Britannia: Part I: The Wall
Page 32
‘Take post, gentlemen,’ he said to his tribunes and they galloped to their units to open the day’s dance.
Five miles to the east, one of Stephanus’ riders had reached Justinus. He rode with Leocadius and Vitalis on his staff but, to be honest, he could no more rely on them now than he could four years ago when their lives had been turned upside down at Banna. Leocadius seemed his old self, laughing, cracking jokes, giving everybody the benefit of his company. But none of these things made him a good soldier. As for Vitalis, the man seemed ill at ease. He wore his mail coat as if it hurt him and refused to wear the scarf of a tribune because he was not part of this world anymore.
The death of Paternus had hit them all very hard. And it was only that that kept Vitalis in the field at all. He had come north, arse and thighs aching, through the woods and valleys of the south, because Leocadius had shamed him into it. But he would not fight and the scabbard hung empty at his side.
‘The general’s orders, sir,’ Stephanus’ rider wheezed, looking as blown as his horse. ‘Valentinus is in a wood five miles to the west of here. The general’s compliments and could you join him?’
‘I would be delighted,’ the tribune said and gave orders for his column to wheel left to follow the Heruli horseman. ‘This is it, lads,’ he murmured to Leocadius and Vitalis. ‘We’ve got our hooks into the bastard at last.’
Julius Amiterra was the general’s commander of artillery. His men said he had the guts of a two-wheeled carroballista and his balls were made of stone. Neither of these things was said within his earshot. He had drawn up his onagers, on Maximus’ instructions, at the base of the hill. Shooting upwards was always a bit of a bastard for the artillery, but the ground, at least, was hard and the machines would not sink into a morass of mud and become immovable. Amiterra’s men had clothed half their stones with pitch-soaked straw, wrapped with sacking and tied with twine over the carefully-painted words of love they were about to unleash on the enemy.
Behind them, Maximus’ legions were drawn up in battle order, the Batavi at the front and the Heruli in reserve. He sat his horse and looked along the lines – grim-faced men standing in the total silence he expected, watching the dark trees of the forest on the ridge.
‘No talking!’ he heard the bark of a centurion somewhere in the tight formation and heard the thud of the man’s cane as it hit somebody’s back. What he could not hear were the whispered words that followed it. ‘I’ll have you, Orno, you snivelling little soldier. And fasten that strap, man. Where do you think you are?’
Talking in the ranks at moments like these would not do. It was never about the weather. It was always about the enemy – his numbers, his strength, what so-and-so said what’s-his-face had told him about what they did to prisoners. Best keep silent.
Maximus looked at the sky. There was a sun up there, he knew, above the grey northern clouds, but he could not see it. It must be mid-morning. Along the Thamesis about now he would be inspecting the perimeters with Stephanus or entertaining some of the dignitaries from the city, putting his cohorts through their paces as titled ladies tittered and whispered together about the men’s taut bodies. He shuddered. Give him a killing ground any day.
‘Io, Valentinus!’ He cupped his mouth to make sure his voice carried to the trees. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ He allowed the ripple of laughter from the ranks nearest to him.
For a moment, perhaps two, there was silence. Then, ‘Good morning, Maximus,’ echoed from the tall firs. A solitary figure rode forward out of the deep shadows, a man on a black horse. A man wearing a silver helmet. The front ranks craned their necks to see him, this monster they had heard such things about. He looked surprisingly small at this distance, but that was probably a trick of the light. The general’s mastiff growled and whiffled as though he tasted the man’s bones already. ‘How nice of you to come so far to pay your respects.’ His Latin was perfect.
‘Respect is something you have to earn, bastard,’ Maximus shouted. ‘Oh, I know you’re good at knocking over milecastles and murdering children. Let’s see what you can do against a legion or two, eh?’
‘Pretty shields,’ Valentinus shouted back. He was still the only enemy in sight, as his horse shifted and snorted, scenting battle. ‘The Batavi and the Heruli. I don’t see the others with you – the Jovii, the Victores. Where are you hiding them, eh? Up your arse?’
Maximus exchanged smiles with his staff. ‘Cocksure bastard, isn’t he?’ he said. Then his smile vanished. ‘And a bit too well-informed for my liking.’
‘How is it in the sunny south?’ Valentinus was making small talk and Maximus did not yet know why. ‘And how’s my old friend Paulinus Hupo?’
Maximus’ horse skittered to one side. Had the general heard right? He did not know Hupo personally, but he knew of him; the sort of gutter-life that every city throws up now and again. Was that why Valentinus had not attacked Londinium as he had threatened? Did he know that Theodosius’ walls and Theodosius’ artillery were too strong for him?
This prattle had gone on for long enough. ‘Talking of old friends,’ he called, ‘Have you met my old friend, Vulcan?’ He brought his raised arm down. ‘Now, Amiterra!’ he roared. ‘Now’s your time!’
Along the artillery line, the pitch burst into flame and the ballistae crashed into action. The wild asses kicked and bucked, the ropes flying free as the burning rocks were hurled into the air. They sailed high up the hill to smash into the tree tops, ripping boughs and splintering timber. The sap-rich fronds went up like tinder and the flame shot along branches and down trunks.
‘Reload!’ Amiterra bellowed with lungs long used to yelling over ballistae-fire. The second wave of missiles fell shorter, hitting the trees half way up the trunks and sending showers of burning foliage crashing to the forest floor.
Valentinus had long gone, vanished behind the black smoke and Maximus called a ceasefire. The troops, jabbering away excitedly at the roar and scream of the bombardment, fell silent again. The general cursed. The wind was changing, blowing the choking smoke back into his own lines as the fire took hold and the whole thick stand of trees began to burn. Where the hell were they? Maximus had expected to smoke the barbarians out, to watch a terrified rabble with their bodies writhing in flame, come tumbling down the hillside where his legions would destroy them. But there was nothing.
‘Reload, sir?’ Julius Amiterra had hurried across to the general’s position.
‘No, stand your men down.’ Maximus wheeled his horse and cantered along the line, shouting to the tribunes. ‘He’s pulled his people back. East, west, I don’t know. Be ready to move on my command.’
The shields came up from the ground, forearms bunched and sinewed in the arm-straps. The spears were erect, probing the sky. Maximus reached the cavalry wing extending to the east. ‘Stephanus. Take yourself on a run. Ride east and find that slippery bastard. And get a message to the left wing to do the same. He’s moving somewhere beyond that hill and I’ve just given him a smoke-screen to hide behind.’
The German chuckled. ‘Ah, where’s Papa Theo when you need him, eh?’
Maximus growled, ‘Get on with it, you insubordinate shit!’ but he could not help smiling as he said it.
‘Battle order!’ Justinus yelled. Ahead of him he saw black smoke billowing across his front from a large stand of trees on the high ground. He could not make it out clearly, but it looked like Maximus’ two legions drawn up at the bottom of the slope. They were not moving, as if Valentinus had fixed them with his Medusa’s stare and turned them all to stone.
What concerned him more was what lay directly in his path. If the barbarians had been hiding in that wood, they were hiding no longer. A solid mass of them stood on the reverse slopes below the flaming trees where the timbers cracked and fell. Justinus could see the blue bodies of the painted ones and knew the standards of the Scotti – the boar and the stag and the bear. He also knew he was outnumbered and the bastards were massing to attack.
‘Jupiter Highest and Best,’ Leocadius murmured at Justinus’ elbow and pointed straight ahead. A solitary horseman was walking his animal forward, a sudden flash of pale sun striking the silver of his helmet.
‘Well, well,’ the voice rang in the metal cask, distorted and strange. ‘Is that Leocadius I see with you, Justinus? And young Vitalis? How nice. All the heroes of the Wall. Oh, except Paternus. Shame about him, wasn’t it?’
Leocadius clawed free his sword and raised his reins to force his horse forward. But Justinus held him back. 'Don't be a bloody fool, Leo,’ he growled. ‘That’s exactly what the bastard wants. How far do you think you’d get?’
The consul frowned. His blood was up and this bastard had lived too long. But he knew that Justinus was right.
‘You didn’t think just rebuilding the Wall would stop me, did you?’ A sinister laugh echoed across the field. ‘Let’s face it, you’re still a circitor. And those over-promoted shits with you are still pedes. You’re out of your depth, circitor. Go home.’
Justinus looked at the lads with him. Their faces were calm and grim now, ready for the inevitable, ready to avenge everything. Because everything that had happened to them since Banna, since they had run with their tails between their legs, had been because of Valentinus. This, as Maximus had said, was the time to collect the debt. And to offer a quick prayer to Mars Ultor, the avenger. The commander of the Wall buckled on his helmet and yelled to Valentinus, ‘I am home!’
His hand came down and the bows sang out, the hiss of arrows hurtling across the valley, the iron tips thudding into cheek bones and eye-sockets, the rest bouncing off shields. The barbarian archers fired back and Justinus’ men fell back to the protection of the Jovii shields. Iron smashed into them and the front line recoiled a little with the impact. First blood to nobody and the day had only just begun.
Stephanus sent his galloper back, his horse’s hooves thudding across the heather. He had ripped off his helmet and was waving to Maximus, sitting under his scarlet banner, waiting for word.
‘Enemy to the east, sir,’ the man gasped. ‘They’re engaging the other legions.’
At last. ‘Cornicen,’ Maximus shouted to the man standing behind him. ‘The Batavi will wheel right, Heruli in support. Double time.’ And the whole line swung and wheeled, boots thudding as one as though on a parade ground and the whole unit jogged forward.
Now, Valentinus was on the march. His swine array was moving forward, the carynxes at their head blasting out their terrifying noise. This was the moment that every Roman had dreaded since they had first crossed the Tiber to spread the eagle’s wings far and wide. All of hell was coming up out of the ground against Justinus and his men knew it. It was more than sinew and iron and the guts of individual men. It was a monster, the darkest demon of the night, thousands moving as one, terrifying, unstoppable.
And Valentinus’ words hammered in Justinus’ head. He was a circitor. What the hell was he doing here in command of two legions, in command of the Wall? Around him, any one of his staff had more experience than he did. Anyone except Leocadius and Vitalis and he could not read their faces now. Leocadius had clapped his tribune’s helmet on, with its fancy scrollwork and only his eyes flashed in the reflection of the distant fires. Vitalis showed no emotion at all, the wail of those terrible horns echoing through his head.
‘Ballistae!’ Justinus roared and the wild asses kicked. Rocks hurtled through the air as the frames bucked and shuddered, sending their messages straight into the heart of the swine array. A barbarian’s head was ripped off his shoulders and the carynx scream became a series of disjointed wails as the hornmen went down, trampled by the chanting warriors behind. Shields buckled and split, heaps of men collapsed in the path of the attack, but they kept coming anyway.
‘Shields!’ Justinus bellowed and the front rank of the Jovii knelt, locking their shields and pointing their spears upwards. The second tilted their bodies so that the shields overlapped and the spears were held level, ready to smash into eyes and teeth. The ranks behind still had their shields slung across their backs and they were ready to hurl their spears into the sky. A more experienced commander might have met the enemy running, with a crash that would reach the heavens, but the moment had gone and there was no time to move forward.
‘Spears!’ Justinus thundered and the javelins hissed through the air, sailing over the heads of the kneeling and standing Jovii and thudding into the swine array. Men went down under this deadly rain, skewered by iron that pelted them from above. There was no need for Justinus to roar the next command. It was instinctive. The shields came up to the horizontal, to lock above the heads of the Jovii. This was the testudo, the turtle and everybody braced themselves as the barbarian spears clattered off the shield bosses and fell harmlessly to one side. A few found their mark, iron slicing through shoulders and necks; and screams and groans filled the air.
Still the Jovii stood fast. And still the swine array came on.
Stephanus the German reined in his black on the eastern slopes of the hill. The trees were still burning but very few of them were still standing now. The smoke had darkened the sky completely and he could not even see the sun, but he reckoned it was midday. Ahead, he could see the running line of the barbarians glittering in their armour. No one had beaten these bastards yet and they knew it. He shook his head. Justinus was a man of whom the general had spoken highly and over the last few days Stephanus had got to know and like him. But the man was standing still to receive the shock of the attack and he might not stand at all. The cavalryman read the signs, scouring Justinus’ back line to watch for stragglers. He knew the men at the front could not run because they had nowhere to go. All retreats began at the back. No one was breaking yet and he could see the centurions at the rear, their sticks in their hands, watching for just such a break.
Stephanus would have liked to have waited for Maximus’ infantry to catch up, but he did not have the time for that. He swore in the guttural language of his homeland and drew his sword. ‘First turmae,’ he bellowed at his horsemen. ‘Direct. Second and third, I want you up our arses.’ He slashed the air with his blade and the cavalry moved forward, at a walk at first, the dragon standard fluttering just behind Stephanus. Each man rode knee to ham with his comrade. Keeping the horses in check until the right moment. A cavalry charge was all well and good and the thunder of the hooves shook the ground, but it was best delivered against a weakened enemy, men already cracking and exhausted. Against a legion in defence, it was suicide. And against other cavalry? Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?
The Ala Heruli rose to the trot, spears erect still, jabbing the air while the turmae behind carried their spatha blades at the slope on their shoulders. The cornicen with Stephanus judged the moment and blasted out the canter. The spear points came down and the sword blades shot upright to the vertical. Valentinus’ horsemen were racing in a wide circle, trying to prevent Stephanus from reaching the swine array, but they were not in position as the German struck.
‘Sound the charge!’ Stephanus roared, ramming his heels home as the black broke into a gallop. His men were shouting their battle cries of the Rhenus and the Ister, their horses champing their iron bits and breathing hard.
The shock on the Jovii front line was like nothing most of them had felt before. Huge Picts were hurling themselves onto spear-points, impaled bodies with blood bubbling from their mouths. The front line jarred and held for a moment, then it broke and the second stepped forward on Justinus’ command, their spears level. Swords hacked against shields and bounced off helmets, teeth and blood flying over the swine array. The barbarians had lost all formation, but their sheer weight of numbers carried them fo
rward. Justinus’ front line had all but gone, his kneeling men hacked down and the spears of the second line, where they had not found their mark through gristle and bone, were being batted aside like toothpicks.
Now it was shield to shield and the heaving began. In the centre, and only yards from Justinus’ scarlet flag, men were locked in the grim dance of death that all battles come down to. Where iron failed and men lost their weapons in the press, both sides spat at each other, kicking, gouging and tearing with their bare hands. Leocadius saw it first – a vexillum of the VI with its gilt letters, the one hacked from the arm of the signifer from Camboglanna. The consul had had enough. For nearly two hours now he had sat his horse and waited. But he would follow Justinus no more. He was not part of this army any more, with its rules and its traditions and he broke every one of them now.
Leocadius slammed his heels into his horse and forced the animal forward. Around him the centurions were smashing their sticks onto the shoulders of the wavering back line, snarling at them to hold their places and pushing them forward. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the butchered, headless Ulpius Piso, looking out with eyes he no longer had, over the ground he had failed to hold. His sword rang on the shield of a Pict, battle-mad and foaming at the mouth. He parried the man’s attack and slashed him from shoulder to groin, watching him roll to the ground. A spear thudded into his horse’s chest and the animal whinnied and stumbled, throwing Leocadius out of the saddle. For brief seconds, he was stunned by the fall, unable to catch his breath, rolling among the milling feet of the Jovii, Roman boots he knew so well, sliding and scraping in the dust. Then he was on his feet, checking his grip on his sword and whirling back to the attack in search of the captured vexillum.