Fortress of Spears

by Anthony Riches

  Calgus narrowed his eyes, and his head shook in disbelief.

  ‘Never try to deceive a master of deception, Tribune. My man Haervui will have had that fortress buttoned up tighter than a duck’s backside the second he saw you coming over the horizon. There are no secret approaches to the Dinpaladyr, and he’ll have had scouts …’

  His voice trailed off as he saw the smile on Licinius’s face broaden to a grin.

  ‘Scouts, yes, we found them and took them prisoner. That there’s no secret approach to the fortress, well, again, yes, I can agree with that. But darkness, Calgus, covers up all kinds of sins, as I’m sure you’d be the first man to agree. So when two hundred beaten barbarian scum turned up at the fortress gates at dawn, led by a very persuasive Selgovae chieftain well known to all inside, who then proceeded to talk the defenders into opening the gates … well, we’ve all heard of stronger defences than the Dinpaladyr that have fallen to deception, haven’t we?’

  Calgus bristled.

  ‘No man of my tribe would submit to being part of such treachery!’

  Licinius shrugged, turning back to his horse and spoke his final words back over his shoulder.

  ‘You know your men better than I do, Calgus, so I’m sure you’re right. Your kinsman Harn would never play a part in such a scheme, not even with his sons at the point of a Roman spear. So the Dinpaladyr must still be in your hands, mustn’t it …?’

  The Romans rode away, leaving their barbarian counterparts staring quizzically at their receding backs. Tribune Scaurus leaned out of his saddle to mutter in his colleague’s ear, his tone bemused.

  ‘So you’ve told them that we have the fortress. You’ve told them that we’re going to be fighting them in “the usual way” in the morning, and you’ve given that red-faced barbarian sheep-fucker his pretty gold neckpiece back. Did I miss something?’

  Licinius winked across Scaurus at an openly curious Marcus before replying, a sardonic smile wreathing his face.

  ‘Firstly, respected colleague, I want them … no, I want Calgus to fester in his own juices this night, at the thought that his brother warrior might have betrayed his cause. Secondly, yes, he now knows exactly how we’ll be meeting their attack tomorrow, in precisely the same way we always do, in a nice straight line with spears, swords and shields. And that’s just the way I like it. And lastly, with regard to that “red-faced barbarian sheep-fucker’s” pretty gold neckpiece, please believe me when I tell you that I meant every word. I want my headhunters to be looking for that tidy little fortune when they chase those horse-eating bastards back into the hills they came from. I’d rather have him in one piece for shipment to Rome, but I’ll settle for his head. And whoever brings me his head will only get their reward if the torc’s still attached. As far as I’m concerned it’s only on loan.’

  Later that evening, as the Tungrians prepared for sleep in rather different circumstances to usual, Licinius walked into the 9th Century’s lines with a thoughtful look on his face. Directed to where Marcus lay stretched out on his rough woollen cloak, he left his bodyguard waiting at a discreet distance and stood over the young officer with his helmet in both hands. Opening his eyes, the younger man saluted and started getting to his feet, but Licinius waved him back with a gloomy smile that was barely visible in the twilight.

  ‘I thought I might find you here. It seems I owe you an apology, young man, and I’ve been too busy to come and see you until now. Bit of a first for me, y’know, to be apologising for not saying something. Usually it’s because I can’t keep my bloody mouth shut. May I sit?’

  The younger man gestured to the ground alongside him, and Licinius lowered himself on to it with a grateful sigh.

  ‘So, that rascal Calgus has let the cat out of the bag and I have no choice but to acknowledge the truth, if not the helpfulness of the bastard’s words. Yes, Legatus Sollemnis was your birth father. He got your mother pregnant while he was serving in Hispania. Your adoptive father was serving alongside him and was already married, and so he and your mother agreed to take you as their own rather than see their friend’s child farmed out to some peasant family, or worse. And he was, after all, a senator. His house was not a bad place for an infant to find himself.’

  He paused, rubbing his face wearily.

  ‘Sollemnis told me all this when I discovered that the senator had arranged for you to be spirited to Britannia, rather than share his fate in Rome. He enlisted me in the plot to keep you alive, and he also swore me and everyone else that knew the secret to keep it that way until the rebellion was over, and he had the chance to tell you the story in his own time, rather than in some snatched conversation with no chance to explain his actions. And then, of course, he was betrayed to the Selgovae by Praetorian Prefect Perennis’s arsehole of a son, and murdered on the battlefield at Lost Eagle. And yes, I could have told you the truth after his death, but I decided that you’d had enough mourning for one year. My mistake …’

  He looked up to find Marcus staring at him with a level gaze, with no hint of the emotions he was feeling on his face.

  ‘Enough mourning for one year? That’s true enough, Tribune, more than true enough. My father – because he’ll always be my father – and all my family, and then the best friend I have left in the world, and now the man I discover to have been my birth father. All of them dead in less than six months. I would mourn for the legatus, if I had another tear in my body, but I can’t. Don’t apologise to me for keeping this from me, because believe me, I would much rather never have known. And if Calgus thinks he’s left a wound on me with his words, he’ll do well to make very sure that he avoids me on the battlefield tomorrow, if he wants to live to enjoy the memory of my face this afternoon. Given the misery that man’s heaped on me in the last few months, taking his head would be a good way to pay him back. Eventually.’

  The Venicone scouts slid noiselessly through the night’s silence, slipping along the forest’s edge until they came within sight of the Roman camp. Going to ground in the trees, they watched their enemies in the full moon’s light for long enough to be sure they understood the precautions the soldiers were taking before making their next step. A dozen watch fires lit the camp’s interior, and patrolling soldiers paced along the length of the earth wall, staring out into the night’s shadows. At length one man removed his boots and detached himself from the scouting party, slipping into the forest and moving silently through the trees at a stealthy pace, feeling forward with his bare feet for any potential source of noise as he took each step. His progress was painstakingly slow, but without any disturbance of the surrounding foliage or any noise to betray his presence. An hour’s quiet stalk brought him within sight of the camp’s rear wall, and he sank into the shadow of a tree to listen intently to the forest for one hundred patient breaths before moving again. Eventually, satisfied that he was alone in the night, and that the apparent lack of any patrol on this face of the Roman defences was as it seemed, he slithered over the waist-high barrier and into the heart of his enemy’s stronghold.

  A tent loomed before him, and he snuggled into its shadow to wait for any sign that he might have been detected, but none came. The camp was quiet, eerily so, and with a faint frown he put his ear to the tent’s leather wall and listened carefully for a moment. No sound could be heard from within, no snores, no conversation, and his frown of uncertainty deepened. Taking a small blade from his belt, he sliced into the thick leather with a smooth, slow stroke, then put an eye to the hole thus created. The tent was empty. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, he crawled forward and around the corner, his hands outstretched to feel for anything that might betray his presence, and as he reached the tent’s doorway they encountered a hole in the ground covered with slender branches cut from the forest behind him. Parting the leaves, he reached cautiously down into the pit, his fingertips searching for and exploring the trap’s contents with delicate care.

  Grim faced, he looked out across the camp, shaking his head at the utter and complete la
ck of movement. Watch fires burned untended amid a sea of empty tents, their faint hissing and popping of burning sap the only disturbance in an otherwise silent scene. Nodding to himself, he turned back to the wall, a slight smile creasing his face. Drust would reward them well for the knowledge that the enemy camp was an empty shell, a trap set for the unwary to blunder into, and provide a hidden enemy with the perfect opportunity to strike at them from the rear. Going back over the camp’s wall, he allowed himself to relax slightly, confident that there was nobody to see him roll across the earth barrier and cross the gap into the silent trees. As his feet touched the ground he jolted back against the wall, a sudden searing pain in his chest rooting him where he stood, sudden torture tearing at his lungs as he fought for each agonised panting breath. Looking down, he saw the shaft of an arrow protruding from his rough shirt, and even as his shocked wits fought to make sense of its presence another arced out of the trees and slammed into his body, ripping a hole in his heart that killed him in seconds. His glazed eyes stared vacantly out across the forest as the hidden archers broke from their cover and moved with hunters’ caution to stand over him.

  ‘Not bad. But not good enough.’

  Qadir nodded at his fellow Hamian’s whispered verdict on the dead man’s abilities, leaning close to speak quietly into his ear.

  ‘Good enough to have got past anyone but us, I’d say. You’d better go and tell the tribune about this while I keep watch for any others. And be careful, there’ll be more of them between us and the cohort.’

  His fellow archer jerked his head in silent amusement and vanished into the forest without a sound. Qadir turned and slid back through the trees, settling back into a hiding place within bowshot of the dead scout’s cooling corpse to wait for the dawn, silently mouthing a prayer for his victim’s spirit as he nocked another arrow to his bow and froze into perfect immobility.

  Drust roused his warriors before dawn the next morning and gathered their family leaders around him in the grey light of the sun’s waking beneath the horizon. The previous night had been the time to fire his men up with tales of the riches they would win once the Romans were swept away, walking from one campfire to the next to show them his confident, wolfish grin. He stood in the middle of his warband, in the heart of a gathering of the fifty or so men who provided their leadership, thousands of warriors beyond them straining to hear his words.

  ‘One cohort and a few miserable horse boys aren’t going to hold us up for long, but I want to do this the true Venicone way, in a storm of iron and blood. Their blood. I’ve run from them for long enough to crave battle, to swing my hammer into their shield wall and see men shrink away in terror.’ He stared about him, his heart swelling with a savage pride in the host of warriors gathered about him, and raised the hammer over his head in one hand as he turned in a full circle to stare his chieftains in their eyes. ‘Not one of those Roman bastards is to survive to tell the tale of how we tore them limb from limb. Let it be as if they simply marched into the autumn fog and never came out again, as if the very hills wearied of their presence and rose up, crushing them flat without leaving any trace. Let there be no word of their deaths for their families, not even the bitter comfort of knowing that their men are dead, and not enslaved for the rest of their short lives. No more running, my brothers! Let the Romans know what it feels like to run … at least for as long as it takes for us to catch every last one of them and put them to the sword!’

  When the cheers had died away he gathered his chieftains about him, speaking softly to avoid being heard beyond their tight ranks.

  ‘Once we move, we move quickly. Tell your men that any one of them that falls out of the march will be left to face his shame alone. We’ll meet the scouts I sent out last night on the road, and they will guide us into the enemy camp. We must mob the Romans, my brothers, like wolves bringing down a stag. When we find them there can be no hesitation, we must run straight into the fight and overcome their defence with simple weight of numbers. If we respect their shield wall they will hold us at spear’s length all morning, bleeding us from behind its shelter in their usual cowardly way. Run to the fight like wolves, my brothers, sink your teeth into their throats and bring them down in the way that we fight best. Spill blood for me, my brothers!’

  The warband ran to the east in the dawn’s growing light in silence, their passage marked only by the jingle and clatter of their weapons, with the king and his twenty-man bodyguard running at their head. Three miles out from their camp, the scouts sent out by Drust the previous night rose from the vegetation at the side of the track that headed east to the Dinpaladyr, and Drust raised his hand to stop the warband’s forward progress. His men panted their steaming breath into the cold morning air while he walked to meet his men.

  ‘Only three of you?’

  ‘One of my men went closer to the enemy camp, my lord, but he did not return. We heard nothing, but they must have found him and either killed or captured him.’

  Drust nodded unhappily, telling himself that the man’s loss would inform the Romans of nothing more than they already knew, but nevertheless cursing the lost opportunity to learn more about his enemy’s disposition.

  ‘Go on, then, tell me what you know.’

  ‘We found the Roman camp by the light of their watch fires, my lord, and stayed within sight of them until dawn, to better see what awaits us. They have camped in a gap in the forest, my lord, with the ground to either side made impassable by trees they have felled with the tops facing outwards, but the ground before their earth walls is clear and flat.’

  Drust scowled, his face contorted with the ache in his chest from the effort of the run.

  ‘So they may be alerted, but no more so than would have been the case anyway. You can lead us to them?’

  The scout nodded, pointing down the track with a dirty-nailed finger.

  ‘Simple enough, my lord. If we run another thousand paces we will come upon the break in the forest on your right, five hundred paces deep and the same wide. The enemy camp occupies the last third of the open space, with flat ground all the way from the track to their earth wall.’

  Drust nodded, thinking fast.

  ‘How high is their wall?’

  The other man tapped his leg where the thigh joined with his groin.

  ‘This high, my lord. A running man could be over it in one jump, if it were not defended.’

  ‘You read my mind. And when you left it to meet up here, was it defended?’

  ‘No, my lord. There was noise inside the camp, but no sign of any shields at the wall.’

  ‘Good. Now walk with me and give me a warning when we are within one hundred paces of the gap in the forest. We will make a quiet march from here, and only run again at the very last moment.’

  The warband paced forward in silence, the lead scout walking alongside Drust as they crept down the track towards the Roman camp. With no more than fifty paces left before the point where he judged they should start the attack, the scout stiffened and grasped his master’s arm, pointing at a handful of men who had marched out of the mist to their front, each of them carrying a pair of leather buckets. The group’s leader bore the marks of a man who had recently taken a beating, and he carried himself gingerly, as if every movement were painful. Romans and barbarians alike goggled at each other in a moment of indecision before the soldiers reacted, tossing aside their buckets and turning to flee, screaming out warnings as they ran.

  Too late, Drust told himself gleefully, much too late. He sprang forward, bellowing the only command required to unleash his men.

  ‘Attack!’

  The men of his bodyguard ran with him, the faster of his warriors passing him within a dozen paces as they sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing Romans. Rounding the edge of the forest gap within which the enemy camp had been constructed, the Venicones stormed down the slight slope towards their objective, every man howling a battle cry as they swept towards the camp’s unmanned defences. Looking beyond the flee
ing soldiers, Drust saw a sea of tents across the breadth of the Roman encampment, with smoke rising from dozens of cooking fires, while the few isolated sentries patrolling outside the earth walls took one look and bolted for the illusory safety of the camp’s interior. The warband’s onrushing tide reached the slowest of the soldiers fleeing before them, and the man went down with a spear in the back of his neck, his gurgling scream driving his comrades forward in their headlong flight from the howling warriors behind them.

  The desperate soldiers reached their walls, running through the doglegged gap left open to allow unobstructed entry and exit, one of them falling on the mud-slicked grass and crashing to the ground. He was overrun in a second, dying in a flurry of blades as the leading Venicone warriors hurdled the earth wall to either side of the entry with ease and charged on into the Roman camp. Drust slowed a little as he reached the camp’s walls, his eyes narrowing in calculation. There was no ankle-breaker, the square-bottomed trench that the Romans usually dug alongside their earth walls to fell the unwary attacker with broken foot or ankle bones. Driven forward by the sheer mass of his men, he climbed on to the wall to stare across the leather tents that filled the camp, resisting the press of his warriors to keep his balance as they poured over the wall to either side and charged forward into the heart of the enemy position.

  ‘Cunning bastards …’

  There, behind the camp’s far wall, there they were. A wall of round shields faced the Venicones across the empty camp. The cooking fires, the few patrolling sentries and even the apparently surprised water carriers, all a ruse to make him believe the Romans were unprepared for his onslaught, and a part of his mind wondered what trick might yet wait for them even as he pointed at the defenders and screamed the only possible command under the circumstances.

  ‘Kill them all!’

  ‘They’ve bitten off the bait and swallowed it whole.’

  The three tribunes lay flat among the trees, looking down the long slope that ran down to the empty camp so painstakingly prepared the previous day. While the two Tungrian cohorts’ pioneer centuries had laboured with their axes to build an impassable abattis of fallen trees to either side of the earth walls, making an assault through the camp towards its rear wall the only way to reach its defenders, the soldiers and tribesmen had painstakingly prepared the ground inside the walls for an influx of unsuspecting Venicone warriors.