jingle of armoured men on the move came to his ears.
“One two! One two!” the centurions of the first cohort shouted, keeping their men in step. They did not rush but kept to a fast jog from which they could quickly deploy. They did not have much ground to cover and soon the isolated group of men who had fled through the fog were supported on either side by a triple rank of comrades.
Lucius had planned in advance for the destruction of the sluice gate. Two of his strongest artillerymen ran with him and his century carrying crowbars and two lengths of thick rope with loops spliced into one end.. The sluice gate had been simply constructed by driving a wooden pile into the ground either side of the ditch and nailing horizontal boards across them. It was crude but effective. Protected by the shields of the legionaries, Lucius and his men looped a rope over each pile and, while as many soldiers as could be spared pulled on them, the two artillerymen prised the planks away. Nothing seemed to happen at first. Lucius saw that a straight pull would not do it.
“Haul and release lads, on my count, haul and release; and one and two, and one and two!”
As the boards were levered away, one of the supports canted sideways and broke free. The bottom of the ditch had been dug deeper than the stream bed. Water flowed in, pushing the last of the battered woodwork aside. It did not come in a roaring flood but steadily reached its level and began to fill the length of the ditch.
Whistles blew, centurions shouted and the Romans began an orderly withdrawal into the safety of their camp. The triple rank became a quadruple one as the legionaries shortened their line. They formed an almost solid phalanx as they began to filter back in. The two centurions of the first cohort made sure that they were the last men to step through the narrowing gap as the gates closed and the locking bar dropped. Hundreds of the enemy were now clustered where the fighting had been hottest, howling threats and curses. They had made a grave error. A hail of sling bullets and arrows smashed them down in their scores and soon they were sprinting back towards the river, desperate to get out of range.
The soldier who had been speared had somehow hobbled back to safety before fainting. He was carried to the infirmary where his wound was staunched and stitched. The medical officer ordered him to drink red-wine gruel and eat some sliced, raw liver to restore his blood.
“If you live through the night, you’ll be fit for light duties in three days,” he told the waxen-faced man on the palliasse to cheer him up.
Quadratus heard the report of the signal party’s optio.
“You have shown ingenuity, initiative and courage. I award you an exemplary service silver medal to be attached to your armour. Well done, optio. Dismiss and get some food and rest.”
The legate called Lucius to walk up to his position over the gate with him. They leaned on the parapet looking out over a plain starkly differentiated between light and dark in the moonlight. Another fire flared up, closer, then more.
“They are burning the farmhouses and barns,” Quadratus said. “Stupid; why deny yourself shelter? It appears that you will not be leaving us quite yet, Boxer; can’t be helped.”
They went to their quarters. Lucius was woken out of a fitful sleep in the early hours by screaming and a stench of burning. The marauders had worked their way round to the remnants of the camp-followers’ settlement, slaughtered the inhabitants and put it to the torch. Whe
n dawn came, the sentries on the southern wall could see groups of naked bodies spread out for miles; the final resting places of the few who had tried to flee at the last minute. The first ravens were already picking over the choicest morsels.
The fog had melted away overnight. The signal beacon and the charred wreckage of the homesteads joined their smoke with the cooking fires of the enemy now encamped along the river. The bank was thick with tents, rough shelters and high-wheeled wagons on both sides of the Rhine bridge as far as the eye could see. Men and some women and children wandered around the area casually beginning their daily tasks. The fort at the bridgehead had not been destroyed; there were warriors in helmets and armour passing in and out of the gate facing the camp. Quadratus and Attius had taken a look at first light.
“More than ten thousand would you say, Titus?” the legate asked.
“Yes, definitely.”
“More than fifteen thousand”
“I should say not. I estimate nearer to fifteen than ten, but a serious number, alright.”
“Indeed; it looks like they have established their headquarters in the fort. I do not like that; it shows some tactical awareness. I think we shall need to have our wits about us.”
Titus Attius was cheerfully demolishing a huge breakfast when Lucius entered the praetorium. The outer office was now the officer’s mess. The clerks had been armed and sent on active service as stretcher-bearers, cooks’ helpers or wherever they may be useful. Only the legate’s two personal scribes remained.
Titus was in a cheerful mood. He had placed his sentries, arranged rotas for eating and sleeping. For now, there was nothing more he could do.
“Got to keep your strength up Boxer, that’s the main thing. Have you seen your ditch this morning? Plenty of water in it along its full length. Good idea of yours, that was.”
“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Lucius asked.
“Like what? It’s up to our uninvited guests to make the first move. Very boring, sieges; lots of waiting around and then bloody mayhem. That’s why it’s important to eat when you can. Care to join me?”
Knight of Rome Part II Page 4