Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  The Hamians’ first volley of arrows arced down on to the unsuspecting barbarians out of the dark western sky. Dozens of men fell, some dead before they hit the ground but most of them screaming out their sudden agony as the barbed iron slammed deep into their heads, necks and chests. Even as the first victims reeled under the shock of impact another volley punched down into their ranks, taking a fresh toll of their strength as the archers’ still uncomprehending victims fell with blood frothing from their horrific wounds. Marcus grinned wolfishly, pointing at the enemy warriors with his cavalry sword.

  ‘Keep them shooting! Pour it on!’

  Qadir nodded without taking his eyes off the target as he nocked another arrow and sent it into the warband’s screaming mass, shouting to his men to rain arrows on to the still-defenceless barbarians. Marcus’s eyes sought and found the 8th’s trumpeter.

  ‘Sound the advance. Blow, man, blow!’

  As the sweet notes of the call to advance sounded above the warband’s howls, he drew his short gladius and held it alongside the longer cavalry weapon, testing the weight and balance of the blades in readiness for what he knew must come soon enough. Already the warband’s rear ranks were struggling to regain some semblance of order, those men with shields sheltering behind them as best they could while fighting their way through the human wreckage of the 8th’s stricken victims. A lone warrior broke away from the pack and sprinted towards the archers with his shield held close to his body, followed over the next few seconds by several more, the men’s swords glinting in the dawn’s pale light as they charged across the gap between the Hamians and their targets in a growing tide of fury. Marcus turned back to find Qadir still pulling arrows from his quiver and loosing them into the warband with impressive speed.

  ‘Keep shooting! I’ll deal with anyone that gets through!’

  The chosen man nodded grimly, lowering his bow a fraction to shoot an arrow into the legs of the closest barbarian before shouting a command over his shoulder.

  ‘Front rank, target the runners. Rear rank, keep shooting!’

  As Marcus watched, his swords raised in their familiar stance with the blade points level, the front rank took aim at their attackers and loosed a volley of arrows that dropped half of them with head and leg injuries. A warrior who had been brave enough to attack without the protection of a shield reeled under the impact of half a dozen arrows and toppled to the ground without ever breaking stride, his legs kicking even as he sprawled full length in blood-slickened grass. Even with half the century now focused on their defence, they were still shooting hundreds of arrows into the defenceless warband every minute, giving the cohorts priceless moments of opportunity to smash through their defence of the hill fort’s walls.

  ‘You!’

  The trumpeter jerked his eyes from the charging barbarians and on to his centurion with a guilty start.

  ‘Keep sounding the advance. If they break through to the archers you will drop that horn, pull your sword and defend them to the death.’

  The other man nodded jerkily, putting the trumpet back to his lips and drawing breath. Marcus turned back to their attackers, judging that the survivors had closed to within thirty paces. He shouted over his shoulder to Qadir over the trumpeter’s renewed efforts, readying himself for the first clash.

  ‘I’m going down on to the dance floor to try my luck. Try not to shoot me!’

  ‘What?’

  The chosen man paused in mid-shot as his centurion stepped down the earth wall and out into the space between the front rank and the charging barbarians, fewer with each volley that ripped at their tattered ranks but gathering strength with every second as more men fought their way out of the warband’s milling chaos to run towards the 8th’s position on the earth wall. He drew the arrow back to the limit of the weapon’s capacity, forcing his strength into its stressed wood-and-bone frame, waited a second to allow his target to run on to the point of aim, then loosed the missile into the warrior’s face at less then twenty paces, skimming the arrow’s point across the top of the barbarian’s shield and squarely through one eye socket. The tribesman spun to the ground with the arrow’s immense impact, only half of the shaft protruding from his otherwise undamaged face.

  Marcus forced his fascinated attention from Qadir’s victim to the next-closest attacker, watching as two, then three arrows slammed into the man’s shield, heavy iron heads punching through the layered wood with ease at such close range. The warrior’s arm was probably pinned to his board by at least one of the arrows, his blood flowing down the inner bowl, but from the wide-eyed rage contorting the man’s features it wasn’t going to hamper the damage he would do if he fought his way through to the Hamians. Another arrow slammed through the attacker’s calf but he staggered on, charging towards the centurion with his long sword sweeping down in a vicious blow at the unshielded officer.

  Marcus stepped to one side with an easy grace, caught the barbarian’s blade with his own long-bladed spatha and steered it away to his right, pushing his attacker’s right arm across his body to open up his unshielded right side before stepping in fast, hooking his short-bladed gladius round to punch hard into the warrior’s ribs, then straightening to shrug the grievously wounded man off his blade. Another man charged in to attack him from the left, too close for Marcus to reorient himself in time but giving him enough time to see the pair of arrows protruding from the warrior’s left shoulder. The limb would be pinned in place by the arrows’ unyielding intrusion, useless for anything better than holding the man’s shield in place. Diving to the ground, he scythed the spatha in under the shield’s immobile defence, severed the warrior’s calf muscle and rolled back on to his feet, leaving the staggering cripple to the Hamians’ bows.

  A flight of arrows whipped past Marcus and into the oncoming barbarians, close enough that he heard the breathy whistle of the closest as it flicked past his ear. Several more tribesmen went down with wounds to their heads and legs, but enough had survived to narrow his eyes in calculation as to which would be his next combat. The two leading runners made his mind up for him, drawn to his cross-crested helmet’s dull shine in the early morning sun, one of the pair a split second in front of his companion with his eyes fixed wide in the fierce joy of combat. Marcus’s thrown gladius spun one precisely judged revolution through the dawn’s chill air before embedding itself in his throat and dropping him choking into the dew-soaked grass. Parrying the other man’s sword blow with the blade of his spatha, the centurion dropped to one knee to grasp his fallen comrade’s long sword by its carved bone hilt, lifting it to deflect the warrior’s next attack before jabbing the spatha’s blade up into his attacker’s jaw. After an instant of resistance the blade penetrated the roof of the barbarian’s mouth and sank deep into his brain. He staggered backwards out of the combat, his eyes rolling up as he sagged lifelessly to the ground.

  Recovering his footing, Marcus saw a trio of warriors closing on him fast, and beyond them another half-dozen advancing with their shields raised, and realised with a sickening lurch that he had allowed the heady exhilaration of combat to put him in extreme danger. A fresh wave of energy washed through the young officer as he steadied himself to meet the threat, his vision seeming to narrow and darken slightly as his body fed every usable drop of blood to his muscles. Nostrils flaring to suck in air, he rose on to the balls of his feet as if preparing to dance as the first three men charged in to attack.

  The leading warrior made a straightforward lunge with his long sword, his eyes widening comically as Marcus smashed the blade aside with his left-hand sword, then thrust the other into his thigh, shifting his weight on to the weapon to force it through the heavy muscles and out of the man’s leg in a shower of blood from the severed artery.

  As the wounded man screamed in sudden pain, staggering where he stood with one leg unable to support his weight, Marcus hacked the spatha into the face of the warrior to his right so fast that it was all the man could do to parry the blow upwards, leaving himself
open to a brutally powerful half-fist that ruptured his throat and dropped him choking to the ground. Marcus hacked at his first victim’s head with his spatha, gripping the sword buried in his leg and kicking the grievously injured warrior backwards to impede the last of the three from bringing his weapon to bear, tearing it free as the barbarian fell away from him. He ducked reflexively as the last man’s sword hacked through the air where his head had been, but before he could move to either attack or defend an arrow flicked over his shoulder and buried itself deep in the barbarian’s ribs, the shock dumping the man on to his backside with eyes slitted against the pain.

  Stepping swiftly back from the fallen warriors, wary of a last desperate knife-thrust from one of the wounded, he eyed the next wave of attackers with cold calculation. Where there had been half a dozen only four remained, and two of them were limping from arrow wounds, but they were still advancing towards him with their shields raised to deflect the continual flicker of Hamian arrows, others following close behind.

  ‘You might be better off behind this.’

  A shield slid into place across his body, a strong arm holding the heavy wooden board rock steady. Marcus didn’t need to look around to know who the newcomer was.

  ‘No, brother, you’ll need it more than me.’

  Dubnus chuckled darkly in his ear.

  ‘Me? I’ve got another somewhere. Ah, here it is.’

  Marcus looked round to see a soldier move into position alongside the 5th’s centurion, putting his shield across Dubnus’s body in turn.

  ‘Well met, Scarface, although you might be better using that board for your own defence.’

  The veteran soldier shook his head solemnly.

  ‘Can’t do that, sir. We look after our officers in the Fifth Century, as well you know, both past and present. And besides…’

  Marcus grinned wearily, the fierce heat of combat seeping out of his body.

  ‘I know, you’ve got a friend or two on the way.’

  More of the 5th’s men were pouring over the earth wall, ducking through the still-firing archers to take their place in the shield wall. The four-man group of barbarians stopped advancing a dozen feet from the century’s quickly forming line of shields as the numbers facing them tripled in less than ten seconds, then started to back away as the full 5th Century mustered in front of the Hamians, rapping their shields with their spears and shouting insults at the unnerved barbarians. Marcus spoke without taking his eyes off the scene to their front.

  ‘This could still get ugly if that lot decide to come at us in strength.’

  He turned back to find Qadir on the wall above him.

  ‘Qadir! Shoot everything you’ve got left into the warband!’

  The 8th’s rate of fire increased, the tired archers giving the last of their trembling arm strength to rain their remaining arrows on to the wavering warband. With a triumphant bray of trumpets the hill fort’s southern rampart was suddenly crested by familiar figures, the shields and helmets unmistakably Roman as the auxiliary cohorts fought their way into the demoralised defence.

  ‘Qadir! Cease firing on the warband. Self-defence only!’

  Even as the bows fell quiet, their little part of the battlefield suddenly silent without the incessant twanging of bowstrings, the depleted warband broke under a savage frontal assault, hundreds of men streaming away from the ill-matched fight across ground carpeted with the bodies of the dead and wounded. For a moment it appeared as if the remnant of the warband would escape, at least as far as the cavalrymen patrolling beyond the fort’s earth walls, but as the Tungrians watched, the hill fort’s rim was suddenly lined with the silhouettes of hundreds of soldiers, waiting grimly for the tribesmen to attempt a breakout, their spears held ready to throw.

  ‘Sixth Legion.’

  Dubnus nodded grim assent to Marcus’s statement.

  ‘And about bloody time. Seems we’re taking prisoners after all.’

  The routed tribesmen, helpless in the face of such overwhelming force, threw down their weapons and stood helpless under the legionaries’ spears.

  Legatus Equitius came forward with the remainder of the legion later that morning, keen to understand just why the warband had been camped in so precarious a position. He found the detachment in high spirits, and his senior tribune delighted with the result. Antonius led him across the ground over which the cohorts had trampled earlier that day, up the hill fort’s slope and down into its bowl. As they crested the slope the scale of the slaughter became apparent. Legionaries were toiling to stack the barbarian dead on one side of the fort, while the wounded were squatting and lying in even greater numbers on the other. Equitius stopped to survey the scene.

  ‘How many of them did you kill?’

  ‘Four hundred and seventy-odd dead, nearly twice as many wounded.’

  ‘And our losses?’

  The tribune’s smile told him most of the story before he even opened his mouth to reply.

  ‘Thirty-four dead, sixty-two wounded and a dozen of them likely to be dead before nightfall.’

  Equitius stopped walking and turned to face the tribune, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘You killed and wounded twelve hundred barbarians for the loss of less than fifty men? I would have expected a nought on the end of our side of that tally. How did you manage it?’

  Antonius smiled modestly.

  I deployed the auxiliaries in front of our own men and assaulted the barbarians in the usual manner, with one small variation. The Tungrian cohort has a double-strength century of archers, and I…’

  Understanding dawned on Equitius.

  ‘Ah… I see. The Tungrian archers. Let’s have a look at the wounded, shall we?’

  They crossed the fort’s bowl and Equitius’s bodyguard fanned out with their swords drawn and shields ready, their centurion walking forward with his vine stick under one arm in an obvious show of bravado. The wounded had, for the most part, one feature in common. The legatus favoured his deputy with a knowing smile.

  ‘Horrible things, iron-headed arrows, when you’re not wearing armour and a decent helmet, but lethal if you’re caught in the open without a nice thick shield. A sound idea, Antonius, very fine work. Clearly you’ve been hiding your talents from me these last few months … eh?’

  Antonius thought quickly.

  ‘I can’t take all the credit, Legatus. It was Prefect Scaurus that first mentioned the existence of his archers to me…’

  Equitius smiled easily.

  ‘Quite right, Tribune, credit where it’s due.’

  ‘I stationed men all around the fort once the fight was properly started, took almost three hundred prisoners.’

  ‘You took prisoners?’

  The tribune gave his superior a careful glance.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know what they were doing here, so I took the liberty…’

  Equitius nodded his agreement.

  ‘Where are they?

  ‘I’ve got a couple of centuries guarding them back at the camp, sir. I thought it best to separate them from their wounded, given that we’re treating them in the usual manner.’

  Equitius nodded again.

  ‘Battlefield rules?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The senior centurions are making the assessments. Given that we’ve got such a small number of wounded the legion medics are getting plenty of arrow removal practice on the easier cases, but anyone that won’t be able to walk away from here is being taken over the fort’s wall and put to the sword.’

  Equitius shrugged, watching another seriously wounded man being carried up the earth wall by a pair of legionaries.

  ‘They’re all going to die, whether now or later. And now I’d best get over to your camp.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’ll be wanting to question their leader?’

  ‘You got their chieftain alive? Well, well, Tribune. In the words of a legatus I served under on the German border, it’s as good to be lucky as it is to be good. And you, young man, having called down t
he iron rain on these poor fools and still pulled their leader unharmed from the wreckage, you can truly consider yourself to be a lucky man. Yes, I very much want to meet the murdering bastard, but before I do I’ve a more important appointment to keep.’

  Equitius strode into Scaurus’s tent fifteen minutes later to find prefect and first spear waiting for him.

  ‘Gentlemen… you knew I was coming?’

  The prefect smiled tightly, tapping his right ear.

  ‘It’s not hard to guess when a senior officer is likely to appear through the tent flap when one can hear a succession of centurions shouting at their men to stand to attention, all the time getting steadily closer. It was either going to be you, Legatus, or the governor. And Ulpius Marcellus isn’t one for venturing out into the camp.’

  The legatus smiled wryly.

  ‘Very clever. Nearly as clever as that trick you pulled on those poor barbarians you had young Tribulus Corvus and his Syrians use for target practice this morning. My broad stripe had a decent go at taking credit for the idea, cheeky young sod, but it was pretty evident he wouldn’t even have known you had any archers on the payroll, much less that they’re led by a man who can’t be allowed out into the countryside without him finding some novel way of bringing death to the blue-noses…’

  He caught the look in Scaurus’s eye.

  ‘You look less than happy, Prefect. Am I to presume…?’

  ‘That I’m aware of your little secret with regard to my officer, Legatus? That I have already sought to minimise his exposure to those people likely to be looking for him? Or, perhaps, that I’m just a little concerned that this latest success, necessary though it was for the survival of my command, will bring the interest of the wrong people down on us all like flies on fresh shit. That would be “yes” to all three. Sir.’

  Equitius turned away, hiding a momentary smile.

  ‘So you’ve already taken young Corvus under your wing, eh, Prefect? And why would that be, when everyone from the governor down tells me that you’re as straight as the road from Dark Pool to the banks of the River Abus? You’re supposed to be imperial through and through, Prefect, so why dirty your hands with our fugitive’s sordid scrabblings to avoid justice, eh?’