‘Scar could no more pull out of a straight fight with a legion – any legion, not just the soft touches – than young Egilhard over there will be capable of pulling his prick out the first time he gets it wet.’
Alcaeus smiled, leaning back and listening to the quiet voices of those of his soldiers who had been unable to sleep for the anticipation of the day to come, grinning at Grimmaz’s muttered grumbling at anyone in his tent party who was listening.
‘At last, the chance for some real soldiering. I’ve had a gut full of marching and scaring the shit out of civilians for no good reason. Once we’re across this river we can get back to some real soldiering instead of having to watch the fucking Romans behaving like animals.’
He had a point, the centurion mused. The army’s march from Civitas Lingonum, through the foothills of Helvetia and over the Alps, had been eventful, with the legionaries of the infamous Twenty-First Rapax picking one-sided fights with more than one of the tribes on their route, initially taking the chance to settle old scores and then, finding this dubious revenge to their taste, concocting new quarrels as the pretext for their brutality. The Batavi had watched in amazed disgust as city after city, terrified by the well-founded rumours that preceded the army’s arrival, had opened their gates to Caecina’s advancing army and offered up their wealth and, on occasion, even the honour of their women, as a means of appeasing soldiers who had swiftly become notorious for their barely provoked sack of the Helvetian countryside. Looting, rape and enslavement had all been inflicted wholesale on people who were supposed to be part of the empire.
Another voice reached Alcaeus’s ears, that of the young recruit Egilhard.
‘We’re really going to swim that?’
The centurion smiled at the note of incredulity in the younger man’s voice at the prospect of plunging into the Po’s dark water, still barely visible in the dawn’s first vague light, remembering the first time he had come face-to-face with the prospect of imminent combat after an exhausting swim.
‘Of course.’
The throwaway tone in which Grimmaz answered his question clearly only served to increase the young soldier’s sense of disbelief.
‘Really? In armour?’
Alcaeus heard the rustle of mail as the leading man turned to face the newest of his tent mates, his amusement evident and his fatigue instantly forgotten.
‘Really. In armour. You’ve run through the drills often enough, so you know what to do well enough.’
‘But … what happens if I lose hold of the saddle halfway across the river?’
The older man chuckled softly.
‘You drown. We all mourn your sad loss.’ The men around them chuckled quietly, and in the half-light Alcaeus saw Grimmaz put a theatrical knuckle to his eye. ‘Boohoo. Then we get on with killing anyone on the other side who thought they’d have nothing more difficult to do today than watch the river for any attempts at bridge building.’
He leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘Look, there is a secret to it, which we don’t normally share with the new boys, to see if they can work it out for themselves. Since I can see you don’t especially like the idea I can see that I’m going to have to let you in on it.’
Egilhard waited expectantly, and after a moment Grimmaz continued.
‘The thing is, this whole swimming rivers thing is a bit overdone if you ask me. Sure, you get wet through, and it is genuinely useful if you can swim. You can swim, right?’
The younger man rolled his eyes, sufficiently confident of his place in the tent party to express his frustrations in a way he had learned from experience would be acceptable to the rough edged leading man, who expected a degree of give and take in his nevertheless firm control of the six other man who were his responsibility.
‘You know I can swim. It’s one of the recruitment tests.’
‘Silly me, so it is. Anyway, there’s a secret method to it that you either just master immediately or you never quite get the hang of. Come on, I’ll show you. See this?’
He gestured to the horse waiting stolidly beside them, chewing happily on the contents of its feed bag, and Alcaeus guessed that he was pointing at the padded leather handle that had been stitched onto the beast’s saddle.
‘You’re already familiar with this, but just to be sure let’s go through it one more time. There’s one on the other side just like it, for the other man who’ll be swimming with the beast, which in this case is me, which is why you’re on this side. I hate swimming with my spear and shield in my right hand, it just feels wrong. Anyway, this is your best friend in all the world my lad, a few inches of cowhide stuffed with horsehair and stitched on nice and strong, strong enough that a man can hang from it without the whole thing just tearing off. Take hold of it.’
Egilhard stepped closer to the beast, taking hold of the handle.
‘Tighter. Squeeze it until your knuckles go white.’
Egilhard’s scepticism was evident in his voice.
‘And that’s the secret? Holding onto the handle? That’s it?’
Grimmaz milked the moment for all it was worth, knowing that their tent mates were listening to every word and waiting for the punch line.
‘No lad, that’s not it at all. Any fool can grab a handle and get towed across a river. No, the secret, the absolute essential if it isn’t all to end in tears, ours, obviously since you’ll already be dead, is this …’ He leaned closer to Egilhard and lowered his voice almost to the point of inaudibility, his mates smirking and nudging each other at the old joke’s inevitable pay-off. ‘The secret is this.’ His voice was a whisper, as if the secret to life itself was about to be imparted. ‘Whatever you do, no matter what urge comes over you … Just … don’t … let … go.’
Egilhard turned away in disgust while the men around them dissolved into stifled mirth. After a moment he shook his head wryly, seeing the funny side of the joke, and while he was still looking around in bemusement, Alcaeus stood up, the moonlight reflecting from his wolf’s head and giving him an otherworldly appearance, a chimera of beast and man ready to bark at the moon or tear a man’s throat out.
‘We’ll be crossing shortly, the light’s just about good enough, so get ready. We’re going across silently, or at least as quietly as two thousand men and six hundred horses can manage, just in case there’s anyone on the other side we’d rather not have to meet on the far bank, which means no trumpets and no shouting either. Once we’re on the far side our orders are for the leading centuries to scout forward in strength and overwhelm any light forces they might have out looking for us, not that they’ll be expecting us on their side of the river this soon. And that means us, so once we’re out of the water get formed up and be ready to move out.’
He looked at Egilhard appraisingly.
‘Have they just done the old “don’t let go” on you?’
The young soldier nodded.
‘Fair play to your dad then, if he didn’t warn you about that one. After all, where’s the fun if you know all the answers, eh? Mind you …’
He put an arm around Egilhard’s shoulders and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone.
‘It’s not entirely bad advice. I know men who are tempted to release their grip on the saddle every time they swim. Just imagine, a simple opening of your hand, a moment’s struggle as the weight of your armour takes you under, and there you are with your ancestors. No pain, no blood, no long drawn-out agony from a death wound. I’ve even wondered about it myself, once or twice …’
He turned away from the young soldier and winked at his tent mates, who to a man lost themselves to the coffin humour of the moment, trying in vain to silence their mirth. Hearing them, Egilhard turned back with a retort on his lips only to be overridden by Scar’s voice as the first touch of dawn light illuminated the eastern horizon.
‘There’s the sunrise! First cohort, on the move!’
The Po’s water was bitterly cold, the river fed by snow
melt from the mountains to the north, and after the first shock of immersing his body in the river’s flow, the centurion could do no more than kick his legs and cling onto the horse’s saddle and his equipment with a grim determination that made Banon, who was swimming on the beast’s other side, grin even wider than before despite the icy water’s effects, both men panting with the shock of the river’s fierce grip on their bodies.
‘Not long now … Then we get a … nice long run … to warm us up.’
The century staggered up the river’s far bank like old men forced to rise from their death beds, the bitterly cold water sluicing from their sodden clothing and equipment, centurions and their deputies calling softly but urgently for them to move forward and make room for the next men crossing. Alcaeus hefted his shield and shook the water out of his boots, stepping forward and looking to either side at the ground before them.
‘Form a line and follow me!’
Leading his century away from the water he pushed through a hedge and into a field of vines trained up wooden posts.
‘Look alive! Spears and shields, ready to fight! And try not to do too much damage, this is some poor bastard’s livelihood!’
Feeling the water’s biting chill receding as his body heat started to permeate his tunic’s sodden wool, he led his men forward up a gentle slope through the vines while the cavalry troop formed up behind them, readying themselves to ride deeper into enemy-held territory in the hope of neutralising any Othonian reconnaissance. Cresting the shallow hill’s ridge Alcaeus sniffed the air and pointed south, at a dimly visible farmhouse, half hidden behind a copse of trees two hundred paces from them, putting a finger to his lips and gesturing for his tent parties’ leading men to gather round him.
‘I smell wood smoke. You …’ He pointed a soldier. ‘Go back to the river, find Scar and tell him that we might be just about to contact the enemy, strength not yet known. The rest of you tell your boys to shut their mouths, and let’s go for a quiet look.’
They moved forward through the vines towards the farm as swiftly and as quietly as they could, keeping low to avoid the dawn light casting their long shadows across the landscape, crossing the distance to the house in silence with only the harsh rasping of their breathing and the metallic rustle of their mail disturbing a silence that, as the riverbank’s flurry of activity grew more distant, grew deeper and more profound. The smell of burning wood had strengthened, along with the tang of roasting meat. The centurion stopped and sank onto one knee, gesturing for them to gather round him.
‘It’s probably nothing more exciting than some old fart grilling sausage and bread for his breakfast, but just in case it isn’t we’re going in hard, spears ready and eyes open, right? And remember …’ he looked around them, his eyes lingering on Egilhard, ‘a girl with a kitchen knife can kill you just as dead as if an enemy legionary walked you onto his blade, if you let her get close enough. No mistakes. Stay quiet until you hear me, then you can be as noisy as you like.’
The farmhouse was deserted, windows and doors wide open, and the wreckage of the farmer’s furniture and possessions strewn around the yard. The corpses of half a dozen men lay where they had been killed, one elderly, one middle-aged and four younger men between their early teens and mid-twenties, all with their throats cut.
‘That’s the mark of Otho’s men alright. The women will be wishing they were dead too, I’d imagine.’
Rumours had already reached Caecina’s army, whose own behaviour since entering Italy had been scrupulously fair, in stark contrast to what had gone before, that the enemy were waging the war as if against another nation rather than their own people, with all the looting and rape that such an attitude customarily entailed. Alcaeus looked around him with a suspicious frown, sniffing the air again before turning back to Banon and Hludovig, pointing at the latter.
‘I reckon there’s a good few of them on the other side of the building. Go back and tell the Prefect we need more men here, just in case we end up thigh-deep in the shit. And if he asks you how many men we need, just tell him everyone. That ought to get his attention.’
The watch officer nodded and was gone, leaving the soldiers looking at each other. Alcaeus laughed softly at their expressions.
‘What’s the matter? Were you expecting to live for ever?’ His face hardened. ‘With me.’
As the century advanced round the farmhouse, the sound of popping, crackling wood intensified, and for the first time they heard the sound of voices. Without warning a man came round the building’s corner dressed in a blue military tunic and belt with a dagger on his hip, his feet shod in caligae, carrying a water skin and presumably heading for the river. He looked up and saw the Batavi soldiers coming out of the dawn’s long shadows, and seemed momentarily rooted to the spot as his mouth gaped in surprise. As he drew breath to shout a warning Alcaeus was already in motion, taking a swift, grunting step forward and throwing his spear, the weapon spitting the hapless enemy soldier, then drawing his sword and waving his men forward past the dying man’s writhing body. Bursting round the farm’s side and into full view of the enemy encampment they froze momentarily, staring in amazement at the neatly ordered lines of tents that were laid out before them. A group of a dozen or so soldiers were walking towards them, deep in conversation, each man carrying a water skin and clearly intent on their discussion rather than having any expectation that they might be under attack. Behind them camp fires were burning, more tunic-clad soldiers busying themselves over cooking equipment while others stood around waiting for the food to be served, and the Batavi soldiers stood and stared incredulously at the scene.
‘It’s a fucking cohort!’
Alcaeus pointed at the ground before them, knowing that he had a precious moment in which to act while the enemy were caught so badly off balance.
‘By twos! Form! Line!’
At his bellowed command every head in the enemy camp swung to stare at them, in a moment of dawning realisation that would have been hilarious under different circumstances. Then, while the century hurried to form a line two-men deep, chaos descended upon the neatly ordered scene before them, as men dropped whatever it was that they were doing and ran for their weapons, in a sudden cacophony of panicked shouts and roared orders that seemed to be utterly unheeded in each individual’s need to seek the security of his own spear and shield.
‘Forward!’
The century went forward at a slow, deliberate pace with their spears held ready and shields raised, advancing into the camp’s confusion as individual unarmoured enemy soldiers came at them with whatever implements they had to hand and died, swiftly and uselessly. One of them ran at the line with a spade he had snatched up from beside his tent, only to have his desperate hacking stroke parried, and a pair of long spear blades stabbed deep into his body. He stood for a moment, almost hanging from the spears and staring helplessly straight at Egilhard, then crumpled as Andronicus and Levonhard tore their weapons free, falling to the trampled grass to stare lifelessly at the sky. As the number of blue-tunicked men facing the line increased, a dozen of them came at the line in a group, but while their attack halted the century’s progress and even pushed the line back several paces by sheer determination, their unarmoured bodies were defenceless against their attackers’ spears, and as they fell with savage rents torn in their bodies by the long blades, more of the men waiting behind them started backing away from the oncoming warriors. An older man pushed his way out of the throng of men, hastily armed but without either armour or a helmet, shouting at the men around him to rally to him. Alcaeus, recognising him for an officer by the thin purple line on his tunic, roared a single word at him.
‘Surrender!’
The officer strode forward at the centurion’s shout, pointing his sword at Alcaeus and snarling defiance back at them.
‘To so few of you? Never!’ He looked back at the men gathered behind him. ‘We must overwhelm them! With me!’
More of his men who had managed to get the
mselves equipped were pushing their way through the crowd of soldiers, and with a sweep of his sword the bareheaded officer led them forward in menacing silence, making himself the head of the spear and pacing purposefully toward Alcaeus with his men on either side. They collided with the waiting Batavi in a clatter of shields, bursting through the line by sheer weight of numbers and plunging both sides into a confused melee. Going shield to shield with the enemy officer, Alcaeus stepped into the challenge, meeting his assailant’s shield punch with one of his own that jarred both men’s hands, but where the prefect stamped forward again, attempting to bull the centurion off his ground and onto the defensive, Alcaeus stepped quickly back and around to his left, allowing the power behind the unopposed lunge to put the other man off his balance. As the older man staggered forward, taken unawares by the move’s simplicity, the centurion put out a booted foot and tripped him, then stepped forward and put the point of his sword to the prefect’s throat as he sprawled onto the trampled grass.
‘Surrender!’
The fallen officer snarled defiance back up at him, tensing his sword arm to hack at the centurion’s legs.
‘Fuck y—’
Alcaeus’s lunge was pure reflex, pushing his sword’s point down through the defiant prefect’s throat in a bubbling gush of blood, then tore it free and hacked down with the blade to separate the dying man’s head from his neck. Grabbing a spear from one of his men he stabbed its long blade deep into the severed head’s bloody neck and then lifted it over his own head with a bellowed challenge.
‘Batavi!’
The marines fighting around him, their gazes drawn to the spectacle by his furious roar, blanched as they realised what it was that he was holding aloft, staring in horror at their prefect’s slack-jawed face, and even as the fight went out of them a tide of fresh men rounded the farmhouse behind the century and charged into the fight, while to either side horsemen were advancing around the embattled enemy’s flanks, chasing down those men who had chosen to run rather than fight. A helmeted marine centurion stepped out of the mass of men that remained unengaged, looking about him with disgust as he threw down his sword and shouted for his men to stop fighting as the ring of spears tightened around them.
Betrayal: The Centurions I Page 21