The strange thing was that the ease of the journey did not fade as they travelled north. As they had passed away from the coast, over the chalky downs and towards the wide, flat valley that contained this great southern river, Convocus had most definitely expected to begin meeting resistance. But still the tribes were helpful and friendly to such an extent that the tribune had begun to sleep with his sword by his bed and one hand on his purse.
The general had waved away his concerns on the third night north as they spent the evening in a long, low hall filled with smoke and the smell of dripping pig fat, entertained by some local chieftain at his own expense, the legion quartered in their farmland outside the settlement. Crito believed nothing was untoward. These were, he said, his people. He could never make such claims at court, of course, but here his blood sang a different song, and it was in harmony with the natives.
General Crito’s father was of one of the empire’s oldest families, traditional and proud and with a long record of military and political service. They had fallen out of favour under the mad emperor Quintus, and the family holdings at Bergama had been largely diminished during the interregnum when even General Kiva Caerdin and his mercenary Wolves had failed to save them from rival lords.
But like most of the great families, they had survived those times and grown again since then. Crito’s father had taken a native northerner as a concubine many decades ago during one of the earlier campaigns in the north, and had been forced to legitimise their offspring when his own legitimate sons died young.
And so Crito had boasted ancient imperial blood through his father, but could claim a close familial connection with some Alban tribe through his mother. He seemed to think this would make their time in Alba a simple thing.
Convocus was less convinced.
‘Fear not, Convocus,’ the general had beamed in that long hall, with pork grease running down his chin as though the barbarian blood in him was seeping to the surface in the presence of the natives. ‘These are my people. They know the benefits and value of accepting the imperial oath and what they stand to gain in return. Alba is ready to be part of the empire. I have known it since we were last here.’
‘Why then did the diplomatic delegation sent here three years ago disappear without trace, General?’ Convocus had replied, rather severely. Some people never examined every angle of a problem, and the general very clearly fell into that category.
‘Who knows?’ Crito shrugged. ‘Bandits perhaps? Maybe they fell for native girls and stayed. These things happen. If he still lived, you could have asked my father about it.’
‘Then why,’ Convocus persevered, ‘bring armies here, if the island is ready to take the oath willingly?’
‘Because not all the native tribes will see sense. Those here in the south know what needs to be done for the good of all, and even north of the wide Snake River, through the eastern flats and fen lands, they are ready. They are my mother’s people, Convocus. They look forward with hope and optimism to a world where we are all allies. But there are others, in the north and west, who will hold out. It is these peoples we will need to suppress. But I see no need to move directly north or west like my fellow generals, when we can move through the lands of my peoples and live well and comfortably for some time.’
It was a seductive viewpoint. The very idea of taking the peaceful path made sense. The legion was relaxed and content, everyone was well fed, and the native nobles were being given trinkets and coins from the general’s baggage train in thanks for their support and cooperation.
And yet for all the ease and comfort of it, something was still nagging at Convocus – the frayed ends of a knot that, if he pulled at it in the right way, might unravel and reveal something important.
His friends Bellacon and Cantex often ribbed him for being too serious and gloomy at times, but Convocus also recognised that his friends were occasionally a little over-enthusiastic and eager when perhaps they should be more wary. Cantex liked to gamble and the goddess of luck rode on his shoulder, and few men were more innately imbued with military skills than Bellacon, but Convocus had only the advantage of a puzzle-solving nature and a sharp mind.
And he maintained that his own caution had saved him more than once.
Now, here at the river, he was experiencing that feeling in spades. The sense of oppressive trouble on the horizon was beginning to feel stronger and stronger the further north they went.
‘What did the ferrymen say?’ the general asked a scout who was riding back up from the river bank.
‘He believes they can take fifty men at a time or fifteen cavalry with their mounts. The wagons will have to cross individually. Price is rather extortionate compared with imperial ferry rates, though, General.’
‘The price is a pittance as far as I am concerned,’ General Crito said with a smile. ‘Better to cross here in sections than to have to travel three days or more west to the first proper crossing. That would add at least a week to our journey, and my cousin is expecting us.’
Convocus frowned. His cousin was expecting them? This was news.
‘They are livestock ferries, so they are hardly comfortable, sir,’ the scout added, ‘but they are the only option.’
‘I can travel in porcine style, soldier.’ Crito laughed. ‘A general is a soldier too, and we all have to sacrifice our comfort on campaign, do we not?’
‘I have a bad feeling about this, General,’ Convocus said quietly.
Crito turned a wide grin on him. ‘Tribune, I have known you a little over three weeks now, and already I feel I have the measure of you. You are my personal raincloud, following me round and trying to add a little gloom to my life. Your bad feelings are noted. Now how’s about you go and find someone else to rain on for an hour and let me enjoy myself?’
Convocus rolled his eyes. The general was as excitable as Bellacon and Cantex sometimes. No wonder the marshal had assigned tribunes to watch over these commanders.
‘Then I shall cross first and take command of the bridgehead on the far side, General, if that meets with your approval.’
‘Oh it does, Convocus, it does.’
A few moments later, the tribune was guiding his horse down the gentle slope towards the ferry. A large-ish native settlement stood on the far bank perhaps half a mile downstream, several fishing boats lying at odd angles in the mud, waiting for the tide to buoy them back up.
Convocus’ experience with ferries was limited to civilised imperial varieties. The best were those near the centre of the empire, where some of the most important crossings were driven by waterwheels powered by horses or oxen on board. Others were pulled by cable attached to both banks, though only on non-navigable rivers for obvious reasons. The smallest were single shallow punts poled or rowed across the water.
This was… different.
At least the ferrymen here had accounted for the change in the riverbank with the tide, and had sunk a walkway of logs into the muddy bank, providing something of a low causeway from the churned turf to the craft, which looked to Convocus horribly unstable. A huge timber raft, given added buoyancy by inflated sheep- or goat-skins roped to the sides, was not guided by ropes or powered by oxen, but by two men who, curiously, seemed to have eight broad-bladed oars between them.
Clearly the river was too deep to pole, so the craft needed to be rowed. Light wicker fences surrounded the craft to prevent its usual ovine or bovine passengers plunging into the wide torrent. The first fifty men were now moving onto the ferry, and Convocus shouted to the officer to stand down ten of them so that he and his horse could cross with them.
The reason for the superfluous oars became evident as the wicker gate was closed and tied behind them and the two men thrust six of the oars at surprised soldiers. The officer frowned for a moment, then shrugged and gave the order for his men to add their muscle to that of the natives. Clearly ferry users were expected to take part in the powering of the vehicle.
Convocus, now dismounted, held the reins of
his horse and stood, pensive, as the huge flat ferry jerked and heaved itself off the mud and into the water. Though the men staggered and had to right themselves as the vehicle was pushed free, the moment it bobbed out onto the lapping waves the value of those inflated skins was made clear.
Rather than wallowing low in the water under the weight of its heavy load and the eight oars being applied to the torrent with arm-straining pressure, the ferry seemed to skip lightly over the water and within a matter of heartbeats the soldiers were pulling their oars easily in time with the two natives, laughing and joking with one another.
It was oddly light-hearted. The ferry danced across the glittering water, full of friendly natives and comfortable, laughing soldiers. They were theoretically moving into lands even more welcoming than those they had just traversed, with whom the general could claim familial links.
Yet something was making Convocus itch beneath his flesh, unscratchable and insistent. That hanging frayed end of the knot…
The raft closed on the far bank with ease and within moments was slowing as it approached the mud bank. The pilots were craftsmen, their skills well honed, and the craft slid gently into the mud almost directly central to the log walkway on the northern bank.
Convocus was almost twitching with preternatural nerves as he led his horse from the ferry, chivvying the men to disembark as fast as they could, and then sending the ferrymen back for the next group. Two hundred and fifty trips, he estimated. That would take the rest of the day and much of the next.
Twitch.
He turned to the officer who was checking over his men. ‘Take them up the slope to the crest of the rise. We’re going to have to create a bridgehead here while the rest of the army crosses. Find the best defensive positions and mark out a camp line large enough for the whole legion. There seems to be a sizeable copse off to the west a little. As men arrive, we’ll send them there to gather firewood and wattle and timber for the defences.’
‘Defences, sir?’
‘It may have escaped your notice, man, but we are an invasion force in an unknown land.’
‘Well yes, sir. Technically. But the natives are supporting us, and the general reckons –’
‘I know what the general says, but that does not mean a professional legion can treat a military campaign like a camping weekend. Get up there and fortify our position.’
The officer saluted, his face betraying nothing, and took his soldiers up the slope. Convocus watched, tense, as the ferry reached the far side, filled with another fifty men, and then began to skip lightly across towards the north bank.
A flash of movement caught his eye and drew it upwards. Among the seemingly endless white gulls that wheeled above the water this close to the sea, three black birds were winging their way north, almost keeping pace with the ferry as they fought some unseen air current. Convocus shivered and made a warding sign against evil and ill-luck.
His father had been a great believer in signs, visiting the auspices to answer almost every major question in his life. And while Convocus took a much more prosaic attitude to life it was hard to shake off the superstitions of the family. Black birds were never a good omen, and the ominousness of three keeping pace with the army was hard to ignore.
Behind him the recent arrivals were busy on the hilltop. He waited until the second ferry disgorged its load and gestured to the soldiers. ‘Twenty of you up to the rest and help with the bridgehead. The rest, head to those trees and start to gather timber and wicker for defences, bringing it back to the hill as you find it. As soon as the first load of tools crosses I’ll have them sent over to help.’
The soldiers split off, and Convocus returned his attention to the ferry, even now skipping back towards the next waiting group.
Over the next half hour as the inexplicable twitchy tension in the tribune gradually grew, three more loads of men were deposited, the last of those including five cavalrymen who led their horses up the bank and saluted the tribune.
‘Your orders, sir?’
‘Roving patrols. I don’t like not knowing what’s half a mile in any direction. Keep together, but move wide and fast.’
‘Sir!’ He turned at the shout from the hilltop and felt the cold stone of certainty sink into his belly as several soldiers up there were waving at him and pointing off to the northeast.
‘Trouble.’
Leaving the riders to mount up, Convocus rode his own steed up the grassy slope to where less than two hundred men were busy marking out turf, digging a ditch and raising a rampart, sorting the small pile of sticks and poles that had already been brought from the trees. As he crested the hill, he saw them: natives moving through sparse dotted trees off towards the northeast.
These were not coming to welcome the invader to a hall filled with roasted hogs. They were coming fast, brandishing spears, axes and swords. They were not yelling war cries like the tribes on the other side of the sea, although that might have been a tactic to prevent the army on the south bank becoming aware of them too soon.
He tried to estimate their numbers, but found it difficult, with them being spread throughout the trees. Hundreds, certainly. Enough for at least two to one odds.
‘Form up!’ bellowed the duty officer, who was standing by the pile of sticks.
The men hurried together and distant shouts confirmed that the other soldiers were returning from the woods to join them. ‘Three ranks, close formation. Mark off,’ shouted the officer, and the men spaced themselves carefully before raising their large body shields.
‘Swords!’ bellowed the commander, and the rasp of two hundred swords being drawn was chilling. Convocus waved at the cavalrymen. ‘Dismount and join in. We need every arm.’
He turned to peer across the river. The raft was reloading once more and this time he could see General Crito and his staff boarding. What was the lunatic doing? Even if he was as yet unaware of the danger on the north bank, he should be waiting until there was sufficient defence and at least a third of the legion there before he crossed.
Grinding his teeth, he turned back to the immediate problem. The running natives were mostly clothed in colourful patterned wool and with leather and fur for protection, though a few of them sported chain shirts, helmets or shields. The poorest seemed to have just a spear.
But there were three of them to every imperial soldier, he now reckoned – maybe even four – and so every man counted. Slipping from his horse, Convocus unhooked the shield he rarely had cause to hold from the horse’s flank, where it had been hung using the shield strap and a saddle horn. A moment later he was running for the solid mass of the shield wall, sword out and ready. The lower-ranking officer seemed horrified to see the tribune fall in at the end of the rank, but clearly thought better than to argue.
Tribunes were tacticians, like generals, used to standing at the back and directing large forces. As such the lower officer was of much more use commanding here at fight level, while Convocus’ sword arm would lend a useful helping hand.
The tribune examined the men who had now cleared the trees and were crossing the open ground at a run. One particularly large specimen – with a beard like an acacia bush, hanging over a mail shirt that had seen much better days – had clearly marked out Convocus for himself, spittle carrying the curses from his lips as his long, broad-bladed sword whirled and swung.
‘Brace,’ shouted the officer, and Convocus set his legs as best he could and put all his weight behind the shield.
The native hit him like a bull at a loose gate, and he was knocked back a pace despite being well-braced. All along the line the shield wall held and, though here and there the same thing had happened with heavy natives forcing a temporary gap by sheer momentum, the imperial troops knew what they were doing, and those gaps closed in a heartbeat as the men pushed forward once more, their mates behind lending their own strength.
Convocus heaved and pushed the big bastard back even as the native’s sword smacked into the bronze edging-strip of his shiel
d. Then the pressure was off as the big man stepped back and brought up his sword for a second attempt.
The tribune might be a senior officer but unlike many of his rank, who were assigned directly to their commission by the senate, he and his two friends had clawed their way up the ranks from their first promotion under Titus’ command a decade ago, when the Khan fell. They had each fought in wars and skirmishes, and they each knew better than many how to fight and to handle a sword.
Convocus peeked over the rim of his shield and saw the big man draw back for the blow. With the speed of a striking snake, he stabbed out with his shorter blade around the side of his shield, driving the point into the unprotected flesh below the raised arm. The native howled as Convocus rammed the blade deep, twisted it and yanked it back out, just before that arm dropped reflexively, where it would have trapped the sword.
The big man fell away, but another was there in moments. Convocus raised his shield once more to ward off a flurry of blows and then spotted the man’s extended foot beneath the rim. With as much strength as he could muster, he slammed the shield down on the man’s toes.
The warrior shrieked, but Convocus gave him no chance to recover, smashing out the shield with the boss raised to head height. He didn’t see the result, as his shield was in the way, but the sound of bones and teeth smashing was clear enough.
He lowered the shield once more to gauge the battle, and almost took a spear in the eye, ducking and turning his head at the last moment so that the bronze head scraped down the side of his helmet with a tortured shriek.
The immediate clash was already thinning out, with few imperial casualties in evidence, thanks to the soldiers’ professionalism and discipline and the shouted orders and warnings from the officer. The man whose spear had almost done for Convocus suddenly fell to a blow from the left and the tribune scanned the area.
There were perhaps forty still fighting, but he could see a considerably larger force closing on them through the trees. That would be enough to swamp the meagre stand of defenders, and once the enemy closed their flanks they were doomed.
Invasion (Tales of the Empire Book 5) Page 10