by Ian Ross
‘Claudius Modestus,’ Castus called as he jogged towards him. ‘Vetranio’s dead. You’re now senior centurion in command of the detachment.’
Modestus stared for a moment, wide-eyed. Then he saluted with a grin.
Across the tattered palisade and the crude ditch, the throng of barbarians was growing. The defences might hold them back for a short time, but they had the numbers to make a concerted rush. Behind him, Castus could hear the men of the Twenty-Second hurrying down to the shore, abandoning their tents and baggage and their smoking cooking fires. Again the cloud of despair rose in his mind; even if he got his men clear of this place, what could he do? He needed to get back to Colonia, organise some sort of defence, find his son and Marcellina... But the best he could pray for was a few more hours of life.
He shook his head, trying to muster his thoughts. He needed to be firm now. The men around him were relying on his judgement utterly. A flush of pride ran through him – and fear as well. If he failed here, all was lost.
Scanning the barbarian front line, he picked out Bonitus, standing slightly apart from the others with his own band of household warriors around him. The Salian chief did not glance in his direction, but Castus knew that Bonitus was aware of him. He seemed to radiate a strange stillness, a calm that could erupt at any moment. But for now his inaction was holding the angrier of his fellow warriors back.
‘Dominus,’ a messenger called, panting up behind him. ‘All the ships are manned and ready. Troop barges coming in now.’
‘Good,’ Castus said curtly. Thank the gods. ‘Modestus – on my command we fall back to the centre of the encampment by units and form a shield perimeter. Then retreat slowly to the beach. Understand?’
‘Yes, dominus!’ At once Modestus was stalking away, snarling out orders. Castus watched him, then looked back at the Franks. Already they were massing forward, the veterans among them moving to the front to form attack wedges.
Waiting, counting heartbeats. Modestus had moved around the perimeter now.
‘Hornblower,’ Castus called. ‘Give the signal!’
The brass notes rang out, and with a single movement the men at the palisade hefted their shields and ran back towards the centre of the enclosure. Before the Franks could react they had formed up again, a solid buttress of shields and levelled spears. Then the barbarians let out a vast yell, and began to surge forwards.
‘Back, back!’ Modestus was shouting. ‘Shields up, eyes to the front! Slow and steady now, boys!’
Castus took his position at the centre of the formation, beside the trumpeters and standard-bearer, as slowly the mass of Roman troops retreated. Two shuffling steps back, then a pause to dress the lines, then two more steps. A steady collective grunt of breath; the low mutter of commands. All the while the shields held tight, every man facing out towards the enemy.
Now the Franks were swarming across the abandoned fortifications, heaving aside the palisade, yelling and brandishing their spears. Castus watched them from between the ranks of his legionaries. They poured into the camp, whooping and screaming, slashing wildly at the leather of the tents as if they were slaying the men who had sheltered within them. Others kicked at the cooking fires, or stabbed at the discarded bedrolls. Castus saw the chieftain Flaochadus proudly raising a camp stool above his head like a battle trophy. There was no sign of Bonitus.
‘Few more paces, boys!’ Modestus cried. ‘Look at the bastards! They don’t dare face us now...’
Sure enough, the Franks were hanging back from the retreating formation. Some yelled and waved their spears, a few lobbed javelins or loosed slingshot to jab and rattle against the buttress of shields. But Flaochadus was not going to lead an attack, and without another commander the barbarians lacked cohesion. For a moment Castus wondered whether a sudden rush could scatter them. But no – barely a hundred legionaries held his formation, and the Franks outnumbered them now.
Mud beneath his boots; the smell of the estuary filling the air. Castus ordered one last trumpet signal, and the formation broke as the men piled back towards the waiting barges, splashing through the shallows and scrambling aboard. There was a smaller boat waiting to take him out to the flagship but Castus remained standing on the beach, staring back at the Frankish horde as they poured down the slope after the retreating soldiers. When the last of his men was safely afloat, he paced backward to the boat and swung himself aboard. A spatter of flung spears and slingshot struck the mud and the water, then the keel grated and lifted as the oarsmen pushed off from the beach.
CHAPTER XXIII
Leaning on the rear ballista mounting of the Bellona, Castus stared back over the stern. In the fading light he could see the waterway to the east, where the estuary narrowed into the mouth of the Vahalis, teeming with vessels. The Frankish boats had been joined by the captured Saxon longboats, now fully manned and armed, and a host of smaller craft. They had made no move to attack, yet, but they seemed determined to stop the Roman flotilla from moving up the river.
‘Like something out of Homer, eh?’ he said.
Senecio, beside him, snorted a mirthless laugh.
The deck of the flagship was crowded with marines and archers, while the oarsmen pulled slowly against the incoming tide to keep the Bellona stationary in midstream. The smaller galleys and the troop barges were positioned on either flank, their prows facing the river mouth.
‘What do you think?’ Castus asked. ‘Could we break through them?’
Senecio gave an appraising sigh. ‘Possibly. With the tide behind us and a scrap of this south wind we could certainly try. But we wouldn’t get through them without losses. Then we’ve got a long pull up the river, and if your barbarian friend’s right we could be meeting opposition all the way. Hard work. Especially dragging these behind us.’
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Off to the right, the five big merchant ships they had recaptured from the Saxons were still at anchor. Only one of them – the Europa of Dubris – still had her sails. The Saxons had taken the sailcloth from the others, and it had been burnt in the wreck of their camp. They would have to be towed by the galleys. Castus stared across at the Europa; all the wounded men were aboard, and most of the civilian crews of the ships. Her hold was packed with two hundred Saxon prisoners.
‘What cargo are the other four carrying?’
‘Fodder, timber, naval stores, woollens,’ Senecio said with a shrug. ‘We tried to lighten them, and they’ve only got skeleton crews aboard, but even so...’
Castus nodded. Hauling the ships would slow down his galleys, however lightly they were laden.
‘What other options do we have?’ he asked quietly. The deck rocked beneath him with the motion of the tide.
‘We could run south, back the way we came,’ Senecio told him. ‘If they don’t pick us off in the islands we could make the estuary of the Scaldis. Two days upriver and we abandon ship and march across country. Eight days, maybe nine, to Colonia.’
‘Too long.’
Senecio had a calculating look on his face. Clearly he had another plan in mind. Castus waited.
‘Or,’ the navarch said, ‘we could row out westwards against the tide. Out of the estuary and into the open sea. The barbarians might think we were making for the British coast, but once we’ve got enough sea room we could turn and get the wind behind us, run north-east up the coast to the mouth of the Rhine. Not an easy passage, especially in the dark. But the Europa’s got a pilot aboard who knows that landfall well enough. He could tell us the sea marks.’
‘Then what? Haul up the Rhine straight through Frankish territory?’
‘They wouldn’t be expecting us...’ Senecio said, obviously still pondering his plan even as he spoke. ‘We could slip around behind them, keep to the midstream and row by night. It’s still a risk, dominus, I can’t claim otherwise. But it’d take us where we need to be.’
Castus chewed at his lip, frowning into the gathering darkness. If the Franks saw them running out towards the
open sea, would they follow? And then how would he keep his ships together out in deep water by night? He raised his head and looked at the sky. A low moon, shredded by moving cloud. The breeze was freshening from the south.
‘Could the ships make it?’
‘The smaller galleys were built for coastal work as well as rivers. The barges too. As for the old Bellona – she took a battering when we ran through those stakes. I’d prefer to get her out of the water, caulk her seams, try and get to those leaks around her bow... But she’ll swim, for now.’
Castus nodded. He felt a swelling tension in his shoulders and back, a cold flush across his brow. His throat was tight and dry. Yet he had done well to get this far, to get his men aboard the ships without losses. Some god had granted him a reprieve. But how long would it last? Again that terrible ache of despair, the sense of control spilling from his hands, events rushing away from him. He shuddered, then clenched his jaw. As far as anyone at Colonia knows, we’re all dead men already.
‘Let’s do it.’
*
An hour later, full dark, the wind picking up and the incoming tide flowing strongly. Creak and plash of oars as the galleys pulled hard for the west. Behind them, four big hulls were anchored abreast across the estuary; as Castus peered into the darkness over the stern of the flagship he saw the boats leaving, the last men pausing to chop through the anchor cables. Then the first tongues of flame licked up from the decks, dancing brightly in the breeze. The ships swung, loose from their moorings, the fires in their holds burning more fiercely now as the current carried them, drifting and turning, up towards the armada of Frankish boats blocking the river mouth.
The flames cast a glow high into the sky, illuminating the dark estuary and casting the faces of the men sweating at the oars into stark relief. Ahead of them, the Europa was reaching down the channel with the south wind on her beam. A stout and weatherly ship, Castus thought; she would continue across the sea to the British coast, carrying the wounded men and the civilians to safety. For the rest of them, a harder night lay ahead.
Making his way to the helmsman’s post, Castus felt the ship already beginning to roll with the motion of the waves. Every man aboard had a sailor’s healthy dread of the open sea at night. The lighter galleys especially would have a wet time of it. But every ship had a covered lantern at her masthead, and orders to light it once they had cleared the land. Hopefully that would enable them to stay together. The Europa’s pilot had said there was an old fort and a lighthouse at the mouth of the Rhine, abandoned long ago but still a good sea mark if they reached it by dawn. Beyond that, Castus thought, they were in the hands of the gods now.
Night filled the estuary, eclipsing the distant shores. To the east the fires of the burning ships still lit the sky, and no Frankish boats had tried to pass them. Sacrificing the ships had been Castus’s idea. He would account for the losses; escape was the more pressing consideration. Beneath him, he could hear the timbers of the old galley beginning to creak and wail, the incoming waves dashing around her prow and foaming over the oar-blades. The air was thick with the smell of salt water.
Quietly, steadily, the small flotilla slipped along the estuary. Castus remained standing beside the helmsman; he knew he should rest while he had the chance, but if the oarsmen could not sleep then neither would he. A figure came along the gangway, stumbling with the unfamiliar motion of the deck.
‘Dominus,’ Felix said, and Castus saw his twisted smile in the faint moonlight. ‘Why is it, I ask myself, that whenever you’re in command I find myself out at sea someplace?’
‘Sorry!’ Castus said with a grin. ‘Such is fate though, eh?’
Felix shrugged, unconsoled. ‘Just don’t let me puke into the wind,’ he muttered.
Another two hours into the night, and the first deep sea swells lifted the ship, the waves rolling in against her beam and sending windblown spray across the deck. The Bellona shuddered and rolled, but the oarsmen kept on hauling, grunting with the effort now, cursing between clenched teeth. Over in the lee scuppers a handful of men crouched at the rail, gasping and retching. Felix was not alone in his seasickness.
‘Choppy for midsummer,’ Castus said to Senecio as the navarch joined him before the stern canopy.
The old man smiled ruefully. ‘Northern seas,’ he said. ‘Never can trust them! We’ll be all right, even if the wind picks up some more. Another couple of hours, then we can give the oarsmen a rest and run north under sail. Only danger then’s if the wind veers west and we get the shore under our lee – we need to keep enough sea room from the coast, and try not to stray too far northwards. Look there,’ he said, pointing out into the wet darkness ahead. Castus peered forward, squinting, and made out the distant sparks of light dancing in the gloom. ‘The other ships have got their lanterns up,’ Senecio said.
The ship butted onwards, the rowing master crying out the stroke now, over the noise of the wind and the rush of the sea. Castus shed his linen vest and pulled a cloak around his shoulders. The total darkness that surrounded the ship was unnerving; he sensed the constant motion of the waves rather than saw then. When he looked up he could make out the bare mast and yard swaying against the sky, picked out by the scraps of moonlight. He had lost all sense of time, distance and direction.
Senecio at least seemed to have an idea of where they were. He paced up and down the gangway, sure-footed on the rolling deck, glancing up sometimes towards the faint moon, nodding, sniffing the breeze. Finally he cried out an order, and the deck crew rushed to the braces. The helmsman leaned hard on the tiller bars, and the Bellona swung steadily around, lurching a little, until the wind was under her stern and the racing waves foamed along her sides. The sail billowed out, the motion of the ship changing as she steadied on the new course, and men on the rowing benches relaxed with a vast groan and shipped their oars.
Castus seated himself on the stool just before the canopy, and took a mouthful of bread and a gulp of watered wine. Other men were creeping along the gangways, doling out food and water to the exhausted oarsmen. Above them the big canvas sail bellied, the rigging creaking. Scanning the sea ahead, Castus was glad to see the winking lights of the mast-lanterns on the other ships. He tried to count them, but the lights came and went. A short while later he could see nothing. Flurries of light rain spattered the deck around him.
Now they were moving more steadily, Castus felt the tiredness seeping through him. The events of the last few hours had drained his strength and harrowed his nerves. Even now, danger surrounded them. Once they got to the Rhine, he thought, they still had a long journey upriver, along a frontier under enemy attack. Would news of the threatened invasion have reached the towns and cities of the province yet? His tired mind conjured images of panic and disaster... All he must think about was getting himself and his men back to the river, back to Colonia. Back to where they might, perhaps, make a difference. But still the images came: Marcellina, who had survived the Pictish invasion in Britain that had destroyed her family, once more facing barbarian attack. His son, believing that his father had broken his promise to return, had forsaken him... No, he told himself. Enough.
‘Dominus, lookout reckons he can hear breaking surf out to starboard.’
Castus snapped awake; he had dropped into a stunned doze on his stool. But the crewman was speaking to Senecio, not to him. He got up, stretching his limbs. The wind caught at his cloak and flapped it around his body. Senecio was giving quiet commands to the helmsman, telling him to steer a little more to port.
Spray burst suddenly over the deck, and a heartbeat later a juddering impact knocked Castus off his feet. Shouts all around him, screams from the men on the benches. Sprawled on the wet planking, Castus heard a ripping screech, then a noise like a thundercrack. He thought the ship had been hit by lightning – then the rigging was collapsing down onto the deck around him, the mast heeling over and toppling forward over the weather bow.
‘She’s struck!’ the helmsman yelled. ‘Rudders are d
ead! We’re aground!’
Castus was back on his feet before he could think, bracing himself against the tilting deck. The whole forward end of the Bellona was a mess of fallen timbers and flapping sail, the water bursting over the side. Senecio was standing amidships, legs braced, howling orders to the deck crew, but all seemed to be chaos, men stumbling and shouting, floundering between the rowing benches and across the gangway.
‘Oars out!’ Senecio cried. ‘Rowers to the benches! Back her off! Deck crew and marines – clear the mast away!’
‘What’s happened?’ Castus said. All around was blackness and racing water.
‘Sandbank, I reckon,’ Senecio said, his words tight and hard. ‘Brought the mast down when we struck. Keel’s bedded hard – you can feel it.’
The ship was buckling against the pressure of the water on her beam. Men scrambled along the rail now with axes and knives, cutting away the mess of rigging. Some of the upper oars were already working, threshing at the black water, but the lower-tier men had bolted up on deck when the ship struck.
A creak from below, then a bang, and the whole hull shivered. Castus could feel the old timbers groaning beneath him. A man came up the ladder from the hold.
‘Bracing cable’s parted!’ he called out. ‘Water flooding in from the bow!’
With a heave and a shout the deck crew wrestled the fallen mast over the side. The heavy baulk of timber swam for a moment, wreathed in strands of rigging, then a swell caught it and turned it, ramming it back against the hull of the ship. The men at the benches were heaving on the oars, cursing as they pulled, trying to drag the bows clear of the sandbank and off into open water.
Again the mast slammed against the hull. Castus saw figures tumbling from the opposite rail; he could not tell if they had fallen or jumped overboard. In his mind was nothing but stricken terror and anguish. His chest heaved as he tried to draw breath, and his limbs felt dead.