‘With respect, sir,’ the praeses said, ‘I have no idea what we’re facing – in terms of numbers, I mean. I doubt whether two legions will be enough.’
‘So do I,’ nodded Theodosius. ‘That’s why I have two more waiting at Rutupiae. Our intelligence suggests that most of the trouble is in the north – that’s where most of the locals have gone over to the enemy. But in case that’s wrong or the bastards move faster than we do …’
‘That’ll be the day,’ grunted Maximus.
‘I’ve got the Batavi and the Heruli waiting in the wings, as it were. They know the country – they were here seven years ago. As you know, the Batavi are particularly good at river crossings.’
‘You’re thinking of the Thamesis?’ Ammianus asked.
‘And others. You know Rutupiae was the place the deified Claudius came ashore?’
‘I had heard that,’ Ammianus said. ‘A little before my time, I’m afraid.’
Theodosius laughed. ‘Mine too,’ he agreed. ‘But the lads like a bit of tradition, don’t they? And if it’s propitious for the gods and they smile on us … well …’
The praeses nodded. Eboracum was full of shrines and waystations dedicated to every god in the panoply. He had invoked them all over the last few months.
‘My son, of course,’ the Count went on, ‘is a devoted Christian. Or at least, he is today.’
‘Your son?’ Ammianus caught the fleeting, withering look that passed over Maximus’ face.
‘Didn’t I tell you? He’s commanding the other two legions,’ Theodosius smiled. ‘Keep it in the family, eh?’
The talk went on for hours, while Ammianus told the generals all he had learned from his cavalry patrols and the tittle-tattle of camp and canabae. It would be Theodosius’ and Maximus’ job to winnow out the wheat from the chaff. It was the early hours by the time they called it a night.
‘By the way, Ammianus,’ Theodosius let a slave help him on with his sagum. ‘You knew I was on the way, surely?’ The slave stepped quickly away as Maximus’ dog growled at him.
‘No,’ said the praeses. ‘Not a word. I hope you know that I would have been more prepared had I known. I merely lived in hope.’
‘Hmm,’ the Count frowned. ‘That’s odd. I sent three messages. Still,’ he shook the praeses hand, clasping his forearm and holding on a touch longer than Ammianus was comfortable with, ‘let’s hope my messengers to the Count of the Saxon Shore did better, eh?’
The Count of the Saxon Shore was Nectaridus and that dies solis he was a long way from home. The sky had been a dark grey all day and dusk, when it came, had not come a moment too soon. For nearly four hours the battle had raged, all the more fierce because the II Augusta had not been expecting it. A parley, the note had said. It had been signed in perfect Latin by Valentinus and it spoke of a truce. The Wall had gone, it said, but the barbarians had no intention of marching on Calunium. There could be a compromise. The VI Victrix at Eboracum had fought the barbarians to a standstill and the tribes needed time to lick their wounds and to heal. They were prepared to surrender, not to the VI, who hated them, but to a fair and famous Legion like the II. Nectaridus, they had heard, was a fair and famous man, too. Like his legion at Calunium, they had women and children, wives and mothers who needed help.
So Nectaridus had gone, not like a cuckolded fool with horns on his head or like a lamb to the slaughter. He had gone fully armed, with three cohorts at his back and four turmae of cavalry. Out of the dark woods in the middle of the afternoon came the promised children. And only the children, pale, half-starved wraiths like the demons who haunt the forest. They came on in silence, in their twos and threes, then in their dozens until the whole field was full of them.
Nectaridus and his men stared at them. The dull sky pressed down on the men and the advancing children, dulling all sound so that the jingle of a bit rang as loud as a bell. Then the Count shook himself out of the mood and called over his draconarius, his standard bearer. ‘Igennus, you’re a family man. See what these kids want. And, more importantly, find out where their fathers are.’
So Igennus had trotted forward, the dragon with its long tail streaming above him. And as Nectaridus watched, one of the children whipped a knife from nowhere and threw it into the draconarius’ back. Another did the same and the man slumped over his horse’s neck and the dragon crashed to the ground, a dozen children were on him, hauling him from the saddle and tearing him limb from limb. Nectaridus had given the order to attack, children or no children but he was already surrounded by their fathers and for the rest of the day had fought a hopeless rearguard action against hordes of barbarians, wielding clubs and war-hammers, swords and sickles, men with long red hair and dark whorls over their skin.
The noise and the slaughter had stopped at last. The children had vanished into the sheltering trees as their fathers had advanced, but now they were back, mingling with the blood-streaked men who had sired them. Their mothers were there too, with wild hair and terrible eyes. All afternoon, the II had roared the Barritus in defiance, until they were hoarse and could shout no more. The yelling of the barbarians had stopped too and an awful silence descended on the field. There were corpses everywhere, mostly Roman dead and Nectaridus could see the rooks and ravens wheeling in the darkening sky. He could smell the same blood on the wind that they could.
All around him what was left of his command huddled tighter. Wounded men were fighting for breath, leaning on comrades. The living held up the dead. Shields were split and bristled with arrows, sword blades glistened red, darkening with the night and time to a sticky purple and then dry brown. No one had any arrows left – they were all embedded in enemy bodies or lying at crazy angles in the ground ahead. All the spears were gone, hurled into the sea of oncoming warriors who had swept away a third of a legion.
In the centre and in the stillness, a figure on a black horse walked out from the barbarian ranks. He wore a sagum like a Roman general and on his head was a cavalry parade helmet, its face a mask of silver glinting dully in the fading light.
‘Lay down your arms, Count of the Saxon Shore. You cannot win today.’
‘You know me,’ Nectaridus shouted back. ‘Be so good as to give me your name.’
‘Men call me Valentinus,’ the rider yelled back, ‘And my children here,’ he spread both arms to the multitude that stretched to left and right, ‘are all anxious to trample on your corpse.’
‘Well, then,’ Nectaridus unbuckled his helmet with its gilded fittings and carved eagles. ‘Let’s not keep them waiting.’ He raised his sword, ‘The legion will advance, trumpeter. At the double …’ The sword came down and the horn blasted, its notes wailing as the trumpeter broke into a run, trying to keep up with the others.
The dragon standard carried by the second cohort disappeared into the mob of flailing arms and legs as shields crunched against bare flesh and bone collided with bone with sickening cracks. Nectaridus died that day and the man called Valentinus had claimed another titled Roman head.
It was still early next morning and the praeses and Count Theodosius were closeted in the Principia, poring over maps and trying to make sense of intelligence reports. On the camp’s parade ground, Flavius Coelius was putting a cohort of the VI through its paces.
The Third were drawn up in parade ground order, facing the weapons master with their shields at the rest and their javelins at the slope.
‘Skirmish order!’ Flavius thundered and the trumpet blasted across the field. The ranks broke up, scattering in what seemed like chaos, forming tight knots of four, each with an archer.
‘Cavalry!’ the weapons master roared and the trumpet blared again. Every man dropped to one knee and the javelins pointed upwards, ready to skewer the ghost horses that Flavius had warned against. ‘That unit there,’ he pointed to one group with his gnarled stick. ‘Too slow. Do that in the field and your heads would be dangling from somebody’s saddle bow by now. Full pack. Twenty circuits of the field.’
The four men winced. It was not too hot a day but the weight of the pack was considerable and they shambled away to collect their helmets and marching gear. The general stopped them, his dog at his heels.
‘Whose contubernia is this?’ Maximus shouted, seeing no non-commissioned officer with them.
‘Mine, sir,’ Vitalis clicked to attention in another unit yards away.
‘Circitor,’ Maximus beckoned him over with a casual finger. He looked at the young man. What was he? Nineteen summers at most. Young for a circitor but not too young. ‘How long have you held the rank?’ he asked.
‘Six months, sir,’ Vitalis told him.
‘Semisallis before that?’
‘No, sir. Pedes.’
‘Really?’ Maximus raised an eyebrow. Perhaps they did things differently along the frontier forts. ‘Somebody up there must like you.’ A half smile flitted across his face. ‘You will carry out the circuits with them.’
‘General …’ Flavius tried to interrupt, but Maximus had his hand in the air and it stopped him.
‘Your contubernia, circitor,’ he said so that the whole cohort heard him. ‘Your fault.’
‘Sir,’ Vitalis saluted and ran across the ground with the others in tow.
Maximus turned to the weapons master. ‘Ten sesterces says the kid doesn’t last fifteen circuits,’ he said.
‘Sir, I …’
‘Sorry, hastilarium,’ Maximus smiled, remembering the man’s pay, ‘Make that five.’
‘Let’s make it fifteen,’ Flavius said, straight-faced. He had no clue how he was going to afford that if Vitalis stumbled, but he was not going to lose face in front of this man.
‘All right,’ Maximus chuckled. ‘Fifteen it is. Have the rest of them paraded, hollow square. I’d like a word.’
Flavius barked the command, the trumpet answered and the ground shook with the thud of studded boots running to position. In minutes the cohort was assembled and a bearded first centurion stood in front of the general. He saluted, thumping his hand across his chest and holding his arm out straight.
‘Who are you?’ Maximus wanted to know.
‘Paternus Priscus, sir, supernumerary primus pilus, Third Cohort.’
Maximus looked the man in the eye. He saw something there and could not define it. A sorrow? The general prided himself on his instant judgement of men; it was something he had done all his life. ‘Supernumerary?’ he said. ‘Where is the real one?’
‘I am the real one,’ Paternus stood his ground.
Maximus’ eyes flashed fire. 'Don't be flippant with me, sir,’ he snapped. ‘The regular primus pilus; where is he?’
‘Officer of the day, sir,’ Paternus told him. ‘In the Principia.’
Maximus looked the man up and down. Sloppy young circitors, insubordinate centurions. No wonder Ammianus had hidden his legion away all winter. If half the reports he had heard of the barbarians were true, this lot would not last five minutes.
‘Circuit one!’ the cohort heard Vitalis shout as the knot of offenders jogged past. Their cooking pots clanked on their mail, dangling from the tent posts they carried.
On the edge of the paraded square, four of the nine cavalrymen of the Ala Invicti Brittaniaci stood to their horses, holding the bridles and waiting for the weapons master’s next command. It was not forthcoming because General Maximus was giving the orders now. He pushed his way through the ranks who parted like standing corn before him and reached the nearest horse. He patted the animal’s soft muzzle, rubbed its chin. Then he walked around it, checking limbs and flanks and withers. ‘Long coat, semisallis,’ he said to its owner. ‘Winter length?’
‘We’ve had no time to trim them, sir,’ the semisallis said. ‘we’ve been out most days since Saturnalia.’
‘Hmm,’ Maximus nodded. ‘There are, I understand, only nine of you?’
‘Eight, sir,’ the semisallis corrected him. ‘Clodius Galvo died of exposure three weeks ago. Froze in the saddle.’
‘Bad luck,’ Maximus said. ‘Did he have a family, this Galvo?’
‘Widowed mother, sir,’ the semisallis said. ‘Here in Eboracum.’
‘See my clerk later today,’ the general told him. ‘See she lacks for nothing.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the semisallis tried to hide his surprise. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Maximus strode back into the hollow square of the cohort. ‘Circuit two!’ Vitalis called as he and his lads jogged past. They were still in fighting trim, although their shoulders ached with the bouncing of their packs and the air rushing through their lungs was torture, as it burned the throat and the back of the nose.
The general scanned the faces of the men before him. A mixed bunch, to be sure, but there may be hope for some of them. He stopped in front of a circitor, a handsome lad with dark, curly hair and smouldering eyes. ‘Name?’ the general asked.
‘Leocadius Honorius,’ the circitor said, standing to attention.
Maximus suddenly grabbed Leocadius’ tunic and pulled it down so that threads ripped. The general looked up. ‘Dark hair, smooth chest,’ he said. ‘How long do you spend at the baths, circitor?’
‘I …’
‘Too long,’ Maximus shouted at him. ‘A circitor who is more concerned with his looks than his duties is no use to me.’ He grinned at Leocadius. ‘Keep yourself smooth for the ladies, do you, lad?’
Leocadius looked suitably confused and hurt, all in one well-practiced expression. Maximus turned away, chuckling. Then he turned back, straight-faced. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to Leocadius’ sword.
‘A spatha, sir.’
‘Specifically?’
‘A double-edged infantry weapon, sir. Iron blade. Wooden hilt. Weight …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Maximus cut the man short. ‘What’s it for?’
‘Attack, sir,’ Leocadius told him, ‘and defence.’
‘No, no, boy,’ the general said softly. ‘It’s to kill the enemies of the Emperor. Can you use it?’
‘Sir?’
‘Hastiliarus,’ Maximus called Flavius over and took his sword from his scabbard. He turned to face Leocadius. ‘Here I am,’ he said, ‘Imagine me as you will. I am a Pict – see my painted skin. I am a Scot – how do you like my plaid trousers? I am an Attacotti,’ he moved closer to Leocadius and whispered, ‘I’m going to eat your bollocks with a little fish sauce and a particularly fine Italian wine I’ve been saving.’
Leocadius drew his sword in one quick movement and lunged for the general, who half turned, batted the blade aside and threw the circitor to the mud. Instinctively, the Third shuffled backwards to give the men room. Maximus’ hound snarled and whiffled, whirling round in circles, defying them all.
‘Stand fast!’ Maximus bellowed. ‘You won't have this much room when the painted ones come for you. It’ll be cheek to jowl and arse to arse. Not bad, circitor, but not good either. Give point to an armed enemy with enough space and he’ll parry every time.’
Remembering his sword had two sharp edges too, Leocadius scrambled to his feet and slashed down diagonally. Maximus caught the blade on his own. ‘Better,’ he said. ‘What else have you got?’
The dog was barking now, like Cerberus himself, teeth bared and ears flat. Leocadius stood there, listening to Vitalis calling out ‘Circuit Three’ and he came to his senses. He dropped the attack position and stood upright. ‘Sir, I can’t kill you,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Maximus asked.
‘Because … because you’re a general.’ There were murmurs and chuckles in the ranks.
Maximus roared with laughter. ‘Generals are mortal too, boy,’ he said. ‘No, you can't kill me because you haven’t the skill. Hell. You can't even scratch me.’
Leocadius swung in again. His blade banged on Maximus’ weapon and then he changed hands, tossing the spatha to his left hand and slicing upwards. Maximus had not expected this and parried for his life. He was too slow and Leocadius’ blade slid over his own and gashed his thigh. The general stumble
d backwards, cursing through clenched teeth as the pain hit him. ‘Stay, Bruno!’ he hissed at the mastiff, knowing that, in that instant, the circitor’s throat was at risk. It was all or nothing now and Maximus launched his attack. It was so fast that most of the Third missed it and Leocadius’ sword sailed into the air to clatter behind the second rank. He himself was kneeling with the general’s blade at his throat. Paternus blinked. He wanted to shut his eyes, to blot out what was to come. Then he saw Maximus straighten and throw his sword back to Flavius. He held out a hand and hauled Leocadius upright. A dark stain was spreading over his tunic folds but he seemed not to notice.
‘Good move with the left hand,’ he said and glanced down at the blood. ‘Looks like I was wrong. You did scratch me, after all.’
CHAPTER VII
‘Heroes of the Wall,’ Theodosius’ voice carried the length of the parade ground.
The four stepped forward: the tribune Justinus, the centurion Paternus; the circitors Leocadius and Vitalis. The trumpets blasted, cornicines greeting the morning and the legion roared its approval. The VI was drawn up in parade order, the eagle glittering at its head. There were flags and music and cheering because Rome was on the march.
Theodosius stepped down from the dais normally reserved for Decius Ammianus. Today the praeses had vacated his chair for the Count; it was only civil since the man was about to take the field. He looked at the men in front of him. ‘What you men have been through. What you have done. You have done already what we are about to do. You have faced the biggest threat to the Empire this island has ever seen. And you have come through. As we will come through.’
Cheers roared from the ranks. The Victores beat their blue shields with their swords, the deafening noise swelling beyond the walls of the camp and echoing and re-echoing through the alleys of the canabae to the colonia beyond. All work had stopped and the boats swung idle at their moorings. Looms were half-strung, chisels and mallets lay among the sawdust, wet clay was hardening in the morning. It would have been a field day for the thieves of Eboracum, had not those thieves been standing with the innocent, the honest people of the city, cheering on the soldiers. Their soldiers.
Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 10
