The Wolf's gold e-5

by Anthony Riches

  He shook his head sadly, recounting the disaster which had overtaken Belletor’s cohort.

  ‘The tribune ordered me to ride back here before the barbarians finished tearing the legionaries to pieces. If he hadn’t then the thirty of us would be dead now, regardless of whether the poor bloody infantry won, lost or drew. So I’m grateful to him for my life. .’

  Felicia tipped her head to one side, her eyes shining with barely contained tears.

  ‘But you wish you’d stayed to fight with them, don’t you?’

  The cavalryman took her hand and held it in his own.

  ‘No true soldier ever wants to run away from a fight, Doctor, no matter all the jokes we make about the best defence against enemy iron being twenty miles of road between them and us. And your husband and his comrades were my friends.’

  Annia shrugged and turned back to the medical supplies.

  ‘A little more faith is called for, Decurion, in both our gods and our men. Neither this woman’s husband nor my own big stupid oaf of a man will have rolled over and died as easily as you seem to imagine.’

  Silus smiled and bowed.

  ‘I hope and pray that you’re right, madam. And now if you’ll excuse me?’

  ‘Second Cohort!’ The waiting centurions braced themselves for the command as Tertius’s voice rang out over the battle’s din. ‘Attack!’

  The rearmost cohort’s line split in the middle to form two wings, both rotating on the pivot points where it joined with the First’s with the two central centuries running as fast as they could on the slippery ice to swing the leading edges of the formation out from behind the embattled line. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, and before the Sarmatae leader had time to realise that he had fallen for the tribe’s own tactic of the feigned retreat, the two wings slammed into his warband’s unprotected flanks in a furious assault. Stabbing with their spears at the horses’ vulnerable sides, half a dozen men swarmed each of the riders exposed on either flank, dragging their riders down and bludgeoning them to death with their hobnailed boots and the brass-bound edges of their shields. As the horses either collapsed from their grievous wounds or were simply pulled from the fight by their reins, the cordon to either side of the Sarmatae closed tighter, and their leader looked about him in growing horror as he realised that his warriors must either escape or die where they stood. Waving his arms frantically, he attempted to turn his mount about to lead his men in a bid to escape, but only succeeded in providing Qadir with the target for which he had been waiting with his customary patience. A feathered arrow shaft sprouted from his side, and the barbarian chieftain stared down at it in terror before subsiding onto the rider alongside him, insensible with the wound’s pain. Julius turned back to the centurion of his reserve century, standing behind him at the head of his men with both hands resting on the well-worn handle of his axe.

  ‘Your time has come, Bear! Take your men around the right flank and close off the bag we have them in!’

  The big man nodded his understanding, growling a command to his men and lumbering away at their head with a purposeful look, winking at Marcus as he passed the rear of the Fifth Century.

  ‘Hold them a while longer, little brother!’

  The first spear looked up and down the length of his cohort, recognising the signs of desperate exhaustion in his men as the battle’s focus switched away from their line and the Sarmatae pressure on them relented.

  ‘First Cohort!’ The centurions looked at him from either side, wearily waiting for his command with the expressionless faces of men ready to carry out whatever order their leader ordered. ‘Straighten the line and hold!’

  Marcus nodded, gesturing Qadir to help him push his surviving men forward alongside the centuries to either side, straightening the cohort’s formation until, while still ragged from the centuries’ losses and exhaustion, it had taken on at least some semblance of a straight line of defence.

  ‘They have little fight left in them, I fear.’

  The Roman nodded, surveying his men with a grim but professional expertise, taking in the way that many of them had slumped onto their shields the instant that the line was straight, while others were leaning against their fellows.

  ‘True. But we’re not done yet.’ He raised his voice in a bark of command to be heard above the battle, smiling inwardly as backs stiffened and heads lifted at the harsh tone in his voice. ‘Soldiers, this fight is not yet over! When the Tenth Century attacks the enemy rear, and with no escape route left to them, these barbarians will attempt to flee in panic. And their horses are facing us! You must make one last effort if we are to avoid this victory turning to disaster. .’ He looked up and down the cohort’s line to find his fellow officers bellowing similar instructions at their equally weary soldiers. ‘One last effort, gentlemen, but then it’s hardly a fair fight, is it? On this side we are unbroken, experienced soldiers with more battle experience than most legions, whereas they are surrounded and in terror, their only motivation to escape from this circle of spears! Very soon now, when their last desperate attack fails, these bloodied warriors before us will be begging for mercy! And I say we should give it to them in the only way their treachery has earned. I say we give them the mercy of a quick death! No prisoners!’

  ‘No prisoners!’

  The soldiers took up the cry, bellowing it at the tops of their voices at the horsemen milling about before them, and the centuries to either side took it up until the entire cohort was bellowing the sentiment in unison.

  ‘You really are a bloodthirsty little beast, beneath all that civilised veneer, aren’t you?’

  Marcus shrugged at Julius, who had walked across to stand alongside him.

  ‘Aren’t we all, when the spears fly and the smell of blood is thick in the air? And besides, you know what’s going to happen when-’

  The battle’s noise sharpened, a fresh note of terror raising the hairs on the soldiers’ necks as men and beasts screamed in fresh horror at the violence being done to them.

  ‘That’ll be the Bear’s men engaged. There’s nothing puts the shits up a horseman like a century of big bastards with axes carving their way in through the back door. And here they come!’

  As if commanded by some secret voice that only they could hear, the horsemen to their front spurred their horses as one and drove them forward at the Tungrians in a desperate, instinctive lunge to escape the ring of sharp iron closing about them. Riders kicked furiously at their mounts, driving them at the Romans despite their rolling-eyed reluctance, until the terrified animals were practically nose to nose with the defenders. The soldiers held their ground, those men with spears as yet unthrown and intact, stabbing them into the oncoming mass of horseflesh to inflict horrendous wounds on the helpless beasts, the front rankers held upright by the men behind them.

  A rider leaned out of his saddle to stab down at the Tungrian line with his long kontos, sending a soldier reeling back from his place with his jaw opened to the bone by the iron blade’s cold kiss, and Qadir pushed a man into his place with a growled instruction to keep his shield up. The wounded man staggered away to the century’s bandage carrier, who simply pulled the scarf from round the soldier’s throat and pressed it to the wound before turning away to deal with a more serious casualty. Along the length of the Tungrian line the Sarmatae were railing at their prison of spears and swords, unable to persuade their horses to drive into the array of shields confronting them, and the soldiers facing them gained in confidence with every moment.

  Saratos drew his knife and looked at Marcus with an eyebrow raised in question, pointing with his other hand to the sagging Sarmatae leader who was hanging grimly onto his horse’s neck with Qadir’s arrow protruding from his side. Nodding his consent, the young centurion watched as the man dropped his shield and crawled into the forest of horses’ legs, crouched low to avoid becoming a target for the enemy’s lances. As his new comrades watched with incredulity, he nestled under the belly of the wounded man’s mount and slid
the knife between its flesh and the rider’s saddle straps, slicing the thick leather with a quick sawing action before pulling at the Sarmatae leader’s leg and dragging him down from the horse’s back with the saddle still between his legs. As the hapless barbarian hit the ground, the knife flickered out to rest on his throat, leaving the fallen rider gasping in terror and the remaining horsemen utterly leaderless.

  Like the last guttering of an exhausted candle, the fight went out of the Sarmatae warband in less than a dozen heartbeats. The men nearest to the First Cohort’s line fell from their horses and threw down their weapons, raising their empty hands to the soldiers still tearing into their ranks and imploring the Tungrians to spare them from the massacre that was already in train behind them, looking around in terror at the axes and spears slashing into the steadily shrinking perimeter of their doomed warband. Now that the rage of battle was seeping out of him, leaving the young centurion more amazed than angry, given his men’s survival against such odds, he found himself unable to carry though the threat of slaughter that he had bellowed out only moments before. He looked round to find Julius, waving a hand at him and then putting his wrists together to mime the binding of a prisoner’s wrists. The first spear looked to his tribune, who nodded solemnly.

  Silus was mounted and ready to ride to the north-east with the tribune’s message in the company of four of his men, when the scouts sent west to determine the Tungrians’ fate came galloping back up the valley, and he dismounted to wait for them to reach the gate while the duty centurion stood his disgruntled bolt-thrower crews down for a second time.

  ‘The Tungrians, Decurion! They won! They’re marching back up the road!’

  He grinned in disbelief, shaking his head at the duty centurion.

  ‘You’d better send a runner to fetch your tribune, hadn’t you?’

  The dour-faced officer nodded, then shouted for his chosen man.

  ‘Send a man to the headquarters and tell the tribune that some of the auxiliaries seem to have escaped from the barbarians. Then get the carts moving, those poor bastards are going to be carrying their wounded on their backs. And warn the hospital to expect casualties.’

  Silus turned to the men he had picked to accompany him on his mission to deliver the dispatch to Porolissum.

  ‘I’ll take that task. You four, ride south with that message. And if you fail to deliver it don’t bother coming back, because we won’t fucking well be here!’

  He mounted up and took a dozen men down the valley, finding the Tungrians labouring up its slope two miles from the fort. Reining his horse in alongside Scaurus he jumped down from the saddle with a swift salute as his superior officer stepped out of the cohorts’ slow, weary column of the march.

  ‘I suggest you stop your men, Tribune, there’s mule carts on the way for your wounded. .’

  The expression on the other man’s face stopped him in mid-sentence.

  ‘We’ll march in unaided, thank you, Decurion.’

  ‘But the wounded, sir?’

  ‘Are either already dead or will last long enough to see the inside of the hospital. And you miss the point, Silus. These men are Tungrians, and they will not leave a man behind for the enemy to despoil, not while they have the strength to carry their bodies.’

  The decurion looked down the length of the column slowly making its way past him, the cohort’s soldiers clearly on their last legs from the effects of the battle and subsequent march. The bigger men were working in pairs to carry either dead bodies which had been stripped of their armour and weapons or those of their comrades too badly hurt to walk, while the walking wounded were each supported on either side by one of their fellow soldiers. He recognised the scarred soldier who was frequently to be seen around Marcus with his arm locked under another man’s shoulders, the wounded man barely managing to stagger up the road’s steep slope, his face grey with the pain and exertion. Scaurus broke off from their conversation to exhort his men to one last effort.

  ‘Keep moving Tungrians! One last mile, and you can march back into Stone Fort with your heads held up!’

  Julius joined them, his expression every bit as exhausted as those of his men, and Silus took his arm in a warm greeting. The first spear nodded at him with a look of calculation.

  ‘Just the man I wanted to see.’

  Silus frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘Really? I’d have thought you’d never want to see another horseman for as long as you lived?’

  Julius shook his head with a weary smile.

  ‘No, Silus, you’re exactly what we need to motivate these men to cover the last distance to the fortress with their heads held up. Get back on your horse and lead your men to the head of the column and you’ll see what I mean.’

  Scaurus thought for a moment before nodding sagely.

  ‘Indeed. I can’t think of any better encouragement for these men.’ He patted Silus on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, Decurion, lead us home.’

  Shaking his head in puzzlement the cavalryman remounted his horse, leading his men back up the column’s length at an easy trot. The soldiers he was passing barely acknowledged his presence, and those that did so shot him looks of disdain before returning their gazes to the backs of the men marching before them. From behind him he heard Julius’s voice raised to bellow above the rapping of hobnails on the road’s cobbles, and with a sudden dawning of realisation he put a hand to his face in disgust just as the words Julius was shouting became clear.

  ‘The cavalry don’t wash their cocks when something dangling itches. .’

  The reply was instantaneous, hundreds of voices raised in song which quickly swelled to encompass both cohorts as they yelled out the old favourite at the tops of their voices.

  ‘. . the cheesy smell,

  of a festering bell,

  delights those sons of bitches!’

  Julius shouted a parting shot at the cavalryman’s back, his voice gleeful despite the exhaustion washing over him.

  ‘Well done, Silus, you’re just the man we needed! Now lads: The cavalry don’t pay for whores when drinking ’cause of course. .’

  The soldiers were ready this time, and most of them were singing the verse well before he’d reached the end of the first line.

  ‘. . why pay for gash,

  when you can smash,

  in the back doors of a horse?!’

  ‘Well they seem to be in very good spirits for men who were fighting off cavalry only an hour or so ago!’

  Leontius’s first spear shook his head with an expression of doubt.

  ‘Take a closer look, Tribune.’

  ‘The two men stood for a moment looking down from their vantage point above the fort’s gate at the approaching Tungrian cohorts before the prefect spoke again.

  ‘I see what you mean. They may be singing, but they look all in.’

  His senior centurion nodded, turning away.

  ‘Indeed they do, sir. I’d say that’s a body of men that have seen just about enough fighting for one day. If you’ll excuse me?’

  Leontius waved him away, and the first spear hurried down the wall’s wooden steps to ground level, ducking through the small wicket gate and walking briskly down the road to greet Scaurus and Julius at the head of the First Cohort. Saluting the tribune, he thrust out a hand to Julius with a look of awed respect.

  ‘Welcome back gentlemen! Your Decurion rode back ahead of you and briefed us as to your men’s condition, so I’ve taken the liberty of sending men to light watch fires in your lines. There’ll be a meal of stewed meat ready for you in a while, so all you have to do is get your soldiers into barracks and get them rested and ready for tomorrow morning’s fun. We’ll take the guard duty overnight, if that works for you?’

  Julius nodded gratefully, and called his chosen man over.

  ‘Send a runner down the column, all centuries are to parade into camp, clean and sharpen weapons and prepare for action in the morning. Food will be provided, and guard duty will be conducted by
the Britons, so there are no excuses for all men not getting a good night’s sleep. Wounded men and all the bandage carriers are to report to the hospital.’

  Scaurus stepped closer to the first spear.

  ‘And what, exactly, do we believe tomorrow morning’s fun will entail, First Spear?’

  The First Britannica’s senior centurion pursed his lips, shaking his head slightly.

  ‘We’re really not sure, Tribune. Tribune Leontius has called a command conference to be held after the evening meal’s been taken, and I expect he’ll share everything we know with you then. .’ He paused, eyeing the Tungrian column appraisingly. ‘I was about to say what a good state your men seem to be in, sir, given you’ve just fought off a cavalry attack, but you took your fair share of casualties from the look of it?’

  The tribune followed his gaze to the column, nodded at the sight of a stream of wounded men, some walking and nursing sword and spear wounds of varying severity to their arms and faces, while others were being supported between their comrades, their legs roughly bandaged with strips of wool obviously cut from barbarian clothing.

  ‘Sixty-three dead in action and another seven who had to be given the mercy stroke after the battle. Of the hundred or so wounded I expect the usual ratios to apply. Our medical staff will be having a busy time of it this evening.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. And once your medical staff have done what they can for the poor bastards I’ll have them on a cart and away to the east with an escort of horsemen. There’s no knowing exactly what will come up that valley tomorrow, but I’ll not have your women left at risk of what will happen to them if the barbarians manage to batter their way through our defences.’

  Scaurus raised a sceptical eyebrow.