If the previous week had been cold, the next dawn found the Tungrian sentries clustered around their braziers in search of whatever heat was to be had whenever the duty centurion’s attention was elsewhere. A bitter wind was blowing from the north, sweeping curtains of snow down from the mountains onto the fort, and for a time it seemed that the weather would prevent the cohorts from fulfilling their mission. However, and to great disgust, shortly after the soldiers had taken their breakfast and were happily anticipating a day doing nothing more taxing than shivering in their tents, the storm front cleared away to leave Stone Fort under a clear blue sky and with temperatures low enough to freeze the water in the horse troughs solid. Scaurus gathered his centurions together in his quarter and issued the orders that their men were dreading.
‘We march. The legati are depending on us to deliver on our promise to make the Sarmatae believe that there’s a legion defending this pass, and deliver it we will. Make sure your men are wearing every piece of clothing they can muster, not that they’ll need much encouragement in these temperatures.’
Watched by the Britons, the cohorts marched out over the fort’s western gate and across the wooden bridge that, as with the eastern approach, was the only way over the ditch that had been dug across the valley’s full width.
‘What stops an attacker from just taking to the hills to either side and working their way around the ditch?’
Overhearing the question from one of his brighter soldiers, Marcus answered it despite Quintus’s look of disapproval.
‘What stops them from doing that, soldier, is the fact that the Britons have had weeks to prepare the ground. Their pioneers have felled enough trees up the hillsides and planted enough sharpened stakes in their branches to make an impenetrable barrier, which means that the only way to get to the fort’s other side is to go that way . . .’ He pointed at a side valley to their right. ‘But that means taking a long detour around to the north, the best part of a day’s march. Titus and his boys in the Tenth Century were looking quite jealous when they saw all those fallen trees yesterday.’
The Tungrians crossed the frozen river to reach the left bank, their hobnailed boots slipping and sliding on the smooth surface, while the First Minervia’s cohort drove on down the right bank with their native cavalry in close attendance.
‘If only I’d known, I could have offered odds on my being able to walk on water. I would have made a right killing,’ said Morban.
‘Ah yes, but you have taken a bet on the very same subject, if you recall?’
Marcus smiled at the momentary look of fear that crossed his standard bearer’s face as Morban recalled the moment when he had been provoked into offering his centurion a bet of heroic proportions during the march north. Marcus turned his attention back to his men, some of whom were already clearly troubled by their numb toes, despite the fur linings in their boots.
‘They’ll live, as long as they keep moving. I had a good look at their feet before we marched this morning, and there’s not one of them with a serious problem. Those poor bastards have it worse, I’d say.’ Quintus pointed across the river’s thirty-foot width at the labouring legionaries on its far side. ‘Some of them look like they’re already struggling . . .’
As they watched, a mounted patrol of Belletor’s Sarmatae went forward at the trot, the riders apparently impervious to the cold in their thick furs, quickly vanishing from view around a bend in the river. As the two forces made their way down the river’s course, the valley widened, broadening from barely a hundred paces on either side of the frozen stream to three times as much in the space of a mile. Cresting a slight rise, Marcus found himself staring down the valley’s length for the best part of two miles, squinting into the light of the winter sun as it reflected off the broad, icy expanse of a lake a mile or so distant. A soldier ran down the cohort’s line and saluted him.
‘Centurion, sir! First Spear says we’ll march as far as that lake and then we’ll take a rest stop.’
Marcus nodded and waved the man on down the line before turning to call out an order to his chosen man.
‘Quintus! They’re all yours, I’m going back for a chat with Qadir and Dubnus!’
Waiting until the Eighth Century reached the place where he had stopped, flexing his toes experimentally and finding them disquietingly numb, he fell in alongside Dubnus with a grimace of shared discomfort. The Briton laughed at him.
‘I’d forgotten you’ve yet to experience the joys of campaigning in a proper winter. How are you finding it, apart from the blueness of your toes?’
The Roman shrugged.
‘It seems I’m doomed to always either be too hot or too cold, so I suppose it’s best just to ignore the weather and think more about the job at hand. Anyway, there’s something I wanted to test out when we get to that lake, to see if the histories are true in what they tell us? I’ve just reminded Morban of the wager he made with me on the subject while we were marching up from Apulum, and he looked decidedly sick when I raised the matter.’
When they reached the lake the soldiers milled about, unwilling to subject themselves to more discomfort by sitting on the freezing ground, while Marcus and Dubnus, joined by an inquisitive Qadir and a nervous Morban, trailed by a few inquisitive soldiers, made their way onto the ice. Across the lake’s expanse they could see the First Minervia’s legionaries shuffling about disconsolately, First Spear Sergius clearly having decided to rest his men to keep the two advances aligned. The remaining Sarmatae horsemen had dismounted, but as usual showed no sign of mixing with the soldiers.
‘Buggered if I know what we’re doing out here on the bloody ice!’
Sanga turned to the soldier Scarface with an irritated expression.
‘What we’re doing out here, you idiot, is following Two Knives around like a pair of three-year-olds hanging off their mummy’s skirts as per usual. As to what he’s doing out here, did you not hear about the bet?’
He raised his eyebrows in amazement at his mate’s uncomprehending expression.
‘You really do go around with your head up your own arse, don’t you? The bet?’ Scarface shook his head and shrugged, and Sanga waved a hand at the lake’s frozen surface. ‘Seems the tribune was telling some of the lads about a battle that was fought on a frozen river round here a few years ago. He said that some of our lads were attacked by Sarmatae horsemen like those pricks over there, but they stood their ground and ended up winning the fight. I don’t know how that would work, but the officer seemed very sure about it. Anyway, seems Morban quacked on about what a load of bullshit it was and how he’d give ten to one that it was all bollocks, so your centurion slapped down a gold aurei and took him up on it.’
Scarface looked about him with new interest, peering hard at the nervous-looking standard bearer before raising his voice in an amused chortle.
‘Well he’s not looking quite so fuckin’ brave about it now, is he? Ten in gold, eh Morban? That’s the best part of six months’ takings for you, I wouldn’t wonder.’
‘Well that’s one part of the story proven.’ Marcus stood on the frozen surface with his arms open wide. ‘It’s perfectly possible to stand on this stuff, as long as you dig the hobnails in hard enough. It would be murder on the feet without these skins wrapped around my feet though. Now, pass me that shield please.’ One of the soldiers surrendered his board, and Marcus experimentally rested it on the frozen surface. ‘Hmmm. I can’t see how that’s going to be sufficiently stable to put a boot on.’
‘Here, I’ve an idea how it might work.’ Dubnus took it from him, drawing his sword and swiftly chopping a rough circular hole the depth and width of the shield’s heavy brass boss into the thick ice before dropping the board face down onto the ice, guiding the hemispherical protrusion into the hole he’d created, much to the disgust of the soldier in question. ‘And you can stop pulling faces, it’s a piece of fighting equipment, not a piece of the family silver. There . . .’
He gestured to the shield, then
put a booted foot onto its wooden surface.
‘See, you can stand on this ice a lot easier with one foot on the wood. Give me that spear.’
He clicked his fingers, and the now resigned soldier, whose shield was held firm to the ice by Dubnus’s foot, handed over his spear. The big centurion adjusted his footing, then posed for Marcus with one foot on the shield while he essayed a series of swift stabbing blows with the spear.
‘Very warlike. You might even pass muster as a soldier, if we didn’t know you better.’
Dubnus turned to face the approaching Julius. Scaurus was walking a few paces behind him, and both men were gazing at the spectacle with open curiosity. Dubnus took his foot off the shield, gesturing for his man to pick it up.
‘Centurion Corvus entered a considerable wager with the obvious person as to whether the battle on the ice could really have happened. And as you can see, your story was clearly well founded, Tribune.’
Marcus stroked his chin in amusement, looking at Morban.
‘Well now, Standard Bearer, it can be done. How much is it that you owe me?’
The older man raised a pitying eyebrow.
‘You should know better than that, Centurion. The bet I took was that you couldn’t prove it was possible to fight off a screaming horde of Sarmatae horsemen like that, not that you could persuade Dubnus to stand on a shield and wave a spear about. I thought you’d have realised by now sir, it’s all about how the bet is stated.’ Growing in confidence that he would once again be on the winning side of the wager, he winked at the big Briton. ‘And very fetching you look too, if I might make so bold, Dubnus.’
Marcus turned back to his friend with a smile but found the big man’s attention locked on the other side of the valley, where the river’s meandering course bent around to the east and took the road down its banks out of view.
‘Here come the scouts that Belletor sent out, back already. I wonder what they’ve seen?’
They watched as the scouting party rode around the river bend and up the valley toward the waiting legionaries, but Dubnus was pointing to a spot behind the horsemen.
‘Look! Smoke!’
A line of smoke was rising into the cold, still air further down the valley, and Julius frowned, looking across the lake at the Sarmatae scouts with a look of disquiet.
‘Whatever’s burning may be out of sight from here, but it won’t have been from where they were and yet they’re acting as if nothing’s amiss. Something isn’t right here . . .’
Scaurus stepped forward.
‘I warned the idiot!’ He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting across the lake’s frozen surface. ‘Belletor! Tribune Belletor!’
Clearly visible mounting his horse, Tribune Belletor turned his head to the source of the sound. Scaurus waved, then pointed at the smoke, now strengthened to form a thick, greasy column. Belletor looked about him, then waved back to the small group before spurring his horse forward towards the returning scouts. Scaurus’s expression hardened.
‘Blessed Mithras, the bloody fool’s not listening! He can’t see the smoke for the hill beside them. Belletor! The scouts are . . .’
He fell silent as his colleague’s imperious tones reached them, audible across the open ice even if the exact words were lost on the slight breeze, and the tribune raised his fist in salute. The leading rider approached the Roman, his long lance couched to point at the ground.
‘That’s their leader, isn’t it?’
Qadir squinted into the ice’s harsh glare.
‘Yes, that helmet he wears is quite unmistak—’
He gasped involuntarily as the Sarmatae leader raised his kontos, stabbing the blade forward and ramming it into Belletor’s throat. Ripping the bloodied iron free, as the tribune tottered in his saddle, he raised his arms and bellowed a command at his followers. With a chorus of answering yells the Sarmatae flooded forward and past him, their weapons flashing in the clear winter air as they fell on the unsuspecting and unprepared Roman infantry. The men to the rear of the cohort, who had quietly mounted their horses while the legionaries’ attention had been elsewhere, took their cue and launched themselves at the resting soldiers with their lances glinting evilly in the winter sunlight. Qadir turned to Marcus in horror.
‘Deasura, it’ll be a massacre!’
Julius shook his head in disbelief as the first screams of dying men reached them. The soldiers closest to the attacking Sarmatae were mounting a desperate, unprepared defence, fighting without organisation or control, and the enemy horsemen, pressing in on them from front and rear, were reaping a bloody harvest with the long spears that allowed them to out-reach the legionaries.
‘And we’ll be next!’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Rejoin your centuries!’
‘Wait!’
He frowned disbelievingly as Scaurus put a hand up.
‘Tribune?’
‘I’ve seen these people fight from horseback before. Even if we form a disciplined line, and stand ready to meet their attack with our spears, they’ll just stand off for a while and pepper us with arrows from all directions, retreating whenever we try to get to grips with them, and then when we start to weaken, from the cold and our losses, they’ll make a full-blooded charge and scatter us across the valley. If we stand and fight on dry ground we’ll lose, I guarantee you that!’
Julius shook his head brusquely.
‘But if we run they’ll harry us to destruction just like they’re doing to the First Minervia. We have to fight!’
Scaurus nodded.
‘I know. But not up there . . .’ He pointed to the lakeside. ‘We need to fight here, on the ice.’
Julius stepped forward, his face, only inches from his tribune’s, set in deadly earnest.
‘It’s one thing to pull off a trick like that when you’ve been practising for days, Tribune, and quite another when it’s no more than a story in one of the histories that was more than likely dreamed up by the writer to make some bloody senior officer look good! You do realise this is likely to end in disaster?’
The tribune pointed hollow-eyed at the scene of horror playing out before them. Individual soldiers were running now, while Sarmatae horsemen spurred their horses in pursuit, some spearing their victims with swift brutality while others cantered after the fleeing soldiers at a more leisurely pace, giving them time to realise that a grim death was upon them before striking. As they watched, a group of fifty or so soldiers leapt onto the ice and ran towards the Tungrians, shouting desperately for help. A score of the horsemen followed them out onto the frozen surface, cantering on either side with their lances raised to strike. Marcus pointed at them as the first men fell under the riders’ blades to leave a trail of bloodied corpses in the runners’ wake.
‘That’s Tribune Sigilis leading them, isn’t it?’
Scaurus looked at the beleaguered runners for a moment before nodding sadly.
‘Yes, it is.’ The Sarmatae horsemen closed in around the helpless soldiers, their lances stabbing out at the Romans from beyond the reach of their spears, and Marcus turned away as his friend was spitted by first one and then two of the long spears, his spasming body held upright for a moment before falling to the ice as the blades were wrenched loose. When he looked back none of the men who had run were still standing, and the mounted tribesmen ironically saluted the watching Tungrians as they turned away.
‘Exactly. We’re next. They’re toying with those boys, First Spear, and I doubt dying out here on the ice will be any worse. Besides, I’m not of a mind to meet my ancestors without at least having some pride in the manner of my death.’
He nodded decisively, turning to the two senior centurions.
‘I’m making a commander’s decision. Get your men onto the lake and into two battle lines, back to back and ready to form a circle. Do it!’
While the Tungrians flooded onto the ice without question, the First Cohort were running to a point indicated by Julius and quickly forming a line, while the Sec
ond pressed in behind them.The tribune stalked through them to find Silus and his mounted squadron waiting at the lakeside. Silus saluted, looking down at his commander with a solemn expression.
‘What are your orders, Tribune?’
Scaurus pointed back up the valley.
‘Get out of here while you still can, Decurion. Take word of this treachery to Tribune Leontius, and to him alone. There’d be little point in throwing your lives away alongside ours, if what I have in mind fails to work.’
Silus nodded grimly and saluted again.
‘As you command, Tribune. Good luck.’
He wheeled his horse and led his men away up the lakeside as the Tungrians swiftly formed up into two lines, the discipline of a thousand drills taking over from conscious thought. Scaurus nodded to Julius, who bellowed a fresh command at the waiting soldiers.
‘Second Cohort, about turn! First and Second Cohorts, Form! Circle!’
The centuries at the centre of the two cohorts’ lines marched forward a smart thirty paces out of formation, the soldiers cursing as they slipped on the ice’s slick surface. Each century to their left and right stopped a successive five paces short of their comrades, until both lines were arrayed in an arrowhead formation with one point facing toward the enemy horsemen and the line behind facing away.
‘Dress your lines!’
Centurions and their chosen men moved swiftly to push and pull their men into position, quickly transforming the serried ranks into two curving lines that met to form a rough circle.
05 - The Wolf's Gold Page 25