RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

  The older man spat a mouthful of blood, his eyes blazing as he stepped forward to confront his former tent mate.

  ‘I never said I wouldn’t fight!’

  ‘You might not, but I can see it in your eyes! You think this is over! And it might just be! But as long as we have strength to lift our swords then if Kiv tells us to fight, we fight!’ He shook his head at the other man. ‘Because if we don’t, then all those men we’ve lost might as well just have cut their own throats! And I’ll tell you another thing. If we’re heard talking that way then Alcaeus will pay for it as well, not just us. Do you want to drop the best centurion in all the cohorts in the shit like that? Hramn would reduce him to the ranks in a heartbeat, given the chance.’

  Levonhard looked at him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

  ‘You’re right. We have to fight on. But I’m only doing it for our people, not for Kiv. That bastard lost my respect when he took the news that we’d lost half our strength to his nephew’s incompetence with nothing more than a shrug.’

  Egilhard would have replied, but his attention was caught by a man hurrying back down the column and he moved to block the messenger’s way.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  The soldier answered without breaking stride as he hurried on.

  ‘The war band Kiv billeted on the Ubii has been slaughtered! The bastards got them all pissed and then set fire to the hall they were billeted in! We’re to march on the Old Camp and mount a defence there!’

  The tent party looked at each other in silence, and after a moment Levonhard shook his head and turned away.

  ‘You lot can keep telling each other how we can still come out of this on top all you like. I think we’re done. And I think we all know it.’

  Germania Inferior, May AD 70

  ‘Well that seems to have worked well enough, doesn’t it, gentlemen?’ Cerialis looked around at his officers, gathered in his command tent, with a satisfied smile. The Twenty-first had pounded east in pursuit of their Batavi quarry for days, and the news that their enemy would not be able to fortify Colonia Agrippina was welcome to the weary soldiers. ‘If this report is to be believed, my diplomacy in the city of the Treveri has dealt Civilis something of a blow, and not just because he’s lost men he was depending on to stiffen his army’s resolve. I told you the lady in question wielded sufficient influence to achieve something that would rock Civilis back on his heels, and she seems to have delivered handsomely.’

  Legatus Longus inclined his head in a gesture of respect.

  ‘If any man here ever doubted your ability in that respect, Legatus Augusti, this result will have silenced those doubts, of that I have absolutely no doubt.’

  The army commander nodded happy agreement.

  ‘Yes, and so much for the idea that the Ubians might have lost their ferocity after a century living on our side of the river, eh? We should all have known better, of course, but I’ll admit that even I wondered if they had it in them to resist the Batavians.’

  The news from Colonia Agrippina had been shocking even to men accustomed to the bestial behaviour of the German tribes. Invited to a feast in their honour, the men who had been left to ensure the Ubians’ cooperation with the Batavi had been plied with alcohol until they had fallen into a state of insensibility, at which point the doors of the hall in which they were gathered had been locked shut and the building itself set alight. Not a single warrior had escaped the blaze, and the Ubians had sent a messenger to the advancing Roman army with the welcome news that, denied of their support, Civilis had turned north and was headed for the Old Camp’s burned-out ruins.

  ‘We have them on the run, gentlemen! And if that isn’t sufficient cause for celebration, I also have word from my colleague Fabius Priscus, commander of the Fourteenth Legion. It seems that he has crossed the sea from Britannia with his entire legion, marched south and engaged both the Tungrians and Nervians, forcing both tribes to abandon their pledges of loyalty to Civilis. Not that I’d imagine there was much force required. The sight of a magnificent body of men like the Fourteenth will have been enough to scare the life out of them, I’d have thought. Apparently the Nervians have raised a good-sized force of men to join our army, and intend taking their frustrations out on the Batavians’ allies, starting with the Cananefates. This is the time to strike, now, while the enemy are still trying to work out their next step. And if Civilis wants to abandon the initiative by digging himself a defensive position at the Old Camp, then so much the better! We will march north at first light tomorrow, gentlemen, and you can tell your men that we march to give battle to these rebels one final time. We’ll crush what’s left of his army and then set about teaching his tribe what it means to defy Rome.’

  Longus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the order.

  ‘It will be as you command. But what of the Ubians’ other news, Legatus Augusti? This offer of theirs might be a very useful negotiating tool, if we ever reach the point of Civilis suing for peace as First Spear Aquillius’s priest friend seemed to think likely.’

  Longus smiled at Aquillius, who was standing close behind Cerialis with one hand on the hilt of his sword, evidently completely dedicated to his new role as the general’s bodyguard, but the big centurion’s only recognition of the point was a curt nod.

  ‘What, their offer to send us Civilis’s wife and son?’

  ‘Yes, Legatus Augusti. Surely that’s too good a chance to be turned down?’

  Cerialis shook his head briskly.

  ‘Not in my opinion. We’re not here to conduct war against women and children. And besides, were we to take them into custody we’d be handing a moral advantage to our enemy, and not one that he deserves either, not after the various massacres and betrayals he’s inflicted upon anyone that’s got in the way of his lust for power. No, send word that his relatives are to be returned to the Batavi Island with all due care for their well-being.’

  Longus nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s very … noble of you, Petillius Cerialis.’

  The general shrugged.

  ‘It might be seen as such. Indeed I’ll make very sure that it reads that way when the histories of this war are written, a demonstration of Rome’s humanity towards the defeated. But in truth, Pontius Longus, my thinking isn’t entirely philanthropic. I intend to use every and any means of painting our enemy Civilis as the villain of this whole dirty little war, as a means of detaching him from the support of his people. By the time I’m done they’ll be sick of him, and see their sacrifices as being exactly that – theirs. When it becomes apparent to them that he’s not sharing their tribulations I’d imagine that their patience with their prince will soon wear thinner than a beggar’s tunic. Once we’re done convincing his people that he’s the only man benefiting from their struggles, he’s going to wish he’d never started this war.’

  Germania, May AD 70

  ‘You ready hunt. Ready to hunt.’

  Beran smiled across the fire at Marius, tipping his head in recognition of the slow but steady expansion of his vocabulary.

  ‘I feel stronger. But whether I’ll be able to do anything more than scare the beasts away is yet to be seen.’

  The German shrugged.

  ‘Is simple. My father teach me, I teach you. Got no son, but hunt brother enough. You become hunter, hunt forest, I happy.’

  The Roman shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘You know my story. I’m a centurion, which means that I have a duty to my legion.’

  Beran stared back at him with an expression utterly lacking concern.

  ‘You legion dead. You tell Beran that.’

  Marius nodded slowly.

  ‘That’s true. But I swore an oath to serve the emperor.’

  The other man laughed.

  ‘Which emperor? Even here in forest Beran know that emperor fight war against emperor. Beran think you oath to emperor dead.’

  ‘Perhaps. But once a centurion …’ He shrugged. ‘So, tell me how to
be a mighty hunter like you.’

  ‘Is not hard. But need practice. And must know secrets.’

  The Roman raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Secrets?’

  Beran nodded.

  ‘Some secrets. You not know secrets, you not be hunter. And first secret this.’ He paused for a moment to emphasise the portentous nature of what he was about to reveal to the Roman. ‘First, you learn see with ears.’

  ‘To see with my ears?’

  The German smiled at the note of doubt in his pupil’s voice.

  ‘Yes. To see with ears. You learn this, I teach. In forest, you seen, you lose beast. So you not be seen. Listen, not look.’

  ‘See with my ears. Very well.’

  ‘Second secret is that when you in forest, you be forest.’

  Marius pursed his lips uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Be the forest?’

  ‘You man. You smell like man. Beast know man smell. Beast smell you, he run. So you must smell like forest, not like man. But that easy. That just smell of skit.’

  ‘Shit?’

  ‘Yes, skit.’ Marius grimaced, and Beran grinned at his distaste. ‘But more than just skit. Is …’ the German pulled a face as he pondered the right words to use. ‘Is be like forest. Not like man.’ He shrugged. ‘I teach. You learn. You be good hunter, like you good soldier, yes?’

  He continued without waiting for the Roman to reply, tapping a third finger.

  ‘Three. When Beran hunt, he hunt slow. Man not need chase beast through forest. If man understand forest spirit, then beast come to man. When Beran hunt he patient like spider, move so slow that he become part of forest. I teach you this.’

  The Roman nodded.

  ‘I can see that I have much to learn.’

  The German raised his hand.

  ‘One more secret. Most important secret and hardest for you. Hunt slow, but strike fast. Strike like snake.’

  Marius nodded confidently.

  ‘I’ve been slinging spears for most of my life. I doubt that killing animals is very different to killing men.’

  To his disquiet, Beran laughed softly.

  ‘Hah! You think? We soon find out.’

  The Old Camp, Germania Inferior, May AD 70

  ‘You think this is going to work?’

  Kivilaz nodded at Draco with the confident air of a man certain of his own abilities.

  ‘Without any doubt. Come, I’ll show you.’

  The two men walked out onto the marshy ground in front of the intended battle line that had been drawn to the ruined fortress’s south, its carefully chosen positions marked with a series of wooden posts, Draco supporting his weaker leg with the staff he took everywhere and probing the grass in front of him for potential mud pools.

  ‘You see? The line that we’ll take up when the Romans approach is the edge of the higher ground. Standing here, where I expect them to try to come at us, we’re a good two or three feet below the ground on which we’ll be fighting.’

  ‘And it’s this much different in height along the entire length of this line you intend to hold?’

  The Batavi war chief shrugged.

  ‘Not at all points. Mostly the difference is a foot or so, but deeper areas like this will trap the unwary and make their advance even more hesitant. Whereas our men will know where the deeper sections are, and will skirt around them. Do you remember fighting in knee-deep water, back in the days when that was part of the training we undertook on joining the cohorts, as preparation for having to fight our way ashore if it came to an opposed landing on the far side of a river?’

  Draco smiled ruefully.

  ‘Of course. It was ten times harder than it looked, having to push our legs through all that mud.’

  ‘There you are. They’ll come at us through the shallows, thinking it will be easy, but they’ll already be exhausted by the time they reach us.’

  ‘And we’re going to flood this ground how, exactly?’

  ‘I’ve had the idea of it in my mind since the first time I saw this place.’

  He led the limping elder to the riverbank, where they looked out over the toiling men of the cohorts, their tunics black with thick, cloying mud from the turf sections they were carrying from behind the intended battle line to deposit in the river’s shallows, their legs caked from walking out onto the slowly lengthening dam to deposit their loads.

  ‘How long do you think will be needed to start diverting water over the river’s bank?’

  ‘Half a day, no more.’

  ‘And the scouts say that Cerialis will arrive in two. Time enough for the flooded ground to soften up, I’d have thought. But what’s to stop them from simply going round this water obstacle?’

  Kivilaz grinned knowingly.

  ‘There’s a ridge of higher ground on the right flank, almost high enough to break the surface once it’s flooded, but beyond that the height difference is worse for the most part, and extending out over a mile and more. I’ve had a channel cut in that bar, only a foot deep so as not to drain this area, which means that by the time there’s a Roman army facing us here, the ground over which they might have outflanked us will be a lake. Cerialis will either have to go somewhere else and leave us in possession of the Old Camp, or take a gamble and try to push us off our ground. I’m of the expectation that, as usual, he won’t be able to refuse the chance for total victory that I appear to be offering him.’

  Draco nodded, looking back at the defensive line the tribes would hold in the event of a battle.

  ‘It’s clever, Kivilaz, worthy of the tribe. But surely this won’t be enough to stop him? He has fresh legions in his army now, including our former parent the Fourteenth, who, I don’t need to remind you, hate us with a passion. Can we really hope to defeat them?’

  Kivilaz shook his head.

  ‘Can we defeat them? Not at this battle. This will end in a deadlock, I expect, with neither side able to beat the other. They won’t be able to get to grips with us and make their superior numbers work, and we won’t be able to live with them if we allow them to tempt us into a straight fight. But my objective isn’t to win, Draco, it’s to bleed them. If I kill and wound one fifth of their force I’ll be content as long as we lose half as many men, because my aim isn’t to win this fight, or the one that will follow soon enough. My aim is to handle them roughly every time they come at us, making use of our superior knowledge of the ground, and to send each successive attack away with enough casualties to leave ragged holes in their ranks. After three, or four, or five such battles they will start to think better of their determination, and sue for peace. Peace on our terms. I am sure of it.’

  The elder looked at him for a moment before speaking.

  ‘You plan to end this war by forcing Cerialis to the negotiating table?’

  Kivilaz nodded confidently.

  ‘When the time is right.’

  ‘You believe we cannot win?’

  ‘I do. We could have won, of course we could. At Gelduba, when the cohorts were so cruelly punished for a moment of ill-fortune, we might have destroyed three legions and captured their commanders rather than losing so many of our best men, which would have left us in total control of all the land from the sea to the mountains with Gaul at our feet. And again, if we had followed my preferred course of action when the Romans took Augusta Trevorum, and lured them out into the country where we could have tempted them into a carefully laid ambush, with all our force descending on them from all sides at the same moment, we might have utterly destroyed their army before the other legions had time to arrive. But now, against so many legions, and having suffered so many losses? No, I no longer believe that we can win, but neither do I believe we have to lose, or not in the manner that the Romans intend.’

  Draco nodded slowly.

  ‘I concur. You’ve spoken to no other man this way, I presume?’

  ‘Only to you. I owe you my honesty, Father of the Tribe.’ He looked out over the water. ‘There will be peace,
but it must be peace on our terms. No Roman boots on our soil. Our cohorts to remain based on our land, and not banished to some far-away corner of the empire. And the Batavi to be independent of the empire, our tribe an ally rather than a subject. I know the Romans, as do you, and I also know this man Cerialis and his father-in-law Vespasianus. There will be a written set of instructions from the new emperor telling this legatus what to do under varying circumstances, how to negotiate if they have the upper hand, or if the campaign is deadlocked, and what to do if they have lost so much strength as to make conquering our people an impossibility. All I aim to do is to push Cerialis until he’s negotiating from the weakest possible circumstances. And to that I have to kill legionaries. A lot of legionaries.’

  The elder pondered for a moment.

  ‘And on behalf of the tribal council I agree with both your strategy and your logic in not sharing it with your army. But I do have one suggestion to make.’

  Kivilaz dipped his head respectfully.

  ‘Father of the Tribe?’

  ‘Put a ditch in front of the battle line. It’ll stop the legions getting to grips with our men and preserve them to fight another day if the enemy do manage to get this far.’

  The Old Camp, Germania Inferior, June AD 70

  ‘This can’t be all there is to their defence.’

  Pugno looked out across the open ground between the rebel battle line and the waiting legions, slitting his eyes against the glare of sunlight reflecting off the standing water that covered much of its expanse.

  ‘You don’t think the water is a problem?’

  He turned back to look up at Longus, who had sensibly opted to stay in his horse’s saddle rather than soak the leather of his immaculately polished boots with filthy water while Cerialis had ridden down the army’s line telling each legion that this was to be the day of their victory, his speech to the Twenty-first having done little to improve Pugno’s temper due to its brief and somewhat off-hand reference to the Twenty-first’s proud history, and rather more to his stated expectation that the battle to come would cement the legion’s reputation. It was, the irascible first spear had barked at nobody in particular and without the slightest reduction in his usual strident tone, not his legion that needed to burnish its repute any further, his demeanour still one of disgruntled irritation an hour later, with mutterings such as ‘cement his fucking reputation, more likely’ and ‘more like semen than cement’. He waved a dismissive hand at the legatus, shaking his head emphatically.