From the cover of the wood’s other arm another tide of men was washing down the other slope, another legion in full cry. On the crest above them the cavalry’s armour still glittered in the morning sun, but as Marcus’s eye found them they started to pour down off the hill, the Petriana on the move at last, seeking targets for their lances. The warband, in severe danger of being encircled by the legions, shivered under the shock of their sudden appearance on its flanks, then broke into hundreds of family groups, falling over each other in their haste to escape the battlefield. Marcus bent over, putting his hands on his knees to provide support for suddenly weak limbs, and was abruptly, violently, sick.
*
Postumius Avitus Macrinus, legatus of the Imperial 20th Legion, stepped on to the blood-soaked slope with a grim face, the two centuries advancing up the hill ahead of him systematically butchering any of the wounded that had survived. A stroke of luck had brought a Petriana messenger to him as his own legion and the 2nd were marching less than five miles distant. His leading cohorts had been driven forward towards the distant smoke of the battle at a merciless run by their centurions, their exhaustion turning to cold purpose as they crested the final slope and saw thousands of the enemy below. The barbarian warband had scattered like chaff under their combined attack, put to flight in their tribal and family groups and pursued by a dozen cohorts with murder in their hearts and the guidance of questing cavalrymen, eager for heads.
He’d met with Licinius briefly when the Petriana’s prefect had found the oncoming legions, and had guided them in to attack from either side of the wood before taking the 6th’s remaining cohorts down through the trees to reinforce the Tungrians. He’d been unsurprised to have his request for the prefect to take over the remnants of the 6th legion refused without hesitation.
‘Absolutely not, Legatus, I was brought up on horseback and this style of fighting doesn’t suit me. Besides, you need the Petriana out in front of your legions, and I’m the best man to keep a foot firmly up their idle British arses. Go and talk to the man that made this possible.’
He’d pointed up the hill behind them, at a cohort-sized group of warriors arrayed behind an impressive rampart of dead barbarians, and told the legate in swift, economical sentences the story of Titus Tigidius Perennis’s betrayal of the 6th and the Tungrians’ stand on the hillside. Both Perennis’s treachery and his parentage had come as a shock to the veteran officer.
‘Jupiter! Sextus Tigidius Perennis’s son did this? The son of the praetorian prefect lured an imperial legion into a barbarian ambush? Every time I think I’ve seen it all…’
Nodding his understanding, and clapping the tired prefect on the shoulder, he’d called a senior centurion to his side, pointing up the hill.
‘I’m going up there. You might want to send a few men with me in case any of those dead barbarians is faking.’
Behind him, mute testimony to the effectiveness of Perennis’s betrayal, thousands of Roman bodies lay in untidy bloodstained heaps around a series of unseen diminishing circles, the successive defence perimeters of the hopelessly outnumbered and disarrayed 6th Legion cohorts taken in Calgus’s trap. He had already seen Sollemnis’s body for himself, needing to know that the man was really dead and not carried away as a hostage. The legatus’s sword had been hidden under another man’s body, concealment sufficient to foil the brief search of the fallen for valuables that had been all the ongoing battle had allowed the barbarians. The weapon now rested in its scabbard once more, carried by one of his staff. He would have the difficult honour of passing it on to the man’s oldest son.
He should have been at home himself, his age advancing towards a mature fifty more quickly than he cared to consider after a lifetime fighting Rome’s enemies. The throne, however, or those behind it, trusted him too well to leave him in retirement. He’d been called from his fireside to command the 20th barely three months before, with instructions to look for signs that senior officers in the province were not to be trusted.
‘I won’t be the imperial informer, Prefect Perennis,’ he’d told the praetorian guard’s commander flatly, pointing a thick finger at the emperor’s right-hand man, with whom he’d served twenty years before in Syria. He’d been respectfully summoned to dine with the imperial favourite, a private dinner served by slaves who appeared deaf, so little was their interest in the proceedings.
‘And no one expects you to, Senator, least of all me. I don’t care if some of the younger and impressionable idiots believe all they hear from Rome, and take it into their stupid heads that Commodus isn’t fit for their respect. Every young emperor has to earn the regard of the army, and he will, given time. What I want from you is hard intelligence on the British situation, who’s effective and who isn’t. The rumours reaching us here are that the governor is playing a foolish game, not sending all of the gold intended to keep the northern tribal leaders happy to the right places, and we’d rather know the truth with enough time to act on it. Gods above us, the last thing we need is another bloody revolt on the edge of the world. On top of that, you’ll provide us with a tested senior officer in place if anything does happen.’
He’d nodded, able to accept the task he was bidden to take on. Perennis had smiled quietly and sipped his wine, then put the cup down.
‘One thing, though, you could keep an eye open for the late Senator Valerius Aquila’s boy. There are rumours that he might have buried himself out of sight in the Wall army.’
He’d given the other man a darker look, as unresolved as to his views on young Aquila then as he was now. He’d known the senator in happier days, and had viewed his death with a sickened resignation as one of the small dramas that play out across every change of power. If the lad was still at large, and not dead or enslaved, he was mindful not to take too close an interest. Ignoring the misdemeanours of the men that surrounded the young emperor was one thing, abetting them was quite another.
Before him, in increasing numbers as he climbed the incline, slipping more than once on the treacherous footing, were arrayed barbarian dead, the leavings of the auxiliary cohort’s defiant stand at the valley’s head. At first they lay alone, wounded men killed as they had crawled away from the battle, then in twos and threes. The ground, previously scattered with the blood of the wounded, became slick with blood and faeces, the earth pounded into a greasy bog under thousands of feet, and the dead suddenly outnumbered the living. An eye-watering stench pervaded the air.
Unable to avoid committing the indignity of stepping upon the fallen, the legatus climbed a wall of corpses three feet high, men hacked and torn by grievous wounds, dropped in their hundreds to form a rampart for the defenders to shelter behind. A soldier to his right spotted some minute movement among the mangled warriors, and stepped in to strike with his gladius. The legatus returned his gaze to the front, seeing auxiliary troops among the dead for the first time, their bodies neatly laid in rows by their fellow troops and covered with their capes. He winced at the number of their dead, looking to the remaining troops to gauge their fitness for further action.
The cohort was standing to attention, neatly paraded across the hillside by century, a good sign in itself, as was the fact that they had already washed most of the inevitable blood spray of battle from their faces, if not their black-caked armour. The cohort’s prefect stepped forward to meet him, the man’s grasp shaking slightly. Shock or fatigue? He kept his demeanour brisk, hoping to help the man a little with his battle weariness.
‘Prefect Equitius? I’m Legatus Postumius Avitus Macrinus, Twentieth Imperial Legion and, with the death of our esteemed colleague Legatus Gaius Calidius Sollemnis, now general in command of this whole sorry mess.’
He paused, looking out across the sea of corpses.
‘You, Prefect, seem to have gained us a victory. The Petriana’s commander tells me that you held this place against many times your own number in order to keep Calgus busy until reinforcement could arrive. You paid a heavy price for that success, I se
e…’
The other man nodded, his eyes far away.
‘You could consider this ground bought and paid for, Legatus.’
A burly man passed them without recognition, his hollow eyes fixed on the body cradled in his arms.
‘Another casualty. As you say, bought and paid for.’
The prefect watched Morban deposit the corpse alongside the cohort’s other dead with gentle care.
‘His son, I fear.’
‘Ah… a difficult moment for any man.’
The senior officer waited a moment, watching the other for signs of mental defeat, but saw none.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m new enough to this country not to know your unit by anything other than name. Forgive the question as simple ignorance of your men’s resilience, but can they fight on?’
The prefect nodded slowly.
‘We have an overall casualty figure of one hundred and fifty-eight dead and another one hundred and three seriously wounded, of whom at least half will die, plus a couple of hundred with minor wounds, cuts and bruises, who can be treated in the field. I am three officers short, one dead and two wounded, plus a First Spear with an arrow wound that he’s determined to ignore, and I’ve lost half a dozen or so watch officers. So it isn’t pretty, but yes, we can fight, given time to bury our dead and get some food into the troops.’
‘Good. And yourself?’
The other man raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m in better condition than most of my men. They did the fighting here, not me.’
‘And yet your quick thinking, coupled with their prowess, made amends for what would otherwise have been a total disaster. With Calidius Sollemnis dead I’m the only general officer left in this command, which gives me the undisputed right to make battlefield promotions I feel are justified. I’m also a recent appointment from the imperial court. Even the governor wouldn’t consider challenging my authority on a question of promotion. You’re the man I need, Prefect, to take what’s left of the Sixth legion and rebuild it.’
‘Legatus, with respect…’
The senior officer silenced him with a raised hand.
‘No, Prefect, the respect comes from this side of our short relationship. Your auxiliaries fought like praetorians here. You know how to manage soldiers, and you come with a ready-made reputation. With Perennis dead, my only other option would be to promote a young man from my own staff, and there’s none of them your equal. The Petriana’s prefect told me not to bother asking him, and since they’re our most potent weapon I’m happy to leave him in post. I can’t guarantee you the position in the longer term, but you’ll lead the Sixth for the rest of the summer, and you’ll have the title and status that go with the responsibility. You’ll be able to retire to a nice civil job even if you’re not confirmed in position, and in the meanwhile your family will be quartered in the Yew Grove headquarters. So, don’t tell me you won’t accept my offer, because I’m not minded to let you refuse.’
The prefect closed his eyes for a moment, wearily considering the options.
‘Who succeeds me here?’
‘I presume your First Spear’s competent?’
He nodded.
‘Then there’s no urgent need to find a man of the equestrian class to replace you. Let that wait for calmer days. For the time being your men need a familiar face to look up to, not a new one they didn’t see on this bloody hillside today.’
‘Very well, Legatus, I will accept your generous offer.’
‘Good. Take a few minutes to brief your people and then take command of the Sixth at once. You’ll find them regrouping at the far end of valley if my order to halt their pursuit reached them. I’ll let you have the Frisians and the Raetians as temporary reinforcement to bring your legion up over half-strength. Oh, and have the two Tungrian cohorts pull back to the Wall. I want some rear-area security on the road between here and Yew Grove, besides which it will give them a breather. We’ll need them back in the campaign soon enough.’
‘Sir.’
The new legatus turned to go, then turned back.
‘I presume that you’ve found Legatus Sollemnis’s body?’
‘Yes, he died on his feet, it seems. He’d been beheaded, though. I hear these wretched people sometimes preserve the head of an enemy in the oil of the cedar. Perhaps when you recover his lost eagle you’ll be able to bring him some peace too.’
‘Did you find his sword?’
‘Indeed, my First Spear has it. I’ll return it to his family when I go back to Rome at the end of the year.’
‘I know Sollemnis’s son better than most people. It would be my honour to return the weapon to him…’
The legate called his senior centurion over, took an oilskin-wrapped package from him and presented it with obvious relief.
‘I’m happy to have the responsibility off my shoulders. I’ve never once enjoyed seeing the faces of the relatives when I pitch up with their loved ones’ personal effects… Anyway, Legatus, away and get your new command pulled into shape. I’ll see you at tonight’s commanders’ conference.’
He turned away and picked his way gingerly down the hillside, watched by the remaining Tungrians. Frontinius hobbled over to the prefect, a question on his face.
‘I’m a legatus, Sextus, new commander of the Sixth, or what’s left of them…’
Frontinius congratulated him with genuine warmth, delighted for his friend.
‘You will always be able to count on our support, Legatus. Might I enquire as to your replacement?’
‘For the time being you’re in command here. In the longer term I expect there’ll be a queue of suitable candidates…’
Frontinius nodded.
‘Then I’ll make the most of my brief moment in the sun. Our orders?’
‘Get your dead underground with dignity and then move to join the legions. They’ll be camping back on the hill we used last night, I believe. I suggest that you use the Sixth Legion’s supplies since they’re several thousand men down on their establishment. Tomorrow morning you’ll be marching for the Rock as fast as you can alongside the Second Cohort, and will secure what’s left of the fort…’
Equitius’s face creased into a frown.
‘… and no, it isn’t a quiet option for you, or any sign that I consider your command as unfit for battle. There are probably several thousand barbarians still milling about to our rear in a variety of groupings, and while I expect them to take to the hills once news of this action gets out, some of them still might be tempted to try a run south instead. In truth we’ve little enough between here and Yew Grove that we can trust to get in their way. Securing the crossroads south of the Wall is my first priority, after enjoying the sight of Calgus’s head on a pole and seeing the Sixth’s eagle back in the hands of a bad-tempered standard-bearer. I’ll ask for a century of cavalry from the Petriana to scout ahead of you, and to maintain contact with the main body of the army…’
The new prefect nodded his understanding.
‘… and now I must leave. Before I go, I need one favour from you.’
Frontinius nodded.
‘Legatus?’
‘I need a bodyguard, just a few tent parties. These men don’t know me, and I don’t know them. I’d feel safer with a few close friends between me and the blue-faces.’
‘Got anybody in mind?’
Equitius looked out over the battlefield, still amazed at the slaughter committed across the valley’s green slopes.
‘I thought I might ask you for the Ninth Century, or what’s left of them. Young Corvus ought to be safe enough with Perennis out of the way… and at some point I need to give him this.’
Frontinius peered inside the oilskin package as Equitius opened it to display the weapon inside, taking in the sword’s fine workmanship.
‘Very pretty. Sollemnis?’
‘Yes. Tradition says it goes to his oldest son…’
‘And now might not be quite the right time for that story to be told.’<
br />
‘Exactly.’
Frontinius nodded.
‘Very well, Legatus, the Ninth it is. Just remember we want them back.’ For the 9th the next month passed as quickly as the previous week. Sixth Legion, reinforced by the addition of the two auxiliary cohorts, giving it an effective strength of six cohorts, marched into the north, while the 20th and the 2nd legions pulled back to hold the Wall and start the task of rebuilding its shattered forts. The legions’ task, carried out day after unremitting day, was to sweep the open countryside for tribal bands on the run after what had quickly became known to both army and the unwilling populace through which they moved as the Battle of the Lost Eagle. After the first week, with the weather turning sour and wind-driven drizzle working its way into armour and equipment, bringing the scourge of rust without constant care, the experience soon began to pall.
Waking before dawn, often in driving rain as a succession of cloud banks swept across the country, the legion was routinely on its feet until after dark, an eighteen-hour day at that time of the year and longer for men standing guard in the night. Moving into the increasingly mountainous country in search of the fleeing barbarians exposed them to likely ambush and inevitable pinprick attacks, knives in the dark and snatched bow shots from hidden archers who frequently escaped their clutches.
Intelligence gathered by their native scouts told Equitius that the captured eagle, and with it Sollemnis’s head, went before them, tantalisingly close to recapture, and for the sake of his dead friend he pushed its pursuit for longer than might have been judged prudent. Each village and farm they encountered greeted their passing with forced indifference, as if neither side knew that refugees from the battle were hidden close by. Even the petty revenges of searching the rough dwellings, stealing any valuables their inhabitants were stupid enough not to have hidden, and the confiscation and slaughter of the farm animals for food, did little to lift the spirits of men who knew their enemy was laughing at their failure to retake the legion’s precious standard.
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