Bear and the Wolf

by S. J. A. Turney

  Brigius glared at the man, half wishing Vitalis would attack him so that he could fight back and unhorse the prick. Instead, the prefect simply made more odd hand signals at the scout and then turned to his men behind the trees, gesturing for them to be ready.

  Gradually, as the moments passed, their progression mapped out in Brigius’s body by his o’er-hasty heartbeat, he began to hear the familiar and distinctive noises of the Maeatae warband moving along the valley below. He felt the tension rising, like the torsion cables in a scorpion as the men ratcheted back the arms ready to loose their missile. His ears popped. He suddenly decided that he really should have gone for a pee while he had the chance.

  ‘Attack,’ hissed Vitalis, waving his signal.

  Unlike a battle of the legions or the auxiliary infantry Brigius was used to, no horns blew and no standards were waved. In virtual silence more than two hundred cavalry poured out from the treeline and hurtled towards the lip of the hill and the valley below. Across the vale, Brigius could see the other half of the horse moving down to meet them and crush the Maeatae between the hammer and anvil.

  Brigius made ready but held fast as yet, waiting. He would not be expected to launch into the thick of it with the Numidians, and he was at best a mediocre horseman. He was their guide. He would be expected to stay with Vitalis and the prince, protected by fifty praetorian horsemen personally selected by Caracalla for their strength and loyalty.

  ‘Come, Briton,’ said the prefect, gesturing to the hillside with his sword as the cavalry swept past in a strange silence, the rumble of their hooves on the peaty turf the only sound of the approaching cataclysm. ‘See how my men fight a battle.’

  The prince and his praetorians were similarly now moving to the edge of the hill.

  Brigius approached the lip and watched his plan coming together with dreadful success.

  As the two groups of horsemen crested the hill and their presence was suddenly registered by over a thousand warriors below, huddled in the centre of the valley, they let loose their war cries. Brigius had heard the barritus chant of the German warriors, brought from their dark forests and let loose in their new life as Roman auxilia. He had heard the chants of the northernmost tribes of this island, and the honking and booing of the old-style native carnyx. He had never heard the shrill calls of the Numidians, and the sound cut through him like a surgeon’s saw, making him shudder.

  They issued an ululation in high tones that sounded like some kind of dreadful spirit hunting in the world of men, and half a thousand voices struck a bone-chilling harmony with it as they swept in for the kill.

  Brigius felt his heart thumping in his mouth. How well balanced was it all? Over a thousand Maeatae foot against half a thousand Numidian horse? That had been the number Senna had estimated would come, and she seemed to have been blessedly correct. More would have changed things entirely, especially given what Brigius had seen – the Maeatae spears designed to reach a horseman before he could reach you. The Numidians were new to the wall area, but the local tribes had observed Roman cavalry operating in the region for half a century, were horse people themselves, and they knew what they were about. The Numidians had to win and the Maeatae to die, but not without bringing everything a hair’s breadth from mutual destruction.

  ‘How is your sword arm, soldier?’ asked the prince as he rode out of his praetorian protection.

  ‘Strong, Highness, though I have never swung it from a horse before.’

  Caracalla gave an unpleasant, oily laugh, like the bubbling contents of a pot of burning pitch. His eyes glittered with barely-controlled malice. ‘I shall not require you to distinguish yourself, but I wish to be part of this, so come on. Draw your blade and prepare to wet it with Maeatae blood.’

  And even as Brigius felt a hundred generations of his wife’s family shaking their heads at him for what he was about to do, the prince was trotting and then cantering down the slope, his praetorians keeping pace with him. Vitalis gave Brigius a hard, meaningful look and then rode on behind them. Brigius felt his heart thundering again. What was the prince doing? Against all expectations everything was working exactly as he’d hoped, but now Caracalla was putting himself in the way of danger. Brigius had hoped he might get away with this, but his life would prove to be short and excruciatingly painful if he was the man who led the emperor’s son into a fight that got him killed. He had to go with the prince, to protect him if he could. But once he was down among that scuffle, what was the chance that one of the Maeatae would recognise him as Senna’s husband? The one who had betrayed them by signing up with the Romans and had clearly done so again now.

  The fighting was already bitter and difficult as the prince and his retinue reached the valley floor. The few Maeatae with horses had discovered swiftly that, despite their history of breeding sturdy beasts for hill work, the Numidians had long-since perfected the art of killing from the saddle. The native horsemen were removed from the field with brutal speed and efficiency, and then the work of butchering the infantry began. This latter, though, was proving more troublesome for the prince’s men than they’d expected. The Britons’ long spears plucked Numidians from their horses and impaled them, while well-muscled warriors with axes took the legs out from under the riders’ beasts. It was bloody work and hard-fought on both sides.

  Brigius’s initial fears for Caracalla’s safety were clearly unfounded, though. The prince moved to intercept a small clash at the edge of the main fight, and his praetorians, who were in no way going to risk their imperial master, cut down the Maeatae there, leaving just one limping, wounded man with a broken arm for the prince. Either Caracalla had not realised how much his men were mollycoddling him, or he didn’t care. He exhibited a unseemly level of glee, snorting with laughter as he hacked the good arm from the poor, ruined Maeatae warrior. Even as the man screamed and fell to his knees, Caracalla trotted back a few paces and then turned, riding the man down, snapping bones and crushing him beneath the horse’s hooves.

  The dying native gave a last blood-curdling scream and then fell silent as the prince danced his horse back and forth across the twisted, broken form for good measure. Brigius was not so protected by the praetorians, and his attention was torn from the grisly spectacle as Prefect Vitalis shouted his name urgently.

  He turned to see a Maeatae warrior with a spear and more hair than one man had any right to, running at him and screaming imprecations. The Numidians, of course, could understand nothing their victims were shouting. To them it was barbarian noise just as much as their own ululations were to the Maeatae. But Brigius could understand them, and was grateful his mother couldn’t hear some of the things the hairy bastard was saying about her.

  The man thrust with the spear and Brigius, inexpert horseman that he was, ducked urgently to the side. The spear tip caught the sleeve of his mail shirt in passing and simply tore through it, shredding the sleeve and sending a hundred iron links out into the afternoon air. Brigius gave the man no chance to recover as his momentum carried him forward with the spear still held proud. Brigius’s sword – a spatha with a long blade and keen edge – came down in a single chop, slamming into the back of the man’s bare neck as he passed and biting deep into the spine. The warrior gave a sharp cry and fell, almost yanking the sword from Brigius’s hand. By some miracle the soldier managed to hold on to the hilt as the body fell away with a most unpleasant cracking and sucking noise, but Brigius had little time to deal with the horror of the blow, for someone was running at him and shouting his name.

  He blinked at the sudden realisation of what that meant and felt his bones chill as his gaze picked out the figure of Dubnus racing towards him with a sword held above his head. It was an impossible decision. To widow his sister-in-law was a dreadful notion. But even if Dubnus could be persuaded to leave him, or Brigius somehow subdued the man, Dubnus would know it was him who had betrayed the tribe, and his life with Senna and her father would be over.

  He hardened his heart. What he was doing
might look like warmongering, but the end goal was peace. To remove the maniacs from both sides of the wall and leave only those who could happily coexist. And nothing – nothing – was going to endanger his future with Senna and Atto.

  He parried the first blow but Dubnus, for all his pig-headed obstinacy and lack of intellect, contained the same sort of low cunning as a weasel and the tenacity that came with just being born on this island. Even as his blow failed, he dropped and swung again, his second swipe hacking through the foreleg of Brigius’s horse. The beast screamed and fell, and Brigius tumbled from the saddle with some difficulty, rolling across the floor and concentrating mostly on not stabbing himself with his own blade in the process.

  He rose to find Dubnus coming at him again like a charging bull, teeth bared and eyes ablaze.

  He deflected that blow too, with a little difficulty as he collected his wits from the fall. Then again and again Dubnus struck, his heavy sword clanging against the Roman spatha as he drove Brigius steadily back.

  ‘You… traitor,’ snarled his brother-in-law, hammering at him again as they moved inexorably backwards. ‘You cursed, small, Roman traitor!’

  Brigius was still turning blows and trying to stand under the furious onslaught.

  ‘You did this,’ shouted Dubnus. ‘You! I thought you hated these riders as much as anyone. Why?’

  Clearly the question was never intended for an answer as Dubnus roared and launched at him again. Brigius deflected another two strikes and prepared himself for the third…

  Which never came.

  Panting with exertion and shaking uncontrollably, Brigius looked up.

  Dubnus was standing in front of him, sword raised ready for a killing blow, but he himself was being held in place with a blade. Behind Dubnus, the sneering face of Prefect Vitalis looked down at them along the length of the sword he had rammed through Dubnus’ neck.

  Thank you Mars Cocidius for your aid.

  For it had to be the work of the god that a man Brigius so hated had come to his aid and prevented him from having to kill his own brother-in-law, which would bring down a curse on a man of any tribe.

  As Dubnus gurgled and choked, Brigius rose, his face creasing with sadness.

  Vitalis yanked his sword from the neck and wiped it on Dubnus’ torso even as the man stood, choking and dying. With a snort, the prefect kicked the gurgling body so that it fell face down in the blood-and-mud-soaked turf.

  ‘You lost an expensive horse,’ Vitalis said in a tone that made Brigius want to break his nose. He looked around the valley. It was all-but over, though the butchery had been far from one-sided.

  ‘There seem to be spares,’ Brigius replied nastily.

  He found one of the riderless horses at the periphery, selecting a beast with less wild eyes than some, and hauled himself up wearily before riding back towards the emperor’s son and his praetorian guardsmen. Caracalla was once more enjoying himself pulverising a crippled warrior as his guardsmen picked off the last few enemy in the area.

  ‘They fought well, these Maeatae,’ the prince said finally, looking somewhat disappointed that the man he had been tormenting had finally died. ‘If only they could be trusted enough to be part of our world. Sadly, it seems they are destined only to be a memory. A name whispered on the lips of historians.’ His gaze focused on Brigius. ‘Take us to their camp. We will continue the cleansing at their own hearth.’

  Brigius felt the chill return, but was saved by Vitalis, of all people.

  ‘Highness, there is simply no way we can consider continuing a campaign with the men with have. We were not prepared for the savagery of these natives. They cut down the horses to get to the men and were surprisingly accurate with a long spear. I have lost more than four hundred riders!’

  Caracalla’s already low brow almost crashed into his nose in astonishment. ‘How is this possible? Your men are the best.’

  Vitalis nodded, and his eyes flicked to Brigius for a moment before he refocused on the prince and continued. ‘Nevertheless, the fact remains that I have lost three quarters of my riders in one engagement. We must return to Vindolanda, Highness. Your praetorians are now our main fighting force until we are back among the Second.’

  Brigius could see the disappointment and ire at work in the prince’s face, but finally he nodded.

  The soldier sat on his borrowed horse for a while as the few wounded enemy were dispatched and the few wounded Numidians thrown over horses for the return journey. All the time, he could hear Caracalla disparaging the tribes of Britannia for their underhand and barbaric tactics, vaunting the skills of his near-destroyed Numidians, and claiming heroic victory on a personal level over three native warriors. Brigius felt sick. And every time he looked at Vitalis, he found that the prefect was watching him intently. The same look the man had thrown at him when he was speaking to the prince. Had he somehow sensed a connection between Brigius and Dubnus?

  Whatever the case, as yet there was no evidence to label Brigius as anything but the loyal soldier he claimed to be.

  As yet…

  His gaze rose to the hilltops to the west, and he could just make out figures moving among the trees. The scouts had not seen them, for they were concentrating on the mess in the valley. Fast figures. Lithe figures. Unseen figures.

  It was almost over.

  As his gaze dropped once more to his dreadful surroundings, he found Vitalis watching him again.

  CHAPTER 8

  There was an odd atmosphere as the remnants of the prince’s army rode south. The Numidians had been in part elated by their total victory, for not one Maeatae heart had been left beating on the battlefield, and these horsemen lived to fight and to kill. And yet once the fire of combat had faded in their eyes, two stark realities had settled on them.

  Firstly their unit had been all-but destroyed. They had come to Britannia proud and powerful, untouchable and with the prince’s own hand on their shoulder. But now, with only eighty two functioning men left, and some of them injured, they would strike fear into no-one’s heart. And the Second would likely take advantage of the change in proportions on their return. They had lost their edge, and until they left this soggy, gods-forsaken island, they could not recruit to fill their ranks, for Vitalis would no more have a Briton in his unit than marry one.

  And secondly, they had dishonoured their fallen. It was the custom of their people to bury their dead with great ceremony beneath stone tombs under the great wide sky, but they had been forced to leave their fallen on the blood-soaked turf of the valley alongside the Maeatae. They’d had no time to raise a mound and perform the rites. The prince had ordered them south immediately, afeared that other natives might fall upon them in their moment of weakness. And so more than four hundred Numidian dead lay among the natives as though they were brothers in misfortune, mouldering into the earth as one people.

  Similarly, Caracalla himself was intermittently excited by his kills and the victory he could claim in defence of the empire, and sour that he had lost so many of his favoured and loyal cavalry. His mood-swings were, in fact, distressing enough that Brigius had begun to suffer something of a headache and had gradually pulled apart from the emperor’s son to rest his ears.

  Once or twice over the fifteen or so miles southeast of Twin Rivers, Brigius had surreptitiously looked up at the hillsides, half expecting to see figures keeping pace with them. The bare moors and stark treelines remained devoid of human life, which was either a good sign, or a very bad one. Hopefully the figures were ahead and everything was in place.

  Seemingly every time he glanced up, Prefect Vitalis was watching him. The air of suspicion around the prefect was growing with every mile, and Brigius could feel the weight of the man’s disapproval pressing down on him. If the Numidian officer obtained even the shadow of a hint that Brigius had been instrumental in all of this, the soldier was certain he would end his days on a cross outside the gates of Vindolanda. He swallowed nervously, the image of nails hammering into his
flesh, pinning him to the timber assailing him whether his eyes were open or closed.

  The Valley of the Stag Spirits was a sacred place of the Selgovae and respected by their neighbours, but to the Romans, of course, it was just geography. The prince rode on towards the deep defile, once more animated and reliving the gruesome death of one of his victims with one of his praetorian horsemen. Vitalis was concentrating on Brigius as usual, watching him intently. The Numidians rode in bitter silence, their post-fight euphoria gone, and their thoughts now on the comrades left in the north who would be denied their rightful afterlife. Only the decurion in command of the praetorians seemed concerned about where they were.

  ‘Split your men,’ he called to Vitalis, who threw him an irritated look but did just that, sending forty-one riders to act as a vanguard and keeping the other forty-one at the rear. The praetorian officer, tasked by the emperor himself with protecting his son, was perhaps the only man in the north who had both the authority and the gumption to challenge the Numidian prefect.

  The praetorians clustered tighter around the prince, and Brigius found himself walking his horse along somewhere between the praetorians and the rear-guard who were led by Vitalis. Even though he knew the prefect would be watching, Brigius couldn’t help but look up. Perhaps it would be mistaken for nerves.

  The spirit valley was narrow and steep, a stream meandering back and forth in the bottom, high heaths dotted with bogs and rocks above. The trail along the valley had been worn clear by generations of travellers and herdsmen moving from the wide vale in the north up the defile and onto the flatter moors to the south, which opened the way to the wall. By necessity the trail gradually climbed, beginning in the wide basin by the river, then ascending the valley side as it snaked south until it reached the vertiginous position where Senna always worried about Atto, high above the river and close to the top.