RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

  Kivilaz nodded slowly, reluctant but knowing that he would not change the Nervii leader’s mind.

  ‘Cerialis?’

  ‘Yes.’ Classicus pointed at the city on the Mosella’s eastern bank. ‘Our tribal armies will be ordered to concentrate their anger inside the enemy camp, but your men will force the river bridge and retake Augusta Trevorum. I have allotted them the right-hand gate because it is in that section of the camp where the traitor legions have pitched their tents. When you attack they will flee, and grant you free access to the bridge. And not only can your men be trusted not to succumb to the urge to sack the city, but they must take Cerialis alive, to use in the bargaining with Rome that must follow if we are to persuade Rome that coexistence with the Gallic empire is possible. Vespasianus will be forced to negotiate with us once we have his son-in-law.’

  ‘I accept this honour on the behalf of the Batavi cohorts. Although if you’re expecting the capture of a single senator to alter Rome’s murderous attitude towards a rebellious people, no matter what his status might be, I fear that you will be sadly disappointed by their response. And for me all that matters now, given that you have decided to strike here, is that we annihilate the Twenty-first Legion. Nothing else will be worth the price we are about to pay in blood.’

  Nodding to the other two men, he walked out of the tent with Hramn and his guards at his shoulder.

  ‘You do not agree with Classicus’s decision?’

  ‘I have no choice in the matter. If the Gauls attack and I fail to order our men to join them, then a victory will be theirs, but a defeat will be mine and mine alone if I am seen to fail to support them when they needed it most. And besides …’

  ‘Who knows what might happen?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And if we lose?’

  The prince shrugged.

  ‘Then we’ll disengage without giving the Romans time to recover their wits and bottle us up for slaughter, retreat to the north-east and fall back on our allies the Ubii. They’ll hold firm, I’m sure of that. Why else would I have left my wife and son in their hands, if not to show them my trust?’ He grinned at his nephew. ‘Trust reinforced by the presence of our even more trustworthy allies of the Chauci and Frisii in their midst, mind you. But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight we go to battle again!’

  Hramn stopped walking and stared at his uncle, his head shaking slightly.

  ‘My mother always said that you were the wildest of all her brothers and sisters. You actually want to do this, don’t you?’

  Kivilaz shrugged.

  ‘Don’t tell me that you’re not excited by the thought of a proper, straightforward fight. The chance to rampage through a legion’s camp with sword and spear? Our warriors of old would have accepted certain death, if they knew they could take half a dozen of the enemy with them and write a fresh line in the song of glory.’

  His nephew nodded.

  ‘I can see it well enough. I’m just wondering how we’re going to get inside their camp. While we’ve been mustering our combined forces into an army, the Romans have woken up to the fact we’re out here, and that we’re not far from their camp. A four-foot ditch and ten-foot palisade won’t be easy to cross.’

  ‘Agreed. But their camp’s defences have one flaw that hasn’t been corrected yet. And I know just the man to exploit it. If he and his men succeed we’ll have an open gate for the cohorts to push through.’

  Hramn nodded slowly.

  ‘And if he fails then our concerns with regard to his loyalty will no longer matter. Will they?’

  Augusta Trevorum, May AD 70

  ‘First Spear Antonius.’

  Antonius snapped to attention, hearing the rap of hobnailed boots as the men behind him copied his gesture of respect, saluting crisply. Their commander strode forward into the overlapping circles of yellow light, illumination cast by torches on either side of the bridge across the Mosella, which the Twenty-first’s men were guarding along with the camp’s perimeter.

  ‘Legatus Augusti!’

  Cerialis waved a hand in amused acknowledgement.

  ‘There’s no need to salute, First Spear, we’re all fighting men here, not the type of barracks warriors that sort of thing matters to.’

  Antonius inclined his head in cautious respect for his superior’s sentiment.

  ‘Indeed so, Legatus Augusti. Although it’s good for our men to see the proper discipline exercised. I’ve seen the results of what happens when it breaks down, and trust me, sir, I never want to see it again.’

  Cerialis nodded in his own turn.

  ‘Ah. Poor Dillius Vocula’s unfortunate demise, not to mention that of his colleague Flaccus before him. A point well made, First Spear. I shall tolerate the salutes of fighting men from now, and take your experienced opinion seriously, I assure you.’

  He grinned, evidently still at ease among his men, and Antonius found himself warming to the man.

  ‘Thank you, Legatus Augusti.’

  The general looked about him, taking a lungful of the night’s crisp air and looking up at the blaze of stars above their heads.

  ‘So tell me, First Spear, are your men enjoying the luxury of a few quiet days before we march out to find and deal with this man Civilis?’

  ‘Time not spent marching is always welcome to any legionary, Legatus Augusti, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Indeed I can. But …’

  Antonius reflected for a moment before replying, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘The Twenty-first is a legion with a long tradition of finding, fixing and destroying its enemies, Legatus Augusti. The men are eager to come to close quarters with this man Civilis and his Gallic allies, and show them what a real legion can do on the battlefield.’

  The older man laughed, clapping a hand to his subordinate’s shoulder.

  ‘And you only a month in the Twenty-first’s service! I hear you’ve been inducted to First Spear Pugno’s inner circle, the infamous Blood Drinkers?’

  ‘Yes, Legatus Augusti, I have that honour.’

  ‘And now you too chafe to be away to find Civilis and put him in his place. Don’t worry, Antonius, you’ll have your chance soon enough. The latest reports from those men sympathetic to our cause in the country to the north are that Civilis and his Batavians are in close attendance upon us, probably hoping to spring an ambush when we march out to take the campaign to their homelands. I doubt that it’ll be very long before we’re face-to-face with them, and then you’ll all have your chance to test your mettle against whatever’s left of their once-vaunted cohorts, won’t you.’

  Antonius dipped his head again.

  ‘So it seems, Legatus Augusti. And I have no doubt that you’ll find your army eager to come to grips with these traitors.’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’ Cerialis looked across the bridge and winked at the senior centurion. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, First Spear, there are important diplomatic matters to be attended to. There’s no peace for the conqueror, I can assure you of that!’

  He strode away across the bridge and the men around Antonius relaxed from their stiff stances, soft laughter from somewhere outside the circles of light betraying their amusement at the general’s eagerness for whatever it was he was going into the city to do.

  ‘There are important diplomatic matters to attend to?’ He turned to find the commander of the century that had been detailed to guard the bridge standing at his shoulder, his face split in a grin. ‘Well let’s face it, it’s not going to suck itself, is it?’

  Antonius laughed despite himself.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it is. Very well, since you’re in such good spirits you can go and make sure that the guard posts are all awake and paying attention while I stay here and keep an eye on your men.’

  ‘You think the barbarians might have a go at raiding the camp?’

  The senior centurion shrugged.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. You can take my word on that.’

 
‘I thought they were going to be slack and sleepy? They look sharp enough to me.’

  Alcaeus nodded, his teeth bared in a hard smile at Adalwin’s disappointment. Lanzo’s tent party were staring down into the legion encampment, huddled against the Mosella’s western bank, from the vantage point of the ridge that ran parallel with the river’s course four hundred paces to the west. The freshly constructed palisade was lit by the glow of a torch every ten paces, armed and armoured legionaries patrolling its exterior in sufficient numbers to make any covert approach likely to end in ignominious failure. As they watched, a centurion strode out through the closest of the camp’s three gates into the torchlight, his brisk walk and evident purpose leaving no doubt that this enemy was alert and ready for any attempt to attack.

  ‘You thought that we were going to be able to stroll up to the gates of their camp and saunter in, did you, Beaky? And there was me thinking that you’d got over that first flush of innocence, but clearly you’re still new enough to this life to take what your leaders tell you for the truth.’ The tight knot of men gathered around him chuckled quietly as their centurion continued. ‘It was ever thus, Soldier Adalwin. The men who lead this revolt have decided that the Romans will be relaxed and lazy after their victory over the Treveri, and so they drew up their plans with that expectation in mind. But while our leaders believe that the guard on those walls will be relaxed, we know from our first-hand experience the Twenty-first legion is unlikely ever to let its guard down, not even after a victory. No, we’ll have to do this the Batavi way. But before we do this, you’re all sure you want to follow me into the jaws of the beast?’

  When Hramn had brusquely passed Kivilaz’s order down to Alcaeus, Egilhard had been quick to volunteer alongside his centurion, and Lanzo’s men had equally swiftly asserted their right to be the men chosen to accompany their centurion into the heart of the enemy camp. Lataz put a hand on his shoulder, a rare moment of familiarity between two fighting men.

  ‘My idiot son has decided to go in there with you, which means that his uncle and I have no choice but to go in and make sure he doesn’t go playing at heroes. Which means that we have to take my other son for fear of the sulk we’ll all have to endure if we leave him behind.’

  Lanzo interjected.

  ‘I have come along to add some spurious impression that I’m still in command of these idiots, which means that we’re stuck with Tiny and Beaky. Although at least that means we won’t be short of muscles or bad jokes. And if it gets really bad we can just show them Levonhard’s face.’

  The centurion looked around his men for a moment, nodding slowly at their taut, determined faces.

  ‘I’ll put in a word for you all with the Allfather if I get sent to the Underworld before you. May you all receive Magusanus’s blessings and come through this ordeal stronger.’

  ‘I’d settle for being alive and still in possession of my cock and both balls.’

  Alcaeus snorted a laugh despite the solemnity of the moment.

  ‘And in that wish, Soldier Frijaz, you and I for once are of the same mind. Very well, if you’re all set on this, follow me.’

  He led them down the ridge’s slope, padding silently through the darkness, out across the tail of the flat plain on which the Roman camp had been built and on, down to the river’s edge, crouching low to avoid any risk of being seen by the alert legionaries. Raising a hand to gather the tent party back around him, he waited until Lanzo had brought up the party’s rear, his men’s boots sinking into the soft mud as they followed his example and squatted near to the ground close to the water’s edge.

  ‘Once we give the signal that we’re on our way, the cohorts will come forward and wait, far enough from their walls as to be invisible, ready to exploit the opening we’re going to give them. All we have to do is open the gate closest to the river and keep it open long enough for them to cross the remaining ground between them and the palisade.’

  ‘Is that all? I can’t imagine what I was worrying about …’

  The centurion smiled at Frijaz’s sarcasm.

  ‘That’s the problem with being the uncle of a famous hero. Everyone starts to think that you might just be cut from the same tree, and that they must have been doing you a disservice in calling you an idle drunkard for all those years.’ He raised a hand to his bowed forehead in prayer. ‘Mighty Hercules, I entreat you to cast a favourable eye over your faithful subjects as we go about your work. Keep these men safe from harm and make them strong in body and mind to fight and win this night.’ Raising his head, he looked around at his men expectantly. ‘Are you ready to die for the tribe? For Hercules?’ He waited for a moment, allowing his words to sink in, and baring his teeth in a silent snarl as the men around him nodded and muttered their assent. ‘Good. Keep that in mind. Be ready to sell your life dearly to bring glory to our father, but fight like animals to live, so that you can give him that glory and serve him for the rest of your lives.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Any man joining me in the Underworld with less than half a dozen spirits of enemy legionaries following him can expect a fucking good talking to. Lanzo, give the signal.’

  Grinning at their quiet laughs, he turned to the river, stalking noiselessly down to the water’s edge while the mournful hoot of an owl from Lanzo’s cupped hands summoned the cohorts from their hiding place on the ridge. Stepping into the river’s flow with deliberate ease, avoiding making any sound as his body eased into the water, the centurion immersed himself until only his helmeted head protruded above the surface. Moving slowly to prevent ripples that would reflect the torches’ light as they got closer to the Roman camp, he allowed the current to carry him downstream, nothing more than a dark spot in the river’s black water. Following his example, the men of the tent party sank into the river’s cold water, gasping quietly as the chill hit them, then allowed their bodies to drift with the current through the shallows close to the Mosella’s bank, plunging their hands into the mud beneath them to slow their progress and ensure that they stayed close enough to the shore not to be washed away into the river’s powerful flow. Following close enough to Alcaeus to be able to see the individual hobnails on his boots when they broke the surface, Egilhard held his breath as they floated slowly past the end of the camp’s palisade, gazing intently up at the silhouette of a legionary in the wall above them as the man stared out into the darkness beyond the light of the torches that lined the legion’s defences. Twenty paces further down the bank, Alcaeus turned his head and crawled slowly out of the water, shuffling up the muddy shore on his elbows and stopping with his calves and booted feet still in the Mosella’s flow. Egilhard eased his body alongside him, and followed the officer’s example as he scooped handfuls of mud from the river’s sodden bank and smeared them across his face, throat and hands. Leaning so close to his chosen man that his lips were almost touching Egilhard’s ear, he whispered a final instruction.

  ‘Gift me with a little of your god-given talent and watch my back, Achilles. I’d hate to find myself dead with a spear through me wielded by some lucky bastard I never saw coming.’

  Rising slowly to a crouch, he led the tent party forward over the bank’s lip, revealing the Roman camp in its full terrifying scale, a sea of leather tents studded with torches and the glowing embers of watch fires, sunk in the profound silence of the night with only the occasional cough from a restive sleeper and the voices of the sentries occasionally breaking the spell that seemed to have settled over the weary legion. Pointing at the closest tent, and the spears and shields propped up beside it, he issued a whispered order.

  ‘Arm yourselves.’

  Wincing at every tiny sound of wood and iron, they took the sleeping Roman tent party’s weapons, hefting the unfamiliar weight of legion spears with their long iron heads and the Romans’ curved oblong shields.

  Following Alcaeus between a pair of tents, and resisting the urge to giggle at the noise of snoring issuing from one of them, Egilhard sank gratefully into the shadow of the palisade, allowi
ng a long exhalation of pent-up breath to escape his lungs as his comrades slid noiselessly into cover one at a time, similarly painted black with slimy mud from the riverbank.

  ‘This smells more like shit than dirt.’

  Ignoring Frijaz’s whispered complaint, the wolf-priest pointed at the gate that was their objective, fifty paces distant and wreathed in the soft light of the torches set high on the palisade above it.

  ‘Slow and quiet until we get too close to avoid being seen, then fast and quiet until the gates are open. After that you can make all the noise you like. And keep your iron sheathed until we strike.’

  He started forward, crouching down into the darkest shadows, then froze in his place as a soldier climbed out of the closest tent, no more than ten paces distant. Reaching under his tunic and sighing gratefully as he emptied his bladder onto the hobnail-scarred turf, the unwitting legionary stared up at the stars, evidently enjoying the peace of the moment. Egilhard put a slow, stealthy hand to the handle of his dagger, ready to leap forward and cut the man’s throat.

  ‘Steady.’

  Alcaeus’s command was no more than a soft exhalation, both men watching the sleepy soldier as he shook himself, clearly still half-asleep. For a moment he stared directly at the shadows in which the raiders were concealed, then yawned, scratched his backside sleepily and crawled back into the tent.

  ‘Move.’

  Advancing down the palisade’s rough wooden wall, the centurion held up a hand to halt his men with thirty paces remaining between them and the pair of legionaries guarding the gate.

  ‘Wait.’

  The two men were talking softly, their voices indistinct murmurs, and as the men of the tent party watched, one of them sank to his knees before the other.

  ‘Gods below, he’s sucking the—’

  Ignoring Frijaz’s incredulous statement of the obvious, Alcaeus tapped Egilhard on the shoulder.

  ‘Go!’

  The young warrior was away almost before the command was out of his centurion’s mouth, darting past the officer and hurrying down the palisade with one hand on the hilt of his sword, exchanging stealth for speed as he dashed for the gate, leaving his sword sheathed to avoid it reflecting the light of the watch fires. The standing legionary looked up as he drew the blade, the rasping hiss of the iron blade on its scabbard’s throat furrowing his brow, then died as Egilhard whipped the point up and speared it through the hapless sentry’s throat, wrenching the blade free to leave the dying man swaying on his feet, blood bubbling from his mouth and nose with an explosive cough as he choked on it.