Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  He’d slapped Marcus on the shoulder, wished him good luck and marched off at the head of the cohort. Prefect Scaurus had done much the same a few minutes later, having the good grace to look a little guilty at leaving the Hamians to fend for themselves.

  ‘It will rain soon.’

  Qadir stared skywards as they marched, watching the heavy grey clouds hanging over them, a slight green tinge hinting at the downpour lurking within their dark, looming bulk. Marcus looked upwards briefly, then shot a glance back over his shoulder, past the rapidly closing 2nd Cohort at the hill behind them.

  ‘Let’s hope so. A decent downpour might give us the chance to get back to the ford before the Venicones catch us out here and…’

  With a brilliant flash a lightning bolt crackled between cloud and ground a mile or so distant, a crashing boom loud enough to wake the dead rolling over the marching Hamians a few seconds later. Marcus tapped Qadir on the arm, shouting over the thunder’s reverberation.

  ‘Keep them moving, in fact push them up to a hundred and twenty paces a minute. If they get to brooding about what’s behind them they’ll be more likely to get twitchy, so let’s give them something else to think about.’

  The 2nd Cohort thundered past at the double march, their glowering prefect sneering across at the single labouring century from his horse. Behind them, appearing over the hill in their wake, came half a dozen horsemen. Marcus shouted to Qadir, pointing back at the barbarian riders.

  ‘Have the men ready to shoot, but keep their bows hidden until the moment comes. I want them nice and close before we show our hand, so wait for my signal.’

  The chosen man dropped back down the column and spoke quietly with the archers as he went, his hands emphasising his orders. The horsemen closed steadily on the century’s rear, stringing arrows to their own bows in anticipation of ranging alongside the century and shooting into their helpless mass, further slowing their retreat.

  ‘Qadir, chisel tips! Get ready!’

  The chosen man nodded, unslinging his own bow under the cover of his men’s rank’s and reaching back to pull one of a few flat-headed arrows from the quiver hung over his shoulder, locating the arrow by a small protrusion on its base. The horsemen rode up alongside the century, their loose formation opening up as they prepared to start shooting, no more than thirty paces from the Hamians.

  ‘Qadir, now!’

  At his chosen man’s shouted command the archers stopped marching, swivelled to face the horsemen and lifted their bows to shoot, the riders’ proximity making their marks laughably easy. Their broad-headed arrows flicked across the gap, punching into the horses’ sides with savage power, and the animals screamed as the chisel-tipped arrows did what they were specifically designed to do. The flat-headed arrows’ horrific power punched chunks of ribcage snapped free by their impact deep into the animals’ bodies, crushing their lungs and internal organs and inflicting fatal wounds on the hapless beasts. Their riders were pitched from their saddles by the sudden collapse of their horses, struggling back to their feet only to find themselves facing a line of bows that riddled them with arrows in seconds. The few horses that didn’t fall immediately struggled away in obvious difficulty, the arrows protruding from their sides slick with frothy blood spouting from their punctured lungs, and their riders made easy targets for the arrows that dropped them from their dying mounts. Inside seconds the pursuit had gone from easy chase to bloody ruin, a single rider-less horse trotting slowly out of arrow range before slumping to its knees, unable to rise as its blood sluiced from three deep chest wounds.

  ‘Keep moving!’ Marcus pointed impatiently at the next hill, waving the 8th Century forward. ‘Morban, a hundred and twenty a minute. Let’s get out of here.’

  The 8th Century ground on up the slope, the 2nd Cohort already over the top and on their way down the other side. There were still, Marcus reckoned, another three valleys between them and the ford, a good two hours’ marching even in good weather.

  With a gentle patter the long-awaited rain started to fall, the initial shower intensifying quickly until the Hamians were marching through a downpour, their bows quickly hidden from the rain in oiled goatskin bags. At the top of the slope Marcus stopped, letting the century continue past him as he squinted back through the rain. On the crest of the valley’s far slope a mile or so distant, their numbers made uncertain by the shifting curtains of rain, a mass of warriors were crossing the summit and starting to pour down the hill. They would catch his men in much less than half an hour, he guessed. He turned back to find his century’s ordered line of march suddenly disintegrating into chaos as a hundred and more barbarians charged out of the rain to their front.

  The 1st Cohort reached the Red River’s ford by mid-afternoon, exhausted soldiers splashing their way through water already a good six inches deeper than had been the case that morning, the rain beating off their helmets with increasing vigour as the last centuries staggered up the Red’s western bank. One tired Tungrian slipped into the rushing water, and for a moment it was touch and go as to whether he would find his feet again or be washed downriver and over the falls on to the rocks below. It was a mark of their physical exhaustion that not a single soldier took the chance to poke fun when he rose out of the river’s icy grip, water streaming from his helmet, and made the bank in a flurry of limbs. First Spear Frontinius greeted each century that crossed with the same greeting.

  ‘Fill your water bottles! Get any food you’ve got down your necks and get ready to stand to. Centurions, to me…’

  When the officers were all gathered, bedraggled and mudstained, he laid out his proposal for the defence.

  ‘We’ve no choice but to make our stand here, it’s the only defensive position for miles. It’ll be dark in about six hours, so we’ll have to hold them off that long unless the rain gets heavier and makes the ford impassable. We’ll hold the riverbank unless anyone’s got any better ideas, two-man depth and four-hundred… three-hundred-and-twenty-man width, that should be plenty to stop them getting any foothold on this side. We’ll build an earth wall on the riverbank, use the turfs from the marching camp, then fight with spears, not swords, and keep them down in the water and at the mercy of the cold and the current. One tent party per century to set up the tents as cover for the wounded, the rest of the cohort to build that wall as fast as possible. And be careful to leave a gap for the Second Cohort to cross through. Tribune, anything to add?’

  Scaurus shook his head, clearly still exhausted after the punishing pace of their march.

  ‘Anyone else got a question? Centurion Rufius, is this about the Eighth Century?’

  Rufius nodded tensely.

  ‘Yes, First Spear, I request permission to take a small party back out and look for the Eighth.’

  ‘Denied, Centurion, and you too, Julius, before you ask. The Eighth will have to take their chances. Get to work! Dubnus, you left here this morning with two centuries’ worth of Votadini but I don’t see them now. I don’t suppose you could enlighten me as to where they are?’

  Dubnus grimaced, waving an arm back across the river.

  ‘Martos wasn’t about to leave the Eighth on their own to be slaughtered, First Spear, he said there were too many good men to leave to the Venicones.’

  ‘And he wasn’t about to ask me for permission to leave the cohort either, I suppose?’

  Dubnus nodded tiredly.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think he’ll be back, and hopefully with the Eighth following him.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, Centurion, I hope you’re right.’

  The 2nd Cohort struggled across the ford fifteen minutes later, and Neuto found Frontinius supervising the building of the earth rampart along the ford’s western bank, pointing critically at the way the soldiers were stacking their turfs.

  ‘Not too close to the water, or it’ll be washed away if there’s much more rainfall farther up the valley. Like this… see? Now carry on, only faster.’

  He turned to fa
ce Neuto, shaking the mud from his hands.

  ‘Glad you could join us. All present?’

  The other man nodded dourly, shaking droplets off the brim of his helmet.

  ‘We lost a few that couldn’t take the pace, they’ll be dead by now, but the rest all got here. The last we saw of your boys they were shooting holes in the Venicone horse scouts, but then the rain came down like the sky was falling and we lost any sight of them.’

  Frontinius nodded, his expression forcedly neutral.

  ‘Now you’re in we can close the wall. I doubt we’ll get it more than three feet high before they’re crossing the river but even that should be enough. Now, let’s discuss what your boys can add to the defence…’

  Scaurus had greeted Furius as his horse climbed from the river, taking a grip of the animal’s bridle and leading it away from the soldiers toiling to fortify the Red’s treacherously slippery bank in the pounding rain. Arminius followed the two men as Scaurus took his colleague far enough from the troops that their privacy was guaranteed, turning his back on the officers to face the river and ensure that no one tried to interrupt them. Furius climbed stiffly down from the exhausted animal and turned to face Scaurus, but before he had time to say anything the other man forestalled him by raising a hand to silence whatever it was he had been about to say.

  ‘I’m taking command, Gracilus Furius. I’m sorry, but there’s no way to sugar-coat it so we’re best getting it out of the way here and now.’

  Furius’s eyes widened with anger.

  ‘You’re taking command? By what authority…’

  Scaurus smiled grimly, shaking his head in quiet amusement. ‘It’s always about power and rank with you, isn’t it, Furius? By Ulpius Marcellus’s authority, who else could give it to me? I was sent north on a scouting mission before he was even formally appointed, when it was clear to everyone but the last governor that the northern tribes were ready to boil over. Of course, it had all gone to ratshit by the time I got here, but that didn’t make my job any less valid, just a damn sight more dangerous…’

  Furius interrupted impatiently.

  ‘So fucking what?! You’ve no more right to…’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Furius’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck, and before he had any chance to regain his composure he found Scaurus’s face close to his own, his eyes suddenly slitted with anger in a face white with suppressed anger, and his voice a furious monotone.

  ‘One more word from you and I’ll take my sword to you. I know you, Gracilus Furius, I know what you’re capable of, on and off the battlefield. You’re the big man in camp all right, all spunk and swagger when there’s a condemned man to nail to a cross or some helpless girl to terrorise, but I stood next to you that day at Thunderbolt Gorge and watched you change from a self-assured bully to a snivelling coward in the time it took for you to decide that we were all going to die. If you think I’m going to let you anywhere near those soldiers once there are ten thousand Venicones on the far bank of that river, and all of them screaming for the chance to carve our balls off, you’d best think back to just how much leadership you gave your cohort that day. If you stay here alongside me and keep your mouth shut, then assuming we’re not all dead before nightfall I’ll see that you get a share of whatever good news comes our way before you’re sent home. But if you make one squeak or squeal that might sap these men’s capacity to resist, those tattooed bastards will be practising their knife work on your bloody corpse.’ He raised his voice, ignoring the open-mouthed Furius. ‘Thank you, Arminius, I’ll have the scroll now please.’

  Frontinius and Neuto turned to face Scaurus as he walked up to them, the German at his shoulder holding a message cylinder with its wax seal still intact. Scaurus held out his hand and took it from him, gesturing to it as he addressed the two men. Scaurus nodded to both men.

  ‘Gentlemen, this scroll contains some very explicit instructions from the governor as to the limits of my authority, which, for the avoidance of doubt, are just about non-existent unless and until I’m talking to a legatus. I’m taking command of this defence in order to ensure that there are no unfortunate misunderstandings on my colleague Furius’s behalf. We stand here, gentlemen, and we either hold this position or we go down fighting.’

  He stared at his subordinates, waiting for any comment. Neuto scratched under his helmet’s left cheek guard before replying, his face impassive.

  ‘And about time too, if you were to ask me. Let’s get on with it.’

  The Venicones arrived on the far bank half an hour later, at first in a trickle down the eastern slope of the Red River’s valley but soon in greater numbers, until the eastern bank of the river was thronged with warriors. A few were waving heads and Roman helmets at the defenders, but given the rain it was impossible to make out any detail. Julius and Rufius stood and watched them, desperate to know whether Marcus had fallen victim to the barbarians.

  ‘Could be our boy, but then again…’

  Tiberius Rufius turned away, sickened at the sight of what might be his friend’s severed head.

  ‘If it was him, then at least it was probably quick.’

  Rufius nodded, acknowledging Julius’s point.

  ‘I’ll give you that. If I’d known that those bloody archers would lead to this I’d have…’

  ‘You’d have what? Stopped him from adopting them? Made sure that the prefect made a point of dumping them on that prick Furius? Nothing you or I, or even the first spear, could have done would have prevented what’s happened, and what is simply is. Now, if you don’t want to make your exit the same way that poor bastard did, whoever he is, then get your shit in a pile and get ready to defend this piece of riverbank.’

  Rufius nodded again, breathed deeply and then held a hand out to his friend.

  ‘I’ll see you when this squalid little fight’s done, either here or in Hades.’

  The 1st Cohort were drawn up behind the freshly built wall in battle order, their shields running with water as the rain showed no sign of abating. Each man in the front rank held a spear ready to use, while the men in the rank behind held three apiece, each with the front ranker’s spare and his own pair, ready to hold the soldier to their front in place on the slippery ground with a steady grip on his belt.

  ‘When they come across the river, the front rank will ready spears for defence. Take your spears to them while they’re climbing out of the water. Do not wait for them to get to the top of the rampart.’

  Dubnus was ranging along the rear of the 9th Century, bellowing out his last instructions to the soldiers waiting tensely for the fight to begin.

  ‘Keep your wits about you and your shields ready, and watch out for their swords.’

  Scarface tested his footing behind the turf wall’s modest defence, seeking a firm footing before the fighting began. He muttered quietly to his neighbour, tipping his head to indicate their centurion.

  ‘I’m not sure what’s worse, that lot over the river shouting the odds or having him strutting up and down like he’s an officer or something.’

  The other man nodded, spitting morosely into the river’s fast-flowing water.

  ‘Yeah. Was better when we had our young gentleman to tell us what to do, an’ he was stood behind us with the big stick. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing Two Knives again, though…’

  Scarface nodded morosely before looking back over his shoulder.

  ‘You, rear rank, you’ll have to keep a better grip of my belt than that unless you want me in the river with those tattooed bastards.’

  Across the river, after the expected period of time for orders to work their way down to the family groups that made up the warband, the Venicones stopped milling about and advanced into the river with fresh purpose. The water reached almost to their knees, reducing their progress to a slow walk as they fought against the Red’s continual efforts to pull them off their feet. The waiting Tungrians settled down behind their shields, crouching into their shelter as the s
tronger Venico warriors began hurling their spears, for the most part futilely, although one lucky throw toppled a 3rd Century soldier across the rampart with his throat torn open.

  The barbarians advanced through the freezing river’s flow to the western riverbank and began their assault in earnest, attempting to climb the earth wall and get to close quarters where their swords could come into play. Hopelessly disadvantaged by the turf rampart, losing the ability to use either spear or sword against the defenders as they climbed out of the water, they were easy meat for the Tungrians’ spear-thrusts. Within half a minute blood clouded the river’s water, as dozens of men fell back from the attack with horrific upper-body wounds inflicted by the darting spearheads that struck repeatedly into their ranks. A warrior might fight on for a short time with a single wound, but with hundreds of spears thrusting at the attackers ten or twelve times a minute the slaughter was more than the Venicones could sustain. A horn blew and the remaining attackers withdrew past their dead and dying comrades, shouting insults and threats at the impassive soldiers. Scarface took a deep breath, wiping the blood from his face where it had sprayed after his spear had pierced deep into a Venico warrior’s chest. He spat over the rampart into the river’s torrent, watching the surviving barbarians straggling back to the far bank.

  ‘Easy enough. I did for five of the fuckers without ever even seeing a blade, never mind using my shield. They can keep doing that as long as they like…’

  On the eastern hillside, in a position chosen to allow the senior officers to see over the 1st Cohort, and with uninterrupted views to both north and south, the two cohorts’ tribunes and first spears watched as the Venico warriors backed away from the earth rampart. First Spear Frontinius curled his lip dismissively, pulling unconsciously on his moustache.