‘Kill them,’ he roared in a savage voice. ‘Kill them all. They must not break through the barricade.’
As the first arrows went flying towards the charging mob, Marcus heard a familiar cry. ‘Thunder and lashing rain so Wodan cometh,’ and as he heard it the shout was taken up by others.
But there was no escaping the terror of the furious, yelling, charging mob. At Marcus’s side Petrus whimpered in fear, as the screaming attackers came charging towards them and beside him Cunomoltus’s face had drained of all colour.
‘Stand your ground, they won’t get through,’ Marcus roared. His voice savage and brutal as he reached out and gripped Petrus firmly by the shoulder. But even Marcus felt the fear shaking his legs. Barricade or not there were just four of them defending the front gate. They were outnumbered over twelve to one.
The first of the mob were only a few paces away, when Marcus drew his sword. At the barricade Jowan, his eyes blazing was roaring as if he had gone completely mad and, as one of the attackers tried to rip aside the obstacles, Jowan savagely thrust his spear into the man’s exposed chest. Marcus ducked as a spear flashed past his head and landed harmlessly in the courtyard behind him. The mob had reached the barricade and was furiously trying to tear it apart, hacking at it with their weapons and grasping the barrier with their bare hands. Crying out Marcus thrust his sword at the men in front of him, forcing a few of them backwards. Then he cried out as a sharp pain cut across his left arm, as one of the attacker’s spears grazed him. Furiously he hacked and stabbed at the men trying to clamber over the gate. At his side Jowan, Petrus and Cunomoltus were all doing the same, desperately trying to hold back the mass of squealing, yelling bodies that was trying to break through. From their raised platform, the Batavian’s kept up a relentless, constant and deadly barrage of arrows and amongst the tightly, packed group of attackers it was impossible to miss their targets. Marcus snatched a glance at Cunomoltus as he heard his brother suddenly cry out in pain. Cunomoltus was bleeding heavily from a gash to his head, but he was still on his feet and the bodies of two his assailants lay slumped over the barricade in front of him adding to the obstacles. Beside him Petrus was screaming in rage and terror, as he dodged the enemy spear thrusts, furiously jabbing at the attackers with his spear. But there were too many attackers and, as Marcus stabbed a man in the neck three more of the mob finally managed to clamber over the barricade and land on their feet close to him. Swiftly Marcus turned to face the three men. They were armed with swords and knives. With an outraged cry, Marcus took a step towards one of them and dodging the man’s wild thrust he kicked him in the balls, sending the attacker groaning and stumbling backwards against the palisade. But as he turned to face the other two they were upon him and Marcus was flung to the ground in a confused, vicious, snarling tangle of arms, legs and bodies. The sharp point of a knife drove through his leather armour and into his leg and Marcus roared in sudden pain. Desperately he tried to push the men off him and stagger to his feet, but they were too strong and too heavy. He could hear their heavy laboured breathing and curses as the two attackers tried to finish him off. Then suddenly, one of the men’s heads exploded into a ball of blood, broken bone fragments, brains and clumps of hair as an iron spiked club embedded itself into the attacker’s skull. Instantly the pressure on Marcus slackened and he grasped hold of the remaining attackers throat and started to squeeze. Jowan suddenly loomed over him, forcibly yanking his club from the dead man’s skull and, as he did Marcus, with a sudden surge of energy forced the third attacker onto his back. The man was wheezing and his face was turning blue as he ineffectively tried to stop Marcus from throttling him.
Wildly Marcus risked a glance at the barricade. Petrus and Cunomoltus were still on their feet and they had been joined by six Batavians who were cutting the remaining attackers to pieces with their long cavalry swords. The Batavian’s must have seen the danger and had arrived just in time. The bodies of Priscinus’s men were piling up against the barricade. To his right, two Batavians were finishing off a small band of men who’d managed to break through the palisade. One of the mob stood with his back pressed up against the wooden wall, impaled to it by a spear which had been driven straight through his chest. And on the ground, one of his colleagues was screaming in pain and terror as he tried to crawl away from the fight, dragging his bloodied, useless legs through the dust. As Marcus stared at the man, one of the Batavian’s stepped over him and finished him off, with a swift thrust of his knife into the man’s neck. Underneath Marcus, his attacker had stopped moving and his head had lolled to one side. Grimly Marcus reached out and grabbed hold of a discarded knife from where it lay on the ground and swiftly slashed the man’s throat, sending a stream of blood gushing out into the earth. Then painfully and with a grimace he staggered to his feet. His tunic was stained with blood, gore and someone’s brains and he was bleeding from a wound to his arm and leg. At the barricade the Batavians, Jowan, Petrus and Cunomoltus were crying out in relief and triumph and raising their bloody weapons in the air, as the remaining attackers fled back towards the wagon where, upon his raised chair, Priscunus had been following the fight. Grimly Marcus surveyed the desolate and bloody scene. More than half of Priscinus’s men lay dead, wounded and dying in front of the gate, their bodies slumped over the barricade, scattered across the track and fields and littering his courtyard; felled by arrows and hacked, stabbed, decapitated and throttled to death. As he stared at the grim scene, black smoke came wafting towards him on a gust of wind and he tasted the acrid smell on his lips. A few of the badly-wounded attackers were groaning, where they had fallen and others were trying to crawl back to their own lines. His plan had worked Marcus thought with savage satisfaction. Killing the priest had lured Priscinus’s men into a rash attack, upon the gate and without knowing it they had run straight into his killing field. Then Marcus grimaced, as a searing hot pain shot down his leg. As he staggered towards the barricade Cunomoltus, his face turned red by his own blood, rushed to his side and steadied Marcus with his arm.
‘Take Priscinus,’ Marcus roared ignoring the shuddering pain in his leg and arm. ‘I want him taken alive. Get him!’
‘No good Marcus,’ one of the Batavian’s panted as he paused to gaze across the smoke-filled space between the gate and Priscinus’s wagon. ‘He’s still got his archers. They will shoot us down before we can even get close to him. There is no cover out there. We must stay within the protection of the palisade. The man has lost, Marcus. He is done for today. He knows it.’
And as the Batavian spoke, Marcus suddenly saw Priscinus’s wagon slowly start to turn around and begin to move away. Priscinus had seen enough. He was retreating. The cart was followed by a gaggle of subdued, nervous survivors from the attack, some of them limping and casting fearful glances at the farm. Their numbers had been severely depleted.
Furiously Marcus forced his way up to the barricade, hobbling as he went and brushing aside Cunomoltus’s steadying arm.
‘It did not have to be like this,’ Marcus roared in fury as he stared at the retreating wagon and band of attackers. ‘I gave you a choice Priscinus. You arrogant prick. The dead are dead because of you. I would have talked to you about a compromise. The only way this dispute is going to be resolved is through a negotiated settlement and now you are running away. You coward. You fucking weasel! You don’t deserve to wash the feet of the lowest criminal.’
Then a great curtain of black smoke intervened blotting out the view and Marcus turned and started to cough.
‘We stopped them Marcus,’ Jowan said his eyes bulging in sudden shock as if he had only just realised what he’d being doing. ‘We stopped them and slaughtered them. They are all dead.’ His voice trailed off. Petrus, clutching his large cross that hung on a cord from around his neck, was picking his way through the dead and broken bodies muttering to himself in a low urgent voice.
Marcus finished coughing and ignoring Jowan, he turned to stare at the ruined, blackened and burning wheat
fields. His family and the Batavian’s seemed to have suffered no dead but the victory had come at a cost for the farm’s harvest had been completely destroyed.
‘What now Marcus?’ Cunomoltus muttered as his brother gave him an anxious glance.
Marcus sighed as he gazed at the fire and the towering column of smoke. There was nothing he could do about his crops.
‘Collect the bodies of the dead in a heap,’ he growled grimacing in pain. ‘We will burn them before nightfall, beyond the perimeter, over there alongside the track. And we will tend to our wounds.’ Turning to Cunomoltus he grasped hold of his brother’s shoulder. ‘I am too fucking angry and exhausted to think about what to do with Priscinus right now. We will discuss him tomorrow.’
***
Marcus was sitting up in his bed, his heavily bandaged leg stretched out in front of him, studying the inventory and list of accounts for his farm when loud, excited shouting erupted. The noise was coming from the courtyard. Alarmed he snatched up his gladius sword that was lying on his bed and reached for the wooden crutches. Had Priscinus and his men returned? A whole day and night had passed since the assault and the destruction of his crops and during that time the only people who’d shown themselves had been one or two of his neighbours, who’d come to see the damage done to the fields. As he hobbled down the corridor, grimacing in pain Kyna came rushing towards him but instead of looking alarmed, her eyes bulged in excitement. Her cheeks were flush and she had difficulty in speaking.
‘What’s happened woman?’ Marcus bellowed irritably as he grasped hold of his wife’s arm.
‘It’s Dylis,’ Kyna blurted out. ‘She is back. She is in the courtyard now. She is alright. She just walked through the main gate as if nothing had happened.’
‘What,’ Marcus exclaimed.
Kyna broke free from his grip and raced away down the corridor, followed swiftly by Marcus hobbling along on his crutches, as fast as he could. Outside it was nearly dark and as he came stumbling and swaying into the courtyard, Marcus cried out in sudden emotion as he caught sight of his sister. Burning torches had been placed at intervals along the palisade and beside the gate and in their flickering, reddish light Marcus saw Jowan embracing Dylis, together with Petrus and two of Dylis’s children. They were swiftly joined by Efa and Kyna. Out of sight a dog was barking and the smell of smoke still hung thickly over the farm. As Marcus approached, Jowan let go of his wife and the small gathering fell silent as they respectfully turned to look at Marcus.
‘Where have you been?’ Marcus exclaimed shaking his head as he came to a halt a few paces from his sister. ‘What happened to you? Do you know how worried we all were?’
Dylis was clad in a dirty, stained and torn tunic, partially covered by a dusty cloak and hood that was pulled down around her neck. A knife dangled from her belt and she looked completely normal. She regarded Marcus coolly and there was a faint hint of contempt in her voice as she spoke.
‘Hello Marcus,’ Dylis said. ‘I thought you would like to know. Priscinus is dead. I saw his corpse this morning. So, our problems are over. The man who burned our fields is no more.’
Around Dylis the gasps were audible. Marcus cocked his head to one side as he stared at his sister in stunned silence.
‘What do you mean, dead?’ Marcus muttered at last.
Dylis’s face grew scornful as she gazed back at him. ‘You didn’t understand what needed to be done,’ Dylis snapped rounding on Marcus with sudden anger. ‘You didn’t have the guts. But when such a dangerous man as Priscinus is threatening our farm, our family, our future, then there is only one thing that you can do. I poisoned him. I sent him to spend eternity with the furies of hell. I wasn’t going to let that arsehole take away everything that I and this family had built up over the years. Over my dead body. That’s why I disappeared. That’s where I have been all this time, preparing to kill Priscinus, because that is how you stop people like him.’
Marcus opened his mouth and gazed at his sister in utter shock.
‘You poisoned Priscinus,’ he muttered in confusion. ‘How?’
Dylis wrenched her gaze from him and turned to look at the ground.
‘It took me a while,’ she replied sullenly. ‘That’s why I have been gone for so long. Do you remember that woman, the slave, with the bruises to her face? The one who met us at the gate when we went to speak with Priscinus.’
‘I remember,’ Marcus growled.
‘Well I used her to get the poison into his house,’ Dylis snapped.’ ‘Turns out that Priscinus was abusing her on a regular basis. She was happy to help me. Priscinus died choking to death. He’s gone. We no longer have to fear him.’
Suddenly Marcus groaned and closed his eyes in despair. Ofcourse Dylis had not been there with him in Londinium when he’d gone to meet the land surveyor. She did not know that Priscinus’s patron and ally was the Governor himself. And now Priscinus was dead, murdered in his own home. The Governor would never let that go. The Governor of Britannia would never allow his clients and friends to be murdered, especially the head of a family of former Roman senators. There would be an investigation, resources would be thrown at the case and there were going to be consequences, massive consequences. And if the trail led back to his family it would be all over for them.
Marcus groaned again as the full realisation of what Dylis had done sank in. Then he stepped forwards and embraced his sister in a tight hug.
‘You don’t know what you have done,’ Marcus muttered.
Chapter Sixteen – Castra Bonnensis
(Province of Lower Germania, early August AD 105)
The harsh cries of the weapon instructors rang out across the large, sandy, training-area of the legionary fortress where several hundred legionaries of the Twentieth Legion were practising their weapons drill. It was a clear, fine day and in the brilliant, blue, sky the merciless sun bathed Castra Bonnensis, the legionary fortress on the Rhine in heat and light. Fergus, clad in a short-sleeved white, tunic and clutching a large, wicker-shield and a heavy, wooden, training-sword grimaced as he aimed cuts and thrusts at the six-foot-high, wooden post before him. The wooden training-shield and sword had been intentionally made much heavier than his normal equipment. The instructors had said that this was meant to build up the strength in his arms. Fergus’s face glistened with sweat and his back and neck were drenched as he concentrated on attacking the wooden post. A few paces away, his mess mates were doing the same. Behind them, the instructors slowly, strode along the lines intervening if they were not happy, whilst the senior company officers looked on. Fergus grunted in satisfaction as he struck the wooden place in exactly the place he’d been aiming for. Titus, the company Centurion was driving his men hard, and for the past few days, ever since they had arrived at their new, temporary home on the Rhine, he’d been keeping them busy with one training exercise after the other. As he stepped back to once more attack the wooden post Fergus snatched a glance in the Centurion’s direction. Titus was easily distinguishable by his magnificent, red plumed helmet. The men were convinced the continuous training was because Titus wanted to show off to the legionaries and officers of the 1st Minervia Legion, in whose camp they had been billeted.
A few paces away, Aledus suddenly swore as he missed his target and instead, in frustration, lashed out at the wooden post with his foot. Fergus grinned as, moments later, one of the weapon instructors blew his whistle and came stamping towards Aledus shaking his head. Aledus shot Fergus a little, cheeky smile as he saw him watching. The men’s morale was high, Fergus thought, as he turned and concentrated on attacking the wooden post. And so was the mutual respect and team spirit within his squad. When he had finally re-joined the company in the port of Rutupiae, he had found out that his squad had been brought up to full strength of eight men. The two newcomers were young, inexperienced and brand-new recruits, straight out of basic training, but on the short sea voyage to Gaul and the subsequent march to the Rhine, he’d made a concerted effort to turn his whole
squad into an efficient, effective team, and now at last, his efforts seemed to be paying off.
A sudden shout made Fergus hesitate. Turning he caught sight of Titus, Furius and the company standard bearer, striding into the middle of the training area.
‘Squad against squad, form up, form up,’ an instructor yelled.
Along the line, the legionaries, in their white, sweat-stained, tunics, hastily started to cluster around their leaders. Fergus lowered his sword and shield, as Aledus, Catinius Vittius and the others quickly assembled around him.
‘First squad versus second, third versus fourth, fifth versus seventh,’ the weapon’s instructor yelled as he strode across the sand, ‘sixth versus eighth, ninth versus tenth, form up, single line of eight.’
Fergus frowned and quickly glanced in the Centurion’s direction. His squad had been pitted against Fronto and his men. If the traditional training order had been followed that should not have happened. What was Titus up to?
‘You heard,’ Fergus snapped turning to his men, ‘form a line of eight and boys, I am not going to lose this one, not against Fronto, not with Titus watching, so put your backs into it.’
Hastily his squad arranged themselves into a line, as opposite them, their opponents did the same. Across the six paces that separated the two squads, Fergus caught Fronto glaring at him with a calculating, contemptuous look. Fergus hissed as he glared back at his rival. Since the incident on the march to the Rhine, it had been commonly agreed amongst the men of the company that Fergus and Fronto had emerged as the front runners to claim the position of Tesserarius, third in command of the company. The company seemed to be split in their loyalties on this issue and Titus, the company Centurion had remained tight-lipped about who would get promoted.
Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5) Page 14