Martos drew level with the centurion, straining every sinew in his magnificent physique as he pounded along beside the man who had been his enemy only days before. A straggling group of Selgovae warriors was gathering across their path, hefting their weapons in readiness for a fight as the intruders charged towards them.
Marcus tossed the gladius into his left hand and drew his spatha on the run, flashing the long blade out and bellowing a rising scream of defiance as he ploughed into their midst, flicking aside a spear-thrust with the long cavalry sword and ducking under a swinging blade before upending the sword’s owner with his leg hacked off at the knee, spinning away to his left in a double flicker of razor-edged iron. Martos matched the ferocity of his attack, hacking his way into the Selgovae with a fury that scattered the warriors, his men crowding in around him to protect their prince at any cost. A tribesman hacked down two handed at Marcus with a heavy sword, the blade sliding down his angled spatha as Marcus pivoted around his right arm, reversing his left-handed grip on the gladius’s eagle-head pommel and backhanding the short blade through the swordsman’s ribs before spinning again, tearing the blade free and cutting low, felling another warrior, both his hamstrings severed by the spatha’s harsh bite. Two more warriors ran in to the fight, and Marcus turned to confront them, starting as a spear hissed past his head and punched the closer of the pair back with his eyes rolling back to show only the whites. The other man swung his sword up to attack, only to stagger as an arrow flicked through the throng of Votadini and embedded itself in his throat. A strong grip on the neck of his mail armour pulled the young centurion away from the fight, the four surviving barbarians and Marcus’s own men forming a thin line against the gathering mass of enraged Selgovae warriors. Qadir and his two fellow Hamians were nocking and loosing arrows with a speed and accuracy that were, for the moment, felling as many tribesmen as were joining the uncertain warriors facing off the outnumbered Romans. Scarface grinned apologetically as his officer spun to face him, backing off a step at the look on Marcus’s face.
‘No time for that, Centurion, the fence is coming down …’
With a creaking, screaming tear of rending wood, the twenty-foot-wide section of the palisade that Martos had identified to him on their way in fell away from the rest of the wall. As the dust of its falling settled, Marcus saw the men who had dragged it down drop their ropes and take up their weapons, forming an unbroken line of shields in seconds. A lean centurion limped out in front of them, pointing with his sword and bellowing an order in a voice that carried far across the barbarian camp.
‘Tungrians, advance! ’
Calgus stared across the camp with mounting consternation, hearing the bray of trumpets that he knew must presage an attack by the legions. With a sudden flicker of fire in the purple dawn sky, half a dozen blazing fire pots arced high over the camp’s southern wall, landing in gouts of flame as they shattered to release their burning liquid contents and set instant flame to both men and tents. Behind him Drust smiled knowingly, unsurprised at this turn in events.
‘The Romans are inside your walls, Calgus. Your game is finished.’
He nodded to the largest of his bodyguards, tapping the back of his head. The man took two steps forward before punching Calgus behind the ear with as much force as he could muster, his massive fist hammering the unwitting tribal leader to the ground twitching and barely conscious.
‘Nicely done, Maon, now tie his arms and legs, and gag him. He may prove a useful bargaining counter to have behind our walls should the Romans come knocking.’ He turned away from the scene of chaos. ‘Let’s be away now, before the legions close the gap in the northern fence and pin us against their shields.’
The warriors around him turned at his command and climbed the gentle slope towards the camp’s northern fence, its line of tree trunks now marred by a gap to match that ripped open by the Romans down the slope to the east. Drust looked about him and found the scurrying figure of his body servant, running for the king’s tent, clearly intent on salvaging the most precious of his master’s possessions. He smiled quietly to himself at the man’s evident urgency.
‘Very wise, little man. I’d have the skin off your balls were it any other way.’
He turned away, confident that his servant would be out of the camp with the warband’s rearguard, and ran for the gap in the palisade, intent on making sure that no attempt to close the gap in the fence could be made before his men were all through it and into the safety of the forest. Behind him in the king’s tent, and unseen by the hundreds of men streaming past up the camp’s slope, the slave dropped to his knees and started to frantically cram his master’s most treasured possessions into a goat-skin bag. He was reaching for the most important item of all when a ballista bolt, fired blindly over the camp’s palisade by the legion artillery supporting the attack, punched through the tent’s canvas wall and spent its lethal power in his body, spearing through his heart and covering the far wall with a spray of crimson arterial blood. His eyesight dimming, the dying servant reached out a hand to grasp the shining gold ring, then froze into immobility, his last conscious memory the agonising iron cold of the missile which had transfixed him.
Marcus and his men stepped clear of the Tungrian advance, and the cohort’s leading century strode past them and into the enemy’s stronghold, soldiers running hard for both ends of the century’s line to lengthen the shield wall against a barbarian counter-attack as quickly as possible. The cohort’s 2nd Century followed them in and veered to the left, their centurion shooting Marcus a quick grin as he ran past bellowing orders at his men, the 3rd Century breaking to their right. As the cohort’s line grew in strength their spears flickered out to kill those tribesmen who had failed to retreat in the face of their remorseless advance. More centuries poured through the palisade breach and fanned out on both sides to further strengthen their foothold in the enemy camp, and Marcus saluted the cohort’s first spear, clasping hands with him as the other man jumped from the palisade’s wooden slope to the ground.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so pleased to see your face, sir!’
His superior officer smiled grimly, motioning for them to step aside as another century stamped up the fallen palisade’s wooden ramp and hurried off into the fight. Marcus’s friend and brother officer Rufius winked at him as he pointed up the slope with his vine stick, shouting the command for the 6th Century to form line in a bellow made hoarse by the twenty-five years of legion service he had completed before joining the Tungrians. First Spear Frontinius’s chin jutted between the cheek pieces of his helmet as he stared out into the barbarian camp, watching as the sea of barbarian tents took fire from the flame pots being hurled over the palisade by the legions’ artillery, the blaze’s flickering light illuminating the enemy warriors as they crowded forward to join battle with their attackers.
‘A job well done, Centurion Corvus! Now we finish these blue-faced bastards once and for good. Your boys will be along in a moment. Take them to the left, push up the hill and link up with the left flank of the century that went up in front of you. In the meanwhile our axemen will make this gap in the fence big enough that even the Sixth Legion’s road menders will feel safe to join us. Ah, here’s your century now …’
He pointed back into the empty space between forest and palisade, and Marcus followed his outstretched arm to find his 9th Century marching into view, their one-eyed watch officer striding alongside them with Qadir’s brass-knobbed chosen man’s pole in his hand while Morban, Marcus’s veteran standard-bearer, was at their head. Marcus saluted the first spear, then trotted out to meet his men, returning the watch officer’s salute and barking his orders to the men around him as Qadir retrieved his pole and dropped back to his usual place at the century’s rear.
‘Well done, Cyclops! To your places, gentlemen, we’re turning left and advancing up the inner wall until we make contact with the century to our right, then we take our place to their left and keep advancing alongsi
de them!’
He trotted over to the head of the century, returning the standard-bearer’s salute and shouting over the crash of hobnails and the jingle of equipment as they mounted the fallen palisade’s wooden ramp.
‘Morban, take them left! Up the hill!’
The standard-bearer shot him a quick nod, then bellowed over his shoulder at the lanky trumpeter marching behind him.
‘Blow!’
The trumpet’s harsh note snapped the century’s heads up, and Morban canted the standard to the left. Marcus stepped out in front of the marching century, turning to face the troops and raising his gladius high and pointing to their left.
‘Follow me! ’
He jumped down from the wooden ramp, watching the marching soldiers as Morban led them over the one-foot drop and up the slope to their left. Satisfied that they had made the turn successfully, he turned, gulped a lungful of air and ran hard up the slope, past the leading ranks of the century’s column and on up the hill. He ignored the fact that Cyclops had broken ranks to run alongside him as he searched through the billowing smoke for the century that had preceded them, knowing that nothing he could say would reduce the man’s protective instincts towards his officer. Toiling through the reek drifting slowly across the chaotic battlefield, he suddenly ran into clear air and stopped, aghast at the scene unfolding in front of him. The century that had advanced up the hill only moments before him was being overrun by hundreds of barbarian warriors, the soldiers fighting a desperate but doomed defensive action as their enraged enemy hammered against their faltering shield wall, one man after another going down into the trampled mud to be finished off with swords and spears by the rampaging horde. As he watched, the other century’s centurion, anonymous in the drifting smoke, stepped into the front line with a bellow of defiance and started fighting for his century’s survival. Without his even being aware of it, a growl of anger rippled in his throat as he watched his brother officer fighting for his life, and he put a hand on the hilt of his spatha.
‘No!’
Marcus turned, to find his watch officer’s one good eye fierce with determination.
‘No use in your throwing yourself away. Take the lads in there and pull those poor bastards out of the fire, those that’s left.’
He nodded slowly, turning away from the scene of his comrades’ massacre. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with fresh purpose.
‘Get back to your men, Cyclops.’
He ran back down the slope through the smoke, his mind working quickly, almost falling over Morban in the murk.
‘Twenty paces more and then put them into line to the right, facing up the hill. No horns!’
The standard-bearer nodded at him and stamped away up the hill, while Marcus pulled a soldier out of the marching ranks and barked a command in the man’s ear.
‘Run back down the hill to the first spear. Tell him there’s a century being torn to pieces up here and we need urgent reinforcement now! Go!’
He pushed the soldier hard, sending him away down the slope, then turned back to the marching column. Morban, barely visible through the smoke, had the standard held horizontally over his head with its metal hand pointing to his right.
‘Scarface! Make sure they make the turn!’
The veteran soldier snapped a salute and ran to march at Morban’s shoulder, ready to stand firm once the standard-bearer made the right-angled turn to put the 9th in line facing the enemy, rather than risk encountering them in the vulnerable column of march. The line abruptly turned right, the soldiers following their standard without much of a clue as to what was happening. And just as well, Marcus mused, given what they would be facing in less than a minute. He stepped in alongside his deputy, pointing past the marching soldiers and up the smoke-wreathed slope.
‘Qadir, there are hundreds of barbarians less than a hundred paces that way, and they’ve already torn up one century. When we march out of this damned smoke they’ll throw themselves on to us like dogs on raw meat, so give me your pole and get your bow ready, you and your mates. Anyone that looks like they might be important, anyone with a lot of gold or that’s shouting the odds a bit too loudly, put them down.’
The big Hamian handed over his six-foot brass-knobbed pole, unslinging the bow from across his shoulders and barking a command in Aramaic to the dozen or so other Hamians marching in the 9th Century’s ranks. Marcus shot a glance back down the century’s line, waiting a few seconds to allow the last of the marching soldiers to make the turn, then drew breath to bellow his orders.
‘Ninth Century, halt!’
The column stamped to a halt, troops coughing and spluttering as they breathed in the thickening smoke from the rapidly spreading fires.
‘To the left … face! Form lines of battle!’
He waited while the soldiers straightened their lines, the front-rankers raising their shields and hefting their spears, the rear-rankers crowding close to the men in front of them, ready to grip their belts and hold them steady once the fighting started.
‘Ninth Century …’
Marcus’s voice rang out over the short double line, the din of battle from their right muffled by the smoke and the distant roar of blazing canvas.
‘When we march forward, we will soon come upon the remains of one of our sister centuries. They were surprised in the line of march, and never stood any chance of resisting the barbarians. You, however, are ready to fight, armed and armoured, drilled and trained to perfection. Any one of you is worth a dozen of those blue-nosed bastards. So we will go forward, we will find the men that killed our brothers and we will kill as many of them as possible before our reinforcement arrives. At the walk, advance!’
The century started forward as one man, and while Marcus had Qadir’s pole ready to push between the shoulders of any man hanging back, he quickly realised that he wasn’t going to need it. Ten, twenty paces they advanced, without any sign of an end to the dirty grey smoke what was making eyes water and lungs strain for breath, and then, in the blink of an eye, they were back out in the crisp dawn air with the scene of the other century’s massacre laid out before them.
The slope was littered with corpses clad in the same equipment his men were wearing, their mail armour a dull iron grey against the barbarian camp’s trampled mud. A few of the fallen soldiers were still moving, their wounds severe enough to leave them helpless but not enough to have killed them immediately. Half a dozen barbarians were moving among them, their swords black with the blood they had spilled, and, as Marcus watched, the nearest of them raised his blade in readiness to dispatch another of the wounded. Qadir snapped his bow up, and, with a sonorous note from the bowstring, put an arrow into his neck, dropping him choking and kicking to the ground beside his intended victim.
A couple of the barbarians closest to the dying warrior looked up at the sudden commotion, gaping in surprise at the 9th Century’s unexpected appearance from out of the smoke even as the other Hamians shot them down with a swift precision that rivalled Qadir’s. Forcing himself to ignore the dead and dying Tungrians scattered across the ground before him, Marcus pushed through the century’s battle line and looked around him for some sign of the barbarians who had massacred his fellow soldiers only minutes before. The smoke eddied with the gentle morning breeze again, affording him a momentary glimpse of the fight taking place down the slope to their right. The Tungrian line was now fully embattled, struggling to hold back easily three times their own strength of enemy warriors who were throwing themselves at the shield wall with the desperate fury of men who knew that if they failed to break through the soldiers they were as good as dead. Before the curtain of smoke closed again he realised, with a sickening jolt, exactly what it was that the barbarians had impaled on their spearheads and were waving up and down in front of the Tungrian soldiers. He turned back to his men with his eyes blazing and the muscles around his jaw rippling as he fought to hold his temper.
‘Ninth Century, right wheel!’
He held
his breath for a long moment while the century swung ponderously through their quarter-turn to face down the slope. The Hamians were all at sea with the manoeuvre, still new to the disciplines of infantry fighting after choosing to join the century less than a week before, but the men around each of them gently pulled and pushed them through the line’s reorientation, with more than one kind word or pat on the shoulder for men who had been derided as nothing more than a burden on the cohort only days before. Marcus smiled to himself despite his anger, acknowledging their justified change of status. The battle at the Red River’s ford had seen to that in one desperate, bloody afternoon of seemingly doomed resistance to the Venicone tribe’s assault.
Within a minute the line was aligned with the direction in which a swelling roar of battle was reaching them through the smoke, the soldiers looking anxiously down their ranks at him as he pulled both swords from their places on his belt, his face grim with purpose. Morban, now no longer the pivot for their swing to the right, scuttled down the line’s rear to his place immediately behind their attack, the trumpeter running behind him. Marcus raised his voice again, steeling himself for the attack.
‘Ninth Century, your enemy are down there, hidden in the smoke.’ A few of the soldiers, he realised, were translating his words for those men around them with insufficient Latin to keep up with his angry words. ‘When I give the command we will march down this slope until we have them in sight. They will be close, Ninth Century, close enough for you to smell the shit that will stream down their legs when they see us come out of nowhere at their backs.’ A few men laughed, the delight of imminent combat evident in their wide eyes and flared nostrils. The rest of them were for the most part stone faced, working hard to hold their nerve with battle only seconds away. Marcus nodded to the trumpeter, who blew the advance strong and clear.
Fortress of Spears Page 3