Ferox nodded. In the past he had found Acco to be well informed.
‘They will have a hard fight. We will see whether we can help them, but we must come by another path.’
‘There is a place where the cliffs can be climbed,’ Brigita explained. ‘I climbed it once when I was training. It was hard, but I reached the very top of their stronghold, where it reaches a peak.
‘Cniva and all his kind must die,’ the ‘mother’ said. ‘Brigita tells me that you are a warrior of renown. She says that you fight well, if a little crudely.’ Thank you kindly, Ferox thought, and wondered whether that was the mark of a good soldier. ‘My children are the best of many tribes. A few have fought and killed. Most have not. I teach them to fight alone. Today, you must lead them. Will you do that?’
Ferox looked around him at the young faces, most of all Bran, who had for the moment given up trying to sneak glances at the brown-haired girl in the hope that her cloak had slipped open to reveal her bare torso. He wondered what Acco and Brigita had said about him. It seemed mere chance that had brought him and the others here, and yet the druid had spoken of a purpose and a task ahead of him. There would be fourteen of them, for he could not count Bran and somehow sensed that the mother, for all her skill, would not fight.
Fourteen was not many, even if they managed to climb this cliff and get inside the stronghold. They might be able to help the main assault, or they might be surrounded and slaughtered if the attack bogged down or failed.
‘Give me my sword,’ he said.
XXVI
THE STRONGHOLD LAY on a narrow headland on the north side of the bay. Its two stone ramparts crossed from shore to shore. The first was about fifteen feet high, including a simple four-foot-high stone parapet. A ditch ran in front of it, filled with a dribble of water, which would make it slippery if nothing else. The first wall had an open entrance near the sea on the left, which the pirates had blocked with a small wagon piled up with sacks and barrels. Behind the first line the land climbed, and added to the height of the second rampart, where the stone was reinforced with timber and topped by a wooden parapet, much like the one at Vindolanda or any other army base. A man on the second wall could easily throw missiles down onto the first or into the ditch in between them, but it would be much harder to shoot back at them. The main gate was on the right, protected by a tower. Inside were houses, arranged without much sense of order, and the ground rose as it narrowed. A single house stood inside a wicker fence at the end of the promontory, looking down over the bluffs.
Around the anchorage there were a dozen or more houses, a mix of the round native type and low rectangular huts were dotted around the open country, but all were empty by the time the Romans landed. The pirates left behind a small merchant ship drawn up on the sand, a few scant possessions in the buildings, and the smoking hulk of a trireme, burned almost down to the waterline. The glow of its fiery end had guided the convoy to the harbour. It seemed a strange gesture, and Crispinus wondered whether it was meant to show that the pirates would fight to the end because they had chosen not to escape. He saw no sign of unexpected allies eager to help.
‘You reckon at least one hundred and fifty fighters?’ Crispinus had already asked the question several times.
‘At least that, my lord, and probably a good few more.’ Vindex gave the same answer. ‘We may not have seen their whole strength. A good few are dead or won’t be fighting anyone for a while.’ The Brigantian had arrived as they were landing, accompanied by a Batavian, both of them shouting that they were friends to avoid being mistaken for Usipi. He had told them about the fight at the tower, and of Ferox’s plan to burn Cniva’s warship.
‘But he didn’t get near it. The Red Cat says they met a band of warriors who took the centurion and the others away. The ship was already burning. He reckoned that the warriors may have done it, but could not say for sure. They all left by boat after that.’
Crispinus was not inclined to count on help from mysterious allies, and preferred to believe that the pirates had made a grand gesture of their own. They certainly looked determined enough. He was three hundred paces from the outer rampart and he could see it lined with dark figures carrying black shields.
‘Say two hundred or so,’ Aelius Brocchus concluded, ‘along with women and others who can throw or drop rocks if they cannot swing a sword.’ If the cavalry prefect resented the presence of the military tribune, he did not show it. Crispinus had travelled back quickly from Hibernia, and by luck as much as the shipmaster’s judgement had sighted Brocchus and his ships already at sea and joined them. In spite of his youth he was senior, so assumed command of the expedition. A victory here would do much to round off his first spell with the army, adding to his earlier achievements and the promised corona civica.
Cerialis had gone with thirty Batavians to secure the tower and his lady. They had found a small cart by the houses, and the men dragged this along to help carry the wounded. That was more than an hour ago, and they ought to return before too long.
‘No archers, you say?’ Brocchus said.
‘A couple,’ Vindex said. ‘But not that good.’
‘Slings?’
‘None we saw.’
‘Good,’ the prefect said. ‘So javelins will be the big danger, and stones thrown by hand. He turned to one of the centurions commanding a trireme. ‘Are the ladders long enough?’
‘Should be, my lord. I cannot see how deep the ditch is behind the first wall, though. If it drops a lot, then they may not reach.’ They had brought four ladders with them, each a little over twenty feet long, for Brocchus had guessed that the pirates’ lair was likely to have some sort of stronghold. He wished now that he had brought more. Men had been sent to scour the buildings, but there were no timbers long enough to be made into ladders. The sailors had produced ropes with grapnels on the end, but he doubted that anyone other than the ships’ crews would have the skill to climb them.
Over half their force was from the classis Britannica, which was good in many ways because their life made them strong. Forty were marines, each man with a helmet, mail, sword, long hexagonal shield and a javelin. There were also two hundred and fifty rowers, apart from the men who remained on board the ships, but these sailors lacked body armour, and only about half had a helmet and a shield. The rest were set to entrenching a position around the beach. It might be useful, especially if they failed to break into the fort on the first day. Yet the sailors were nervous, saying that they feared a fresh storm coming in. It would be better if they could win quickly.
Brocchus had brought a hundred legionaries from II Augusta. They were picked men, all from the first cohort, with many six feet or more, tall and all experienced. Two centurions commanded them, both sound men, and Crispinus knew that these were the heart of his force, although he also had a good deal of confidence in the Batavians. Brocchus had brought fifty infantrymen under a centurion from cohors VIIII and there were also thirty of the troopers who had accompanied him to Hibernia. Cavalrymen were never keen on fighting dismounted, but anyone could sense the hatred all of them felt towards this enemy. One advantage was the detachment of twenty archers, reinforced by sailors with half a dozen of the smallest engines used by the army, little bolt-shooters. If pressed they were light enough to be carried and operated by one man, but the sailors worked in teams of two, which was more efficient, and had a third and a fourth man carrying baskets of bolts.
Crispinus summoned the officers to a consilium. He was relieved that the pirates were not choosing to make a stand outside the ramparts. Although they would be driven back in time, it would cause delay, wear his men out, and he doubted that this Cniva would be foolish enough to be lured forward and destroyed in the open.
Cerialis rode up as they were gathering. They had brought only a single horse, and the tribune had given it to the prefect to speed him as he went to find his wife.
‘I trust the Lady Sulpicia is safe, my dear Cerialis,’ the tribune said, doing his best
to make it sound like no more than a polite question about someone’s health.
‘Indeed she is, my lord,’ the prefect replied, ‘but now that I have seen her, I would not wish to miss the kill. I have a good deal to pay back.’
‘Of course, of course. Well, your Batavians will form in the centre, and be the first to attack,’ Crispinus informed them. The infantry would lead, supported by the archers, and with the dismounted troopers in reserve. A second column would form on their right, led by the marines, supported by one hundred sailors as well as the bolt-shooters. Each of these columns would be given two of the precious ladders. The legionaries were placed on the left, closest to the gate in the outer wall. Half, under the junior of their centurions, would be ready to advance, with the remainder following as reserve under the command of the hastatus of the legion, Julius Tertullianus.
‘You are to wait for my signal, my dear Tertullianus.’ Crispinus was more than usually courteous, for the centurions of the first cohort were men whose opinion mattered. Tertullianus was in his early thirties, a thickset man with a bull neck, the iron shoulder bands of his segmented cuirass making him look almost square. Crispinus found himself thinking of coins of Mark Antony, for there was the same flat nose and face, giving off a sense of brooding anger. Tertullianus was young for a man of his rank, suggesting at friends in high places as well as considerable talent, and he was the choice of the legate. All of this made a display of trust in him prudent.
‘I intend to hold the legionaries back a little,’ the tribune went on. ‘We may take the first wall without their assistance.’ The senior centurion’s face was rigid. He looked angry, and that was his natural expression, but Crispinus also sensed doubt. ‘The second wall will be far harder, because it is difficult for us to approach it. I suspect that your men will lead that assault, but I am not yet sure whether to send you against the gate or part of the wall itself.’ He tried to read the impassive face, wondering whether the centurion thought this all too vague. The tribune turned to Brocchus. ‘Any luck finding material to burn the gates?’
‘Not much. It’s too early for the heather to be any use. We have stripped some thatch from the houses, and filled all the sacks we have. Tied up a few bundles of branches as well, but it is not a lot.’
‘Well, it may serve, and we shall have torches ready to light it if the chance occurs. Otherwise, it will be down to your axemen, Festus.’ This was to the centurion in command of his ship. Half a dozen burly sailors would carry axes and picks ready to hack through the gates.
‘We shall cover you like a roof,’ Tertullianus said. Even though he ought to be prepared for it by now, Crispinus still struggled not to smile at the high, squeaking voice coming from the mouth of so formidable a man. ‘The Capricorns will protect them.’ Formed by the Divine Augustus, the legion had his capricorn symbol on their shields.
‘Yes, you can rely on us,’ Crispinus added, for he was tribune of II Augusta and it never did any harm to flatter the pride of a unit.
The plan was a fairly simple one, and yet once again Crispinus was surprised at how long it took for the various parts of his tiny army to form up in position. Brocchus was busy, guiding the leaders to the right places, urging the men on and joking with them. Crispinus admired the courage of the troops, for he had seen men much like these fight and win against heavy odds, but they remained strangers to him. He would have liked to make them laugh and show how much he trusted them in the way the prefect seemed to find so easy. Yet he did not know how, and in the past when he had tried it had sounded stilted and been met with silence.
Crispinus stared at the fort instead. Now that Cerialis was back, the tribune had mounted their lone horse. He told the trumpeter and the man carrying the red vexillum with the golden embroidered figure of a Victory to stay there, while he rode a little closer to the fort. There were black-clad warriors along the first rampart. He counted fifty or so and wondered whether more were hidden. More of the enemy were visible on the second, higher rampart. At first they were silent, but when he came within one hundred paces a few started to yell.
‘Boy-lover!’
Vindex had spoken of a couple of archers, and the tribune hoped that they were as unskilled as he claimed or saving their arrows for the real assault. He rode on, gripping his sword tight in case he dropped it in his nervousness.
‘Come here, sonny, and I’ll give it to you up the arse!’
The tribune rode closer, back straight and head erect. A muscle in his thigh gave a spasm of cramping pain, and he tried to ignore it. He was seventy-five paces from the wall, and the faces along the rampart were distinct. He saw plenty of older men, most with beards, and a few younger ones. At the moment they were all bare-headed, no doubt waiting until just before the fight to don heavy and uncomfortable helmets.
‘Hey, I think he’s in love with me!’ one of them shouted, and there was a roar of laughter.
Crispinus kept going, knowing that at this range even a bad archer would struggle to miss. He was still not quite sure why he was doing this, and he imagined Ferox’s scorn at the gesture. That made him wonder where the centurion was, for the man was surely out there somewhere, and unlikely to sit out a fight unless he was held captive. Crispinus did not know, but wished the grim centurion was here, because he so often came up with a clever idea. The tribune could not think of one, so he must attack straight into the face of the defences and trust to his men to win.
At fifty paces he reined in.
‘Looks like you’ve upset the pansy!’
‘Probably smelt you and changed his mind!’
‘Oh love, come to me.’
Crispinus ignored the taunts and the laughter, and the man who thrust his bare bottom over the top of the parapet. He waited, his thigh twitching and sweat on the palm of his hand where he gripped the bone handle. At last there was silence.
‘In the name of the Lord Trajan, three times consul and master of the world,’ he began.
‘Reckon they’re surrendering,’ someone shouted.
‘Well, tell them to piss off!’ another yelled.
‘You have broken your sacramentum.’ Crispinus knew that he still had much to learn to reach the highest levels of oratory, but his was a trained voice and he made it carry without seeming to shout. ‘That oath is to the emperor and to Rome. You have broken it and committed horrible crimes.’
‘We have, sonny.’ No one on the wall laughed this time.
‘By order of the emperor, every man in this place is condemned to death. That sentence will be carried out today.’
There was silence, apart from the heavy breathing of the horse. Then Crispinus felt the animal’s spine twitch. Its tail went up and he heard the heavy smacks as the steaming droppings fell to the ground. There was nothing he could do, so he tried to make the best of it. Keeping the back legs where they were and holding the reins tight, he kicked the horse on the side to make it turn on the spot. Once it was round he pointed the tip of his sword at the dark brown pile.
‘Your lives are worth no more than that!’ This time he did shout, and the sound echoed back at him. He spat, hoping that the whole vulgar display might work for his audience. A javelin was flung from the wall, but the range was absurdly long and it fell short.
‘Coward!’ a voice yelled. ‘Come back and fight me man to man.’
Crispinus ignored him and rode back to his men. A canter would have looked like nervousness, but he let the animal trot because he could imagine the archers coming to the wall and sighting along the line of their shafts. He waited, feeling his back tense underneath the armour as he imagined a hissing arrow flying straight at him. None came. As he got close the sailors and marines started to cheer. The Batavians took up the shout, banging the shafts of their spears against the rims of their shields. The legionaries were silent, but they were further away and kept under tighter discipline.
Aelius Brocchus nodded to him as he returned to the vexillum that marked the position of the commander. No other stan
dards were carried by the force. Crispinus decided to take the gesture as one of approval, although it was hard to tell for he could be a stern man. Lucius Ovidius showed no such restraint, and the tribune was surprised to see him there, along with others from the tower.
‘Very bold,’ the old man said cheerfully. ‘But a word of warning, though, as a man of letters – if you ever put all this to verse, I’d skip the part about the horse shit.’ Ovidius noticed that Sulpicia Lepidina was walking over, and immediately reddened, nervous that she had heard his vulgarity.
‘My lady, it is a joy to see you safe and well,’ Crispinus said, and meant it. The prefect’s wife cut an uncommonly fine figure in her simple peasant dress. Crispinus suspected that on his return to Rome in a year or so his father would insist that he marry, and at the moment he felt he could not wish for more than a younger version of this lady – or at least one from a family less heavily in debt. He was surprised that this prudent thought made him feel a pang of guilt, and decided to avoid a conversation. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, we must set to our duty. Perhaps the noble Ovidius will escort you to a place of safety?’
‘Of course,’ he said, while the lady gave a slight incline of her head.
‘My dear Brocchus, would you be kind enough to tell Cerialis that he may advance when ready.’ The prefect jogged the twenty yards to give the order, and Crispinus wondered whether he ought to have sent a simple soldier as messenger. Yet he had not thought to keep more than the trumpeter and vexillarius with him. He noticed the one-eyed Batavian and a couple of other troopers with the lady. ‘You and you.’ He pointed to the veteran and one other. ‘Come here. You will serve as runners.’
‘Sir.’ The one-eyed soldier had a hard gaze and the tribune was not sure whether the man resented being given the order. After all, they had fought and barely lived through a very tough fight in the last days, so could well feel that they had played their part. Crispinus looked around for Vindex, wanting to add him to his followers as well, but he could not see the scout so gave up the idea.
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