Hawk

by George Green

  ‘Stop pretending to sleep,’ said Galba. Serpicus looked at them through eyes barely opened and tried to look as sick as possible.

  ‘Ungrateful bastard,’ said Brutus, sitting on the bed beside him. ‘We stay up all night, walk bloody leagues, fight off half the Roman army just for the fun of dragging him all the way back here, and he just lies there in a heap.’

  The fog in Serpicus’ head parted enough to make him sit up. A sharp shaft of pain made him groan. He felt as though he had drunk a lot of very bad wine, but he was awake.

  ‘Ah, he’s back,’ said Galba. He was eating an apple, and had another in his hand which he held out to Serpicus. Serpicus was suddenly starving, and accepted it gratefully. He lifted it to his lips and saw that Decius was sitting silently by the door. Serpicus wondered how long he had been there.

  ‘So, what the hell happened to you?’ said Brutus.

  Serpicus frowned and bit into the apple without thinking. Pain curled around his cheek. He froze, and took the apple from his mouth, broke it in half and chewed a small piece gingerly on the unburnt side. ‘I remember creeping around the camp and getting hit on the head.’ He paused. His lips hurt nearly too much to let him talk. ‘Cato was there.’ He took a breath and tried to speak without moving them. ‘I remember Cato setting fire to my face. He knocked me about a bit and then gave me something to drink. After that it’s all a blur.’ Brutus and Galba exchanged a glance.

  ‘Cato was there? You’re sure?’

  ‘He’s an officer. A Roman. Some sort of high-up anyway.’

  Brutus sat back and let out a long sigh.

  ‘He knows everything about us,’ said Galba softly to himself. ‘If he’s there, then the Romans know how many of us there are, how much food there is, where the weak points are, everything.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Brutus said irritably. ‘Anyone could tell them that.’

  Serpicus finished his apple and looked around hopefully for another, but there weren’t any. ‘How did you know I was in trouble?’

  Brutus shrugged. ‘We didn’t, though it did cross our minds when you didn’t come back. We decided to raid the camp anyway, and if we found you were in difficulties and we had the opportunity for a heroic rescue, so much the better.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Brutus gestured to Galba. ‘Get him to tell you. It was his idea.’

  Galba tried not to look pleased with himself. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Tell him anyway.’

  Galba sat on a low chair. ‘It was quite simple really. We floated down the river until we were past the pickets but before we got to the main army. The river is high and fast with all the rain and there are plenty of tree stumps and dead cattle in it, so there wasn’t any reason for them to worry about a few extra bumps on the surface. We landed behind the pickets and walked quietly past the sentries. They hardly challenged us, because they knew that any attack coming at them would be spotted by the pickets first and so most of them were asleep. Brutus had to kill one of them who had got up to take a piss, but apart from that it was easy.’ Galba grinned at Brutus who shrugged.

  ‘So how did you find me?’

  ‘We kept on setting fire to tents until just about every Roman was busy fighting the fires except the guards around the big tent they had you in.’

  ‘They didn’t see you?’

  Brutus smiled. ‘A few of them caught up with us so we had to stop and deal with them. Didn’t take long. We bashed the tent guards on the head, grabbed you and made a run for it. We got to the river, threw you in and we all floated back down to the village again.’

  ‘There must be more to it than that,’ Serpicus said, half closing his eyes with the effort of memory. ‘Marcus doubled the guard when the fire started, I remember, I heard him. The fire woke everyone up. You can’t have given them the slip, not just like that.’

  Galba shrugged. ‘It was dark, and raining. No moonlight.’

  Brutus nodded. ‘And there was a lot of confusion.’

  ‘And we didn’t waste any time.’ There was a pause. Brutus snapped his fingers together.

  ‘Oh, and the Roman uniforms probably helped.’

  Serpicus burst out laughing and then winced with the pain. ‘You stole Roman uniforms?’

  ‘Hardly stole. The owners had no further use for them.’ Serpicus started to laugh again, then a dark sun came into his head and the clouds parted. Memory flooded back.

  It was as if leather helmet straps tightened suddenly around his neck and he could not breathe.

  Galba leant forward looking concerned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Cato told me that… that Antonia and the children were dead.’

  Galba looked as if Serpicus had slapped him. ‘What? They can’t be.’

  They questioned him, and Serpicus had to admit that Cato hadn’t exactly said they were all dead. He’d let Serpicus think it, and he’d produced the ivory token to underline it. Serpicus still felt there was more to remember, but it just nibbled at the edge of the fabric of his mind, refusing to come out. He let it be. He had remembered one thing. Perhaps that was the nature of the drug. He might remember more as time passed.

  ‘He probably did it just to make you angry.’

  ‘That worked,’ Serpicus said.

  Brutus bit his bottom lip. ‘Can I be honest?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s got no reason to kill them. Let’s say we succeed, bring back the animal to Rome. All he wants is a quiet life. He doesn’t want the Man Who Brought Back the White Bear looking for him with a sword. He doesn’t need to do it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Brutus put a hand on Serpicus’ shoulder. ‘If he keeps them alive, he wins either way. He can always kill them later if needs be.’

  Galba and Serpicus looked up at him. ‘And you were doing so well,’ murmured Galba.

  ‘I’m sure she’s alive,’ said Decius urgently.

  Serpicus saw that the young man’s serious face was covered in grime.

  Serpicus looked at Galba. ‘Is that smoke? Did he come to help get me back?’

  Galba grinned. ‘We wouldn’t let him go and get you, so he helped with the fire starting. He was pretty good at it.’

  A thought struck Serpicus. ‘Was anyone else hurt?’

  Brutus picked up his sword and pushed it at him. ‘Yes, a lot of Romans.’

  ‘Any of ours?’

  Galba looked at him and nodded. ‘A couple. They did a lot of damage, one way and another, before they died. The odds weren’t good, they knew that before they set out.’

  Serpicus held the sword without putting it on. Something hot welled up in him like boiling milk, something a lot like self-pity. ‘So they died because of me.’

  Galba dismissed the idea with a hand gesture. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Yes. It’s true, isn’t it?’

  Brutus bent down and shoved his face into Serpicus. ‘All right, yes, if you insist. They died because you needed rescuing, but they were volunteers and brave men, so I doubt they would have seen it as a waste and they certainly wouldn’t blame you. Unless, of course, you are determined to make what they did into something useless by whining about it. They died fighting Romans, which is all they ever wanted to do, and they gave a bloody good account of themselves.’ He stepped aside and gestured towards the door. ‘So, can I suggest that you stop feeling sorry for yourself and put the sword on, and then we can all go and do the same ourselves?’

  Serpicus stood up and shook his head to clear it. His ribs ached. His face burned and the blood pounded in his chest and head, but he could stand.

  ‘Sorry.’ He touched the tokens around his neck. ‘You’re right, I…’

  Brutus raised a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said gruffly. ‘Come on. We’ll all keep an eye open for that Cato, and if we can we’ll drag him back here and you can roast him over a fire or something.’

  And then Serpicus’ mind cleared with an absolute suddenness a
nd he remembered everything. In a moment, the nightmare was in front of him, as if it was happening again. He took a choking breath as if about to go underwater. He staggered and put a hand on Brutus’ arm. His friend looked at him with concern.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Serpicus opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again. He had a choice, and he made it. He pushed the memory away. The pain set hard, like a stone in his chest. He yanked tight the buckle of his sword belt. ‘No one kills that bastard except me,’ he whispered. ‘No one.’

  Galba and Brutus both smiled.

  ‘Agreed.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  To Aelius Sejanus, from his Servant:

  Last night I interrogated Serpicus the German, who the uncle of the Partner employed to lead the party charged with returning his animal. He and his confederates have thrown in their lot with the barbarian rebels. He had little of value to tell, and later died in an attempt to escape.

  The attack begins at dawn.

  The Roman camp ran from west to east across the neck of the tear-shaped isthmus on which the village stood. Facing the village the Romans had built a low wall of wooden stakes, backed with piled earth and rocks to about chest height, low enough for a defender to see over and strike with a sword, but too high for an attacker to jump in his stride. The stake wall had narrow gaps at intervals of about twenty paces into which the Treveri would be funnelled into killing zones if they tried to attack. Forward of the wall, perhaps a hundred paces out, a line of fires spread out at an interval of a poor soldier’s javelin-throw. Each warmed two soldiers. The pickets were not designed to be defensive – they would barely slow the Treveri down if they charged – but as look-outs and sentries, to warn those behind them. This allowed light sentry duty behind the wall, as there would be plenty of warning of any attack.

  Serpicus stood on the walkway that ran around the inside of the palisade and wondered how the legionaries on the picket line enjoyed being placed as sacrificial offerings so that the rest of the army could get some sleep.

  The Roman picket fires ran in a line across the village’s only way out, like glowing rings on the fingers of a fist around its throat. The fires burned low in the steady rain. There were more fires burning all the way around the far side of the river’s loop, cutting off any attempt to escape across the water, and a heavy boom of logs chained together with thorn bushes and metal spikes would be constructed and laid across the river downstream, to prevent anyone using the current to carry them away. It was too dark to see if the boom was already in position. Severus’ men should have got away down the river in time, but it was impossible to be sure.

  Serpicus pulled his cloak tighter around him. The damp air chilled his bones, but it helped soothe the burns on his face. His whole body felt as though a herd of wild animals had run over it.

  Drenthe stood silently beside Serpicus. Serpicus didn’t want to talk. Moving his jaw made the healing burnt skin crack open and bleed, and the druid had told him to stay silent if possible.

  He had followed her while she went around the Treveri fires, silently willing the men to listen to her. Her main concern was discipline. The German way of fighting wasn’t to stand behind a wall and wait for someone to attack, nor was it to wait for orders before acting. Germans fought as individuals. If they saw an opportunity, they charged forward. If a man saw a chance for glory then he seized it. Honour was paramount, success important but secondary.

  Armin had taught the Germans another way and used it to beat Varus, and the lesson had been learned well. Drenthe spoke tirelessly, explaining what had to be done, reminding them of the need to fight as one, to obey orders. The fighters grumbled about it but she wore them down. They preferred to fight in the old way, but they liked to win as well. She asked for their word and they gave it.

  What no one could be sure of was how well that promise would bear up in the battle to come.

  Brutus came up onto the palisade beside them.

  ‘Don’t suppose they’ve gone away yet?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re completely boxed in,’ murmured Drenthe, peering out through the rain into the night and counting the fires. Her four guards stood silently nearby, checking the edges of their weapons.

  ‘That’s the way Romans like it,’ Brutus said.

  ‘What will they do next?’

  Brutus and Serpicus looked at each other. Serpicus nodded to Brutus to speak.

  ‘At dawn, draw up the infantry to frighten you. Attack with skirmishers to sow confusion.’

  ‘What are skirmishers?’ Drenthe asked.

  ‘Archers and light cavalry. The cavalry will gallop around for a bit while the archers stand and fire a few arrows in our direction. They’ll probably pretend to have a go at opening the gate, just to get your attention.’

  Drenthe looked at the gate critically. ‘That’s not the real attack, though, is it?’

  Brutus shook his head. ‘They’ll be hoping that you’ll come out and fight. They want to draw you out, get some idea of your strength.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Drenthe sardonically. ‘If they didn’t know already, Cato has by now given them all the information they’ll need.’

  Brutus nodded. ‘True. Nevertheless, they will still do what they always do. That’s the Roman way.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Head-on infantry attack, archers on the flanks, cavalry in reserve for a break-out.’

  ‘Cavalry,’ one of her guards said thoughtfully. ‘We haven’t fought them before.’

  Brutus grinned. ‘Don’t worry, they aren’t much use as long as you stay within the village walls.’ He pointed out in front of the main gate, indicating right and left. ‘The infantry will be in three columns. The column on each side carries ladders to scale the walls, the centre column carries a battering ram, protecting it with the testudo.’ Brutus saw Drenthe’s expression at the unfamiliar word. ‘Testudo. Tortoise. They put their shields above their heads so arrows can’t hit them.’

  ‘Ah, I have heard of this beast,’ she said, raising her voice so those around would hear. ‘Only a Roman could run into battle under his shield, bent double like an old man trying to get out of a thunderstorm, and think it honourable.’ Her guards smiled grimly. ‘So, three columns of men, one with the dreaded tortoise, two with ladders. Archers and cavalry around the sides. Is that it?’

  ‘More or less,’ Serpicus mumbled. ‘It usually suffices against a village of this size.’ He fell silent again, wondering if it was possible to be any less tactful.

  Drenthe watched his confusion without expression. ‘And does every village fall?’

  Brutus and Serpicus glanced quickly at each other. Brutus cleared his throat. ‘Well… yes, actually. Eventually.’

  Drenthe looked at them for a long moment, and Serpicus thought he saw a faint smile on her lips. ‘Thank you for the information,’ she said, and turned to walk away. The guards went after her, silently forming a defensive box around her, two close, two flanking them. They were taking no more chances. She stopped to talk to a small group of waiting men, who then trotted off in different directions. After a final look along the palisade she went down the steps and disappeared into the village.

  ‘D’you think we’ve upset her?’ asked Brutus.

  Serpicus shrugged. He had no idea.

  The gates were opened quietly and a group of warriors went out and started digging a trench across the entrance. They dug silently, obscured by the rain and the gloom.

  Behind the shelter of the palisade men and women were busy carrying water and oil to fill the cauldrons heating on the fires, and others tested and practised with the winches which would lift the scalding mixture onto the walls when the time came. Children carried rocks the size of a man’s head up the steps and placed them in piles above the gate, ready for use.

  Brutus and Serpicus occupied themselves explaining to the defenders what was likely to happen in the morning. As if by unspoken agreement they both passed over the
bits about certain defeat followed inexorably by crucifixion and a painful death, and concentrated on the tactics that the Romans were likely to employ. Decius and Galba stood behind them and the young man translated. When the fun had gone out of that, the four of them went to the walkway and watched the Romans getting ready to attack.

  By the time the dawn came, the Treveri working in front of the entrance had dug a trench as wide as a man’s outstretched arm and more than waist-deep along the length of the gate. The rain had come down steadily all night and they were covered in mud and working up to their knees in freezing water. Drenthe had sent out replacements every half-hour, but even so the returning men came in stiff with cold. However, their efforts had produced results. A rampart of dark earth was piled up on the side of the trench facing the Romans. The rain had slackened slightly and there was enough light to see from the Roman lines that something was going on. A squad of Roman archers ran out to fire some speculative arrows over the earthen rampart at the diggers without success. A cavalry detachment trotted forward and had a look at the gate with its newly dug ramparts, but declined to advance within range of the Treveri waiting for them with taut bow-strings on the village wall.

  The Roman custom was to attack at dawn, but the raid and the fire had wrecked their schedule. By the time the fires were put out and everything was ordered to the centurions’ satisfaction it was late in the morning. A watery sun peered through a narrow gap in the clouds and warmed the defenders a little, but it still loomed dark and thunderous over the hills. Serpicus hoped it would rain all day; the Germans were stood on firm wood ramparts whereas the Romans were crossing wet grass and mud. Battles have turned on less.