Swords Around the Throne

by Ian Ross

And there they were, Castus thought, impregnable behind their barricades. He had not had a good look before at the warriors of the Bructeri, but now as he watched he saw several of them climbing up onto their own wooden rampart to gesture and yell abuse or challenges at the Roman lines. They were tall men, muscular, some stripped to the waist and others dressed in woollen tunics. All were bearded, their long yellow hair drawn up and tied at the top of their heads, and they carried round shields painted in bold patterns of red, white and black.

  Besides the barbed spears and javelins, many of them were armed with long, powerful-looking bows. The Romans were assembled in their cohorts just beyond effective archery range, but now and again one of the warriors leaped up on the barricade, flexed his arms and shot an arrow arcing over the swampy water. Most fell short, but when an arrow came down through the trees, shivering the leaves and bark overhead, the soldiers recoiled, cowering behind their shields in the fear that the slightest scratch or nip from one of those terrible missiles could bring a rapid and hideous death.

  Castus had no idea whether the arrows were poisoned or not, but the fear was eating through his men, and their lust for battle of the evening before was rapidly draining away.

  He looked to his right along the lines, and saw Rogatianus standing before his men, shield up, almost daring the distant archers to take a shot at him. On the far side of Rogatianus’s men were the big red shields of Legion XXX Ulpia Victrix. To Castus’s left was the old century of Valens, now commanded by his optio Macrinus. And beyond them, Castus could see the serried sky-blue shields of Legion II Augusta, with centurion Urbicus prominent in the front rank.

  Urbicus glanced around, as if he sensed Castus’s gaze upon him. He raised his hand in a mocking salute, his top lip drawn back from his teeth, then made a weighing gesture with his open palm. Castus lifted his sword in reply. If I meet you on the battlefield...

  ‘Centurion!’ a voice cried, and Castus looked back to see a runner pushing his way between the armoured bodies of the men in the battle line. ‘Tribune Jovianus sends his greetings and requests to speak to you!’ the man declared, pointing back through the trees.

  Castus nodded, directed a last glare across the water at the enemy barricade, then followed the runner back through the lines, calling out to Modestus to take over. He stamped his way over the bracken and trampled ferns behind the last ranks, and by the time he found Jovianus most of the other centurions of the detachment had already joined the tribune. Urbicus was there too, standing to one side with his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘I’ll make this brief,’ Jovianus said, to a growl of assent. ‘The flanking attack by the cavalry and auxilia has been held up – the stream further down was wider and deeper than expected, and they’ve had to march further west and south to find a crossing. Therefore, the legions must advance against the enemy position.’

  ‘Against that?’ said Rogatianus, flinging his hand in the direction of the barricade. ‘Dominus, we’ll be cut to pieces!’

  ‘That matters little,’ the tribune declared. ‘We are soldiers, and we have our orders... I will lead the advance myself, and the centuries of the Sixth and Second Legions will be the vanguard.’

  As he spoke, Castus could see the twitch of the tribune’s jaw. The man was trying not to let his fear show. He had never thought much of Jovianus, but at least he was brave, or attempting to be.

  By the time he returned to the front ranks of his men, the news of the impending attack had already spread among them. They muttered, many of them bunching closer together and crouching tighter behind their shields as if they wanted to root themselves to the ground.

  ‘Men of the British legions!’ Jovianus cried, striding out into the mud-scarred clearing before the battle lines. ‘Now is your chance to redeem your reputation as soldiers! Now, before the eyes of the emperor himself, you can display the true courageous virtue of Roman warriors!’

  That was a mistake, Castus thought. At the mention of the emperor half of the men had turned to look back, craning their heads to stare through the trees. The barbarians on the other side of the flooded valley must have heard it too. They sent up a massed yell of defiance, then started beating their weapons and shields against the timbers of their barricade.

  ‘Soldiers, face to the front!’ Jovianus cried, his voice cracking. He swept his cloak back from his sword arm, hefted his shield. ‘After me – ad-vance!’

  A shiver ran along the lines, a few knots of men edging forward. Castus stepped out from the ranks of his men, swinging the flat of his blade against the nearest shields. Unconquered Sun, protect me now... Your light between us and evil...

  ‘Come on, then!’ he said. ‘Or are you going to let me and the tribune fight this battle on our own?’

  The line shuddered again, the men keeping themselves covered. Only a few of them began to shuffle forward, one step at a time. Castus felt cold sweat breaking all over his body. He had trained these men himself – would they really disgrace him now? Or, he thought as he turned again to face across the swamp, was the disgrace his own? He felt the fear racking him, threatening to buckle his body. His men could read that, as clearly as they could hear the fear in the tribune’s voice when he had addressed them...

  Only madmen and liars say they are not afraid.

  Yells from his left, and Castus glanced around to see Jovianus sprawled on his back. He thought the tribune had slipped in the mud, then saw the blood welling from between the cheek guards of his helmet. On the enemy barricade, a lone bare-chested slinger gave a shout of triumph, raising his fist above his head before dropping back out of sight. A party of soldiers rushed out from the Roman lines to raise their shields over the fallen tribune.

  ‘Slingshot hit him in the mouth,’ Flaccus said, wincing as he gripped the standard with white knuckles. ‘Reckon that’s the end of his career as a public speaker.’

  From the enemy barricades the great roaring battle cry went up again. But now the Roman horns were blowing the general advance, a discordant brassy braying. Castus saw Rogatianus and his men beginning to push forward towards the swampy water.

  A little to the left, a fallen tree lay partially submerged, black with rot and old moss, but the jutting craggy branches offered some cover.

  ‘This way,’ Castus called quickly, gesturing to Flaccus, then scrambled down the slope towards the tree. When he turned he saw the standard-bearer coming after him, a loose array of men following. His boots slid in mud, then he was in water up to his knees. Already arrows were pocking the surface ahead of him, some of them smacking into the wet timber of the tree. Castus recoiled as a slingstone exploded off the trunk beside him, scattering flakes of bark. To his right, Rogatianus and his men were wading out into the flood, surging the water into dark brown froth, but their advance was already slowing under the rain of missiles.

  Shouts from behind him, a trumpet cry and the sound of horses; Castus crouched beside the fallen tree and looked back, and the blood froze in his body.

  Three riders, coming at the gallop down through the troop lines. Two wore the white cloaks of the Corps of Protectores, but the lead rider blazed in purple and gold.

  ‘Men of the Sixth Legion!’ the emperor cried as his champing horse circled before the trees. ‘Remember Eboracum! You were first to acclaim me then – who will follow me now?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Constantine spurred his mount forward towards the water, the two bodyguards galloping after him. For a moment the troops were motionless, stunned, their faces blanched above their shields.

  ‘The emperor!’ Castus yelled, shoving himself away from the tree. ‘Protect the emperor!’

  Water lashed and sprayed around the horses, brilliant in the sunlight. One of the Protectores went down at once, straight over his horse’s head as the animal stumbled and fell. Castus grabbed the standard-bearer and hauled him up beside him.

  ‘Wedge formation!’ he shouted, the words tearing his throat. ‘Form on me!’

  Shield
high above the water, he began to force his way out into the stream. Behind him men stumbled and staggered, bunching into a tight knot of shields. The water felt thick as oil, the bed soft sucking mud grabbing at their boots, and all around them was the whip and whine of arrows and slingshot.

  The second bodyguard was down, his horse rearing back with an arrow in its breast and spilling the rider from the saddle. The animal tumbled, thrashing its hooves, and the surface of the water shattered into fountains of spray.

  Castus kept his head low, concentrating only on pushing forward into the stream. The light was hot around him, and the muddy water dragged at the links of his mail – he was thigh deep, now waist deep, half swimming as he drove himself onward. Beneath his breath he muttered a constant prayer. When he risked a glance above the shield rim he saw Constantine, his big white horse foaming, poised in midstream with his sword raised towards the enemy and his stretched face crying defiant rage.

  Then the horse shuddered, tried to rear and collapsed upon its haunches in the flood. Its chest was streaming with blood where it had run against one of the submerged stakes. Castus could hear the wild rage in the voices of his men, the fear-dispelling anger. Something caught at his ankles and he toppled forward, plunging face first into the water; a fist gripped the back of his mail and hauled him to his feet, and he surged forward again.

  Constantine was down, arrows flickering around him as he tried to roll from the saddle of the dying horse. Brown water seethed, turning dark red with blood. Two arrows struck Castus’s shield in quick succession, and a slingstone cracked off his helmet, but he could feel the ground getting firmer beneath him, the slope of the bed rising.

  Four more thrashing strides and he was beside the emperor, raising his shield above his head as the arrows lashed around them. Other men – his own men – slammed up around him.

  ‘Testudo!’ he could hear himself shouting, and the word was almost lost in the noise of the water and the frantic screams of the dying horse. Two men were knocked down by a flailing hoof, but the rest stayed firm. Shields rattled together into a ragged screen above the fallen man.

  ‘Modestus, Firmus,’ Castus ordered, ‘pull the emperor loose and carry him. We retreat to the bank.’

  ‘No, no,’ Constantine shouted. ‘Advance!’ His face was grey with pain and shock, his teeth clamped hard as the two soldiers dragged him from under the fallen horse.

  ‘Dominus! We need to pull back!’ Castus glanced down at the emperor, but even as he spoke he knew there was no turning now. Constantine seized Castus by the belt, hauling on it to drag himself free of the horse. His gilded cuirass streamed with blood and muddy scum.

  Castus lowered his shield and peered over the rim; the enemy barricade was only a score of paces away, the enemy beginning to scramble across it and spill down the bank towards the stricken emperor. But there was another sound now, a regular snap and hiss from the forest behind and the air above. As he stared, Castus saw a warrior on the barricade transfixed by a ballista bolt. Arrows were falling among the advancing Bructeri. Roman archers had moved up to support the attack, and artillery too.

  Over to the left, beyond Rogatianus’s men still trapped in midstream, Castus saw a solid wedge of legionaries forcing their way across the flood. At their head was Tribune Jovianus, his face a mask of blood as he screamed through broken teeth. With the defenders distracted by the emperor’s charge, the men at the barricade had thinned at that point – Jovianus was already halfway to the far bank, and the men behind him moved with a fierce discipline.

  Dragging Modestus close, Castus yelled into his ear. ‘Take two men and get the emperor to safety. Cover him with your shields – don’t let him move forward again! Do it, whatever he says!’

  Modestus nodded, slack-jawed but resolute, and Castus shoved him away.

  ‘Wedge!’ he called, striding forward again through the shallows. ‘Wedge formation – follow behind me!’

  His men meshed behind him, pressing forward for the bank. Every step dragged a weight of soaked clothing and armour, the mud trawling off them as they moved. But they were together, shields locked and spears levelled, every man screaming his own hoarse cry as they stumbled up out of the water onto the bank.

  Castus looked to his right, and saw Flaccus fall with an arrow in his face. He saw Diogenes snatch the standard from the bloodied water and raise it high.

  He looked to his left and saw Jovianus and his men hurling themselves at the barricade, the bristle of spears raised against them, bare-chested men pelting slingshot and loosing arrows from a sword’s length away.

  Up the slope, skidding and sliding on the wet earth and bloody grass. Something nicked his thigh, and pain lanced up into his hips as he saw the flung javelin skittering away. A body fell against him – Aelianus, dead eyes turned skywards – and he shoved it aside with his sword arm. Stumbling, he dropped to one knee and saw that his shield was fletched with half a dozen arrows; two of the vicious barbed heads had punched through the wood.

  Over to the left the attack was faltering, men falling, others spilling back down towards the water. Through a fog of pain Castus watched the last of the soldiers scrambling up onto the barricade. He watched Jovianus shouldering his way between two Bructeri warriors, cutting and stabbing low on the brink of the fortification. He watched the spears dart out and cut at the tribune’s legs, a swinging club knock him down. Then they were on him, dragging him across the mesh of timber, stabbing him in the face and body with savage triumph.

  Move, got to move... Castus dared not look back to see how many of his own men still lived. The pain rushed in waves through his whole body, and his right leg was streaming red. When he raised his hand an arrow skimmed across the back of it, slicing the skin, and for a moment he saw his own blood misting the air.

  Roaring, he forced himself upright. His shield was heavy as lead in his left hand, his right hand a bright fist of agony as he gripped his sword. Ahead of him rose the enemy wall, but he spilled left, along the line of the timber barricade, running crablike to keep his shield partly covering his body.

  Three men had grappled Jovianus’s corpse between them; one was still stabbing the fallen man in the face, plunging his knife as though he was breaking ice with a pick. The other two were trying to wrestle the body back over the barricade, but the armoured torso was caught between the meshed branches.

  Castus took three more running strides, then hurled away his arrow-stuck shield and leaped. His reaching left hand grabbed at the spiked branches of the barricade and he hauled himself up. Timber groaned and shifted beneath his weight. Gods, if I slip and fall now I’m done... But he moved with the surety of a condemned man, all terror and pain gone and only fighting rage driving him. One slashing blow, and a yellow-bearded face burst red and vanished. Three more heaving lunges and he could stand upright, braced on the tangled mass of fallen trees.

  The two men trying to drag the tribune’s body had already slithered back. The knifeman was still intent on his mutilation; Castus chopped down and his blade half severed the man’s head. He pulled, and for a moment terror gripped him as he felt the sword jammed tight in the dead man’s spine. An arrow punched into his shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet; his armour and the padding beneath stopped the impact, but the arrow remained stuck there, trapped in the links of his mail. A javelin cut the air beside his face. Then the sword came free, and Castus was crouching above the ripped corpse of Jovianus, staring down into a howling mass of enemy warriors.

  Shouts behind him. An unearthly calm possessed him, an absolute sense of focus, slowing time. He had known this before in battle. The hollow at the heart of fear. He glanced back and saw Rogatianus powering up the slope at a run, his dark face open in a yell and his men formed up behind him.

  ‘Victrix! VIC-TRIX!’

  Castus remembered Valens as he lay dying. Blood on his teeth as he tried to smile. What had happened to that rangy grey dog he had befriended? Had anyone even looked for it after the funeral? He
glanced down at the ruined mess of Jovianus’s face.

  Then the howl of combat was all around him, and he felt his legs shaking as the barricade shuddered beneath a rush of armoured men. A clean death, he thought. A fighting death. Without shame.

  Grinning, he turned to face the enemy, then hurled himself down into the glittering array of their blades.

  6

  Scented quiet, the air moving slowly on cool marble, stirring the long drapes.

  Before him were the tallest doors he had ever seen. Inlaid wood set with bronze, three or four times the height of a man. Without turning his head he lifted the sword from his scabbard and held it out. Unseen hands bore it away. Somewhere, very distant, he could hear a speaking voice, slow and sonorous, echoing slightly.

  With the faintest squeal of oiled bronze the doors parted and opened. He stood still for a moment, braced. His leg still ached. Then he breathed in and marched slowly forward over the threshold.

  An immensity of light above him. High arched windows spilled sun, but the lower depths of the vast chamber still appeared dim, the polychrome mosaics of the floor vague as the bottom of a deep pool through still water. A purple drape shifted gently in the low stir of air as he advanced with measured step, then halted again.

  He was barely aware of the figures standing to either flank, the silent men in their heavily embroidered mantles, the guards with silvered spears.

  ‘Aurelius Castus, centurion of the Sixth Legion,’ a voice announced.

  ‘You may proceed,’ another said, more quietly.

  The drapes parted as he approached, and he felt himself sinking in stature even as the space rose above him. Across the polished floor was the stepped dais, a tall apse rising behind it, blazing with light. Suspended between the glare and the deep shadow, a single seated figure in purple and gold. Castus dropped his eyes at once, concentrating on taking the right number of steps forward. When he came to a halt once more, the cry of acclamation went up from the assembly, and he joined his voice to theirs.