by George Green
The cloud lifted slightly, revealing the Roman troops deployed as Brutus and Serpicus had predicted. The infantry were in three square blocks across the field. The two outside columns were each sixteen ranks of men across and twelve deep. The centre was the same depth but half the width. The battering ram they held, a heavy log with a bronze ram’s head mounted on the end, was slung by ropes from a wooden yoke resting on the shoulders of the centre four lines of legionaries, two on each side. The men outside the ram-carriers held their shields up to protect the carriers.
Drenthe appeared beside Brutus on the walkway, flanked as always by the guards, who hadn’t left her side since Cato’s attack. She stood listening to the distant shouts of the centurions drifting through the rain.
‘They’ve been busy,’ she mused.
Brutus grunted agreement. He leant forward and rested his forearms on top of the wooden palisade. ‘Thank Zeus they didn’t bring any decent equipment,’ he said to Galba.
Galba ran his thumb along the edge of his freshly sharpened sword. ‘True. If they’d brought their siege engines we’d truly be screwed.’
A Treveri warrior nearby looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Siege engines? What are they?’
Brutus didn’t look at him as he replied, ‘If we’re both alive at the end of today, ask me again and I’ll gladly explain.’
The Treveri grinned. ‘I look forward to it,’ he said. ‘Will they come soon, do you think?’ He gestured at the sky. ‘I’d rather fight before the sun gets too high.’
Brutus looked up at the heavy rain-clouds above them and smiled back at the Treveri. He leant forward onto the palisade and gestured at the manoeuvring Romans. ‘Don’t worry, so would they,’ he said. ‘They won’t be enjoying this any more than we are.’ He spat over the rampart. ‘They’ll be along shortly. Once their archers have stood out of range and wasted their arrows for long enough.’
‘Be careful,’ Drenthe said, and moved away down the palisade towards the gate.
‘Always,’ Brutus said.
There was a sharp low sound like an old bone hitting a hollow wooden tube, then the same twice more. Brutus grunted with surprise and swore. Serpicus stared at Brutus’ left arm. Three Roman arrows were quivering in the palisade in front of him. One of them had pinned him to the wooden wall by the flesh underneath his left forearm. Blood flowed slowly down the arrow shaft.
‘Hmmm,’ Galba said, looking at the arm with a serious expression. ‘Lucky they are out of range, or that might be really painful.’
Brutus looked at him with an unfilial expression. Serpicus was rather glad for Galba’s sake that Brutus’ arm was firmly held by the Roman arrow.
‘Do you think you could perhaps do something about this for me?’ Brutus said to Galba, breathing heavily and nodding at the arrow. ‘I wouldn’t normally trouble you, but I expect to have several thousand Romans attacking me soon, and having both arms free at that time would be an advantage.’
Galba leant forward and took a close look. ‘It’s only a flesh wound,’ he said.
Brutus glowered at him. ‘It’s my flesh it’s wounding, and I don’t give a fuck for your opinion. I just want it out of me, all right?’
A Treveri soldier leant forward with a knife in his hand and cut through the arrow shaft near to where the head was buried deep in the wood. Several more arrows thumped into the wooden wall nearby while he was leaning forward. Serpicus flinched instinctively at the noise of the arrows, but the German stayed where he was and kept on cutting as if nothing was happening. Brutus didn’t make a sound, even though each movement of the knife moved the shaft of the arrow in his forearm. Sweat pearled on his forehead and ran down his cheeks. When he was free he nodded a curt thanks and lifted his arm to look at the remaining part of the arrow. It was buried in his forearm almost up to the feathered flight.
‘Hold still,’ Galba said, taking hold of his wrist.
‘I’ll do it,’ Brutus growled.
‘It’ll hurt less if you hold your arm steady and I pull it out.’
Brutus hesitated. ‘Do it right then, or I’ll shove it up your… ow!’
Galba held up the blood-smeared arrow and looked at it critically. ‘Good and straight, just the way the Romans always make them,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t be much damage apart from the hole.’
Brutus looked at the blood flowing freely from the wound and then glared at Galba with ingratitude. ‘I’ll give you a hole to match it if you don’t get out of my way,’ he snarled. Everyone who heard him stepped aside, even people some distance off who could not possibly have impeded him. Brutus stamped angrily down the steps.
‘Will he be all right?’ asked Decius.
‘It’s a clean wound,’ Galba said quietly. ‘So long as the arrow wasn’t dipped in dogshit, he’ll be all right.’
They watched as, clutching his arm and holding it up over his head to slow the bleeding, Brutus walked over to the nearest of several small braziers spaced out evenly in a line close to the inside of the palisade, each with an anvil beside it. The fire was tended by a Treveri, a heavily muscled man in his middle years with sword-scars all over his torso. The man didn’t speak, but he knew what to do. He looked briefly at Brutus’ wound and wrapped a wet cloth around his hand so that he could take hold of the handle of a long thin piece of iron lying in the fire. He handed Brutus a full wineskin. Brutus took the skin and downed a large mouthful. As he did so, the man seized Brutus’ injured arm by the wrist and pinned it against the anvil. He lifted the iron out of the fire. The tip was flattened to the width of a man’s finger. It glowed a bright yellow-red. Raindrops snapped and hissed at the hot iron as they passed. Brutus glanced at it and the wineskin rose to his mouth again. When he lowered the skin he sucked in a deep breath, took hold with his good hand of a rope hanging from a stanchion, and nodded to the waiting Treveri.
Everyone nearby turned their faces away. They knew that many of them would be in Brutus’ position later that day, no one wanted to think about what was about to happen.
Twice in quick succession there was a hissing sound like cold water poured onto a hot pan. Serpicus swallowed on a dry throat and looked back again. Brutus hadn’t made a sound but he was leaning against the palisade supported by his grip on the rope. He was breathing hard and sweat bathed his face. Smoke was still rising from his forearm. The Treveri thrust the iron back into the fire. It would be needed again.
‘Lucky to get your wound early in the day,’ he said.
Brutus looked at him sceptically. ‘Lucky,’ he repeated, pondering the word like a philosopher. ‘Well, possibly. I suppose so. In a sense.’
The man ignored him. ‘If you get a wound early then the ice is still cold.’ He pulled Brutus a couple of steps away from the fire and, forcing him to kneel, took his hand and thrust his arm into a wide basin. Serpicus had seen them filling the basin earlier. It was full of spring-water, with large chunks of ice from the cold-store floating in it. Brutus had taken two levels of pain already. An arrow through the arm was painful, the hot iron more so. Serpicus only knew one thing to be more painful than the hot iron and that was the cold water hitting the cap of blackened flesh that the hot iron had left over the wound. The water would make the wound-scar heal quicker, and, more importantly, it meant that – apart from some stiffness and a raging ache – Brutus would be able to use it in the fight to come. Without the cold water the flesh would continue to burn and blister, and by the time it stopped the arm would be useless for weeks.
Serpicus smelt the burnt flesh and lifted a hand to his cheek and touched it gently. It was sticky with the ointment that the druid had smeared onto it. The pain was constant but tolerable.
Brutus took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. The man who had cauterized the wound released Brutus’ arm and allowed him to take it from the ice-water, inspected it closely and pronounced himself satisfied. A woman pressed on a herb poultice while Brutus tipped the wineskin up once more and held it to his lips for a long time! He lowered
it, tossed it aside and belched like a bull.
‘I hope those Romans come soon,’ he growled, ‘because the sons of bitches are going to-feel a lot of pain this day.’ He looked at the blackened flesh under his arm and then at the smiling men around him. ‘And anyone who lays a hand on a Roman archer before I’ve killed at least three will have me to reckon with.’
Drenthe smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Any captured Roman archers will be brought alive to our friend Brutus for judgement!’ she shouted. ‘Your Chief commands it!’ Her guard smiled malevolently. The Treveri cheered loudly and started to make suggestions to Brutus as to what appropriate measures to take against a captured archer might be. By the time they tired of the game Brutus had a broad smile on his face and a fistful of ideas, and Serpicus was starting to feel quite sorry for any Roman with a bow foolish enough to get himself captured.
The deep bell tone of the Roman horns sounded outside the walls, and Galba and Brutus glanced across at Serpicus without speaking. Then the sound of feet marching in rhythm and the sounds of metal and leather rubbing and striking each other began, and over it the shouts of the centurions, keeping the lines straight. Drenthe looked over the palisade, careless of Roman arrows.
‘The music may mean they are inviting us to a dance,’ she called, ‘but I doubt it.’
‘We’ll show them how Germans dance!’ yelled a man from further down the line. Everyone laughed, and they faced outward towards the slowly advancing Romans. The villagers began shouting defiance at the Romans and encouragement to each other. Drenthe signalled to a man below and the cauldrons of oil were attached to ropes in order to winch them onto the walkway.
Galba and Serpicus were standing almost shoulder to shoulder. Brutus stood just behind them. Serpicus could smell burning from him. A torch passed in front of his eyes for a moment.
‘Here they come,’ he muttered.
‘We’re fucked, aren’t we?’ said Galba softly, without turning his head. Serpicus said nothing. They were outnumbered ten to one, and Cato had almost certainly told the Romans everything they needed to know about the village’s defences. ‘Oh yes,’ said Brutus, almost under his breath. ‘But we’ll do it to plenty of them before they do it to us.’
Chapter Thirty
The central group of legionaries marched at a steady rhythm across the plain towards the village. Their shields fitted together closely all around them and over their heads, so that they looked like a metal box with feet marching towards Gelbheim. The villagers could see the flat iron head of the battering ram, hanging from the yoke carried by the two central ranks and protruding just forward of the front line of soldiers. The columns of soldiers either side of those carrying the ram marched slightly in front, with their archers flanking them. A steady marching beat came from them, the sound of every legionary pounding the back of his shield with the handle of his short stabbing sword.
Serpicus could see the staff officers at the rear, gathered on horseback on slightly higher ground. The General was at the centre. He wondered if it was Marcus. And if Consilius was with him. A tall, thin man was at the back, obscured by the General and the helmet he wore. Serpicus knew that it was Cato. The warmth of a torch touched his face, and the nightmare flashed through his mind again. He pushed it away.
More villagers gathered on the battlements to yell abuse at the Romans. Brutus leant towards Drenthe and pointed. ‘Their intention is to engage our defences at two points on the wall a good distance from the gate. They will try and prevent us concentrating our efforts on the main danger.’
Drenthe smiled. ‘So the Romans on the flanks aren’t dangerous?’
‘Only the big ones,’ said Brutus, smiling back at her. He looked quite cheerful. The wine, the ice-water and the herbs were apparently working. Drenthe looked along the battlement to right and left. Set faces met her gaze and nodded their readiness. Drenthe went to the left, to lead the men and women on that side. Serpicus went to the right. Brutus stayed in the middle to see to the defence of the gate. His size gained him respect amongst the Treveri; he was not their leader, but they would follow him. Decius stood beside him. Brutus insisted, said he needed him in case he needed a message carried.
Galba looked up at Serpicus and smiled. He had gone down to help with the cauldrons. He was a reasonable shot with a bow and almost completely useless with a sword. The Treveri had plenty of archers at the present; later on his skills might be needed.
The rain was falling heavily again. The clouds over the mountains were almost black. Men from both sides looked up at the sky. The gods were surely angry with someone, but no one yet knew with whom.
The cauldrons sat steaming on the battlement above the gate. A third of the Treveri force was clustered there or nearby, ready for the real attack. The rest of the men and women were stretched thinly along the palisade. They knew what they would have to do; it remained only to see how well they would do it. The defence was as ready as it could be.
Drenthe raised an arm and then chopped downward. The archers drew their short bows while kneeling on the walkway, then leant over the parapet and let fly before swiftly returning behind the cover of the palisade. Half of them were detailed to remove as many of the Roman archers as possible, the remainder concentrated their fire at the front rank of the central square of legionaries. Serpicus looked between a crack in the wall and saw the first legionaries cry out and spin sideways, clutching at the shafts. The replying arrows passed harmlessly overhead.
‘Concentrate on the men carrying the ram!’ Drenthe shouted to the first group. ‘Unless you see an officer, of course.’
Several men laughed, and the archers redoubled their efforts. It wasn’t their traditional way to fight, and it wasn’t heroic or glamorous, but it was working. The Treveri were doing real damage, while escaping serious casualties themselves. Cries of pain came from below the walls.
Serpicus knew what was coming next. ‘Ladders!’ he shouted, ignoring the cracking skin on his face. A dozen defenders grabbed the long forked poles that lay ready beside them and crouched waiting. A moment later the first wooden assault-ladder crashed down onto the tip of the parapet. The Treveri men with the forked poles yelled defiance. Serpicus held out an arm. ‘Not yet,’ he pleaded. ‘Wait until the ladder is full of Romans.’ They hesitated, remembered their promise, and stopped. They crouched just below the rim of the parapet and held the poles ready. Other ladders poked over the edge. Serpicus counted to five, forcing himself to go slowly, imagining the Romans on the other side of the wall, racing up the ladder.
‘Now!’ he yelled.
The Treveri warriors sprang forward, three to a pole, and jammed the fork against the top rung of the ladder. At that moment helmeted heads appeared above the top of the rampart. With a yell of effort the defenders pushed with all their strength. There were startled shouts as the ladders flew backwards and the heads disappeared.
Serpicus risked a look over the wall. The ladders were lying on the ground. Those who had been on them were either crumpled and unmoving or were broken and helpless on the ground. Two of the ladders had injured further men waiting underneath as they landed. All along the wall the ladders were being pushed away from the palisade to fall backwards on the tightly packed legionaries behind them. Serpicus knew that the tactic had taken the Romans by surprise. They hadn’t been expecting the Treveri to have poles. If they had, then the Roman commander would have used grapnels to hold the ladders firm before his men ascended them.
An arrow thumped into the wood next to his head and Serpicus jerked back. ‘They’ll come back again soon,’ he shouted. ‘Keep your heads down.’
He was expecting hooks to hurtle over the parapet, but the attackers used a simpler tactic. The next wave of ladders were placed further back, and so the top hit the outside wall lower down, just out of sight. This made it harder for the Romans to climb over the top of the wall and jump down into the village, but it meant that the defenders either had to let them come in over the defences and ta
ckle them once they were inside, or else had to lean out over the edge to get at them while they were still on the ladders, exposing themselves to Roman swords and to the archers on the ground. Men from both sides were dying all along the walkway. The shouts of both sides and the clang of metal rang all around. Dozens of dead and wounded Romans lay on the blood-spattered ground below the walls, but the villagers were heavily outnumbered and taking casualties, especially where their forces were spread thin.
Serpicus swung with the end of a broken pole at a helmet that appeared in front of him. The legionary fell soundlessly backwards. Serpicus dropped the pole and gasped for breath. Along the walkway he saw Calryx set upon by two legionaries, one from each side. One he chopped to the ground with a two-handed blow, but the other jumped from the palisade and landed yelling on his back. Both disappeared from view.
A giant legionary came over the parapet as if catapulted by a giant’s hand and struggled for balance as he landed. Serpicus jumped forward and swung at him, but his foot skidded sideways on the blood- and rain-soaked walkway, pitching him against the parapet. The big Roman threw himself sideways, crashing into two Treveri men who were fighting with their backs to him. He backhanded one of them off the walkway with a vicious swing of his shield and swung wide with his sword at the other. The German stepped back against the parapet to avoid the blow. As he raised his sword to strike back he was cut down from behind by another Roman coming over the parapet, a dark man wielding an axe in both hands. A Treveri archer nearby leant over the parapet to get a better shot at the Romans on the ladder below him, and then staggered back with an arrow deep in his shoulder and fell onto one knee. The Roman axeman howled with rage and slashed at him as he jumped down, hitting the archer’s forehead a glancing blow. Serpicus saw blood spurt and the archer cartwheeled slowly sideways off the walkway and lay still. The big legionary turned towards Serpicus and swung a blow overarm at his head. The Roman leant forward as he swung, putting all his weight behind the blow, aiming to smash Serpicus’ defence aside. As it came down the two men fighting behind Serpicus fell backwards past him and landed between Serpicus and his attacker. The big man’s sword hit the German a glancing blow and went sideways, pulling him off balance. The fallen Roman came up on one knee and cut at his opponent as he brought his shield up, knocking the German back as he tried to get to his feet. Serpicus slashed to the side and felt his sword sink into the Roman’s arm. The prone German picked up a small axe and swung with all his strength. The axe bit deep into the wounded Roman’s side and he toppled on to the German. The two of them rolled off the walkway locked in a death embrace.