by Ian Ross
He stood up, sheathing his sword. ‘Get them out of my sight,’ he said. ‘Dismissed!’
Macer lingered by the door as the centurion escorted his men out through the courtyard.
‘What is it, drillmaster?’ Castus asked with his back turned. ‘You don’t approve?’
‘I just think you might remember the fate of the deified Aurelian,’ Macer said.
Castus glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.
‘He was murdered,’ the drillmaster said. ‘By his own officers.’ He snapped a quick salute, then turned and followed Attalus.
Diogenes came back in, bringing a couple of slaves with a sponge and water to clean the blood off the wall and the urine from the tiled floor. ‘I honestly thought you were about to kill those men,’ the secretary said. He still had a look of bemused fright on his face, but it was not that far from his usual expression.
‘I wanted to,’ Castus said in a low growl. ‘They deserved to die. I wanted to hack off their heads and boot them round the room… But I need living soldiers, not dead ones.’ This too, he supposed, was part of command. Knowing the limits of power, and when to hold back. Even so, he felt a cold roiling anger at what had just happened.
Send us to the battlefield, he thought. Gods, deliver us from the temptations of leisure…
Barely an hour had passed when he heard voices from the courtyard and an orderly from headquarters came stamping into the room, flinging a salute. Castus listened to his message with numbed surprise.
‘Eumolpius!’ he cried, striding from the room into the courtyard. ‘Eumolpius, gather my kit…’
Seldom, he thought, had his prayers been answered so quickly.
The army was to march against Verona at first light.
Chapter XI
The grey-green river rushed down from the mountains and flung a tight loop around the city, protecting it on three sides. On the fourth side, massively fortified walls closed the neck of the loop, studded with drum towers. And before those walls, the emperor Constantine’s triumphant advance across the plains of northern Italy had faltered and stalled.
From the edge of a plundered orchard Castus gazed at the city shimmering in the late-afternoon sun. There were twenty thousand men inside those fortifications; the ramparts bristled with spears.
‘There’s the bastard,’ Brocchus said.
‘Are you sure?’ Castus squinted at the figures on the top of the wall.
‘See the white draco?’ Brocchus replied. ‘That’s his personal standard.’
Brocchus was the new eagle-bearer of Legion II Britannica. A stocky veteran with a creased face, he had served nearly twenty years in the Augusta legion in Britain. He also had extremely sharp eyes, it seemed.
The amphitheatre of Verona had originally stood outside the fortifications, but newly built walls connected it to the main circuit. It was a citadel now, an outwork of the main defences. The double row of massive arches were sealed with masonry, and a rampart had been constructed around the top. It was from that rampart, Castus now saw, that the enemy commander stood to survey the siege works around his city.
‘Decent shot from a ballista could pick him off,’ Rogatianus said, shading his face with a level palm.
Castus had been thinking the very same thing. Pompeianus, the commander of Verona, was Maxentius’s Praetorian Prefect and leading general. Without him, the resistance in the north would surely crumble. Castus knew that Constantine’s agents had been in communication with him during their stay at Mediolanum, trying to induce him to change sides. Pompeianus had stuck to his allegiance. A loyal soldier, if nothing else. Castus could respect that, but he still wished the man dead.
The march from Mediolanum had taken six days, on dead-straight roads across the widest flattest country Castus had seen since leaving the Danube. Outside Brixia they had met a force of cavalry, but the enemy horsemen had fled after the first skirmish and the infantry had just watched and cheered from their battle lines. Pressing on eastwards, they had skirted the southern shore of Lake Benacus, the water stretching away ice blue to the snow-capped mountains on the horizon. And then they had reached Verona, and the advance had ground to a halt.
Already two direct assaults on the walls had failed. Men of the Primigenia and Flavia Gallicana legions had stormed the ramparts each time with ladders, and each time they been thrown back. Casualties had been high; there had been no further attempts since. From his vantage point at the edge of the orchard, Castus watched the troops toiling in the trenches that ran across the neck of the river, hacking at the dry ground with picks and mattocks. There were scorpion catapults along the walls, and the garrison had plenty of archers; now the attackers were throwing up breastworks of fascines and felled trees to cover their own artillery. The siege was solidifying, tightening its grip.
A hundred paces from where Castus was standing, a group of engineers was adjusting the torsion drum on a heavy stone-throwing catapult. There were other machines waiting nearby, taken from the arsenals of Mediolanum, Taurinum and Segusio. Soon they would begin to add their missiles to the hail of stones and bolts that had been battering the walls of the city for days.
Taking off his cap, Castus scratched at his scalp and the nape of his neck. The mosquitoes of Verona were, unbelievably, even more vicious than those of Mediolanum. His neck, legs and the backs of his hands were covered in swollen bites. Sweet blood, Diogenes had told him. It seemed unlikely, but nobody else seemed to suffer as much.
If the insects loved him, many of his troops did not. Rumours of his outburst against the three condemned men, and the punishments he had given them, had spread through the legion during the march east from Mediolanum. Had he really been so unjust? Castus thought not, but he knew that soldiers had a strange and often baffling code of justice. He had shared it himself, before he had been in command. Now his legion was more divided than ever, all the unity and purpose won at Segusio and the battle before Taurinum dissipated. Centurion Attalus openly glowered in his presence, and Macer seemed to be keeping his distance, wary of how the dice might fall.
If only they could break this siege. Castus had wanted battle, movement, momentum, but instead there was only stalemate. With the legion sitting around in siege lines in the growing stink of their own latrine trenches, or forced to labour in the hot sun under the sting of the enemy artillery, dissent bred fast.
At least, he thought, the expedition of the night ahead would change that.
The river at Verona flowed too deep, the current too strong, to be forded, and the only two bridges were inside the fortifications. To the north, beyond the loop of rushing water, a low spur of hills rose to a summit directly above the riverbank. Strongly walled, it was a bridgehead for the city, and the road led east from its gates along the far side of the river, towards the Maxentian garrisons at Aquileia and Concordia. As long as that road remained open, the city could always be supplied or reinforced, and the besiegers could never hope to blockade the place.
The expedition would leave after dark, moving upstream to find a river crossing that was not screened by the enemy cavalry. Then a reverse march along the far bank and over the spur of hills to circle around the bridgehead and descend on the other side of the city, cut the road and complete the blockade.
It sounded simple, but Castus knew that it was not.
Still, he had argued hard for his own legion to be included in the expeditionary force. Anything to get them moving, and work some shape back into them. His arguments, for once, had paid off.
‘Let’s go,’ he told Rogatianus and the eagle-bearer, and they turned and made their way back through the ripped stumps of the orchard to the legion encampment, where the men were cleaning and checking their armour and kit, their shields and mail shirts laid out across the parched grass like an armourers’ fair. All of them would need to rest as much as they could before the sun went down.
*
The night was humid, still warm with the day’s heat, but the waters of the river wer
e cold and bracing. By the time the men of the legion clambered down the slope of the bank and began fording the torrent, the auxilia and cavalry vanguard had already established a guarded perimeter on the far side, and rigged ropes across the water to guide the troops in the darkness.
Leading his horse, probing ahead of him with a spear, Castus waded out into the river. The current tugged at his legs, then pushed at his thighs, and after a few paces he was waist-deep and shivering with the water surging around him. The riverbed was gravel and loose stones, and with every plunging step forward he felt his boots slip and skid. A few men had already fallen; one, from another unit, had been swept away downstream. Nothing could be done for him now. The crossing was supposed to be silent, but the noise of five thousand splashing, tramping men would carry for a mile down the valley. If the enemy had scouts in the area, they would soon be alerted.
Up the far bank, sliding in the rutted greasy mud, Castus hauled himself onto dry ground again. His breeches were soaked and his boots slopping, but there was no time to dry out. Pulling himself up into the saddle, he sat and watched the last of his men crossing behind him. There was no moon, and in the blackness all he could see were toiling shapes in the black water.
With the last men of the column across, they formed up on the road that followed the far bank. Shuffling and muttering, they hefted their wet kit as the centurions hissed and prodded them into line; they knew they were in enemy territory now. Castus waited, patting his horse’s neck as he felt the water drain down into his boots. A rider came along the column, making hand signals to the unit commanders. Ready to march. No trumpets, no orders called; the column just gave a lurch and spilled into motion, the troops shunting forward until the ranks opened out and they fell into the familiar marching step.
Twelve miles back down the riverbank and across the spur above the bridgehead; they would have to cover that distance and take up their positions on the road before first light. If the men were tired, they did not show it. Every man carried fifteen days’ hard rations in his shoulder bag, full armour and equipment, shields, spears and javelins. Their waterlogged boots crunched the gravelled road, and their soaked clothing squelched and dripped as they marched. But there was a sense of discipline and purpose in them now. Castus could see that even in the darkness.
Night marches were always difficult, especially with no moon to show the path ahead. Individual units could become separated or lose the route, gaps could open in the column or close suddenly and create confusion. Riding beside his marching men, Castus felt a strong sense of unreality, as if he had slipped into a dream. He dismounted, hoping that having his feet on the ground would keep him focused. Instead, as he led his horse, he found himself thinking about Sabina. Would she be in Mediolanum now? Was the other man, Lepidus, there too? Castus wondered if his wife had brought their son with her; there was little hope of seeing either of them for months now, but the possibility was tantalising even so…
With a jolt he became aware that the column ahead of him had halted. They were surely approaching the last bend that would take them within sight of the city. A shout went up from somewhere along the road, then a cry, and a horseback messenger rode past at the gallop.
‘Cavalry!’ somebody yelled. ‘Prepare to repel cavalry!’
At once the column stiffened. Shields rattled and banged together as the men slung them from their shoulders, readied their spears and fell into two rows, facing outwards. Cursing, Castus pushed his way between them, handed the reins of his horse to the man beside him, then jogged forward up the line.
Macer had the vanguard, with the standard-bearer Brocchus. As Castus reached them he saw the troops gazing forward into the gloom. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, damp clothing, muddy boots. Ahead he could make out the faint trace of the road, empty between trees. For a moment there was only stillness, then he saw the darkness thicken into the forms of running men. The soldiers around him swung their shields to face forward, clashing them into a solid wedge.
‘They’re charging us!’ Macer shouted. ‘Javelins – ready!’
‘Wait,’ Castus told him, raising his hand. There were four other units ahead of them in the line of march – had they been cut off? The column must stretch for a mile in front, another mile behind; if an enemy force had managed to infiltrate between them it could be a disaster…
‘Tribune,’ Macer yelled in his ear, his javelin raised, ‘they’ll be right on top of us unless—’
‘I said wait!’ Castus seized the drillmaster’s arm, dragging it down. ‘Liberator!’ he called at the top of his voice. The darkness swallowed the echo. ‘LIBERATOR!’ he cried again.
The rush of men seemed to part, slowing and scattering before the wedge of shields and spears. Around him Castus felt, rather than saw, the javelins drawn back to throw.
Then a heavily accented voice called back. ‘Strong in victory!’
A gasp of release went through the legionaries at the correct response to the watchword. But the shields stayed up. Now the scattered men on the road ahead were gathering on the verges under the trees, appearing to congeal out of the shadows. Castus made out their bare heads, their long hair, the glint of their spears. Germanic auxilia.
‘Where is your commander?’ he hissed loudly at the nearest group.
‘Here!’ a voice called back. ‘Who are you?’
‘Second Britannica!’
The shape of a man formed from the blackness, walking carefully back down the road towards the wedge of shields, raising an open palm.
‘A false alarm, I think,’ the Alamannic commander said. ‘My men were falling back…’
‘So I see,’ Castus growled. He slapped Brocchus on the shoulder, and the man raised the eagle standard. Tension flowed out of the column, and a few men snorted quiet laughter, but Castus could sense the anger behind him as the legion formed up again to march.
‘Get your men out of the road,’ he said to the Alamannic leader. ‘We’re going through them. You can fall in behind when we’re past.’
He caught the brief angry intake of breath, then the man was gone.
‘Fucking barbarians,’ Macer said.
*
An hour later the column swung off the road and traced a path up the hillside above the river. Now they were out of the wood the stars were clear overhead, and the long stream of marching men felt very exposed. Mounting his horse, Castus rode on up the line, trusting Dapple to pick her way forward on the snaking path between the climbing soldiers. As he neared the summit of the ridge he heard the men ahead of him talking, hushed voices calling back to their comrades behind them.
‘What’s happening?’ he said, sliding from the saddle. A small group of officers was standing on the summit. Even in the darkness he could pick out the gleam of their armour and ornaments.
‘Castus – is that you?’ Valerius Leontius, Prefect of Legion VIII Augusta and commander of the expeditionary force, peered at him as he approached, then gripped his shoulder. ‘Look down there,’ he said, pointing down the slope beneath them. ‘And listen.’
From the summit Castus could see the city at the base of the hills, the loop of riverbank and the grid of streets marked out by pinpricks of lamplight. At the far side of the grid was a bar of darkness: the city wall, and the no man’s land beyond it. And then, spreading across the plain outside the walls, the camp fires of Constantine’s besieging army. At his feet, seemingly only a few hundred paces away, was the fortification of the bridgehead, the hill inside its walls rising up to a black crest of tall pines. Castus could hear nothing at first but the steady creak and stamp of the men climbing over the ridge behind him. Then, trying to ignore the noise of the marching column, he heard the other sounds, distant shouts and thin high screams carried on the night air. The clash of arms.
‘They’ve sallied from the walls,’ he said. Some of the other men around him nodded and grunted their agreement. Even as he spoke he could see the flare of fires in the gap between the city fortific
ations and the siege camp. ‘Looks like they’re burning our artillery.’
‘Trying,’ Leontius said grimly. He shook his head. ‘All the better for us – they won’t be paying so much attention to what’s happening behind them!’
The prefect snapped out an order, and the gathering of officers broke up. Castus remained on the summit, standing beside his horse while he waited for his own troops to come up the track and cross the ridge. Staring at the flicker of fires down on the plain had spoilt his night vision, but it was an entrancing sight. Men were dying down there, victory and defeat hanging in the balance, all of it so far away that it was like the combat of ants. This, he thought, is how the gods must feel.
They descended the ridge, straggling down an oblique valley that brought them to the riverbank a mile beyond the bridgehead. There they formed up, stumbling, tired men falling into rank and file behind their standards, but there was no enemy force guarding the road, and the few scouts had already been scattered by their approach. The battle on the western bank of the river was over, and smoke was rising from the siege works in the pale light of the coming day. The sally had been driven back.
As the first bright rays of dawn threw their shadows across the road ahead of them, the cornicines of the expeditionary force sounded their horns in unison, signalling that the blockade had been accomplished. And from the far bank of the river, they heard the answering trumpets, the cheers of the main army, as the soldiers raised their arms in salute to the sun. The city remained silent, brooding behind its walls.
Chapter XII
‘It looks almost peaceful, don’t you think?’ Diogenes said, the tablets in his lap apparently forgotten as he gazed across the river.
‘Hmm?’ Castus replied. He had been pondering the lists of provisions the secretary had been compiling; after ten days in their new camp, supplies were running low, and the foraging parties were ranging ever wider over the surrounding countryside.