The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  ‘Against a common enemy,’ Castus reminded him. ‘The Saxons threatened us both.’

  ‘Even so. Easy for us to leave things to you. But – we helped. So now maybe Romans think again of our desires?’

  Castus frowned uncomfortably, clearing his throat. ‘I cannot change the decision of the emperor, you know that.’

  Bonitus gave a dissatisfied grunt, slapping his thigh. ‘The decision of the fat man who speaks for the boy emperor!’

  ‘I cannot change that,’ Castus went on, stressing the words. ‘But... give it time. I’ll make it clear in my report that you served us well. That could help you, in the future.’

  ‘Help? Hmm. Words cannot help when my people are hungry. Words cannot bring us good lands to farm.’

  Castus raised a palm, nodding. If he had his way, it would be different. But he had so little power in these things – surely Bonitus could understand that?

  ‘Be patient,’ he said, though the words had a sour taste. He understood now that Bonitus had come to him as an emissary for all three of the Salian chiefs. Though he felt a connection of trust with Bonitus himself, he was still very wary of Gaiso in particular. He needed to tread carefully here. To offend the pride of these barbarians would be unwise.

  ‘Ach, patience...’ Bonitus said. He cleared his throat and spat quickly over the rail. Then he clapped his hands together. ‘I remembered,’ he said, with a changed tone, ‘what I told to you, that night of the feasting. About the interpreter.’

  ‘Bappo?’ Castus asked. He remembered they had spoken about the death of Leontius, but how was the interpreter involved? He felt suddenly very alert, very awake.

  Bonitus was nodding. ‘That man who served you, yes, before he died. When he came to us with your message, he stayed several days. He drank with us, and we talked. He told of the death of the last commander, this man Leontius.’

  Castus grunted, urging him to say more.

  ‘For a time I thought to keep this to myself. Not to make problems. But now... we are brothers in combat, you and me. This man Bappo told me that Leontius was killed by his own men. By Romans. They went to give silver to the Chamavi, and they killed him then.’

  Castus was sitting very upright. He had already guessed that to be true, but he needed to know more. ‘He heard this from somebody?’

  ‘No. He saw it. He was there.’

  For a moment Castus could not speak. His body prickled with sweat as he realised the implications. Bappo had been the interpreter for Dexter’s Stablesiani cavalry unit. If he had been present when Leontius was murdered... Nodding, digesting the meaning, Castus resolved to think no more of this for now. He would wait until he returned to Colonia, then call Dexter in on some pretext, and discover what he knew.

  ‘He said also,’ Bonitus went on, ‘that you have many foes among the Romans. The governor; others too. Maybe some of them want to...’ He made a slicing motion in the air with a flat palm. ‘You also, like this.’

  ‘I know that much,’ Castus said. He had a sudden memory of Ganna’s words to him, the previous autumn. They think you are an animal... they yap at you and think you will dance for them...

  ‘Why do you fight for these rich men?’ Bonitus asked. ‘Why follow their commands, if they kill your soldiers and plot against you? They are unworthy!’

  Castus shrugged. ‘We don’t choose our masters,’ he said.

  ‘Hah! And this is your civilisation! I am glad I am no Roman. We Franks are free men.’

  ‘So you say,’ Castus muttered quietly.

  A heavy boom of thunder came from overhead, like an iron drum rolling down steps. Both men glanced up, and lightning flashed through the smoky clouds. A moment later, the first drops of rain exploded off the deck of the galley.

  Bonitus stood up, pulling his cloak across his head. The sentries on the gangway were already drawing up their hoods as they huddled into their capes. The sound of the rain drumming on the deck planks and beating on the water quickly became a loud steady hiss.

  ‘You should sleep,’ Bonitus said, oblivious to the rainwater streaming down his face. ‘You look very tired, my friend.’

  Then he turned, gesturing to his boat, and stepped out across the rail. Castus watched him go, then stumbled back into the shelter of the awning and down the ladder to the warm gloom of the stern cabin. For a long time he lay awake on his bunk, listening to the heavy percussion of the rain on the planking over his head. Everything was done, he told himself. He had no more worries now, and soon he would return home. But still the truth of what Bonitus had told him revolved in his mind, until finally fatigue overwhelmed him, and without another thought he tumbled into sleep.

  CHAPTER XXII

  The news reached them three days later, as they camped at the mouth of the Vahalis. Late evening, the sun low in the west and a breeze chopping at the grey waters of the estuary, Castus was seated outside his tent when the messenger found him, stripped to the waist as Eumolpius clipped his hair and shaved him of the thick stubble he had grown over the last few days; he wanted to make an early start the next morning.

  ‘Dominus!’ the messenger cried, saluting. ‘Centurion Modestus reports that the Franks are looking ugly.’

  ‘No change there,’ Castus muttered, trying not to move his mouth as the orderly plied the razor across his cheeks.

  ‘They’re sounding ugly too, dominus. The centurion asks that you come and see for yourself.’

  Castus gave an irritated grunt. He waited until Eumolpius had finished with the razor then stood up, wiped his chin with a rough towel and pulled on his tunic. He was buckling his belts as he strode towards the perimeter. Already he felt the warm prickling sensation at the nape of his neck, the premonition of trouble.

  His men were camped on a stretch of open ground sloping to the estuary shore, a ditch and crude palisade of sharpened branches on three sides enclosing the tent lines. The fourth side was open to the river, and the muddy beach where the lighter galleys were hauled up stern-first out of the water. The Bellona, the troop barges and the recaptured merchantmen were moored just offshore. The Franks had their own camp, in the open a few hundred paces to the east along the shore; all day there had been smaller boats and canoes coming downriver to join them – to greet the warriors on their return from the expedition and escort them home, Castus had assumed. He had been looking forward to getting clear of his troublesome barbarian allies. Now, as he approached the eastern perimeter of his small encampment, he knew that things would not be so easy.

  Already he could hear the noise: angry shouts and the rattle of spearshafts on shield rims. He knew the sounds all too well. He had grown used to the boisterous racket of the Franks, but this was something different. This was a belligerent noise, aggressive. The preparation for battle.

  Modestus was waiting for him beside the palisade. He said nothing as Castus joined him, just raising an eyebrow and gesturing out across the ditch towards the barbarian camp.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Castus demanded. A tremor ran up his spine, quickly suppressed, and his scalp was itching fiercely.

  ‘No idea, excellency. One of those boats came down the river less than an hour ago, and they’ve been shouting and banging their weapons about ever since.’

  Most of the Franks had gathered near the waterside, thronging around their beached vessels. Now, as Castus watched, several large bands began moving towards the Roman encampment, shouting and brandishing their shields. Castus could see no leaders among them; the barbarians seemed animated by a mutual grievance. The captives they had liberated from the Saxons had joined them, swelling their numbers.

  ‘Call in the piquets and sentries,’ Castus ordered. ‘Stand the men to arms – all of them. Do it quickly, but quietly. No horns or signals.’

  Modestus saluted and jogged away to the tent lines. Now Vetranio was striding up to join Castus at the palisade, a look of vexed confusion on his face. ‘What’s happening?’ he called.

  ‘Reckon we’re about to find ou
t,’ Castus told him. A small group of Franks was approaching on foot, led by a man in a hooded cloak. Castus could not see his face, but he knew him by his stalking stride. He raised a palm, gesturing to the soldiers along the camp perimeter to lower their weapons.

  ‘Bonitus,’ he called.

  The Salian chief strode forward alone as his companions dropped back. As he reached the ditch he halted and threw back his hood. His expression was grave, anger flickering across his brow. The low sun stretched his shadow out behind him.

  ‘News from up the river,’ Bonitus said, low and urgent. ‘I come to warn you, Roman. Once only I say this.’

  ‘Speak,’ Castus demanded. He folded his arms, Vetranio and several of the soldiers gathering to flank him.

  Bonitus drew in a long breath, staring back at Castus. ‘Your governor has murdered the hostages of the Chamavi and Chattuari,’ he said. ‘All of them. In the arena at Colonia – he threw them to the beasts.’

  For a moment Castus could not speak. Shock reeled through his head, and he clamped his jaw tight.

  ‘Now,’ Bonitus went on, ‘the Chamavi king has sent the call for war to all the Frankish people. Already his warriors assemble. Bructeri, too, and Lanciones. Thousands are coming down the Vahalis in boats – to find you.’

  Castus forced the words from his mouth. ‘And the Salii will join with them?’ A terrible hollow dread was opening inside him.

  ‘We have a pact!’ Vetranio broke in. ‘The pact of iron – your people and ours!’

  Bonitus turned to him, his voice loaded with contempt. ‘This pact was against Saxons. Now Saxons are defeated. Our pact is ended.’

  Vetranio choked out a gasp. ‘These barbarians have a lawyer’s conception of honour!’

  ‘You gave your oath to the Chamavi,’ Bonitus said to Castus, slow and quiet. ‘You said their hostages would be treated well. Not harmed. Now this crime is upon you. You and all your men. We always knew Romans could never be trusted!’

  Castus remained silent, struggling to think clearly. Tiberianus could barely have waited before summoning the hostages to Colonia; the Games of Apollo had begun only four days after the expedition departed. Had the governor intended this? The madness, the stupidity of it was stunning.

  ‘But you,’ he managed to say. ‘Your people – you too will fight us?’

  Bonitus shrugged one shoulder. ‘As for me,’ he said, ‘I stand back from this. For the sake of my brother, who called you his friend. But if you attack us, then we are enemies. I come only to tell you – leave this place now. I try to hold the others back as long as I can. But leave, before you meet your death.’

  For a heartbeat his expression shifted – was it sympathy that Castus saw there, or just disappointment and disdain? Then the Salian chief threw his hood back over his head, turned and stalked back to join his men. Beyond them, the other Franks were beginning to assemble just out of bowshot of the Roman lines.

  ‘Excellency?’ Vetranio said. ‘What are your orders?’

  Castus was still stunned by the news. He felt blinded, weakened. How had this happened? What vengeful god, what evil fate had decreed this? Moments before he had been on the cusp of total success, and now everything had been snatched from him. Images tumbled through the fog of his mind: the hostages – little more than boys, youths – torn to shreds by the beasts in the arena. Massed hordes of barbarians, united by fury, ready to pour across the Rhine. Tiberianus must have been planning this for months, he realised, waiting only until Castus was out of the way... What a fool he had been to leave Colonia! But behind Tiberianus, no doubt, was Magnius Rufus. Castus could almost see the man’s glinting smile. And in Colonia itself was his son, his Sabinus... Marcellina: where was she? Safe behind the city’s walls, or out in the country on her husband’s estate? He could do nothing to protect either of them now. It was already too late. Panic thrashed at the edges of his mind.

  ‘Dominus!’ Vetranio said. ‘Your orders?’

  Gazing around him, Castus saw the tent lines emptying, the troops assembling in their units. Such pitifully few men. And beyond the meagre fortifications of the camp a vast empty country, hostile, filled with the enemy. He looked at the faces of the men surrounding him, seeing the fear and confusion in their eyes. All were waiting for his word, his order.

  ‘They don’t outnumber us, not yet,’ Vetranio was saying. ‘We could try and hold out here...’

  ‘Hold out for what?’ Castus heard another centurion say. ‘There’s no reinforcement coming. Everyone in Colonia must think we’re dead men already... And there’re thousands of Chamavi coming down the river.’

  ‘It could be a trick!’ Vetranio said, angry desperation in his voice. ‘These bastard barbarians, they’re all liars... I knew we should never have trusted them!’

  Think, Castus told himself. The fog in his mind was starting to clear, his despair and shock shifting to rage. He felt the blood moving hot and fast in his body, the strength returning to his limbs.

  ‘We can’t hold out here,’ he said. Never try to hold what you cannot defend. ‘Send word to Senecio – tell him to get the galleys in the water. Bring the troop barges close inshore. All the men are to fall back to the ships, the Twenty-Second to begin with, while the Second hold the perimeter. When the ships are manned and ready the last men fall back by sections, in a defensive cordon. Abandon everything we can’t carry – and move fast. And sound the horns and trumpets – let them know we’re ready for them. Go!’

  Messengers were already spilling away from him. Breathing hard, Castus strode down the slope towards the water with Vetranio at his back. He could hear the centurions and optios crying out their orders, the trumpet notes wailing in the evening air. As he passed the last line of tents Eumolpius came jogging up beside him with his helmet and linen vest. Castus tore his left arm free of the sling, gasping as pain lanced from his wounded bicep, then struggled into the armour without breaking stride.

  ‘We’re too late!’ Vetranio cried, pointing. ‘The bastards are already inside the perimeter!’

  Castus judged the scene with a single glance: the Frankish boats rowing in across the shallows, the warriors already scrambling overboard and gathering on the muddy shore. Gaiso was leading them, roaring threats at the thin screen of Roman oarsmen and marines that opposed him. Only a few paces away, the crews of the galleys were still heaving their vessels off the beach. The low sun glittered off the water, dying the estuary ruddy gold.

  ‘You, Roman!’ Gaiso yelled as he saw Castus approaching him. He was wading up through the shallows, carrying no shield but with a short throwing spear gripped in his right hand, point downwards. His mouth and moustache were flecked with spit as he shouted. ‘You kill all hostage! Soon you feel wrath of Franks! Chamavi, Chattuari, Bructeri, Salii – all! Soon you die!’

  The cordon of troops around the landing place contracted as the soldiers drew closer, shield to shield. Felix moved forward to take charge of them and stood at the centre of the line. Behind them, Nervian archers waited anxiously, bows strung and arrows nocked. Castus pushed his way between them and confronted the Frankish chief, Vetranio at his shoulder. Where was an interpreter when he needed one?

  ‘The hostages are no concern of ours!’ he said, anger clipping his words. ‘Go back to your own lands and people in peace, or you’ll be the ones feeling our wrath!’

  He had no idea if Gaiso understood what he had said. His sword was still in its scabbard, his shield arm useless. The chief took a few more steps, out of the lapping water and up onto the muddy beach. He lifted his spear back over his shoulder. Behind him, his warriors waited, tensed in expectation.

  ‘Romans!’ the chieftain cried. ‘Always enemy!’

  Castus saw the flex of his arm, the spear canted back; he took a step to one side, drawing his sword in a wide slash as the chieftain hurled the spear. His blade cut air, the missile darting past him, and Castus heard Vetranio’s cry from behind him. A glance over his shoulder: the spear had caught Vetranio in the c
hest, piercing him straight through his body.

  Already Gaiso was dragging the sword from his scabbard. He never got the blade clear; six bows thrummed, and a dozen darts and javelins arced down from the Roman ranks. The chief’s battle cry broke to a scream of pain as the arrows struck him. For a moment he remained standing, swaying on his feet. Then a last javelin lanced through his hip, and Gaiso flung up his arm, turned slightly, and fell dead into the muddy water.

  Nothing for it now.

  ‘Attack!’ Castus yelled. ‘Drive them off the beach!’

  With a ragged yell the soldiers stormed forward, shields together and Felix in the lead, smashing the Franks back into the water. The archers were shooting fast, bundles of arrows clasped against every bow stave, lofting missiles over the combat in the shallows and down into the enemy boats. The artillery on the galleys were shooting too, now, darting bolts across the water. Men who had fought side by side as brothers only days before were now slaughtering each other.

  Castus knelt for a moment beside Vetranio. The man was already dead, blood on his lips, his hands still clasped around the shaft of the spear jutting from his chest. Standing, Castus saw Senecio running along the beach.

  ‘Dominus,’ the old navarch gasped, fighting for breath. ‘The ships are ready, we’re just getting the anchors up now... But we need more time! Most of the crews are still ashore...’

  ‘You’ll have all the time you need,’ Castus told him. ‘You’re in charge of the embarkation – make sure everyone gets aboard. Take all of our injured and dead, too, and the liberated prisoners from the ships. I’ll remain ashore until everything’s done.’

  The fight at the riverbank was already over, the last of the Franks falling back to their boats and rowing clear, leaving their dead lolling in the water. Felix was shouting orders, forming his men up again on the beach. He seemed to have taken few casualties. First bout to us, Castus thought grimly.

  But he could hear the clamour beyond the eastern perimeter, the thunder of spears striking shields, the shouts of defiance. With one of their leaders down, the Salii might hang back a while longer, but now they were fired by revenge their attack would not be long in coming. Along the palisade the legionaries of the Second were assembled in readiness, Modestus pacing along behind them growling threats and encouragement.