by James Wilde
‘No,’ Lucanus shouted. ‘Marcus stays by my side at all times.’
He saw the puzzled looks on his wolf-brothers’ faces, but this was not the time to explain.
Inside the fort, Lucanus left Marcus crouching at the foot of the steps and clambered to the top of the wall. Atellus was marching back and forth, bellowing orders. Though he showed a determined face to his men, the Wolf glimpsed flashes of the drawn look of a leader who could see the end.
Soldiers swarmed along the wall, finding places where they could make a stand, and the Grim Wolves pushed in among them. Time and again, Lucanus watched features grow ashen as the men peered over the edge and saw the true extent of what they faced.
He shivered with that same sense of hopelessness when he looked down. The heaving sea of barbarians slammed against the wall, faces burning with fury, roars merging into one terrible bellow of rage, a vast beast ready to crush them all in its claws.
Ladders sailed across heads towards the front of the army, and they crashed against the stone one after the other. Atellus barked the command to repel the invaders and his men braced themselves, swords raised.
Bellicus grabbed his arm. ‘We have no hope of winning this.’
‘What choice do we have?’ the commandant yelled back. ‘We fight or we die.’
As the barbarians began to climb, the sky burst into fire. A thousand burning arrows whined down.
Lucanus dropped down, with Bellicus beside him. The arrows punched into the chests of soldiers who had reacted too slowly, into their faces, tunics and hair bursting into flames. Screams rang out as they flailed along the wall, staggering into neighbours, setting alight their brothers. Some toppled backwards, crashing down to the ground in a stream of gold and orange.
At a thunderous battle cry, he jumped to his feet. A shaven-headed Pict lunged over the top of the wall, hacking with his blade to clear a path to climb over.
From the corner of his eye, Lucanus saw the same scene repeated along the length of the defences.
He danced out of reach of the tip of that blade, his heels teetering on the edge. And then all his senses drew in and he stared into that one weather-beaten face. He felt the wolf in him, one that would fight to the death with fang and claw if it was cornered.
As the shaven-headed warrior swung one leg over the wall, Lucanus thrust Caledfwlch. Sparks flared as iron clashed against bronze.
His best chance was now, he knew, before the barbarian found his footing. As his foe tried to right his balance, Lucanus lunged, driving his weapon into the man’s throat.
Shock flared in those eyes, but only for a moment. Then the Pict was clutching at his neck, blood spraying as he wheeled back, away from the wall, away from the ladder and down into the sea of warriors below.
Lucanus whirled. Bellicus wrenched his dripping sword out of his own enemy and heaved the limp body over the edge with a triumphant roar. But he could see Mato staggering back under a blur of blows – he was not a good swordsman. The Wolf lunged, stabbing his blade into the enemy’s guts. Bellicus rammed his shoulder into the warrior and pitched him over the side.
Mato wiped the back of a trembling hand across his mouth. ‘You have my thanks,’ he gasped.
But there was no time.
More flaming arrows flashed through the dark. They all dropped to their knees, and when they rose again new faces hove into view over the wall.
As Lucanus gutted his third foe, he glanced along the walkway and felt the cold rush through him. Gaps were beginning to appear in the line. Soldiers sprawled on the ground below in a growing lake of blood. Others hung half over the edge, their life fluid leaking away.
And further along the wall, a knot of Picts hacked and thrust, back-to-back. Other barbarians were clambering over the ladder into their midst, their numbers multiplying by the moment.
‘This is madness,’ Bellicus shouted. ‘The barbarians can afford to lose ten men, fifty, for every one of us they kill.’
Lucanus couldn’t deny it. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
Further along the wall, a column of flames roared up into the sky. The soldiers near to it were shouting something he couldn’t hear, but he could smell the sticky scent of pitch amid the burning.
‘They’ve set fire to the gate,’ Comitinus yelled. ‘They’re setting all the gates ablaze.’
Lucanus glanced down the steps and saw Marcus cowering in the shadows. ‘There’s no point waiting here to die,’ he shouted to his brothers. ‘There’s a greater destiny in play.’
Their faces crinkled in confusion, but when he threw himself down the steps, they dived after him without question.
On the ground, he caught Marcus’ arm. ‘Come. We’ll find your mother and be away.’
The boy buried his face in Lucanus’ chest, for just a moment, and then they swept away among the barracks. They were not alone. Soldiers who had abandoned their posts streamed by on every side. It was only a matter of time now. As they hurried to the fort’s gates, he heard Atellus shout the order to retreat.
An instant later, men were leaping from the walkway and throwing themselves down the steps.
The barbarians hauled themselves over the top, cheering and thrusting their swords into the air as they claimed the wall.
Lucanus waved his men on. Only a sliver of hope remained.
The gates crashed in with a gush of flames and a shower of sparks and the barbarians whipped themselves up into an even greater frenzy. And then the horde flooded in, a torrent that seemed never-ending.
Vercovicium had fallen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Final Hour
MATO SPRINTED INTO the haunted atmosphere of the vicus, where pale spectres stared up, aghast, at the orange glow rising above the wall.
‘Run,’ Mato bellowed over the din. ‘Run.’
Faces blank with disbelief swivelled towards him. He could see one question reflected in all those dazed eyes: how could they not be safe with a garrison of seasoned soldiers to watch over them?
‘It’s too late,’ he shouted at them. ‘For the first time in more than two centuries the wall has been lost.’
Mouths gaped stupidly. A babe in arms bawled, children sobbed, old men mouthed obscenities at the sky, all of it lost to the howling fury.
Mato swung his arms, exhorting them to flee, but they only jerked from their stupor when the soldiers scrambled past, shedding armour. When that river of iron and death finally began to flood from the fort, those confused expressions finally shaded towards fear. Only then did they think of escape.
And by that time it was too late.
The wave of panic swept Mato up and spun him around in a maelstrom of buffeting bodies, his ears numb from the screams and the yells. Flailing, he fought to claw his way free, but the flood rushed him along the street, dashing him against folk weighted by whatever meagre possessions they considered too valuable to leave behind.
Finally, a hand grasped his arm and wrenched him free. It was Lucanus, carrying Marcus in his arms.
Mato wanted to yell out that he was afraid, that he was a scout, not a warrior, but he was too ashamed to admit it. The Wolf seemed to understand. He held Mato’s eyes in a silent communication of support, a kindness that Mato would never forget.
‘This is madness,’ Lucanus shouted. ‘But if we are to survive it, we will do so shoulder to shoulder.’
Shoving his way through the melee, his leader carved a path for him to stumble to the edge of the street. There, Bellicus, Solinus and Comitinus hunched over their swords, faces twisted with fury.
Mato followed their gaze and saw Picts and Scoti stream into the outskirts of the vicus, harvesting men, women and children, young and old, without a second thought.
A blade sliced through the top of an old woman’s head. Another plunged through a boy’s chest. An entire family tumbled under those running feet. Mato gaped. These barbarians were not interested in a military victory. Their hatreds had simmered for so long, they sa
w everyone south of the wall as their enemy.
‘We have to save them.’ He blinked away hot tears.
Lucanus gripped his arm more tightly. ‘Look at the numbers.’ His voice cracked. ‘There’s nothing we can do for them.’
Mato felt acid rise in his throat as he cast his eyes over that army. He could see nothing of the ground beneath the vicus and the wall, just an ocean of heads and swords burning orange in the light of the flames. More were still pushing in through the gates, and more, and more.
Not far away, the twins Map and Lossio crashed to the ground, blades hacking into their backs, and a moment later a sword chopped down their love Vrocata, their affair never to be resolved. Mato cried out, then spun away, not wanting to let Lucanus see his despair. Friends, neighbours, all he had ever known, lost.
‘We save the few we can, and flee,’ the Wolf shouted. In a daze, Mato felt himself dragged away from the milling bodies towards the House of Wishes.
Bellicus erupted into life. ‘Go,’ he said, turning in the opposite direction. ‘I’ll find you.’ He began to thrust his way into the flow of fleeing people.
‘Where are you going, you jolt-head?’ Solinus cried, clawing at the other man’s arm to haul him back.
The Bear shrugged him off. Solinus yelled until his throat was raw, but by then Bellicus was lost to the crowd.
Catia could bear it no longer. She yanked open the door to the hidden room and peered outside, though Amarina had told her never to do that. But she’d been listening to the thunder of battle and the roar of voices and screams echoing through the walls for what seemed like an age.
Amarina’s girls were rushing around the house, sweeping up armfuls of fine dresses and jewellery and whatever coin they had saved.
‘What’s happening?’ Catia shouted.
The women flashed her blank looks, but no one answered. They had their own concerns.
Seeing the panic in their faces, Catia slipped out into the passage. ‘Where is Amarina?’ she demanded, and when still no one replied she grabbed Decima’s arm.
The dark-skinned woman glared at her, then snapped, ‘In her rooms.’ She wrenched free and ran.
Catia raced along the corridor. She couldn’t begin to imagine what was causing the din, but the girls were as frightened as anyone she’d ever seen, and nothing scared them.
She threw open a door to find Amarina loading coin into a leather sack from a hiding place beneath the floor. She glowered at Catia as if she were about to be robbed. A blade appeared in her hand from nowhere.
‘I don’t want your gold,’ Catia spat. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’
‘The barbarians have broken through the wall. An army of them. More than I ever thought existed.’ Amarina scooped the last of her coin into the sack and stood up. ‘Stay here and die. Or flee.’
Catia’s thoughts flew to her father and Aelius, even Amatius. ‘I must go to my family—’
‘Go to them, then. Don’t waste my time.’ Amarina barged past her.
‘We should stay together …’ Catia began.
‘You’ll only slow me down. Go your own way.’
The red-haired woman ran from the room, the others joining her as she hurried to the door. Catia followed. She would not be told what to do by Amarina.
The women, all eight of them, crashed out into the night.
Catia recoiled from the deafening roar and the screams. She choked on smoke from the burning and tasted ashes on her tongue. A deluge of warriors surged into the vicus, so thick upon the ground she could not see past them. People running, terrified. Fighting. Innocents cut down as they fled.
Amarina gaped. Even she had not expected this madness, Catia could see.
‘What now?’ Galantha shouted. ‘We’ll never get through to the Stanegate.’
Before Amarina could answer, a gang of Scoti spun towards them. They laughed, eyes brightening with delight in the glare from the fires, and, as one, they ran towards the women.
Some of the girls screamed. In their fear, they were too slow. Catia watched them swept up by the attackers, and then dashed to the ground to be raped. The barbarians fell on them like hungry beasts.
Catia thought Amarina would flee. Instead, she darted forward, her face wintry.
Her blade slashed the throat of the nearest man. As he stumbled backwards, trying to stem the flood of blood, Amarina snatched his sword and tossed it to Catia.
‘Here’s your chance to prove me wrong,’ she spat. ‘Fight.’
Catia grasped the blade. The moment it was in her hands, she remembered every moment of the hours she had spent sparring with Lucanus when she was a girl. She was not a good swordswoman, but good enough to do some harm.
A barbarian charged at her, laughing as she waved the sword. She lunged, and though the strike was not perfect the blade skidded across his arm, opening him up. He spun away, howling.
Galantha and Decima waved their knives from side to side, spitting like wildcats, and as the four women advanced the Scoti stumbled back, cursing. They wanted easy booty, not having to fight for their prizes.
Two of the girls were dead by the time Catia and Amarina ran up to them. The snarling Scoti hauled off the other two, both of them screaming, their arms reaching out for aid. Catia felt sick to see the terror in their eyes. But there was nothing she could do to save them before they were lost to the churning mass of bodies.
‘Now what?’ Decima’s voice trembled as she looked around for a way out, saw none.
‘There.’ Amarina stabbed a finger towards a circle of soldiers slashing any attackers who dared venture close, seemingly undeterred by the numbers swarming up to them. At the front, Atellus was a blood-drenched vision of madness, the centurion, Falx, at his shoulder guarding his commander’s back. ‘Let them protect us,’ Amarina continued. ‘It’s the least they can do for all the pleasure we’ve given them.’
But as the four women hurried towards them, Catia heard Falx shout an order to the men around him, the words lost beneath the clash of steel, and a moment later he was running away with six of the men beside him. Catia gasped. Less than half had fled, but they’d torn the heart out of the carefully organized defence.
Atellus’ face twisted in shock before hardening into grim acceptance. Throwing back his head, he roared like a cornered bear, a final show of defiance, and then the Scoti swords slashed down.
Catia sensed the other women stiffen around her and she wondered if they all felt as cold as she did now that the last meagre hope had drained away.
Heads swivelled their way, eyes gleaming with a sickening hunger that she knew only too well.
One foot stepped forward. Then another. Five. Ten. More.
Bellicus barged through the madness of blind terror, his ears aching from the screams. Bodies crushed him on every side and he smelled sweat and piss and shit, that battlefield reek. It shouldn’t be here, in the vicus, home, safety. He squinted over the sea of heads jamming every street, all those poor bastards funnelling past the huts and the workshops in a desperate attempt to reach the open countryside beyond.
But what then?
Cursing, he elbowed his way to the side of the flow and kicked open the door of the wine merchant’s. Before he dived inside, he glanced up the slope to the fort. Against the sheets of flame, silhouettes hacked in indiscriminate slaughter. He felt sickened. It was like seeing pigs being cut down for the blood-month feast.
Past the rows of amphorae he hurried, breathing in the sour wine scent, and out at the back. He scrambled over heaps of rotting vegetables and broken pottery, rats fleeing before him, and then stumbled through the dark faster than he ever could have done in that mad throng.
As he slipped through the dark, he glanced along one of the narrow alleys to the mayhem in the street. Framed in the wavering orange glow of that thin rectangle, he saw the widow Elsia sprawled on the packed mud. Feet sped by her face as she reached out a hand, sobbing in desperation for someone to help her up. Elsia, whom he’d helped t
ime and again with a little coin after her husband died. Poor lonely Elsia.
A Pict lurched up, naked to the waist, his body black with tattoos.
The barbarian swung his sword down and split her head in two.
Bellicus choked down his despair.
Madness, madness.
Cutting through the back of a metalworker’s on to the edge of the street, he skidded to a halt. Ovincus was standing outside his shop, a cleaver in one hand, an axe in the other. He was still wearing his blood-stained apron.
When he saw Bellicus, he nodded as if this was any normal day, his bald head glowing orange in the firelight.
‘Vercovicium is lost,’ Bellicus shouted. ‘Get away from here.’
‘And what? Starve? Be hunted down like the beasts I carve on my table?’ Ovincus’ eyes gleamed, and Bellicus could see he’d already chosen his fate.
The Grim Wolf felt a pang of sadness. They’d been friends for many years, and he couldn’t imagine a life without seeing him again. But Ovincus had decided on his own way of dying and that was a man’s right. He deserved no less.
Bellicus clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll miss you, brother. Take a host of them with you.’
Ovincus grinned. ‘I can cut a ram’s head off with one blow. Let them taste that.’ He looked round. ‘Your dog’s in the back. Take good care of him. I’ll miss the savage bastard.’ He flashed another grin, a sad one this time, and turned his back on Bellicus as if saying there would be no more soft-headed goodbyes.
For a moment, Bellicus watched him standing there like a sentinel, framed against the glow from the walls, and then he darted into the blood-fouled confines of the workshop.
‘Catulus,’ he called, and whistled. The dog bounded out to him, wagging its tail. He surprised himself with the rush of affection he felt.
‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Good boy, wolf-brother.’
Lucanus sprinted up to the door of the House of Wishes. Here, on the fringes, only a few of the invading army had ventured, for now, and the Grim Wolves had managed to slip by them.
Lowering Marcus to the ground, the Wolf ducked inside, calling Catia’s name, but all that met him were echoes, open doors and ransacked rooms. Choking back his rising dread, he dashed back into the night and stared around.
