Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  Fullofaudes was less than pleased that this renegade thought he could speak for the Dux Britannorum but he let it go. ‘Tell this … Valentinus … that in …’ he looked at the one hundred and twenty riders at his back, ‘in approximately ten minutes I shall have ridden over his dead body. I think, after that, all negotiations will be a little superfluous, don’t you?’

  Dumno hauled his rein and with a last despairing look at the Duke, trotted back up the slope. The Roman cavalry watched as the little man spoke briefly to Valentinus on his black horse, gesturing wildly in their direction. Then he kicked his pony through their lines and was gone. A battlefield was no place for Dumno.

  ‘Where were we?’ Fullofaudes clicked his fingers and a trooper hurried to his side, carrying the man’s helmet with its gilded crest and eyebrow ridge. ‘Marius, lead on the right. Cassius, you’ll follow on the left.’ The Duke scanned the faces of his two remaining commanders as the first two saluted and rode away. This would be a tough call, but he was Dux Britannorum and he made it anyway. ‘Gregorius; is this your first action?’

  The younger man swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Support Marius. I want you on his heels. If you can’t smell his horse’s farts, you’re too far behind and must close up. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir,’ the young man saluted and turned his horse.

  ‘Varus, you have the reserve. If anything goes wrong – which it won’t – I expect you to pull us out of it. Do I make myself clear’

  ‘Very, sir,’ the Decurion said and swung hard on his rein. Fullofaudes took the helmet from the trooper and buckled it under his chin. Now his face looked nearly as blank as that bastard on the hill. The Duke looked at him again, the dull silver face, the empty eye sockets. He had not drawn his sword and there was no battle-standard at his shoulder. Whatever cold shiver ran briefly down the spine of the Dux Britannorum, he shook himself free of it. This was not going to be a battle. There sat a mob of ill-armed, badly-led cattle thieves and sheep-shaggers. Most of them would run at the sound of advance. Creeping up at dead of night was one thing; standing against Rome in full fighting trim would be something else.

  ‘Cornicen!’ the Duke unsheathed his sword with a rush of iron.

  The horn blower trotted forward to take his place behind his commander and to his right.

  ‘The Ala,’ Fullofaudes began, ‘will …’ He waited until every man behind him was ready, ‘draw swords.’

  Every man in the second rank of each turma had released his weapon, the long blade of the cavalry that could split a man from knave to chops. Those in the front rank tightened their grip on their spears. They would use them like lances, to jab the enemy out of their saddles while the second rank would ride over them. ‘The Invicti Britanniciani will advance, Cornicen. Walk. March.’

  The horn blasted out in the morning and the whole line, except Fullofaudes and his trumpeter, moved forward. Horses snorted and tossed their heads, their bits jingling under the dragon standard that whined as the wind blew through it. Hooves cut up the grass, sending clods of earth into the air and the ground, even this early in the morning, was dry enough to send up dust. The Decurion Marius let his horse caracole to the left, assuming the position of the Duke and his own trumpeter blasted his horn, quickening the pace as his first turma rose to marching speed.

  Fullofaudes watched the other turma spring forward over the short turf, their helmet plumes swaying as their speed picked up. The lances were still upright, probing the sky and beyond them, the Duke could see the enemy on the hillside, jostling and skittering as the Romans advanced. He could hear their unearthly yells as his own men rode on in silence. Varus’ turma was beginning to move, the reserve in support of the others and Fullofaudes, with his trumpeter, took his place in line alongside the decurion he trusted least. Perhaps he should have given this job to Cassius, but it was too late for all that now.

  The barbarians were moving at last. Marius squinted under the rim of his helmet. The silver-faced giant was waving his sword, galloping forward with his riders in no cohesion at all. For centuries it had been like this. A disorganized rabble, screaming like the Furies, would hurl itself at the Roman lines, battering against shield walls and going down before the legions. It was the same against cavalry. Sword to sword. Lance to lance. The steady attack of the Roman Ala could smash its way through any barbarian defence ever built. In the open, it would be slaughter.

  They were halfway up the slope when the barbarian horse broke. The man called Valentinus was yelling commands to the others and they fell back. Marius’ front rank had reached a canter now, the horn braying out its metallic orders. Battle-mad, the lancers on the wings were riding ahead of their commander even though he was bawling at them to keep their line. Two of the spears thudded home, the iron tips skewering two barbarians who were catapulted out of their saddles and lay writhing on the ground, bloody and dying. The hooves of the second rank trampled them, kicking their heads to a crimson pulp and the centre was forcing Marius on to the full gallop.

  The timing was so predictable. Still at the trot a hundred paces back, Fullofaudes could have taken bets on how long the barbarians would stand. They had cracked exactly as he thought they would and they were streaming back towards their hilltop, nobody galloping faster than the silver-faced man on the black horse.

  The men on Marius’ right flank who had drawn first blood were also first over the rise. Whatever concerns they had had about hidden traps on the reverse slope vanished because there weren’t any; only the men who had lined the ridge, running hell for leather in the opposite direction. The ground was softer here, Marius noticed, churned by horses. He frowned, confused. The ground had not got like this from the few horses he had seen. His trumpeter sounded the charge and every man in his turma and Cassius’ broke into the gallop. There was no stopping them now. This was a field day. True the field itself was narrowing, with steep slopes to the right and stands of elms to the left, but the field itself was empty.

  ‘Turma, left wheel!’ Marius ordered and his trumpeter blew the command. The scattered barbarians were galloping like men possessed for the safety of the elms to the Roman left and the half Ala crashed forward across open ground. Fullofaudes laughed. His men had not even bothered to roar their barritus, the battle cry that spread terror on any battlefield where the Romans stood.

  Marius saw them first. As his front rank of horsemen thudded towards the line of trees, archers peered out from trunks and roots and a hiss of goose-feather shafts filled the air. Marius went down, his throat torn by an arrowhead. His first line of lancers hauled on their reins, but it was too late to avoid the hail of missiles and within minutes Marius’ turma had disintegrated. Gregorius had no idea what was happening. He shouted at his trumpeter to sound the halt but the man was already dead, his horse cantering away with the man sprawled over his neck. Cassius yelled at his men to wheel away from the line of the trees and the whole front rank was now in disorder, cavalrymen jostling each other and their horses rearing and shying as a second hail of arrows hit them. The decurion led his turma horizontally towards the steep scarp slopes which had been to his right. The arcanus had been right about this ground; it was too steep for horses. And Cassius’ jaw dropped as he rode towards them. Fanning out across the scarp ridges were more archers. They were roaring defiance and sending volley after volley down into the dip of the land, turning the grass slick and bloody as their shafts struck home.

  ‘Sound the recall!’ Fullofaudes shouted to Varus who had halted his line out of bowshot of either body of archers. He swung his horse round to ride back over the ridge as the cornicen’s notes blasted in his ear. His eyes widened as he looked up. Along the skyline over which his half Ala had just ridden, a line of barbarian horsemen were forming up. And what began as a line became a crowd, a mob; more horses than Fullofaudes could match. And on the back of every one was a wild-looking madman with blue swirls across his face who could smell Roman blood …

  It
was two days later and a little after dawn that Antonius Bulo was guarding the north-east corner of the VI Victrix camp at Eboracum. There was no doubting it now; winter was on its way and the man was shivering as he stamped his way along the ramparts, worn smooth by two centuries of marching feet. His shield was slung over his back and he carried his spear at the slope. In an hour, Petrucius would relieve him and he could get some breakfast.

  It was the call he heard first. A cry; something like a strangled shout to the north. He squinted into the early light. If this was some drunken trader trying to offload trinkets or cheap wine, he’d tell him his fortune. But it wasn’t a trader. It was a signifer of cavalry, still wearing the wolfskin over his helmet. He was calling out incoherently, invoking Jupiter and Mercury and any other god he knew, stumbling on bare, bleeding feet as he crossed the vallum, trying to run now that he saw the great fortress wall. Where was his standard, Bulo wondered, the dragon he was supposed to give his life to protect? Where was his sword? His horse? More importantly, where were the other one hundred and twenty men of the Invicti Britanniciani who had ridden out with Fullofaudes over a week ago?

  ‘Io,’ Bulo shouted down to the gate. ‘Soldier coming,’ and he hurried from the ramparts as the bolts were hauled open and the timbers groaned and the gate guard caught the signifer in their arms.

  Claudius Metellus had been signifer of the Invicti Britanniciani for four years. But today, as he stood before his praeses in the candlelit principia, he never wanted to see a cavalry unit again and the praeses wondered whether ‘invicti’, unbeaten, should be struck from the Ala’s name for ever.

  Justinus was circitor of the watch that morning, attending the praeses personally, so he stood at the man’s elbow as the signifer told his story. Decius Ammianus was not known for his courtesy but the signifer had been through hell in the last few days and the praeses let the man sit. Justinus could see that his feet were cut to ribbons and his left arm was stiff with caked blood.

  ‘The entire command?’ Ammianus could not believe it. He sat, even greyer than usual, shaking his head.

  ‘All of them, sir,’ the signifer said, ‘save me.’

  The praeses looked at the man, wondering how it was that one man among so many had been spared. ‘And why were you saved?’ he asked. The Ala Invicta Britannici were part of the auxiliaries of the VI Victrix; Ammianus expected such men’s shields to be picked up in the heather, not to have them come back to tell the sorry tale of a defeat.

  ‘To bring you a message, sir,’ Metellus said, ‘From Valentinus.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The leader of the barbarians, sir.’

  Ammianus looked at Justinus. ‘Circitor, you know these people, on the Wall. Have you heard that name before?’

  ‘No, praeses,’ Justinus said. ‘Metellus, did you see this man, in the flesh?’

  The signifer nodded. ‘As big as a house,’ he said, eyes wide in memory of him, ‘rides a black horse.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ Justinus was racking his brains to think of anyone north of the Wall who fitted that picture.

  ‘I don’t know, circitor; he covered his face with a helmet.’

  ‘What sort of helmet?’ Ammianus asked.

  ‘I’ve never seen one like it,’ Metellus said. ‘It was solid silver and had a face mask.’

  Ammianus frowned. Like most of the men stationed at Eboracum, the signifer had been born in Britannia; Justinus had been too. It needed the wide experience of a true Roman to grasp the significance of it. ‘It’s a cavalry parade helmet,’ he murmured, ‘And I’ve never seen one like it west of Gaul either. Tell me, Metellus; the man in the helmet, what was his message?’

  The signifer swallowed hard. ‘That you … we … are to evacuate Eboracum, sir. We are to leave our weapons and horses here. The Picti will escort us to Verterae, at the mouth of the river. Then we are to go home.’

  ‘Home?’ the praeses chuckled. ‘Where’s home for you, signifer?’

  ‘Far to the south, sir,’ Metellus told him. ‘Ratae Coritanorum.’

  ‘Circitor, you?’

  ‘Further south still, sir,’ Justinus said. ‘Verulamium.’

  The praeses nodded. ‘The chances are,’ he said, ‘that if we left these shores I would be the only one going home.’ He looked at both men’s faces. ‘Brindisium, before you ask. Quite a pleasant little resort, really. I miss it.’ But the praeses did not reminisce for long. ‘What happened to the Duke?’ he asked.

  For a long time, Metellus searched for the right words; indeed, any words at all. ‘After we were surrounded, Valentinus drove us back to the ravine.’ He was almost whispering. In his mind, the man was no longer safe in the principia of the largest army camp in Britannia; he was out again on the windswept moors with dead men and horses all around him and savages in skins and blue paint chanting and whooping as they rode their horses round. Every now and then a barbarian archer would send an arrow singing into the clustered ranks of the half Ala and no amount of parrying with swords or defending with shields could prevent it.

  ‘Then he called out, behind that damned mask of his that we had a choice. We either did what was fine, what was Roman and threw ourselves over the ravine’s edge. Or we could surrender and become his slaves.’

  ‘What was Fullofaudes’ answer?’ Ammianus wanted to know.

  ‘He said he was Dux Britannorum,’ the signifer told him, ‘and would wipe the arse of no man. He … he turned to us, those who were left and said it was our choice. He, for one, intended to die with a sword in his hand. He did.’ Metellus hung his head and his body shook. Justinus knew the man was crying, broken, perhaps beyond recall.

  ‘What happened to his body?’ the praeses asked softly, as if he would rather not know his answer.

  ‘The Attacotti were there, sir …’

  Justinus stiffened. He knew what was coming.

  ‘When … when the battle was over, they stripped the Duke naked and slung him over a horse. I was tied behind it so all I saw for half a day was the Duke’s face.’ Metellus’ voice had been rising, the words coming faster, louder and shriller, as though forced through his tightening throat under pressure. ‘It …’ His voice broke and he coughed, controlling himself with superhuman effort. He took a shuddering breath and began again. ‘It had no eyes, sir. Two of the Attacotti had taken them. They …’ he gagged slightly, ‘they swallowed them in front of me.’

  The signifer sagged visibly in his chair. For him there would be no more war. Decius Ammianus, never the tenderest of men, lifted up the man’s chin. His cheeks trickled with tears. ‘All right, boy,’ he said. ‘Get yourself to the surgeon. The medicus can fix your feet and that arm needs attention too. As for your soul, well, Mithras is also a soldier. Pray to him. He’ll understand.’

  Once the signifer had done his best to salute, he dragged himself away helped by a couple of principia guards. Ammianus turned to see Justinus looking at him.

  ‘Well, sir?’ the circitor asked.

  ‘Well, what, sir?’ the praeses snapped. It was not every day that the eyes of the Dux Britannorum, right hand of the Emperor, were ripped from their sockets and eaten.

  ‘What will we do?’

  The praeses sighed and crossed the room to the map on his wall. ‘Fullofaudes must have been surprised about … here …’ his finger found it, ‘if what the signifer has told us is correct. What’s that … three, four days’ march?’

  Justinus nodded. ‘Are we going after them, sir?’ he asked. They all had even more of a score to settle now.

  The praeses looked at him. ‘Are you a superstitious man … Justinus, isn’t it?’

  ‘I worship Mithras, sir,’ the circitor said, ‘and Jupiter highest and best, of course.’

  ‘I’m talking about omens,’ the praeses said. ‘When the Duke decided to go off on that mad hunt of his, I offered him a vexillation of the VI. Four cohorts, to be exact. Know what he said?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘He said –
and it’s rather ironic now, in the light of what’s happened – he said, “If I can’t wipe out this little difficulty with four cavalry turmae, I don’t deserve the Emperor’s respect.” But he must have seen the look on my face, because he said he would take an eagle, so that the genius of the legion would fly with him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It wouldn’t budge. I was there, in the chapel, when Metellus tried to lift it. It wouldn’t move. I tried. The Duke tried. Nothing. It’s there still, as though …’

  ‘… As though the gods knew,’ Justinus finished the sentence for him. He felt the skin crawl on his neck.

  For a moment the two men looked at each other in silence, then the praeses broke the spell. ‘No, circitor,’ he said, ‘we’re not going after them. I am sending a message to the Emperor. With something as serious as the death of his Duke, I can’t do less. Then, we are going to double the guard and lock this place down. I want it sealed so that a mouse can’t get in. It’s going to be a long winter.’

  CHAPTER IV

  Eboracum

  Three days later, the first refugees reached the Ussos, bedraggled lines of peasants in the driving rain. They came to the great north gate of the camp of the VI Victrix and were met with the clash of spears crossed to bar their way.

  ‘We’ve no room for you here,’ the circitor had told them, ignoring the pleading eyes and outstretched arms. He was a family man himself, with children no taller than his boot, but he was a man who had his orders, direct from the praeses himself. No one was to be allowed in unless they carried the necessary papers. And even then, they must be searched. And a second search must be carried out before they were admitted to the Principia.

  Over the next week, hundreds of people trickled towards Eboracum, all with their tales of blood and fire. The Picti had struck here, the Attacotti there. Were there Saxones with them, the guards were told to ask. Who knew? One look at the thundering horses, the flaming brands and the villagers had snatched up their little ones and run. Men who stood and fought were hacked down, their heads sliced off and hung from saddle bows already dark brown with blood.