The Wolf's Gold: Empire V

by Anthony Riches

  The decurion looked down the length of the column slowly making its way past him, the cohort’s soldiers clearly on their last legs from the effects of the battle and subsequent march. The bigger men were working in pairs to carry either dead bodies which had been stripped of their armour and weapons or those of their comrades too badly hurt to walk, while the walking wounded were each supported on either side by one of their fellow soldiers. He recognised the scarred soldier who was frequently to be seen around Marcus with his arm locked under another man’s shoulders, the wounded man barely managing to stagger up the road’s steep slope, his face grey with the pain and exertion. Scaurus broke off from their conversation to exhort his men to one last effort.

  ‘Keep moving Tungrians! One last mile, and you can march back into Stone Fort with your heads held up!’

  Julius joined them, his expression every bit as exhausted as those of his men, and Silus took his arm in a warm greeting. The first spear nodded at him with a look of calculation.

  ‘Just the man I wanted to see.’

  Silus frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘Really? I’d have thought you’d never want to see another horseman for as long as you lived?’

  Julius shook his head with a weary smile.

  ‘No, Silus, you’re exactly what we need to motivate these men to cover the last distance to the fortress with their heads held up. Get back on your horse and lead your men to the head of the column and you’ll see what I mean.’

  Scaurus thought for a moment before nodding sagely.

  ‘Indeed. I can’t think of any better encouragement for these men.’ He patted Silus on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, Decurion, lead us home.’

  Shaking his head in puzzlement the cavalryman remounted his horse, leading his men back up the column’s length at an easy trot. The soldiers he was passing barely acknowledged his presence, and those that did so shot him looks of disdain before returning their gazes to the backs of the men marching before them. From behind him he heard Julius’s voice raised to bellow above the rapping of hobnails on the road’s cobbles, and with a sudden dawning of realisation he put a hand to his face in disgust just as the words Julius was shouting became clear.

  ‘The cavalry don’t wash their cocks when something dangling itches . . .’

  The reply was instantaneous, hundreds of voices raised in song which quickly swelled to encompass both cohorts as they yelled out the old favourite at the tops of their voices.

  ‘. . . the cheesy smell,

  of a festering bell,

  delights those sons of bitches!’

  Julius shouted a parting shot at the cavalryman’s back, his voice gleeful despite the exhaustion washing over him.

  ‘Well done, Silus, you’re just the man we needed! Now lads: The cavalry don’t pay for whores when drinking ’cause of course . . .’

  The soldiers were ready this time, and most of them were singing the verse well before he’d reached the end of the first line.

  ‘. . . why pay for gash,

  when you can smash,

  in the back doors of a horse?!’

  ‘Well they seem to be in very good spirits for men who were fighting off cavalry only an hour or so ago!’

  Leontius’s first spear shook his head with an expression of doubt.

  ‘Take a closer look, Tribune.’

  ‘The two men stood for a moment looking down from their vantage point above the fort’s gate at the approaching Tungrian cohorts before the prefect spoke again.

  ‘I see what you mean. They may be singing, but they look all in.’

  His senior centurion nodded, turning away.

  ‘Indeed they do, sir. I’d say that’s a body of men that have seen just about enough fighting for one day. If you’ll excuse me?’

  Leontius waved him away, and the first spear hurried down the wall’s wooden steps to ground level, ducking through the small wicket gate and walking briskly down the road to greet Scaurus and Julius at the head of the First Cohort. Saluting the tribune, he thrust out a hand to Julius with a look of awed respect.

  ‘Welcome back gentlemen! Your Decurion rode back ahead of you and briefed us as to your men’s condition, so I’ve taken the liberty of sending men to light watch fires in your lines. There’ll be a meal of stewed meat ready for you in a while, so all you have to do is get your soldiers into barracks and get them rested and ready for tomorrow morning’s fun. We’ll take the guard duty overnight, if that works for you?’

  Julius nodded gratefully, and called his chosen man over.

  ‘Send a runner down the column, all centuries are to parade into camp, clean and sharpen weapons and prepare for action in the morning. Food will be provided, and guard duty will be conducted by the Britons, so there are no excuses for all men not getting a good night’s sleep. Wounded men and all the bandage carriers are to report to the hospital.’

  Scaurus stepped closer to the first spear.

  ‘And what, exactly, do we believe tomorrow morning’s fun will entail, First Spear?’

  The First Britannica’s senior centurion pursed his lips, shaking his head slightly.

  ‘We’re really not sure, Tribune. Tribune Leontius has called a command conference to be held after the evening meal’s been taken, and I expect he’ll share everything we know with you then . . .’ He paused, eyeing the Tungrian column appraisingly. ‘I was about to say what a good state your men seem to be in, sir, given you’ve just fought off a cavalry attack, but you took your fair share of casualties from the look of it?’

  The tribune followed his gaze to the column, nodded at the sight of a stream of wounded men, some walking and nursing sword and spear wounds of varying severity to their arms and faces, while others were being supported between their comrades, their legs roughly bandaged with strips of wool obviously cut from barbarian clothing.

  ‘Sixty-three dead in action and another seven who had to be given the mercy stroke after the battle. Of the hundred or so wounded I expect the usual ratios to apply. Our medical staff will be having a busy time of it this evening.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. And once your medical staff have done what they can for the poor bastards I’ll have them on a cart and away to the east with an escort of horsemen. There’s no knowing exactly what will come up that valley tomorrow, but I’ll not have your women left at risk of what will happen to them if the barbarians manage to batter their way through our defences.’

  Scaurus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘I wish you the best of luck with that. The good lady doctor is of a rather fixed attitude when it comes to care of her patients.’

  The first spear opened his mouth to retort, then looked harder at the marching column.

  ‘Are those men prisoners?’

  The tribune nodded.

  ‘Yes, and they’re all yours. I think we’ve seen enough blood for one day.’

  The Tungrians were still settling back into their section of the encampment when a trumpet call from the fortress’s battlements announced the arrival of the first enemy scouts. Scaurus and Julius left their men to rest and recover from the day’s fighting and made their way to the walls, finding Tribune Leontius watching the Sarmatae riders picking their way up the valley towards the ditch. The fort’s commander spoke without taking his eyes off the riders.

  ‘We’ll let them take a while to work out that the valley’s impassable without their coming through us, before we give them something more to think about.’

  They waited in silence while the scouts explored the length of the fortification, and Leontius smiled grimly as they discovered the rows of fallen trees whose intertwined spiky branches made the slopes to either side impossible to traverse.

  ‘They’ll be back for a look at the bridge shortly. Bolt throwers, ready!’

  The heavy-weapons crews were already waiting by their equipment, and quickly wound on the last turns of torsion into their powerful bowstrings while iron-headed bolts were ceremoniously loaded onto the weapons. Silence
fell as the Sarmatae scouts made their way back across the valley, clustering together as they discussed the lay of the land around the fort.

  ‘Wait for my command! I want to kill as many of them as possible!’ He turned to the Tungrian officers with an excited grin. ‘Now we’ll see just how good these fellows are with live targets, eh?’

  The scouts gathered around the single bridge over the ditch, and in the afternoon’s pale winter sunlight Julius could see one man pointing at the crossing place, then waving his arms across the valley. Leontius turned to the weapon’s commander with a boyish grin.

  ‘I’d say that’s the man to kill, given the way he’s so busy telling the others his opinion. Let’s see if the other crews share my feelings. Take aim!’ He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed the command his men were waiting for. ‘Bolt throwers, prepare to shoot! He waited for a moment for the crews to take aim. ‘Shoot!’

  With a collective concussive thud, the four missile launchers unleashed their bolts, each one the length of a man’s arm and with sufficient power to punch through any armour. One of the bolts flew over the scouts’ heads by a hand’s width, prompting a barrage of cursing from the weapons’ crewmen, but the other three, their aim honed to near perfection by weeks of practice, placed their shots perfectly. The scouts’ apparent leader was punched from his horse like a rag doll tossed aside by a child, a puff of pink spray showing the massive damage done to him by the missile’s impact. Another bolt flew a fraction low, smashing clean through the neck of one of the horses and toppling it to the ground on top of its rider, while the third killed two men in succession as it blew through the first before lodging deep in the second man’s body. The remaining scouts dragged their horses round and fled at the gallop trailed by the riderless horses, while the successful bolt-thrower crews laughed and slapped each other on the back in delight. The prefect called out across the walls while the fallen animal struggled in its death throes.

  ‘Well done, gentlemen! So now the barbarians know to treat Stone Fort with a little more respect! Bolt-thrower crews, stand down! All we can do now is wait and see exactly what comes up the valley behind them.’

  The answer to that particular question came soon enough, with a blaring of horns clearly intended to overawe the defenders as they watched the Sarmatae host’s approach. Leontius took one look and ordered the defensive wall behind the long ditch to be manned by both cohorts of the Britons while the Thracians took up positions fifty paces behind them, ready to shower any potential attack with arrows. The infantrymen watched in impassive silence from behind the four-foot-high wall as the enemy force approached up the valley towards them. In the lead came a body of horsemen fully ten thousand men in strength, and behind them marched several rough columns of foot soldiers whose numbers darkened the valley’s floor.

  ‘Twenty thousand?’

  Julius shook his head in response to Scaurus’s question as the two men watched from the wall above the fort’s gate.

  ‘More like thirty. Which is a good deal more than was expected, according to your friend the Legatus. I wonder . . .’ His eyes narrowed as he stared out across the oncoming mass of the enemy, and his words took on a note of disgust. ‘Look at the flags, Tribune, and the answer becomes apparent.’

  Scaurus stared across the valley’s width uncomprehendingly for a moment, unsure of what it was he should be seeing, then put a hand to his head in sudden realisation.

  ‘Galatas? It can’t be . . .’

  Julius shook his head grimly.

  ‘It shouldn’t be, but it bloody well is. I’d know that banner anywhere.’

  A blood-red banner bearing the familiar white sword was floating proudly over a contingent of foot soldiers at the formation’s heart, and the tribune watched in bitter silence for a moment before speaking, spitting out the words in an angry torrent.

  ‘Well now, indeed that is King Galatas’s banner. Ten thousand in gold doesn’t seem to buy the sort of loyalty it used to, does it? There’s a part of me that wishes our departed colleague Domitius Belletor was here to see just how long the peace he thought he was purchasing lasted. A small part, mind you.’

  They watched as the barbarian host halted its march five hundred paces down the valley from the fort’s defences and pitched camp with impressive speed. Leontius walked down the wall to join them, one corner of his mouth turned up in a sardonic smile.

  ‘I’ve set my first spear to doing something creative with the prisoners you brought in this morning. We’ll give this collection of uncouth tent dwellers something to think about when the time comes.’ He pointed out from the walls. ‘And now here comes the bit where they exhort us to leave with our skins intact . . .’

  A party of twenty or so men was advancing towards the ditch-bridge beneath a flag of truce, half of them richly dressed and with gold flashing at their throats, the remainder hard-faced warriors marching before them with heavy shields. A single decapitated head was hoisted over their heads on a long spear, but another dozen lances were raised alongside it in a clear signal of intent. They stopped at the far end of the bridge and stood staring at the ranks of soldiers arrayed along the ditch to either side, and Leontius grinned at their hesitancy to advance any further.

  ‘Shall we go and see what it is that our enemies have to say for themselves? Although I suspect they’ve only really come forward to have a look at our defences, rather than with any real intention of any meaningful discussion.’

  The cohorts’ tribunes and first spears walked out of the fort’s main gate behind a half-circle of soldiers chosen for their size and sheer ugliness, every man’s face having been scarred in battle over the years. They faced the Sarmatae nobles across the bridge’s thirty-pace length, and Tribune Leontius called out across the gap between the two parties.

  ‘Well now, I presume that one of you gentlemen is King Purta?’ A fur-clad noble stepped forward, a golden crown atop his head, a pair of shield men moving to provide him with protection. The tribune grinned across the bridge, barking out a terse laugh before calling out to his opponent. ‘I respect your men’s desire to shield you Purta, but if I were minded to kill you now then a single gesture to my bolt-thrower crews would send you to meet your ancestors rather sooner than you might have expected. I am however a man of honour, and so just this once I will hold back from having you executed, despite your obvious intention to do your very best to kill me, and sooner rather than later from the look of it. The next time you approach this bridge the story will be somewhat different, unless you do so under a flag of surrender.’ He took a deep breath, then waved a hand at the defences arrayed behind him. ‘And in any case, it seems to me that you’ve come a long way only to be faced with disappointment, wouldn’t you say?’

  The Sarmatae leader stepped forward once more, raising his voice in reply.

  ‘Far from it, Roman, I see an open road with only a small obstruction to be brushed aside. Whether you attempt to hinder me or run before me the result will be much the same. While your legions tremble with fear behind the mountains I will smash my way through you and into this ‘province’ of yours by simple weight of numbers. And as you well know, once I am behind the line of your defences I can unleash my horsemen, and force the rest of your army to retreat simply by threatening your settlement at Napoca. We will see just how brave your legionaries are when they are forced to come out from behind their walls and face a host of this size on an open battlefield.’

  Leontius nodded, muttering an aside to his colleagues.

  ‘He’s got a point there, wouldn’t you say?’

  He turned back to the Sarmatae, spreading his arms in an eloquent shrug.

  ‘Your point is indeed most clearly made. And since I’ve never considered myself a particularly talkative man, I thought I’d demonstrate my resolve to you in a more practical way, just to be sure that you don’t mistake my honouring your flag of truce for weakness.’

  He turned back to the fortress and waved an arm, then swung back to w
atch the Sarmatae chieftains’ faces as a cross was raised on the fort’s battlements, the naked body of a battered warrior nailed to its timbers.

  ‘The horsemen who played such a cruel trick on our legion cohort this morning were commanded by a man who, while he was suitably devious in waiting for the right time to reveal his hand, was less discerning in whom he chose for his victims. I expect you will have discovered the remains of his band on a frozen lake back down the valley? They made the mistake of picking a fight for which they were somewhat ill-prepared.’

  He waited for a moment, allowing the sight of one of their own crucified on the fort’s battlements to sink in, smiling as a second nobleman wearing a golden crown stepped out from behind the shield men. Scaurus’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he raised an eyebrow at Julius.

  The Sarmatae stared back at him for a moment before calling out across the bridge.

  ‘Well met once more, Tribune Scaurus.’

  Scaurus nodded.

  ‘Balodi. King Balodi now, I presume, given that you seem to be wearing a good deal more gold than the last time we met?’ The Sarmatae nodded impassively, and Scaurus stared at him for a long moment before continuing. ‘Well then, King Balodi, you will be unsurprised to hear that I find myself unable to express any pleasure at our meeting, given the extra weight you’re carrying around on your head.’

  The Sarmatae laughed out loud, using a forefinger to tap the crown with which he had proclaimed his nephew as king only a week before.

  ‘This? It seemed wasted on a stripling like my brother’s son. And besides, he felt obliged by his promise to you that he would withdraw his men from the war’ – he held his hands up in apparent amazement – ‘Whereas I, being both older and somewhat wiser in the ways of the world, obviously felt no such compunction.’

  Scaurus regarded him with a level stare for a moment.

  ‘You have no idea how dispiriting it is to discover that a man who initially seemed so reasonable is just another bastard. Although you’re not just a bastard, are you Balodi, you’re a clever, scheming, ruthless, murdering bastard, I’ll give you that. Once your brother was dead you knew that Inarmaz would contest with you for the throne, so you took the opportunity we offered and convinced us to do most of your dirty work for you.’