Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  There was a pause, then mocking laughter drifted across the open moor. ‘What Wall is that, Roman?’ the Pict shouted. ‘Haven’t you heard? A little wind from the north blew it down.’

  ‘We know,’ Justinus yelled. ‘That’s why we’re here. To rebuild it.’

  More mocking laughter. Suddenly, Paternus had leapt forward, over the low palisade and was rolling down the ramparts. He had left his shield behind and crouched in the ditch before springing out and darting across the open space, making for the meandering horse and its headless rider.

  ‘Arrows!’ Justinus screamed and the recurved bows bent back as one, the deadly arrows hissing through the air like rain. A horse went down, its neck skewered by three shafts and half a dozen men pitched forward or fell back. The rest caught the arrows on their limewood shields, the iron tips smashing through the timber to drive splinters into their faces. Paternus had grabbed the horse’s bridle and was running to the gate alongside it. He was not horseman enough to leap onto the back of even a trotting animal, so he kept plodding doggedly on as Pictish arrows and slingshots hissed around him. He reached the rampart and half a dozen men manned the make-shift gate to the side to let him in. They carried the dead man to the far ditch and laid him in it with as much ceremony as the moment would allow.

  ‘Centurion Priscus!’ Justinus bellowed and Paternus hauled himself up the ladder to the tribune’s side. Justinus looked at him. Had he stopped the man from ripping out his own entrails just to see his head sliced off by a Pict? He glowered at his friend. ‘No more heroics, Pat,’ he said. ‘I need you here. I need you alive.’

  ‘They’re coming!’ someone shouted. He was right. Justinus had not heard the bray of a carynx for a long time. Many of the men on the ramparts had never heard it.

  ‘Mother Minerva,’ one of the youngest said, his head below the parapet. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s nothing, lad,’ an old circitor told him. ‘It’s a pipe with a reed up it. A chance for the painted people to blow a lot of hot air, that’s all.’

  Justinus and Paternus watched them come on, in a silence that they had never seen before. There was no wild rebel yell, no headlong rush. They were actually marching, not as a real legion might, for sure, but in a close approximation of it. There were six ladders, rough hewn from spruce or some other northern tree, but, thank Jupiter, no siege engine. That meant the Picts would have to reach the earth ramparts first, scrabble up them and then place their ladders. And all the time, Roman bows and Roman slingshots would be carrying out their deadly work.

  Justinus gnawed his lip. He could see their archers were hanging back, along with their leader who still held the head-pole in his hand. And he understood why. They were there to provide cover for the infantry going in now. If they could fire fast enough and accurately enough, they would be able to riddle the defenders on the wall and sweep the ramparts clean. Once up the ladders and over the palisade, it would be every man for himself and, in that confined space, no chance of driving them back.

  The tribune turned to the centurions around him. ‘On my command,’ he hissed. ‘I want every archer and slinger we’ve got to hit those bastards on the hill. Let them take a few steps forward so we’re sure they’re in range. Everybody else, stand fast.’

  The centurions hurried away to do Justinus’ bidding. Paternus still stood there. ‘Supernumerary, remember,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll just stand here, if that’s all right,’ Justinus lowered his head so that he could see over the points of the palisade. The new-cut wood smelt sweet and strong in his nostrils. ‘Now!’ he bellowed and the hiss of arrows punctuated his word. The Picts had not expected this. The dense mass marching forward in an ever more ragged line saw the volley sail harmlessly over their heads, but it wrought havoc among their archers. Not a man had unleashed his bow before the Roman arrows were scything into them, thudding into unarmoured bodies and snaking into bare heads. The few shieldmen they had with them tried to race across and catch the shafts on their timber, but it was a losing battle.

  ‘Archers!’ Justinus shouted. ‘Below!’ Now his bowmen arched over the palisades and sent their arrows smacking into the mass of Celts nearing the ramparts. Dozens went down, blood spurting over mail and blue-painted bodies. The few Pict archers left on the hill were firing back now, their arrows clattering on the camp’s timbers and occasionally finding their mark. An archer of the VI toppled over the palisade to be hacked to pieces at the bottom of the slope. Another fell backwards with a shaft through his windpipe, blood bubbling from his lips.

  Again and again, Justinus’ archers reloaded, sliding their arrows from their quivers and drawing their strings back to their chests. The animal gut pinged on their leather armbraces and they bent their backs again, sending the oak shafts through the morning air. But the ladders came up, first one, then two more. A soldier grabbed the upright ends and pushed it away from the wall but an arrow squelched into his eye under the helmet rim and he died instantly. More and more of the soldiers on the ramparts hauled the ladders aside. Pictish spears were being hurled by now, their blades etched with monsters and gods that no man could understand. A scattering of Romans fell as some of these struck home, the impact of them flinging men off the wall walks.

  ‘Javelins!’ Justinus roared as his centurions along the line were yelling the same thing. Roman spears hissed downwards now, gravity adding to their power, slicing through blue-painted shoulders, backs and chests. Now the Picts were roaring. The eerie silence of their advance had given way to the old yells, the curses heaped on Roman heads since the days of Agricola. This was more like it, Justinus thought to himself, in the odd moment he had time to think at all; this was war in the old way. And in the old way, victory always went to the Romans. Then, he had too much time to think and he saw the body of Ulpius Piso at Banna and smelt again the charred remains of his men. Victory always went to the Romans? He was not so sure.

  As he looked along the ramparts, he realised that all the ladders now held steady and up them streamed the Picts in great and desperate numbers. Swords and axes were clashing on the legion’s blades and bouncing off the legion’s shields. One by one the sections of the wall were falling and men were jumping off the ramparts before they were pushed. The archers were useless now; they could not fire for fear of hitting their own men. And in the mêlée, soldiers could not use their darts for the same reason. Now it was sword to sword and the Roman line on the palisades was as broken as the Picts.

  Justinus threw himself to the ground, rolling upright and grabbing a shield from a dead man. ‘First cohort,’ he yelled at the solid ranks facing him. ‘Battle order.’ Above the screaming of the Picts and the clash of iron on the ramparts, the cornicen shrilled out its notes and the unit slid into position. Shields were locked across the front, their iron rims overlapping for maximum protection and the javelins came down to form a vicious wall of iron spikes. The tribune knew the Picts. They would run onto those spikes all day, dying in their hundreds for whatever mad gods they worshipped.

  ‘Third cohort,’ Justinus sword was in his hand. ‘Split. Paternus, I want half your men to the right, on the wings of the First. The other half to the left. On my command, you will close in. Understood?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Paternus dashed across to his circitors to make it happen. Justinus was creating a cul-de-sac of death. There would be Roman spears in front of the Picts and Roman spears to both sides. If a man emerged alive from that, it would be a miracle.

  ‘Parting of the ways, Leo,’ Vitalis said as the cohorts separated.

  ‘See you beyond the Styx,’ Vit,’ and he was gone.

  Two heroes of the Wall running to the sound of the cornicen.

  ‘Vexillum!’ Justinus roared and the flag of the VI Victrix shot skyward.

  A strange stillness fell over the camp. Only the groaning of dying men broke the silence. The Pictish screams had stopped, the roar of their hundreds; and terrible heads came slowly over the parapet, men with long red hair and bodies nake
d to the waist, circled and snaked with blue. In the centre, a tall man was the first to place his feet on the ramparts the legion had failed to hold. In his hand he was holding the head of a Roman cavalryman by the hair and he threw it over the corpse-strewn parade ground so that it bounced and rolled at the feet of Justinus.

  ‘One of yours, I believe,’ the Pict said.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ‘Fire!’ That was a Roman command and it had not come from Justinus or anyone inside the half-finished camp. The Picts swarming over the palisade were falling forwards, sideways, back. There were arrows in their bodies. Roman arrows. One by one, the ladders fell away from the skyline in the camp. Now was the time. Now, while the Picts were in disarray.

  Justinus could not see what was happening beyond the palisade but the bray of the cornicens to the west confirmed what he already hoped. Perhaps only Mithras knew who was out there, attacking the Picts from their rear, but it had to be heaven sent.

  ‘Third cohort,’ the tribune yelled, taking his place at the head of the First, ‘Battle order.’

  Paternus’ men broke their formation and dashed into position behind the lines of the First. ‘Attack!’ Justinus yelled and the whole formation moved forward. If the Picts had not seen a Roman legion, or even a vexillation on the attack before, they saw it now. The tribune stepped over the cavalryman’s head but in the mêlée behind him there were no such niceties and it was kicked from foot to foot, rolling in the mud.

  ‘Javelins!’ Justinus shouted and the front rank hurled their weapons into the milling Picts. The painted warriors were hopelessly trapped now. Some of them ran forward, yelling their battle cries that froze the blood. Justinus hacked with his sword through a man’s ribs and all but caught another on his shield. The warrior lost his balance and fell under the boots of the First cohort that smashed down, cracking his skull and grinding his face into the ground his chieftain had called sacred.

  With their backs to the earth bank, the Picts had nowhere to go. Some tried to claw their way back up the ladders, but Justinus’ archers had a clear field now and their arrows brought them down, adding to the murderous chaos at the foot of the ramp.

  By now the lines of the Third Cohort had closed in, ramming their heavy swords into naked bodies and batting dying men aside with their shields. Paternus dashed like a madman along the line. He had thrown down his shield and swung the spatha with both hands, yelling at each enemy he met, daring him to come on. A Pictish sickle grazed his forearm, darkening the mail with blood and arrows bounced off his helmet. But no one was going to stop Paternus today. ‘Quin!’ he bellowed as he shattered the red-haired skull of a warrior, shouting out the name of his cold, dead son.

  The Picts were backing away, trying to parry the Roman sword thrusts as best they could. But the half naked men, isolated, surrounded, beaten, could not hold for long and one by one they threw down their weapons.

  Leocadius and Vitalis had never fought like this before. They had never fought at all. The curly-haired circitor saw his blade slick with another man’s blood and laughed. He eased his tunic aside above his belt. The blow he had felt to his chest had left a purpling bruise but that would only impress the ladies of Eboracum even more when he got back. Their amulets were still there, the love knots pressed and tangled in the lining of his tunic. Vitalis’ blade was red too, and he felt sick at the cloying smell of blood all around him.

  Justinus leaned with both hands on his sword hilt, the point rammed into the earth. He and his men had fought the Picts to a standstill and they faced each other now over a low wall made of the Pictish dead. One by one the warriors threw down their weapons and stood with their arms folded, defiant even in defeat. In their centre, the most defiant of all was the chieftain who had thrown the cavalryman’s head, who had challenged Justinus in the first place.

  ‘What is your name?’ the tribune asked him, in the flat vowels of Caledonia.

  ‘Talorc,’ the Pict grunted. His shoulder had been sliced by a Roman sword and he had difficulty taking each breath.

  ‘Are you called Valentinus?’

  The Pict looked at the tribune for a moment, then he laughed; even though it hurt and even though he was bleeding. ‘Valentinus is twice as high as me,’ he said, ‘and twice as wide. When he speaks, thunder shakes the trees and sparks flash from his eyes. You will know him when you see him.’

  There was one of those odd stillnesses that fall over a battlefield. The only sounds were the moans of the wounded and of dying men calling for their mothers on the ground they had given their lives for. Beyond the palisade was stillness too and then the clatter of wood on wood. The prongs of a ladder appeared over the parapet and they were followed by a familiar face.

  ‘Salvete,’ Magnus Maximus grinned. He was looking at Justinus. ‘When are you going to finish this camp, then?’

  When they had hauled the dead away and while the prisoners were guarded that night, the medics went about their business. By the light of flickering torches, they cauterized gaping wounds with irons red-hot from the furnace. They wrapped the Pictish sword-slashes in lint soaked in vinegar. They set broken bones with wet leather and splints. Then they prayed to Asclepius, the god who made broken men whole. And they hoped for the best.

  The three men who lounged in the Count’s tent that night could all have done with a bath and the healing oils and practised rubbing of the masseurs. As it was they had to make do with Theodosius’ campaign wine and the roast piglets they had taken on the march. Bruno the mastiff particularly appreciated the bones and the sound of his crunching filled the camp.

  ‘I really am very sorry about this, Justinus,’ the Count was saying as his slave refilled everybody’s goblet, ‘but it was necessary. I had to let everybody think your little command was on its own. Even you. The root of the problem lies back in Eboracum. That’s why I made a big thing about marching west. You were attacked because the Picts thought I was miles away, going in the wrong direction. Magnus, has that chieftain cracked yet? What’s his name?’

  ‘Talorc,’ the general stretched out on his makeshift couch. ‘He’s the strong, silent type, unfortunately. If we had his woman here, his children …’ he shrugged, ‘as it is, I wish we had a few like him in our legions.’

  Theodosius nodded. ‘We have to accept,’ he said, ‘that there is a spy at Eboracum. Somebody is feeding these painted people the information. Every time the praeses farts I suspect this Valentinus knows about it. That’s a hole we’ll have to close.’

  ‘Crucifixions in the morning, Papa?’ Maximus yawned. It had been a long day and he had not once drawn his sword during it.

  Theodosius chuckled. Whenever Maximus called him that, he wanted something. ‘Nice try, Magnus,’ he said. ‘You know as well as I do the deified Constantine outlawed that as a mark of respect for the Christ.’

  ‘Ah,’ nodded Maximus, ‘but the more recently deified Julian …’

  Theodosius held up his hand. ‘I’m not going to argue the law with you, Magnus,’ he smiled, ‘and I’m certainly not going to argue religion; we’ll be here all night.’

  ‘Hangings, then,’ Maximus said. ‘I can live with that.’

  ‘Some, yes,’ the Count sipped his wine. He had not drawn his sword either, but he was getting too long in the tooth for this sort of campaigning. It was a young man’s job. ‘We’ll hang the leaders. The rest can go home.’

  Maximus was not smiling now. ‘Go home?’ he repeated.

  ‘Certainly,’ Theodosius said. ‘We still don’t know what we’re facing here. What have we got here today? A thousand Picts, can't be more. And a lot of those are dead. Tribune, you’re the local boy. Are there any other tribes among our prisoners?’

  ‘A handful of Brigantes, sir,’ Justinus told him. ‘Renegades with the promise of Roman loot shining in their eyes. But this is a Pictish war band. More than that, it’s a Pictish army.’

  ‘Are you splitting hairs, tribune?’ Maximus asked.

  ‘No, general, I’m not. I
’ve faced Pictish raids before. So have most of us along the Wall. They are like watersilver, striking defenceless villages on their ponies and scattering before we can find them. I’ve never known them take on a camp before, even an unfinished one. And ladders – they had ladders with them.’

  ‘And what do you make of this?’ Theodosius wanted to know.

  Justinus looked at both men. ‘Valentinus,’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’ The Count put down his cup.

  ‘The man hits the Wall, first the outlying fortlets, then the Wall itself. He ambushes a Duke, for Jupiter’s sake. And today he all but destroyed a marching camp.’

  ‘You think this Valentinus was behind today’s little escapade too?’

  ‘I do, sir. The man thinks like a Roman, wages war like a Roman. He’s got the measure of us.’

  ‘No, no,’ Maximus was on his feet, pouring himself another draught of wine. He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him, licking his lips in anticipation. ‘You know you don’t like this stuff,’ he said to the animal, reaching down as he turned back to the others and scratching the animal’s back. He turned to Justinus. ‘He’s been lucky so far, that’s all. And from today his luck ran out.’ He turned to Theodosius. ‘Why aren’t you killing them all?’

  ‘Because we can't kill them all,’ the Count told him flatly. ‘Behind every Pict under guard tonight there is a father, a brother, a son. Behind them are the womenfolk who will feed them, carry the water, dress their wounds. And the old who will give them shelter. We are two legions, Magnus, three if you count the VI. We can’t fight an entire nation.’

  ‘But they’re not a nation,’ Maximus insisted. ‘They’re tribes. They can be broken.’

  ‘And they will be,’ Theodosius assured him. ‘Justinus, that survivor from the mouth of hell, the signifer …’

  ‘Claudius Metellus,’ the tribune said.

  ‘That’s the one. Yes. Why did Valentinus let him live?’

  Justinus nodded. He understood. ‘To bring the rest of us a message,’ he said.