The Encircling Sea

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  A low rumbling shout began, making the horse spin around to see what had caused it. The Batavians had begun the barritus, shields raised high in front of their mouths so that the sound reverberated. There were only eighty voices, and they began quietly, letting the sound rise like waves washing against the shore. The horse’s ears twitched, and the sound took the tribune back to the campaign against the Stallion. There was something unearthly about the noise, as it grew stronger and stronger. The Harii and Usipi were Germans as well, but no answering challenge came from the fort.

  ‘It’s all right, girl.’ Crispinus spoke softly to the horse as the shout reached its crescendo and ended with a bellow of sheer fury.

  ‘Silence!’ Flavius Crescens, the centurion leading the Batavians shouted the command in a clear voice. ‘Listen for the orders. Keep in formation. Forward march!’ Six soldiers carried each ladder, and the remaining thirty-six followed them in a column four abreast, the centurion at the head and the optio bringing up the rear. The archers scattered and jogged ahead of them. Cerialis waited for a short time, and then led his troopers in support.

  There was silence apart from the rhythmical rattles and thump of armoured men marching in step. The field was flat, the thin grass short, and the men kept in their formation without difficulty. Crispinus was behind and to their right, so he could not see the red symbols on their green oval shields, but the dark hair-like moss stuck to the tops of their helmets gave the infantrymen an oddly drab look. At this distance, the bear and other animal fur glued to the helmets of the troopers looked little better.

  When they were a hundred and fifty paces away, a great cheer went up from the fort. Cow horns blew and there was the shrill sound of dozens of whistles. One of the archers stopped and loosed, the arrow striking the stone parapet and bouncing back. The duplicarius in charge of the auxiliary bowmen cursed the man and told him to wait until they were closer.

  Crispinus turned to Longinus. ‘Tell the fleet to attack,’ he said, and the lean veteran loped off towards the marines and sailors. They sent up a great whoop when the order came, and banged weapons against shields as they advanced. All of the marines were in a block, ten broad and four deep, and the lines were soon a little ragged in spite of the pounding of shafts against the rims of their hexagonal shields. These were painted blue, with white tridents pointing from the top and bottom edge towards the central boss. Their mail cuirasses were covered with blue-grey over-tunics, so that only their bronze helmets glinted in the sun. Sailors carried the ladders, and the teams of men with each of the hand-held bolt-shooters spread out on either side. Other men ran forward, clutching javelins.

  The legionaries had not moved and stood in silence as if on parade, formed in two rectangles, the rear one echeloned back to the right. Crispinus glanced over to them, but felt no worry that they would surge into the attack before he gave the order. Tertullianus stood at the head of the leading formation, and that made the tribune wonder whether he intended to lead from the front and not stay with the reserves. After a while he decided that it was better to let the man do what he wished rather than send a fussy order to check that he understood his instructions. The burly man with the high-pitched voice had been decorated for service on the frontier in Egypt, as well as during Domitian’s wars against the Germans, so he knew what to do.

  ‘Hah!’ Aelius Brocchus slapped his thigh with delight, and Crispinus realised that the archers were starting to shoot. ‘Got the swine right in the face,’ the prefect explained. His relish was surprising, for he had always struck Crispinus as a calm, even mild man. Then he remembered the raid on Alauna, that these men had threatened the prefect’s family and abducted his friends. Crispinus could sense that same hatred in all ranks. It would spur them on, but he must be careful not to lose control.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s take a closer look.’ The tribune walked the horse towards the fort. It was a shame that there was no mount for Brocchus, but he could not help that and might need to move quickly from one place to another. For the moment, the ambling walk of this animal made it easy for the men on foot to keep up.

  The Batavians were fifty paces from the wall. One of the men carrying the ladders dropped, an arrow in his thigh, and the five remaining men staggered as they passed him, but kept going. The auxiliary archers were shooting, and this time Crispinus was looking at the right spot when a pirate was pitched back, a shaft sprouting from his throat. The enemy had their helmets on now, and with the protection of the wall and their oval shields, nearly all of the arrows struck harmlessly.

  Javelins and stones were coming from the defenders, and the men with the ladders were especially vulnerable, for it was hard to run with their burden and still keep a shield steady in the other hand. The team a man short lost another to a javelin that pinned his foot to the ground, and then a third man’s shield swayed at just the wrong moment so that a stone smashed his nose. An arrow hit the thrower at almost the same time, driving through his eye. The three men left dropped the heavy ladder, and men ran from the main group to aid them. The other team ran on unscathed, jumping down into the ditch. They waded through, ankle deep in mud. There was a dull clang as a stone hit one man on the helmet and he let go, falling to his knees in the brown water, but the others kept going and planted the ladder at the foot of the wall and began to raise it up. A pirate leaned over the parapet, javelin in hand, and then gasped as an arrow pierced his mail. He dropped rather than threw the javelin and it fell harmlessly.

  With a cheer, the Batavians surged forward into the ditch. The second ladder was there as well, and men began to climb the other one.

  ‘They’re breaking,’ Brocchus said, his tone almost one of dis­appointment with a timid enemy. Crispinus had been watching the marines and sailors, who were also close to the wall, and when he looked back saw that the prefect was right. The pirates were running from the rampart in front of the Batavians. Before they went, they hoisted heavy baskets onto the parapet. One Usipi was killed by an arrow as he worked, but the rest kept on and Crispinus could imagine them grunting with effort as they tipped the baskets over and the big rocks showered down on the packed ditch. There was confusion, but the enemy were still fleeing and the first Batavian climbed over the parapet onto the wall. More followed.

  Crispinus glanced back at the waiting legionaries, but decided this was too soon to add them to the attack. The marines were at the wall. A few men had fallen to missiles, but the bolt-shooters were more accurate than bows at a longer range and had driven the defenders down behind the parapet. Once the ladders were in place the defenders fled. If they had baskets of stones they did not use them, and the marines rushed up the ladders and leaped onto the wall.

  ‘You bring up the legionaries,’ Crispinus said to Brocchus. ‘Bring Tertullianus and get him to clear the entrance to the first wall and then be ready to assault the gate in the second.’ Without waiting for an answer, he spurred the horse into a canter straight at the marines and sailors. He wanted to be up on the wall, seeing what was going on so that he could judge what orders to give. In moments he was at the ditch, and jumped off, closer than he wanted, so that his boot slipped and he skidded down the side into the mud. His legs and the pristine white pteruges of his armour were stained dark. Sailors grinned at him and he grinned back, getting up and wading through to the nearest ladder. He patted a man on the shoulder just as he was about to climb, receiving a curse and then a hasty apology from the marine. Crispinus smiled again and pushed the man aside so that he could climb.

  The ladder was steep, and the mud on his boots made him slip off one of the rungs, but he clung on somehow, round shield in one hand and sword in the other. More than a dozen men were up on the rampart above each ladder, and there were shouts of triumph and confusion. Crispinus reached the top, and one of the grey-uniformed marines reached out to help him up. The tribune was almost over, one leg on each side of the rough stone parapet, and he could see the last of the defenders running through the open gate.
/>   ‘There you go, sir,’ the marine said cheerfully, and then the man’s eyes widened and his mouth moved, but only gasps came from it. He slumped down onto the parapet, and Crispinus saw the shaft of the javelin that had struck him in the back. More missiles came, and he managed to raise his shield and block one before it hit him in the face.

  The Romans were spread along a walkway about four feet wide, and above a sheer drop almost as high as the outside wall, for in the past someone had laboured to dig a ditch on the inside of the wall. Crispinus glanced down and saw several ropes down there and guessed that this was how the defenders had escaped. A stone clanged against the helmet of a marine next to him. The man turned, and the tribune saw his eyes flicker before he started to sway forward.

  ‘Grab him!’ the tribune yelled, and one marine dropped his spear to hold onto his comrade and stop him from falling off the wall.

  The defenders were above them, no more than twenty feet away and they had javelins and stones and even a few clubs and axes piled ready and waiting. A stone struck a marine on the foot, breaking bone, and the man staggered so that a javelin came past his shield and drove through the mail shirt into his belly. The centurion of one of the triremes was yelling at his men to keep their shields up, but even when crouching it still left some of the head and legs exposed. Some marines hurled javelins up at the enemy, but the wooden parapet gave them much better cover, and so far no one had scored a hit. In return the missiles kept coming, wounding men, making it harder for them to protect themselves.

  ‘Come on!’ the centurion yelled, and leaped down from the wall, but he screamed as he landed badly, twisting his ankle, and then a heavy spear came from the inner rampart and its sheer weight let the narrow point punch through the left cheek piece of his helmet and drive deep into his head. The centurion was flung against the wall and collapsed in a heap back into the ditch.

  Two of his men went after him, and although one hit the ground awkwardly, both were up, raising their shields pro­tec­tively over the centurion.

  Crispinus wondered whether he should follow, for the gate was still closing, and hoped it was not simply fear that stopped him. One of the marines in the ditch took a spear in the side a moment later, and when he fell he was pounded with rocks until he lay still. The other scrambled up the bank and ran at the gateway. A big stone slammed into his helmet when he was just yards away and the wooden gate closed as if to reinforce the hopelessness of his bravery.

  The Romans screamed defiance at the defenders, but there was nothing they could do to stop this torment. The javelins and other missiles kept coming and now and then found a gap. A stunned marine tumbled down into the ditch. Another yelped when a stone clipped the toe of his boot, but the others were too distracted to laugh.

  ‘Back!’ Crispinus yelled, making up his mind. ‘Back down the ladders.’

  They did not want to go. Partly it was because they feared the time it would take for them to climb down, and having to get over the parapet and be vulnerable to missiles, but mainly it was anger and pride. They had taken the wall from a hated enemy and they did not want to give it up.

  ‘You.’ Crispinus grabbed the closest marine by the arm. ‘Over the wall and back down the ladder. Now!’ The man nodded, then his head jerked to the side as a rock hit his helmet. He sank down.

  ‘You, lad.’ The tribune pointed at the next man. ‘Over you go.’ A javelin struck the wall near him, but the marine got over and then dropped his shield to make it easier to descend.

  ‘Go on, all of you.’ Crispinus’ shield rocked in his grip as a javelin struck the wooden boards before falling back. He had decided that he must be the last one down. The marines were moving now, but they seemed slow, so slow. He crouched, sheltering as much of his body behind his shield as he could. He glanced to the side, and now that men were going back he glimpsed the Batavians further along and realised that their attack had stalled in the same way.

  Crispinus hoped that Cerialis would have the sense to order a retreat. A stone banged against his shield, and the tribune hoped even more that his life was not about to end here, on an old rampart on an island that seemed to have no name – or at least no name a civilised man would recognise. Up on the higher wall a great chorus of whistles blew and there were mocking shouts.

  XXVII

  THE BOAT ROSE over a wave, a spray of cold water drenching the rowers and passengers alike, and Ferox sat in the stern, trying to remember what it was like to be young. As he stared at the taut faces of the warriors, it was their lack of years that he saw more than anything else. They had something of Brigita’s confident assurance, and he could remember that it was so much easier to believe yourself invulnerable and invincible before the world had knocked such nonsense out of you.

  They were not soldiers. You could take twenty tirones, looking nervous and lost as they paraded in ill-fitting uniforms and uncomfortable armour, and over time you could teach them their trade. One or two would never be any good, and it was better for all concerned if they deserted or were found some job in the camp that would keep them out of the way. Most would shape up well enough, looking and acting like soldiers and more or less reliable. A few turned into the real fighters, the men who would go first, who had the knack not simply of staying alive but of killing. Anyone who had served in the army for a while and trained recruits would know this, just as they would know that it was not always obvious which of the raw lads would fall into each category. He had heard that it was much the same with gladiators. Even when they had no choice about fighting, some of the most promising looking ones were never any good.

  Ferox looked at the mother’s warriors, some toiling at the oars, while the others sat between them. She trained them hard, of that there was no doubt, and they were fit and strong and knew how to handle the weapons they carried. As she said, she also taught them to fight on their own, for among the tribes a nobleman needed to beat opponents in single combat if he was to make a reputation. A little to his surprise he was less worried by the women, who were all that bit older, but apart from Brigita he was not really sure how they would fight. The queen had explained that the mother was bound by sacred oaths to teach those who were worthy enough to reach the island and survive the tests she imposed without favour to anyone’s family or tribe. She could not fight, for she was also bound never again to kill or be with a man.

  ‘It is a hard climb,’ Brigita told him as they came around the headland. She pointed at the next promontory, but they were so close that he could not see what was on top, apart from a tall thatched building above the highest cliffs. ‘I did it once and brought back an egg from the birds who nest in the crannies.’

  ‘Is there a beach?’

  ‘At this time of day there should some ground at the foot of the cliffs.’

  The queen’s memory was true, although the little landing place was even smaller than Ferox expected. The cliffs towered overheard around the little inlet. Gulls cried out from their nests above them, but when Ferox looked up it seemed a long way.

  ‘I can do this.’ Bran’s confidence surprised him.

  ‘Then you come with me,’ he said.

  ‘No, I go first.’ The boy gave one of his rare smiles. ‘I do not want you falling on top of me.’

  Ferox had climbed a lot when he was young, for that was expected in his tribe, but it had been many years since he had attempted anything even half as difficult as this. Still, he wanted to be the first – or now the second – up, because he was not sure what they would meet and trusted himself more than any of the others to cope. He had a rope coiled over one shoulder and had pulled his gladius around so that it hung on his back.

  The first stretch was easy, sloping in rather than fully vertical. Bran bounded up it, and Ferox followed the boy as he got onto a ledge, worked along it, and then started to climb. The rock was dark, with a rough, pitted surface, but there were plenty of little out­crops, so that for a while it was not hard to choose the next step.

  Yet Fero
x had forgotten how hard work this was, and soon his fingers were bruised. He had little cuts from gripping onto jagged holds, while his knees were battered and scratched. He glanced down and noticed that one leg of his trousers had a big tear. Faces stared up at him eagerly, still nearer than he had expected, and he felt a flash of anger because they struck him as impatient.

  Bran was a fair way ahead. Ferox forced himself on, but when he grabbed at the next crack, some of the stone came away in his hand and his raised foot slipped back to a ledge a few inches down. His heart was pounding. He took things slowly for a while, trying to remember how the lad had done it. His arms and legs were aching with the effort, he felt hot and he had a strange urge to relax and drop backwards, imagining himself splashing into the cool water. He shook his head, and was cheered when the next few feet were straightforward.

  There was still a long way to go, but Bran was no more than fifteen feet from the top. Perhaps he should have given the rope to the boy in the first place. It was too late for that, and Ferox made himself keep climbing. The cliff was sheer now, and his foot crushed a nest as he stepped on a ledge. The birds were circling, calling out in alarm. He could feel the beat of their wings as some swooped close behind him. Something hot, wet and stinking spattered against his cheek. With white-ish stains of bird excrement all over the rocks it did not take imagination to work out what it was.

  Ferox worried about the noise. It must be nearly noon, and he had no idea when the Roman attack would be launched. If the defenders were not distracted, then there seemed no reason at all why someone might not wonder what had upset the seabirds and take a look over the edge of the cliff. Bran was almost at the top, and the boy had stopped. Ferox hoped that it was simply to let him catch up and not because he had heard or sensed danger. He imagined black-clad warriors with spears, peeking from cover, watching him toil up the rock face and waiting to kill him because it was funnier to let him suffer first.