Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Less stabbing and more looking, young sir.’

  He drew his sword, nodding to Marcus before charging into the whirling melee in search of another target for his wrath. Perennis kicked his horse’s sides hard, galloping out of the knot of infantrymen which was growing bigger and nastier by the second as the rest of the tent party took on the Asturians with their spears. He was thirty paces distant when Dubnus’s arrow slammed through the back of his neck an inch above the top of his cuirass’s protection, and stayed in the saddle for another five seconds before collapsing stiffly over its hindquarters to land in a heap on the turf. The few remaining Asturians bolted, thrashing their horses to escape as the fastest of the 9th Century’s men arrived on the scene seeking targets for their unblooded spears. Marcus was the first man to reach Perennis, coming up short when he saw the arrowhead protruding from the tribune’s throat, and the man’s desperate attempts to breathe. Frontinius ran up a moment later, took one look and turned away with a grim smile.

  ‘He’s got two minutes, five at the best. Say hello to the ferryman for us, Perennis, you’ll be across the river a while before we get there.’

  Equitius walked up to them, a haunted look on his face. Frontinius slapped him on the arm.

  ‘Cheer up, Prefect, it isn’t every day that you’re condemned to death and then reprieved inside a minute.’

  ‘Not such a reprieve, First Spear. I ...’

  His head lifted as he spotted a movement in the middle distance, horsemen moving through the waving grass, a long white banner twisting proudly in the breeze. He smiled wanly at the sight.

  ‘I see Licinius retains his impeccable sense of timing ...’

  A single decurius of the Petriana rode up to them, Prefect Licinius dismounting before his horse had stopped moving. Grim faced, he stared down at the fighting below for a moment before turning back to speak, taking in the scene in front of him as he did.

  ‘Gentlemen, I ...’

  The sight of the slowly choking Perennis left him speechless for a moment.

  ‘Who shot him?’

  Frontinius shook his head imperceptibly at his prefect before speaking.

  ‘We did, sir, or rather one of my men who’s a finer shot than I’ll ever be did, and at my command. Tribune Perennis had just admitted to an act of stupidity and treason whose result you can see down there, and was attempting to murder Prefect Equitius.’

  Licinius looked around him carefully, fully digesting the scene.

  ‘Which would explain the dead Asturians scattered around? Not to mention the fact that several of your own men seem to have arrow wounds?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You can imagine how that’s going to look if it’s reported back to Rome. Where is the legatus, by the way?’

  Equitius stepped forward, pointing down the slope.

  ‘He’s down there, Licinius. That young bastard suborned the Asturians, or at least enough of them to be able to carry out his plan. He must have passed a message to Calgus in some way while he was supposed to be shadowing the warband. They let the Sixth get into the open and then rushed them while the legion was still in column. He’s got some sort of warrant straight from the imperial palace, empowers him to take command of the Sixth if necessary, so the bastard wanted to make sure Sollemnis wouldn’t survive.’

  Licinius leaned in close and half whispered his next question, glancing significantly at the unsuspecting Marcus, who was busy with his wounded.

  ‘Does he know yet?’

  Equitius shook his head.

  ‘No. Nor should he, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Agreed. What a fucking mess. So apart from the fact that half a legion is being taken apart under our gaze, what’s the local situation?’

  Equitius pointed in the direction that Perennis had taken his command.

  ‘Four cohorts of the Sixth, the Second Tungrians, Raetians, Frisians and the Aquitani are somewhere over in that direction. They were supposed to be the other half of a plan to attack the warband, but bloody Perennis took them away to where they’d be no use when this happened.’

  Licinius pursed his lips.

  ‘My boys are half an hour’s ride back that way, and I met a messenger a while back who said the Second and the Twentieth are ten miles down the main road. The only problem is that that lot will have gutted the Sixth and buggered off into the hills long before we can bring them into the action ...’

  He walked to the edge of the slope and stared down for a long moment. Equitius sighed deeply and followed him.

  ‘Licinius, before my tame Brigantian prince demonstrated his marksmanship with the hunting bow on Perennis, the little shit ordered us to make a stand on the slope here, just in front of this wood. He wanted to destroy us for harbouring the boy, you understand, but in his desire to see us all dead he actually issued the only order appropriate under the circumstances. An order that I and my men will follow if you ask it of us.’

  Licinius turned to face him.

  ‘You’ll likely all be dead within the hour, unless I get lucky and find the other legions a lot closer than they ought to be.’

  Equitius returned his gaze.

  ‘And you think that these men don’t know the meaning of a Roman soldier’s honour?’

  Licinius looked him straight in the eye, seeing the other man’s resolve in his steady stare.

  ‘My apologies to your command. Very well.’

  He walked quickly across to where Perennis lay panting his last few breaths, searching his body with swift efficiency until he found the imperial warrant scroll, then leant over to speak into the dying man’s eyes.

  ‘Listen to me, Titus Tigidius Perennis. You thought what you were doing was clever, that the emperor would thank you for removing a traitor from imperial service. You might well have been right. Your father, however, may not be so sanguine at the loss of his family’s honour. I will make it my sworn task to make sure the full story reaches Rome, to tell him how you connived to destroy half a legion, and how, when the time came, another full cohort volunteered to face the same barbarians and give me a fighting chance to take revenge for those betrayed men. And how I executed you to avoid your suffering anything that might be said to resemble an honourable death ...’

  He drew his dagger and slit the dying tribune’s throat wide open, watching with satisfaction as life ebbed away from Perennis’s amazed eyes.

  ‘Well, that at least feels a little better. Prefect, I’m off to find the other two legions. Best of luck.’

  He stood up and saluted Equitius, who gravely returned the gesture, then vaulted back on to his horse and rode furiously away, barking orders at his men. The prefect watched him go for a moment, then turned to address Frontinius.

  ‘Well, Sextus, now it’s our turn to earn our corn.’

  The First Spear smiled grimly.

  ‘Don’t think I’m immune to the irony of our situation, Prefect. Young Perennis should be laughing now, wherever he is.’

  Equitius put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Wherever he is, First Spear, we’re quite likely to see at first hand soon enough.’

  12

  Frontinius led his centurions down the hunter’s path at the trot. In a minute or so their centuries would follow them down the through the trees, and in those few seconds he needed to lay the foundations of a successful defence. If, he mused humourlessly, while his mind worked on their options for defending an apparently hopeless position, the entire cohort not simply dying in the first barbarian assault could be termed a success. Ten yards from the forest’s edge he stopped and gathered his officers around him, their faces betraying the same grim determination fixed in his own mind.

  ‘Brothers, there isn’t time for any inspirational stuff or exhortations to heroism. Put simply, we’ve been sent to fight and likely to die in order to buy time for the other legions to jump those blue-nosed bastards from behind and put it to them the old-fashioned way. Your men are going to realise that soon enough, when th
ey see thousands of men coming up the hill for their heads. They will look to you for an example. Give them one. Show them a grim face, but not despair. Lead your centuries with aggression, but keep them disciplined. If we do this right we can still pull a victory out of this disaster, but that depends solely on us. We are now the most important ten men on this battlefield – so let’s live up to that burden in the next hour.’

  He paused, looking at each man to take a gauge of their resolve. Good enough.

  ‘Orders. The cohort will come down this path in number order with the Fifth at the rear and the Ninth in their place in the centre, the prefect will make sure of that. Take your centuries down the slope to the line I point out to you and set up for defence, two men deep and no more, three-foot spacing per man. We’re lucky that the wood curves down on both sides to meet our flanks, so we can anchor the line off the trees. Get the ground in front of you dirty as quickly as possible, and get your caltrops out straight after that. Speaking of trees ... Bear?’

  The big man stepped forward.

  ‘Your axemen will be last down the path. Take them to left and right and make me an abatis as fast as you can, three rows of fallen trees deep all the way from each end of the line back round to the path, but leave the path clear of obstruction. When the obstacles are in place, widen the path enough to let four men down it abreast. In the unlikely event of our being reinforced I’d like the way in behind us wide enough for a cohort to move down it at speed. Everyone clear? And remember, brothers, win or lose, this day will be sung about long after the rain washes our blood away. Let’s make it a story worth telling.’

  The Tungrians exploded out of the wood on to the open ground, the centuries hurrying down to the line pointed out by Frontinius as they cleared the trees. The First Spear barked at his centurions to speed up their deployment as he pointed each century to its place, aware that the tribesmen, pausing in their assault on the shrinking remnant of the Sixth Legion to watch the new development, could turn and charge towards them at any second. The wood behind the cohort echoed with the growing racket of eighty axes working furiously on the tree-felling that would defend their flanks and rear. Each tree was under attack by two of the 10th Century’s men, as they laboured with expert blows to drop it neatly into position with its branches facing outwards, presenting an impassable obstacle. Once the line was established, each end anchored in the trees to either side as the wood curved around their defence, he gave a small sigh of relief and shouted his next command.

  ‘Get that slope dirtied up!’

  The cohort’s long line marched a dozen paces down the gentle slope, then stopped, the troops fishing under their groin protectors to urinate on to the grass. Selected men ran to the small stream that ran through their new position and filled their helmets with water, carrying the load carefully back to their places in the line before emptying the liquid on to the ground. On command they stamped and twisted with their hobnailed boots, digging at the wet ground beneath their feet, ignoring the spray of acidic-smelling mud that spattered their lower legs and retreating gradually back towards their former positions to leave a five-yard strip of ground in front of their line an oozing mess. Frontinius ignored the drama taking place below them as the 6th Legion’s surviving troops huddled into three ever dwindling groups. With the ground to their front made treacherously slippery, he called for the last element of their defence.

  ‘Obstacles and tribuli!’

  The centuries mustered the heavy five-foot-long staves each man had carried from the camp, each one sharpened to a fire-hardened point at both ends, and lashed them into giant obstacles, each formed of three stakes tied together with rope. Bags full of the small iron tribuli were strewn around the obstacles, presenting sharp points to the feet of the unwary attacker. Julius, standing with his 5th Century behind the main line of defence, both escort to the cohort’s standard and tactical reserve, turned to speak to his chosen man.

  ‘You can keep an eye on this lot. I’m going down to the front to get a better view and have a chat with my young Roman friend. I see no reason why he should get all the fun.’

  He strode down the slope, clapping an arm around Marcus’s shoulders and pointing out across the warband’s presently scattered force. Lowering his head to the younger man’s ear, he spoke quietly, a gentle smile on his face.

  ‘Well, Centurion, there they are. Twenty thousand angry blue-faced men who will very shortly come up this buttock of a hill to take our heads. Are you ready to die with your men?’

  Marcus nodded grimly.

  ‘Ready enough. But before they take my head, I’ll send a good number to meet Cocidius before me.’

  Julius laughed, slapping him delightedly on the back.

  ‘And you don’t mind if I stay for the fun? I can’t stand being stuck back guarding that bloody statue while you get all the glory. And I might be of some use when the shit starts flying ...’

  Marcus nodded, but raised a finger in mock admonishment.

  ‘As long as you contain your contribution to swordplay, and the occasional piece of advice, it’s a deal. If you want to command the scout century, make sure you come second in the competition next year.’

  A horn sounded far out across the battlefield, and the milling tribesmen hacking at the remnants of the 6th Legion’s cohorts pulled back in temporary truce. Silence gradually fell across the field, the panting Britons taking an opportunity to get their breath, tend to their wounded and remove their dead and dying from the bloodied grass. Trapped behind the unmoving wall of tribesmen, the remaining legionaries did what they could for their own wounded, little enough in the circumstances.

  Sollemnis squinted up the hill over the heads of the barbarians surrounding what was left of his command, making out the auxiliary cohort arrayed in defence across its slope. He tapped his First Spear on the shoulder, pointing at the Tungrians.

  ‘What ... what do you think they’re about up there?’

  The other man grimaced as he drew breath, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding through his armour from his abdomen, the price of taking his turn in the cohort’s rapidly contracting perimeter.

  ‘You’ve got me. Looks like a suicide mission. We’ll be welcoming them to Hades soon enough.’

  Sollemnis laughed grimly, hefting his sword.

  ‘No doubt about that. These bastards are just having a breather, they’ll be back for our heads once they’ve got their wind back.’

  He glanced about him.

  ‘I need to hide this sword, hope that it stays concealed from the blue-noses. Those are Tungrians up there, I can see their banner. My son’s up there with them, and if he lives I want it found and passed to him.’

  The other man nodded blankly, too shocked to wonder at the legate’s revelation.

  Sollemnis took up a dead soldier’s gladius, testing its balance.

  ‘This should serve well enough. So many dead men ...’

  The First Spear coughed painfully and pointed to their dead standard-bearer. An arrow had ripped into the man’s windpipe a few moments before, dropping him to his knees as he choked out his life. The eagle standard still stood proud above his corpse, gripped in lifeless fingers.

  ‘You’d best stick your sword under Harus’s body ... Yes, that ought to do it. They’ll take the eagle, but likely leave his head if you strip away his bearskin. Unlike you and me. We’ll go to our graves in separate pieces ...’

  Sollemnis smiled again, with genuine amusement this time.

  ‘It seems we’re to be collector’s items, then?’

  ‘Roman officers’ heads. No mud hut should be without one.’

  A horn rang out with a sudden bray that jerked their attention back to the warband surrounding them. The warriors charged into their pathetic remnant with a revived purpose, their swords rising and falling in flashing arcs as they butchered the exhausted survivors of the 6th Legion’s cohorts. Seeing the man in front of him go down under a powerful sword-blow that cleaved his right arm at the
shoulder, Sollemnis stepped into the fight alongside the few men of his bodyguard still standing with a snarl of frustration, striking fast and hard at the man responsible and tasting brief satisfaction as the man’s blood sprayed across his cuirass. The feeling was short lived, his appearance marking him out as a senior officer to the men facing him. He landed one more blow, putting his gladius deep into the chest of another warrior before the man’s comrade thrust a spear deep into his unprotected thigh.

  The First Spear, already felled by a sword thrust into his spine, and numbly inert as the barbarians fought to strip him of his fine armour while his life ebbed away into the puddle of blood soaking the ground around him, watched the scene with the unique detachment of a dying man. Sollemnis went down on one knee, helpless to defend himself as the warriors around him gathered for the kill. A sword skidded off his cuirass and sliced into the meat of his right arm, and a vicious blow from a club cracked the elbow joint and left his borrowed sword dangling useless at his side.

  ‘He’s mine!’

  A loud voice sounded over their clamour, a magnificently armoured giant of a man stepping out of the attackers’ midst and calling a halt to their attacks with a simple bellowed command. He batted aside a despairing sword-thrust from the last of the legatus’s bodyguard with his huge round shield, contemptuously smashing the exhausted man to the ground with another punch of the shield’s heavy boss and stabbing down into the space between his helmet’s cheek-pieces. The other warriors backed away, clearly too scared of the man to deny him the moment of triumph. His helmet and armour were coal black, inlaid with intricate silver patterns befitting his obvious status as a tribal champion, heavy iron greaves protecting his thighs and calves to make him almost invulnerable as long as he could carry the weight. Only his booted feet lacked protection.