4.Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Looks… looks like we got ‘em, legate Fronto.”

  Fronto tried to stand, but the strength had left his knee.

  “You look in a sorry state, Cantorix.”

  “Didn’t have time to shave, sir” the centurion grinned, spitting a wad of clotted blood to the turf.

  “Don’t you dare die on me now, centurion.” He said, smiling back, but only half-jokingly.

  “I have no intention of dying, sir. I’m owed a couple of weeks’ leave.”

  * * * * *

  Fronto sighed and stood slowly and awkwardly, favouring his right leg, as the legionary ran across the sodden grass towards him, splashing up crowns of water with each heavy step.

  “What’s happening?”

  The legionary came to a stop and saluted. “The outer pickets to the east have spotted movement in the woods and confirmed a sizeable force, sir.”

  Fronto nodded and stretched wearily. “Tell them to fall back to the inner line at the woods’ edge. The inner pickets can come in now. As soon as they’re visible from the inner line, they’re to pull back too.”

  As the legionary ran off again, Fronto turned and peered into the incessant downpour, trying to spot Atenos. The towering Gaul was organising things near the water’s edge, gesturing to groups of men who were dashing around with piles of equipment or digging the trench.

  Hobbling over toward them, Fronto was impressed at how quickly things had progressed. The pickets had been in position for only two hours, but already two rope lines had been slung from the construction to ferry goods and support to the bridgehead. While the engineers and their work parties carried on the work at an impressive forced pace, Atenos had groups of legionaries preparing what resembled a tiny marching camp on this bank.

  The headcount had come in and, of the four hundred or so men who had crossed the Rhenus, Fronto’s command now numbered ninety-seven, including himself and the two remaining Ubii scouts, who remained under close scrutiny on the suspicion that it was they who had warned the enemy about the mission. One mystery that niggled was the continuing absence of tribune Menenius, last seen when forming up for the wedge assault.

  Of those ninety four officers and men, thirty two were posted to picket duties in four-man groups, the rest rushing around and carrying out Atenos’ commands. A ditch, currently three feet deep and three wide surrounded the site in a ‘U’ shape, seventy yards in length and almost completed was being excavated, while four men sharpened cut branches and planted them in the hollow, angled toward the enemy approach. The upcast, forming a three foot mound within the perimeter formed by the ditch, protected a scene of organised chaos within.

  The capsarius who, wounded himself, had set up a small field hospital and was working manically to treat those who stood a chance of survival, had been joined by a fellow medic from the camp who had shown the gumption to hand-over-hand it along one of the ropes, and the two men dealt with a constant supply of wounds. A peremptory and none-too-gentle prod of Fronto’s knee had elicited little sympathy from either medic. Cantorix lay wrapped in a blanket, pale grey and sweating, delirious with the compounds the capsarii had forced into him. When pressed on whether the centurion would make it, both men had looked doubtful and shrugged.

  Two men worked a pulley and bag on one rope, retrieving rations, weapons, entrenching equipment and, on the legate’s orders, a few jars of watered wine, and distributing them among the men as required. The other rope delivered a slow but growing supply of Cretan auxiliary archers, none of whom looked particularly enchanted with their method of arrival, but who were starting to take positions behind the low rampart, jamming their arrows point first into the ground for quick retrieval.

  Even as Fronto made for the newly-promoted centurion, he spotted a familiar, if bedraggled face, clambering down from the rope: Titus Decius Quadratus, the prefect of the auxiliary unit and a man who, despite the gulf between their commands, Fronto had held in high esteem ever since the defence of the Bibrax oppidum two years previously. Decius spotted Fronto lurching towards him as he nodded a greeting to Atenos and his face broke into a wide grin.

  “When I heard that the legate of the Tenth had holed up in enemy land and needed archers, I said to myself ‘just how long is Fronto going to hold out without me?’ When I answered the question, I came running.”

  “Decius, it’s damn good to see you. I hope your men are ready quickly. The enemy are on the move.”

  The auxiliary prefect scratched his stubbly chin and gestured back at the rope, where two figures were crossing at once, very slowly and carefully.

  “It’s a slow job. I’ve got maybe twenty or so men here now and more coming across but the rain’s making that rope treacherous. I’ve lost two men into the river already and only one made it to the bank. Hell, I nearly went in myself. The big thing is: my lads are really unhappy about taking their bows out in this weather. They’ve each got a spare string, but just the one.”

  Fronto sighed and sank to the rampart, rubbing his swollen knee.

  “They’ll just have to deal with it. If I could turn this rain off, believe me I would! And I’d have liked to get a palisade up but we just don’t have time. To be honest I’m surprised we’ve had this long without being assaulted. The staked ditch and mound will just have to do the job. At least we’ve got shields, pila and archers now. We’d have lasted about two minutes without all this.”

  “What have you done to your knee?”

  “Just a bad twist. The capsarius says to stay off it, as if that were a remote possibility. Here.” Unceremoniously, he thrust one of the wine jars he’d commandeered at the prefect. Decius took it without comment and swigged gratefully, brushing the rain from his forehead.

  “It’s been a noble effort, Decius, despite our horrible losses, and they’re working like madmen on the bridge, but I can’t see much hope of us holding off the entire Germanic people until they get to this bank. It’s going to be a day yet, even if they work through dark.”

  “I swear, Fronto, that if you get any more negative, you’ll change colour. It’s not about holding off an entire nation.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s about dealing with the first attack so brutally that they daren’t try again.”

  Fronto perked up, his eyes narrowing. “You think we can hit them hard enough to make them withdraw?”

  “You and me? The defenders of Bibrax? Ha!”

  The legate stood, slowly and painfully, and grinned. “What have you in mind?”

  * * * * *

  The first assault came less than an hour later. The pickets had withdrawn to the fortified boundary and the defenders had watched the barbarians moving around just inside the shadow of the woods, their numbers uncertain.

  It began as a roar somewhere inside the treeline, followed by a crash as the Germanic warriors slammed their weapons against shields, other weapons, or just tree trunks, raising a noise that shook the world. Then, half a dozen heartbeats later, the enemy poured out of the forest, yelling their guttural battle cries, mostly unarmoured, often unclothed, but with every weapon honed to a killing edge.

  Fronto, standing on the low embankment, was pleased to note the lack of enemy archers. Not a surprise, really, given the utter devastation their wedge-formation charge had wrought on the lightly armed missile troops. Very few bowmen had escaped alive into the woods, and those that did would be in no hurry to return. These men were very likely the remaining warriors of that first ambush at the farm. If that were the case, then it suggested to Fronto that perhaps the rest of the tribes were staying safely back in their own territory, watching the Roman advance carefully. If that was the case then Decius could be right. If they broke this attack, they might survive until the bridge was complete.

  “It all sounds a bit unlikely to me” he muttered to Decius. “Are you really sure they’re that good? They look a bit shaky to me.”

  The prefect grinned. “They’re just still recovering from that rope trip. But remember Bibr
ax? And we’ve been training on small target shooting since then, so watch and learn.”

  Fronto cast a distinctly uncertain look at the archers, but nodded. They all looked worried and shaky. Not that he blamed them. If he’d had to cross that wet rope above the churning currents of the Rhenus, he’d probably have lost control of his bowels by now.

  “Legionaries prepare! Front rank ready! Rear rank ready!”

  As he glanced along the rampart, the sixty-five men forming the front rank stood with their shields forming a defensive ‘U’ within the defences of the tiny fort. Swords were held poised, ready to flash out each time the shields parted a couple of inches. The rear rank of twenty five men stood five yards back, each holding a pilum ready, five more jammed into the ground, ready to throw.

  Decius waited until Fronto’s voice had echoed away and straightened. The forty archers who had crossed knelt on the embankment, arrows jammed into the earth.

  “Remember the range. Only fire when you’re certain of a hit. Mark your targets carefully. Section one, you’re looking for the largest, least armoured men. Section two fire at will, but be selective and mean!”

  Fronto looked along the line of archers and then glanced back and watched with regret as the two ropes splashed down into the water and were withdrawn to the bridge, a precaution against giving the enemy any advantage should the bridgehead fall.

  It quickly became clear as the barbarians swarmed across the open grass that their numbers had been somewhat bolstered since the ambush at the farm. Even as the lead warriors – bloodlust filling their eyes and minds, swords raised for a first blow – closed on the small, hopelessly inadequate fortlet, more were still pouring from the woods in a seemingly endless supply.

  “Steady” called Decius in a calm voice. Fronto glanced nervously across. Surely they were close enough now. He could almost smell them. In return, the tanned prefect grinned at him and, producing one of the wineskins, took a quick pull from it and winked.

  “Fire!” he bellowed.

  Fronto felt his eyes drawn back to the enemy by the arcing of the missiles. The initial volley seemed to have failed in its intended effect for a moment and Fronto was about to order the archers back, when he watched the results unfold with interest.

  The nine archers of ‘section one’ were Decius’ best shots. The most accurate and consistent archers to be found in the whole unit of Cretans, most of whom were still trapped on the far side of the Rhenus.

  Now Fronto could see how they’d earned the blue scarf that marked them out as double-pay men. Each of the nine arrows sailed straight and true and only one missed the intended mark, by a tiny enough margin that the effect was the same.

  The result was impressive. Each missile had been aimed for the knee of one of the largest and most powerful barbarians and had struck home with impressive accuracy. The bulky warriors had floundered with the crippling blows and fallen sideways in the direction of the damaged joint, bringing down several of the other charging barbarians in the mess.

  The rest of the archers were firing and nocking, firing and nocking, firing and nocking at a rate that Fronto simply couldn’t believe, their victims collapsing to the wet ground with cries of agony. Precious few arrows went astray, and even those that did caused some damage due to the press of the enemy.

  The effect of the targeted knee shots was remarkable. Where a moment earlier a solid row of howling barbarians had been running, trying to out-sprint one another, now few pockets of men were still running, while most of the front five or six ranks’ worth of warriors were down, floundering in the churning mud while the mass behind them tried to leap over or clamber across them in their lust to get to the enemy.

  Fronto had a momentary image of that hillside at Bibrax two years ago, the slope wet and muddy, churning and becoming more slippery and treacherous with every fallen struggling man. The same was now happening on the field before him. The floundering ranks of attackers were churning the mud and creating a mire that made it increasingly difficult to gain a footing and stand again.

  As the entire attack ground to a comical, messy halt, the chosen men of the unit joined their compatriots in the simple nock-release-nock-release that was having a devastating effect on them.

  Finally the warriors from the bulk of the enemy force managed to make headway, clambering across their fallen countrymen, using the wounded or dead as a walkway to cross the roiling mud.

  “Your turn!” Decius shouted with a grin, even as his men continued their impressive rate of fire.

  Fronto nodded and raised his voice. “Second rank, throw at will!”

  As the barbarians continued to fall to the fletched hell that Decius had unleashed, the men of Fronto’s legionary force began to cast their javelins. They could not see their targets with the men of the first rank, the mound and the archers in front, but they cast their missiles high and hard, the pila falling somewhere deep in the mass of barbarians where they were almost guaranteed a kill.

  And for more than a minute the battle seemed frozen in time; a constant repeat of actions. Arrows flew from the rampart, plunging with astounding precision into the nearest barbarians, holding back the surge, while pilum after pilum arced up and over, falling into the press of flesh.

  Fronto stood on the mound watching the tableau with a professional eye, noting the slowing of the enemy force – not due purely to the damage being done them by the constant barrage of missiles, but also showing a growing uncertainty about their attack. Their enthusiasm was waning, their sureness of victory drained with every death and wound.

  It would be a close thing.

  There were still enough warriors in that field to completely swamp the hundred and thirty or so men defending the bank. If they could be pushed a little harder, the resolve that weakened with every minute might break completely and, if that happened, his small force had won. The barbarians would rout and leave the field and the bridgehead would hold, while fresh supplies and more men could be brought across.

  But even as Fronto felt his breath come and his tension ease, his gaze took in the arrows jammed into the turf along the defensive line. Few archers had more than two or three shots remaining. In the moment he registered the change in the situation, the last few pila arced up and over, signalling the end of that particular advantage.

  Decius was grinning as he turned to Fronto.

  “That’s us. Your turn now!”

  The last few arrows whirred into the enemy, picking off the closest and biggest of them. As the final missile flew, Fronto took a deep breath. “Ranks part!” he bellowed.

  All along the defence, the line of legionaries shuffled to create gaps through which the archers could move to the relative safety of the camp. Decius ran along the mound to Fronto and gestured. “We’ll do what we can from behind. Good luck!”

  Fronto nodded, casting a last glance at the enemy. Perhaps two or three hundred men had fallen in that brutal assault – more than a third of the enemy force. The rest came on slower, a little more carefully, watching the defenders suspiciously, with the blood lust gone from their eyes. With a deep breath and a murmured prayer to Fortuna, he dropped down the slope and moved between the parted ranks where he collected a shield and fell in with the second rank.

  “Front line, close ranks to shieldwall!”

  As the shields slammed together, the legate closed his eyes for a moment, willing the enemy to break fast. The second rank, himself included, would be ready to plug any holes in the shieldwall, but until a gap opened, all he could see of the enemy was a general mass of howling flesh in the tiny openings between legionaries.

  “Ready?” came a voice from behind and Fronto turned to see Decius and his archers gathered in small groups, hefting hammers, mattocks and stakes that had been brought over to help with the work – even a few empty and discarded wine jars. Even as he frowned at the prefect, the first man swung hard and released a heavy-headed mallet, which arced up over the defenders, falling somewhere among the enemy.
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  Decius caught his glance and grinned.

  “Anything that might help, eh?”

  A mattock, heavy and sharp, thrummed overhead, plunging into the mass of the enemy, barely making it over the heads of the legionaries and causing a brief bladder release in the soldier who’d almost lost his head to a flying spade.

  “Careful!” Decius snapped. “High and far… high and far.”

  He turned his grin back on Fronto, who shook his head but could not help but join in with a disbelieving smile.

  The crash of close combat drew his attention back. The enemy had finally reached the shieldwall, though from the screaming and gurgling more were still falling foul of the sharpened branches jutting up from the ditch.

  From his position in the rear rank, Fronto watched the men of the Tenth and Fourteenth going to work, their shields changing angle every few seconds in a single movement that opened up a foot-wide gap through which every gladius in the line lanced out, biting into flesh before twisting and withdrawing behind shields that closed once again.

  It was an almost mechanical process and the enemy began to pile up on the far side of the rampart, several of them falling foul once again of the slippery conditions underfoot, the combat ripping the turf and earth beneath and churning it into a soup of treacherous mud. Here and there a legionary slipped, but managed to maintain his footing due to the heavy hob-nailed sandals they wore. The barbarians, largely unshod or clad in flat-soled boots, were less lucky, every slip bringing them down into the sucking mire, where they floundered as their own tribesmen clambered across them desperately.

  Fronto counted almost a minute before the first legionary went down, an overhead blow cutting him almost in two. The gruesome corpse slopped backwards and splattered into the pool of watery grass behind, staining it with a spreading pink tint. The legate opened his mouth to give the order, but a man was already moving forward to fill the gap.