Swords Around the Throne

by Ian Ross

  ‘Where are the piquets?’ Modestus cried. ‘Where are the fucking auxilia?’

  Another man screamed and fell, spinning on his heels and toppling from the barricade with an arrow in his chest. More arrows were arcing down into the stacked shields, driving the men back as they scrambled for them.

  Castus crouched low, dragging his shield towards him and lifting it. He scanned the wooded slopes to either side – a movement caught his eye, and he spotted the archer stepping out of cover to shoot. His reaching fingers found the shaft of a javelin, but by the time he had raised it the man was gone.

  Sounds of fighting from the slopes: the auxilia on guard duty up the trail had finally noticed the attack and doubled back to drive off the archers. From the arrow-struck barricade the men of the Sixth saw running figures on the higher slopes, and heard the distant yell and cry of combat. But it was clear that most of the attackers had fled.

  ‘Centurion!’ Aelianus called. Castus jogged over to where the man was kneeling. Speratus lay beside him, an arrow in his thigh. Not a mortal wound, unless it had cut an artery, but Speratus was twisted with pain, delirious, his face swelling and turning dark red. As Castus – and the others who had gathered around – watched, Speratus’s body convulsed; his mouth champed and frothed. Aelianus had been holding the wounded man, but now he released him and backed away in horror.

  ‘Poison,’ somebody said quietly.

  Before long, Speratus lay silent, blue-lipped, his body still twisted and racked. Castus eased down his shoulders, and a long-held shudder ran through him.

  ‘Four of you, bury him and the others, as deep as you can,’ he said. ‘The rest, get back to work.’

  There were more barricades further along the valley, but rather than try and cut through them the troops made long slow detours, scaling up the valley sides through the trees, dragging the protesting mules behind them. The column split apart, spreading into three ragged single files, snaking up and down the slopes, scrambling along narrow rocky dirt paths. It was late afternoon before they closed around the next village.

  ‘We’re flanking,’ Castus told his men, as they gathered around him on the slope in the dapple of light. Some eased themselves down to squat in the bracken, braced on their propped spears. ‘That means we move as quick and quiet as we can down this hillside and across the stream in the valley down there. That bit of yellow you can see beyond the stream is a field of barley – we follow the ditch around the rear of the field and wait there until we hear the trumpets of the main column attacking from over there. Then we go in, through the field and into the town.’

  It was all they needed to know. It was all Castus knew himself; the orders had been passed down from Jovianus, and beyond him from the army commanders. There were other small units moving up on similar duties around the perimeter of the settlement; this time, the enemy would not be allowed to run.

  The soldiers drank water, then began the descent. The slope was steep, and they felt their way down with reaching spears, clasping at the trees to either side. Already the sun was low in the sky, the long summer day slipping towards evening. From the lower slopes, the men could see the huts and fences below them, the orderly patchwork of fields, the animal pens and the cattle byres. Smoke rose slowly from several of the huts. Smoke of cooking fires and hearths. Soon, Castus thought, there would be far more smoke than that.

  Scrambling down the last descent, the century formed a double column and splashed across the stream. Crouched low, they followed the shallow ditch up the rear of the barley field. Once Castus drew level with the largest house at the edge of the settlement he motioned his men to halt. They dropped down gladly, settling themselves along the trench where the wall of barley would screen them from any sentinels in the village.

  Castus sat on the baked lip of the ditch, his heels in muddy water. He took a chunk of spiced sausage from his haversack and pared off a slice, then chewed patiently. It could take a while for the main column to move up along the valley. The sun was still hot, and he took off his helmet to cool his sweating head.

  ‘Centurion,’ said Diogenes, dropping down to sit beside him, ‘may I ask you something?’

  Castus just looked at him and grunted, still chewing. The sausage was very tough.

  ‘Do you ever experience fear, before going into combat?’

  Castus chewed a bit more, then swallowed hard. The chunk of sausage jerked its way down his throat. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Only madmen and liars say otherwise.’

  ‘Then you are afraid of death?’ Diogenes asked, as if this were some novel philosophical concept. They were both speaking quietly, barely above a mumble.

  ‘Never said that,’ Castus replied. ‘What’s death? The ground opens up and down you go, and you know nothing about it afterwards.’ Although, he thought, he would not care to die as Speratus had earlier that day, frothing and writhing.

  ‘But you say you’re afraid? Of what, if not death?’

  Castus thought for a moment. It was something he had never properly considered. ‘Wounding,’ he said at last. ‘Being crippled. When it comes to swords and spears, there’s plenty of sharp iron all around you. Anyone can get a hamstring cut, or lose a hand or an eye. Even a simple wound can fester, then you lose a limb. And then what?’

  ‘And then... what?’

  ‘If you’ve served your sixteen years you can get an honourable discharge with pay, land and tax exemptions, otherwise you’re out of the army with the bare minimum.’ He failed to suppress a twitch of superstitious dread. His father had ended his army career like that – fifteen years in the legion, then he lost half his left hand in a skirmish on the Danube frontier and could no longer grip a shield. The army had no use for cripples. The bitterness of that had poisoned his father’s mind, and he had passed that poison on to Castus himself, in kicks and blows and savage words.

  Diogenes sat silently for a while, digesting. From the village a rooster crowed, loud and raucous. Birds were wheeling about the sky.

  ‘I was afraid during the fight on the riverbank,’ Castus said quietly. He wanted nobody else to hear. ‘During it, not before. I thought I’d led the men into something that was going to get them all killed.’

  ‘Fear of shame, then?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Castus said. Shame, he thought, was the worst punishment of all.

  The sound of the trumpets was sudden and clear, riding across from the direction of the valley. Immediately afterwards came the echo of a massed war cry as the legions stormed into the western end of the settlement. Castus was already up on his feet, lacing his helmet straps beneath his chin, the rest of the men quickly rising behind him as he swung his shield to the front and strode into the swaying wall of barley.

  They moved with a steady crackling step, breasting through the barley with their shields, trampling loose stalks beneath their boots as the pollen dust rose around them. Every man had spear or javelin readied, eyes fixed on the edge of the village. There was a brief noise of clacking chickens from behind the huts, but the only other sound was the rush and swish of the massed stalks parting before the advancing troops. Off on their right flank Castus could see other units also moving, scrambling along culverts and across meadows, closing around the village from all directions. He was braced for the first cries from between the huts, the first arrows or javelins slicing down from the clear sky.

  ‘After me!’ he shouted as he neared the edge of the field, and broke into a run, kicking through the last of the crop. Behind him his men sprang forward, erupting into a broken roar.

  There was another ditch at the field edge, then an earth bank up to a fence of close-woven wattles. Castus leaped across the ditch in a stride, his boots grinding the loose soil from the bank; then he slammed his sword into the wattles of the fence. The dry weave of sticks burst apart, and he heaved his shield against the breach until it was wide enough to pass through.

  Inside the broken fence, the smell hit him first; then he felt his boots slide beneath him
and managed to catch himself clumsily before he fell sprawling. Wet puddled manure underfoot, and a great muddy sow staring at him from the corner of the sty. Two more men crashed through the fence behind him, then gasped in disgust.

  ‘Through here,’ Castus yelled over his shoulder. He crossed the pigsty, stamping through liquid shit, and kicked at the gate. The flimsy boards shattered, and he charged through the gap.

  Silence. The village was as placid as it had appeared from the hillside. A few chickens still squabbled in panic around the open hut doors. But there was no sign of the inhabitants. Castus glanced up, and saw the smoke still rising peacefully from the hut roof. He looked to his left, and saw the vanguard troops of the main column moving between the huts, kicking doors, finding nobody. Behind him his men were piling through the gate of the sty, several streaked and spattered with filth – they had slipped and fallen as they had broken through the fence.

  Fearing ambush, Castus moved around the wall of the hut, motioning for his men to follow. His ears were primed for the sound of a bow, his senses for the thwack of an arrow into a mud wall, or into flesh. His breath came in bursts. He raised his right forearm to wipe his face, and the mail grated against his brow – he had forgotten he was wearing armour.

  The hut was a forge. As he reached the wide front doors, Castus glanced in at the straw and the big iron anvil, the tools still laid out ready for use. He edged inside, into the dim familiar stink of metal, charcoal and soot. Memories of his youth rose in him for a moment. The forge fire was still hot, the embers glowing orange in their nest of grey-white ash.

  ‘They’ve even left their dinner here,’ Aelianus said. On a low table just inside the hut door there were chunks of black bread and hard white cheese, with a platter of honey cakes. Aelianus picked up a cake, smiled and raised it to his mouth.

  Castus swatted it out of his hand, and it dropped into the dust.

  ‘Remember Speratus?’ he said savagely. Aelianus’s face paled, and his throat rose and fell as he swallowed back bile.

  As he left the hut there were already troops moving in columns though the central cleared space in the village. The sky was smudged with smoke, and the smell of burning thatch soured the air. A sudden cheer went up from the soldiers, and they turned to face back down the road. Castus moved up to join them, still wary. From the direction of the main valley road a mounted cavalcade was cantering between the enclosure fences and into the village. At the head, the unmistakeable figure in the gleaming gilded cuirass and purple cape. Castus stiffened to attention, then threw up his arm in salute as the emperor and his retinue rode past. Constantine’s face was set hard, reddened and furious. And then they were gone, and dust fogged the air in their wake.

  It was only moments later that the men gathered around the huts heard the shouting from the far village boundary. Castus glanced around, and saw Erudianus with his head raised, scenting the air.

  ‘Trouble,’ the tracker said.

  ‘Lead me,’ Castus ordered, then waved for the rest to follow as Erudianus set off at a jog.

  The air was still full of fine dust, but as he ran Castus could hear the sounds of fighting: a yell, a ring of iron and a thud of blade against shield. He doubled the fence between two huts, and saw the knot of men gathered along the far boundary of the compound. Bodies sprawled in the dirt: enemy warriors. Whatever skirmish had just erupted seemed over already. He slowed to a stride. A dog was barking and whining.

  ‘They were hiding in the ditch!’ a soldier exclaimed. A man from another legion; Castus did not recognise him. ‘Tried to burst out and get to the emperor and his people!’ The man’s mouth was grinning slackly, stupidly. ‘But our men got them! Yes, we did – and only that one centurion down!’

  ‘Who?’ Castus demanded, and then broke into a run again before the man could blurt out his guesses. Already he could see the cluster of soldiers surrounding the fallen man; their dark blue shields had the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth Legion. The lean grey dog sat to one side, its head down on its outstretched paws.

  Before he could reach them, Rogatianus was holding him back, a palm on his chest. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he said. ‘Nothing you can do for him now.’

  Castus shoved him aside. He strode the last few paces, hauled the men back from the fallen figure and dropped to his knees.

  Valens turned his head, wincing with the effort, and Castus could see the pain in his eyes. His friend’s mouth was bloody, and there was a slow red lake forming in the dirt below him. He was not wearing his mail shirt, and half of his tunic was soaked with gore.

  ‘Got them,’ Valens said weakly, and stretched his mouth in a wry grin. ‘Reckon we got them all!’

  Castus took his hand and clenched it tight. He tried to speak, but there was a knot of iron twisting in his throat, and he knew Valens would hear nothing now.

  The ground opens up, he thought, and down you go.

  5

  The roaring echoed through the mutilated forest, between the trees and across the hacked stumps and the muddy green-scummed floodwater. It started as a low humming, then built rapidly into a bellow of massed voices before cresting with a shout. A moment of silence, then the hollow drumming rattle of spears against shields reverberated from behind the barricades. And then the great cry went up once more.

  Castus remembered the noise the Picts had made, the hissing and howling they had raised before their attack on the hilltop redoubt, years ago in the far north of Britain. This war cry of the Bructeri was similar, but more unnerving in its volume and its barely leashed aggression. Many of the men in the Roman battle line were clearly feeling its effects; they stood with wide eyes and clenched teeth, gripping their shields and the shafts of their weapons. Some of the younger men were visibly trembling.

  ‘They should save their breath for fighting,’ Castus called out as another roar came from the enemy lines. ‘They’ll need it soon enough.’

  A few of the men laughed, if nervously, though Castus was in no mood for humour. The death of his friend was a stone in his heart, and he felt primed with a violent need for revenge. Even so, for all his desire for battle it was clear that there would be no combat soon. The Bructeri had constructed a formidable fortification, and were not about to sally out of it and fight in the open. And any force trying to attack them would take severe casualties. All the Roman troops could do was shelter behind their shields and try not to lose their nerve as that terrifying noise rose from the forest opposite them.

  It was even worse that they could barely see their enemy; only the tips of their wickedly barbed spears showed above the rampart of fallen trees the Bructeri had constructed on the far side of the shallow valley. The stream had been dammed or diverted in some way, and the waters had swelled to flood the valley floor, transforming it into a wide morass of muddy pools studded with the stumps of the hacked-down trees. Many of the tree stumps had been sharpened into stakes; in the sunlight the water appeared placid, shimmering with tiny insects, but many more such stakes were surely concealed beneath the surface, ready to impale the legs or groin of anyone attempting to wade across.

  The distance over the valley and the swollen stream was not too great – Castus reckoned that a man could cover it on dry ground in two score running paces. But as soon as anyone left the cover of the trees on the Roman side they would be in range of the slingshot and arrows from the men behind the barricade, even as the water and sharpened stumps slowed any charge to a stumbling crawl. And after that, a scramble up a muddy slope into a storm of javelins, then a climb across a head-high breastwork of creaking timber. And only then would they get to face the enemy. Against those obstacles, any advance would be a slaughter yard. A prospect to chill the blood.

  But that was not the plan, Castus reminded himself. The legionaries in the centre were just a blocking force, drawing the attention of the enemy while the cavalry and light troops forded the stream further to the west before attacking on the flank. Only when the cavalry attack had gone in would t
he legions advance. But they had been nearly an hour waiting in stoic passivity, and there had been no word from the flanking column at all.

  Every time he closed his eyes, Castus saw Valens lying in the dust. The town where he had died was only two miles to the south; the scouts had reported the Bructeri position an hour after his death. The day had already been sinking into evening by then, but the soldiers had clamoured to advance at once, shouting down their tribunes when they had given the order to make camp for the night, even raising angry voices to the emperor himself as he had ridden among them. But the order was justified: the troops had been exhausted, and they had a hard fight ahead of them. Besides, the Bructeri clearly were not going anywhere.

  That night the town had burned, flooding the camp of the Roman army with hot orange light and filling the sky with sparks and smoke. It was a fitting send-off for Valens, Castus thought as he stood at the camp boundary watching the fires. His friend’s funeral pyre had been built of beams and hut-posts ripped from the town, stacked high, with his linen-wrapped body placed on top, the centurion’s stick laid on his breast. Many of the men of Valens’s century had wept openly as the pyre burned. Castus did not weep. Valens had been his closest friend since he had joined the legion back in Britain, and even if he once had reason to distrust the man, he had since forgiven him. Certainly Valens had saved his life that night on the riverbank. But all he felt was a cold desolate anger, and a sense of shame that he had not been there to help his friend in the fight. When the smoke smarted in his eyes he just blinked it away, staring into the twisting flames.

  The army camped under arms, every man lying beside his shield and weapons, with a double sentry guard. Few of them slept, and in the dew-damp ash-grey dawn they rose and assembled in battle formation for their march to meet the enemy.