by Griff Hosker
They had almost succeeded but the last part would be the most difficult. Rufius and ten of the troopers slipped from the ramparts and went to the gates and the ladders which led to the two towers. Leaving two men to guard the date the others followed Rufius up to the towers. There were three men in each tower and they would have to use weight of numbers to overcome them. Macro and Marcus watched them ascend and then, nodding to each other they took out the last guards as the ones in the tower were killed. One was thrown over the tower where he landed with what seemed to the turma, a noisy crunch and they all froze as they waited for the sound of alarm. There was none. Rufius went to the tower and gave the Explorate whistle. The rest of the ala quickly killed the guards at the pens who, like those in the citadel were watching for a seaborne assault.
Rufius turned to Marcus, “You open the gate and get the fire going. Macro, take half the turma and deal with anyone who comes out of the barracks. I’ll go and help Cassius.” Controlling the captives would be difficult as they had to remain silent.
Marcus and his half of the turma quickly piled wood around the two open gates. There was plenty. One of the troopers found some hay which they added and finally one of them found an amphorae containing lighting oil which they threw on. Taking out his flint Marcus chipped with his steel. Sparks flew but the fire did not catch. He tried again but the wood was just a little too damp. One of the troopers suddenly took a knife and cut off a hunk of his own hair. He shrugged and handed it to Marcus who tried again. This time the hair sizzled and there was a glow. Marcus blew gently on to the feeble flame, his hands cupped around the outside. First one flame and then two leapt to the oil and suddenly the whole thing erupted. “Bring more wood, feed it!”
Rufius came racing in through the now much narrower opening. ”We have trouble there is a warband at the jetty. We have the captives but we will need to force the passage until the ships can make it. As soon as the fire has caught bring Macro’s men. You are the rearguard.”
Marcus turned to his chosen man. “Keep the flames going and I will fetch the others.”
Those in the barracks had heard nothing for the only noise was the faint crackle of wood. “Macro. There is a warband we have to leave; we are to form the rearguard.”
“You take the men and I will follow.” Marcus looked at him suspiciously. “I can run faster if I am not slowed up by others and I can make sure the fire is well lit. Now go!”
Reluctantly and with a heavy heart filled with dread Marcus left. The mission was to rescue the captives and he put his fears about his brother’s state of mind to one side. He turned to the turma, “Take burning brands from the fire and set the fort on fire. We need to delay the garrison when they pursue us.” The troopers needed no urging and they spread out to set the old timbers alight. As Marcus turned around to shout to Macro again he saw that two sleepy warriors who had emerged from the warrior’s hall, probably to relieve themselves, stood lit by the glare of the inferno. Even as they turned to shout Marcus saw Macro race towards them, both blades drawn to silence them. He succeeded in killing them but not before they had shouted and men began to erupt from the hall. Macro fell back into the shadows and waved Marcus away. With a sinking heart Marcus knew that his brother would have to make his own way out of the citadel. Even as he turned Marcus and his troopers could see the walls well alight. “Come on through the gate or it will be too late.”
The last of the turma crashed through the narrowing opening and Marcus could feel his hair burning as they burst through. The ones who were anxiously waiting put out the spots of fire and ash on their comrades and Marcus formed them up.
“The decurion sir?”
“Don’t worry Aelius he will climb over the rear of the walls and rejoin us.”
The rescue appeared to be going better than they had hoped. Marcus could see the warriors making their way from the jetty and he could also see Cassius and two turmae forming a shield wall. The captives were just below Marcus and Rufius was busily organising them. When he saw Marcus he came to join him. “Well done, that will slow down the garrison.” He glanced around, “Macro?”
“Coming over the back wall.” Marcus almost believed the lie he had told his friend.
“The ships are here,” Rufius pointed out to the bay where the two biremes were racing in and Marcus wondered if they would be able to stop. “Keep your turma as close to the captives as you can. When we reach the jetty you will have to hold them off while we get these aboard the ships.” He stared into Marcus’ eyes. “That is when you will need your strength and iron. Do not throw it away before then.” Marcus nodded; they both knew what Rufius really meant.
The column of troopers and captives moved slowly down the slope. The barbarians moved confidently knowing that the garrison would soon close the jaws of the trap. They did not know of the extent of the fire nor did they fully understand the tactics Cassius would employ. Marcus could see that Cassius had three lines of troopers with javelins and shields whilst the fourth were archers. As soon as the barbarians were in range flight after flight of arrows plunged down upon them. Bravely they pushed on urged by the prayers of the druids who chanted from within their ranks. As soon as they reached the line of troopers they found themselves outranged by the longer javelins and they furiously tried to force their way through.
Suddenly, from the bireme, came the sound of a buccina. To the barbarian’s amazement the leader of the Romans suddenly shouted, “Down, everyone down and lie on the floor!” The captives had been warned and the first forty captives dropped like stones. Before the barbarians could react to this, the visible effect of their druid’s prayers, the bolts from the biremes bolt throwers sliced and scythed through the ranks of barbarians. Those in the front ranks, anticipating slaughtering the Romans watched in horror as their comrades were hurled forward, impaled by the deadly steel tipped harbingers of death. A second buccina sounded and Cassius shouted, “Up!” Before the barbarians could react the bolt throwers changed their target to aim at the barbarians closer to the jetty. There the slaughter was even greater as the range was less than a hundred paces. As the jetty was cleared the reserved turma leapt ashore to finish off any who still showed the willingness to fight.
“Wedge!” Cassius and his vanguard bowled through the shocked and shattered ranks of warriors. The troopers along the sides killed any of the wounded there whilst the captives took their revenge on the unfortunates who lay in their path.
From his high vantage point Marcus could see that the jetty had been cleared and the bolt throwers were now still, fearing to hit their own. There was a roar behind him and he saw, a hundred paces up the hill, the first of the garrison to escape the inferno. “About face!” His men obeyed instantly. “Appius keep walking down and warn us of the turns. We are going to retreat down to the jetty.”
Before the barbarians reached the thin line of troopers someone on the biremes had shifted targets and, although at long range, the bolts began to hurl warriors back who had charged down the hill confident that they would wreak revenge on these Roman raiders. The one or two who made it through were easily slain.
“Sharp turn sir.”
With an internal sigh of relief Marcus knew that they were almost at the jetty. As soon as he felt the wood beneath his feet he roared, “Halt!“ This would be the test for the rearguard. Armed only with swords and lacking shields they would have to hold off the barbarians long enough for the captives to be boarded, not an easy task on warships designed to keep people off and not let them aboard. As Rufius and the other decurions joined him with their turmae Marcus felt a little easier for shields appeared and Marcus felt, for the first time, that they might just escape with their lives.
The bolt throwers were less effective now and the emboldened barbarians began to form up in a shield wall. Marcus recognised the red haired warrior who had managed to thwart them so many times on the retreat. He marked him out for one day he would have to kill him. He noticed now that the man acted more as a general,
directing his men to where he saw the weaker parts of the line. The warriors who came at them were enraged that they had been attacked in their homeland and they fought with a fury and a passion fired by the zealous druids whose chanting had been raised a notch at the arrival of the ships. The troopers, in contrast met their passion with cold efficiency. They needed no druids to fire them up for they were protecting the innocent women and children. They didn’t need the evocation of white haired priests for they had the Sword of Cartimandua and an oath which bound them all together as a band of brothers.
Slowly the rearguard edged backwards. Like a mother giving birth they allowed the barbarians to fall upon them and then withdrew a step until they could almost feel the sea a few paces behind them. Marcus allowed himself a moment to think that they would, after all, survive and then he peered up at the inferno that had been the citadel. He half turned his head and his eyes met those of Rufius, almost like brothers themselves, they were both thinking the same thought, what had happened to Macro?
******
When Macro watched his brother and the turma escape the fiery gate he was calm. He had not intended to be left behind but he had, secretly, wanted to find the man who was responsible for Gaius’ death, Faolan. He had imprinted his face on his mind when he had seen him on the beach at Itunocelum. Now that he was here in the citadel he wondered just how he would find him. As he crouched against the wall he saw warriors erupt from the barracks. There was confusion as the only chief in the citadel had been killed on the wall. They looked around for a leader and, luckily for Macro, their attention was focussed on the gate. Suddenly an idea came to him. He looked very similar to the warriors, his hair was shorter and he had mail armour but so did some of the warriors, courtesy of the garrison at Glanibanta. What did mark him as different was his lack of bracelets, armbands and religious tokens. He quietly slipped around to the rear of the barracks building and sought out the bodies of the sentries who had been slain earlier. He quickly removed as many items as he could and arrayed himself in them. Smearing mud on his face also made him look less like a Roman. By the time he had returned to the front of the building the warriors had formed themselves up and someone had taken charge.
Some of the words were unfamiliar to Macro as the dialect was unusual but he picked enough up to gather that they were going out of a small gate at the side. Passing through it Macro wondered how they had missed it. He placed himself in the middle of the band and jogged along with them. Dawn had finally broken and as they emerged on the bluff above the slave pens Macro could see that the battle was in full swing and his ala looked perilously outnumbered. He resisted a smile as he watched the bolt throwers decimate the ranks but, as the ala closed with the ships the good feelings changed to fear as the bolts began to hit those warriors around him.
Taking advantage of the confusion as the warriors took cover Macro raced down the trail keeping to the side away from the ships. He did not want the ignominy of being killed by his own men. The warriors from the garrison only saw a brave young warrior eager to close with the Romans and some followed him. Cursing his misfortune he had no alternative but to continue down the sloping path. He could see Marcus at the front of the rearguard and it gave him hope but then he saw that there were a hundred men between him and safety. Off to the left he saw some huts; behind them lay a low hill. He could just see the beach below the hill and spied a boat pulled up on the sand. Macro decided that he would make for the hill and, as the ships sailed away he would row out to them. The odds on getting through the massed warriors, even for someone as skilled Macro were slim. He also had, at the back of his mind, the thought that he would kill Faolan; he had not given up on a final act of heroism but so far his elusive prey was hidden from him. Revenge preyed heavily on his mind rather than the self preservation which might have influenced another man.
******
Rufius glanced over his shoulder. Many of the captives were now aboard and one of the biremes was backing out. Rather than worrying why Rufius smiled for the next phase of the Legate’s plan would begin. The bireme did not go out to sea but instead methodically rowed offshore and then came in again to ram and sink all the larger ships in the port. As they passed the smaller boats the marines hurled in pots of Greek Fire which set up a conflagration amongst the moored Manavian fleet. Rufius could see Julius Demetrius urging the captives aboard whilst Cassius directed the fire of the archers at those places where the thin line of troopers appeared to be in danger. The weight of their opposition and their exhaustion began to take its toll and the line was pressed further and further back. Finally they heard the sound they had longed for, the buccina signalling ‘withdraw’. The troopers already knew what to do; in pairs one man lunged forward to make the enemy withdraw and then they ran back to the ship. The remaining troopers closed ranks with Marcus and Rufius as the point of the wedge. In the original plan it would have been Macro but he was no longer an option.
Rufius nudged Marcus in the side and pointed to the knoll overlooking the jetty; too far away for a missile it, nonetheless afforded the group there a fine view of the battle. Marcus saw the figure that Rufius had seen, there next to Faolan was The Fist. The deserter and his fellows were spectators with the barbarian leader. The ex-trooper saw them and ironically raised his blade in salute. Rufius murmured, “There will come a reckoning and I will see you crucified yet.”
They heard Cassius’ voice cry, “Down!” and as they dived to the floor they saw a barrage of arrows and javelins punch the barbarians back. “Now! On board! As quickly as you can!” They needed no further urging and they turned, suddenly surprised to see The Swan four paces away. They all leapt to the side and were unceremoniously hauled on board.
Glancing at the jetty, which was now burning at one end, Marcus could see that none of their comrades were moving but there were mercifully few of them. He heard Hercules shout, “Cast off!” and as he turned to see him he saw that most of the dead had been brought along with them. The barbarians would have only a handful of bodies to mutilate. Marcus just hoped that his brother was not amongst them.
******
The warriors following Macro hurled themselves to the ground as the volley of bolts flew at them. Macro judged his jump and leapt behind the huts. As he lay there, gathering his breath, he suddenly saw one of the raiders. It was not Faolan, but the warrior standing guard outside the large hut with garlands of mistletoe had been at the pass; could it be that Faolan, his enemy was inside the hut? The warrior was certainly on guard, and he was a chief. Macro slipped his pugeo into his left hand and walked around the far side of the hut. He could hear nothing from within but the sounds of the battle were such that it would have been difficult to hear even a raging row.
Creagth resented having to be on sentry duty but Faolan had insisted that the ordinary warriors were needed for the fray and he was guarding a more important treasure. The warrior looked enviously as he saw his comrades gaining honour as they fought man to man with the Romans. This was not the fight he had had at the pass, avoiding arrows, this was the way a warrior fought and he dearly wished he were there. He flicked his eyes to the right where he saw Faolan and the other chiefs directing the fight. A real warrior would not be watching, he would be fighting. In the last moments before Macro ended his life the warrior decided that, after the battle, he would leave Faolan and form his own warband.
Macro’s razor sharp blade sliced through Creagth’s neck as though it was butter. The decurion lowered the dead body to the ground and scanned the area to see if he had been observed. When he felt secure he slipped inside the huge hut which was lit with just a fire in the middle. He peered around in the gloom for Faolan but the perfumed smell told him that it was not a warrior but a woman. The figure by the fire turned around and he saw that it was Morwenna, it was his mother.
******
As soon as the last trooper scrambled aboard, Hercules began to tack the boat away from the jetty where the flames had now taken a firm hold. There would be
no ships leaving the port until they had built a new one. The two biremes had finished demolishing the boats and, under oars acted as a rearguard for The Swan. Aboard the ships of the Classis Britannica the archers picked off any target which raised its head. The crews of the bolt throwers looked for an opportunity to eliminate larger numbers but the barbarians had decided that the artillery had no honour and were not worth risking their lives for. The captives were gone and, barring a sudden, cataclysmic change in the weather the three Roman ships would escape.
On the knoll Faolan was seething with rage. A large portion of his army had been either wounded or killed and the captives, his fund for the future, had been snatched away. The druids busily laid curses on the departing ships making Faolan roll his eyes heavenward. He had had his doubts about the power of this religion before but if these druids could not even protect their sacred home then they were not worth listening to.