Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  “Things are bad here, brother. The Druids and the natives want to destroy the mansio and I don’t know if we can hold. Come home, PLEASE.”

  I underlined the last sentence, tied up the tablet and sealed it.

  Just as I finished, Quintus came flying in again, asking about the loan of a sword. There was a good old-fashioned one that had been father’s; he tested the weight and said it would do. I tried to insist he take a man with him as guard, but he said it would slow him down. I did persuade him not to wear his own cloak, which would be recognised if we were being watched, so he took an old worn one of my brother’s instead, the sort of thing a farmer might wear.

  I gave him my note for Lucius as he hurriedly dressed for the journey. He blew me a kiss, and was gone into the rain.

  Our defences were complete before noon, and they were impressive. The stout stockade was about nine feet tall, and it formed a secure compound, with all the main buildings inside—house, stables, slaves’ quarters, barns and stores. Sharpened spikes stuck up from its top, and a ditch, with thorn-bushes in it, ran along the outside where it faced the open paddocks. On the inside, every few yards, were crude platforms made of stones or logs, that a defender could stand on and look down over the fence on the attackers. A heavy oak gate with iron spikes sticking up from its top barred the width of the track to the main road, and a smaller one, also spiked, led out from the rear of the enclosure to the big paddock.

  It was good. Given the shortage of time and the lack of skill of most of our labour, it was brilliant. We’d just have to pray it would be enough, when the time came.

  Taurus had made a big pen formed from hurdles in the open space in front of the stables, and Hippon’s lads brought the horses and the more valuable mules in from the paddocks well before dark. A few animals were squeezed inside the stable block, but there wasn’t much spare room there, because the official post-horses were already kept inside at night. So most of them stood out in the rain, dripping wet and unsettled by the wind and the change of routine. Hippon fed them oats laced with some herbal concoction which was supposed to make them sleepy and docile. It didn’t seem to be working.

  The rain lashed relentlessly down, the wind blew stronger by the hour, and I noticed occasional flashes of lightning. We only had a handful of customers, and they’d all gone home by mid-afternoon. Hardly surprising. We were so obviously preparing for an attack of some sort, a man would need to be very drunk, or desperate to become so, not to take the hint and depart.

  I kept everyone busy checking and double-checking our preparations. The slaves stacked logs in the forecourt, and behind the stables; fires would be good for morale, as well as helping us to see in the dark. Brutus, the veteran, suggested some kind of fireballs, something we could set ablaze and throw down on the enemy if they tried to climb the fence. We decided on bundles of hay sprinkled with oil. When we tried one out, it burned well, though whoever was throwing it would have to be careful not to get singed himself. I set some of the younger girls to prepare piles of these and we put them outside around the compound, carefully shielded from the wet with leather covers. We stationed braziers at various strategic points around the inside of the fence, where there was shelter to stop the rain putting them out.

  The braziers gave Albia a brilliant idea. “We need something we can drop on their heads if they come too close to the fence,” she suggested. “How about boiling water?” So we got out every last brazier and hung metal cooking-pots over them, and positioned them around the fence too. More pots were ready in the kitchen, to be boiled as needed.

  Darkness came early, bringing on a continuous pitch-black storm, without a star or a ray of moonlight, or even any lightning. We all knew that if the natives were bent on attacking us, they’d never get a better night for it. We barred the gates early and settled down to wait.

  But as the daylight faded I had something else to worry about. Quintus Antonius hadn’t come home.

  Albia knew how anxious I was. “I expect Lucius was late getting to garrison headquarters,” she suggested, “and Quintus had to kick his heels all afternoon waiting for him.”

  “But he said he’d be back by dark, and he knows how much I—we need him. Suppose something’s happened to him on the road? Suppose the Shadow-men have attacked him again?”

  “He’ll be back, you know he will. He’s clever, and he’s tough, and he wants to be with you—anyone can see that. He’ll be back.”

  I sent a silent prayer to Diana that I’d still be here to welcome him.

  Chapter XIX

  The attack came about an hour before dawn. I suppose they thought that after a tense, dark, sleepless night we would be tired and frightened. Quite right. It was the longest, most wretched night I’ve ever lived through.

  At dark everyone gathered in the bar-room, waiting for instructions. I was pleased to see they were all there, farm-hands and house-servants, men and girls. We armed them as best we could: those that had any sort of military training had swords, and the others had pitchforks or heavy sticks, and most of them also carried daggers. And, best of all, two of the field-hands had hunting bows. Yes, I know, giving weapons to slaves is strictly illegal; but very comforting when they are your main defence against barbarians.

  We divided all our people into two watches, who would stand guard turn and turn about; Junius and Marius would be watch commanders. Albia and I were supposed to take turns too, but we knew that neither of us would sleep, and we would both be active all night long.

  While I had everyone together, I spoke to them briefly, telling them what was at stake. I can’t remember much of what I said, except that I tried to finish with something rousing. “There are enemies out there who want to kill us all and destroy our home. But we can beat them off. We’ve got good defences, we’ve got the gods of Rome on our side, and best of all, we’ve got all of you. So let’s show the world that we stand as strong and solid as our own oak tree!”

  They cheered, and I was moved and also comforted. They were all as determined as I was, including the natives, even the ones like Marsus who could remember a time when they weren’t slaves. They felt they were our people, which meant they would fight. Not long ago I’d have taken it for granted that our household would defend us, but the old certainties weren’t so certain any more.

  Titch wanted to go outside the fence to scout, but was firmly forbidden to do so, by me and also by the tribunes.

  “Far too dangerous,” Junius told him. “Anyhow, I’ve got an important job for you young horse-boys. You’re to act as runners, when we need messages carried. It’s vital that each part of our area is kept in touch with all the other parts, and with the house.”

  Titch, of course, immediately took charge of the runners, and we heard him lecturing them about what sort of communications in siege conditions were favoured by Julius Caesar.

  We lighted two big fires, one on the forecourt and one near the smaller gate at the back. We put up torches in wall-brackets as well, though the strong gusts of wind tended to blow them out every now and then. We got storm-lanterns ready. We organised hot food and mulled wine, well watered, for everyone who wanted it. Then there was nothing for me to do but wait, trying with a cheerful, confident face to hide the dread I felt inside.

  I remember I went to the household gods about midnight and asked them not to let any harm come to us, or to Quintus. Albia found me there; she’d come to say a prayer too. We prayed together, but my heart wasn’t in it, to be honest. I’d already asked Diana to give us moonlit nights, and to send Quintus safely home, and either she wasn’t listening, or some other god had over-ruled her. One of the Druid gods, perhaps, was looking after the interests of our enemies. I know it’s fashionable nowadays to mock the old stories of the gods above fighting the battles of their followers down on earth, but that night, with the storm raging and in fear for our lives, we weren’t mocking, I can tell you.

  Junius was on watch when the first sign of trouble ca
me; it was almost a relief when things started to happen. The bar-room door flew open, letting in a flurry of wind and rain, and Titch ran in, shouting something jumbled about enemies moving in the distance. Marius held up a hand and silenced him.

  “Calmly, lad. If you gabble like that we can’t understand you. Now make your report sensibly.”

  “Sorry, sir. Tribune Junius’ compliments, and there’s movement outside the fence in the big paddock. Four or five men, he reckons. He’s reinforced the area and is getting ready to use some of the fireballs.”

  “Good.” Marius got to his feet. “Tell him I’ll keep an eye on the front of the building, in case it’s just a diversion. And I’ll send more fireballs out as needed.”

  Titch scurried out, and Marius reached for his cloak. I got up too. I couldn’t stay inside if the action was beginning. I headed for the door.

  “Better not, Aurelia,” Marius said. “You’ll be a liability out there. If they see you, they’ll try to kill you or maybe capture you.”

  “They won’t recognise me. I’ve got Lucius’ old army sagum. With that on and the hood up, I’ll look like just another man.” The heavy military cloak would stand any amount of rain, and it brought Lucius nearer somehow. When I’d put it on, Albia exclaimed, “Gods, you look a sight!” which I took to mean the disguise was effective.

  Albia had a cloak handy herself, but as she reached for it I shook my head. “You’re in command here, Albia. You’re the reserve, and don’t worry, you’ll get your share of the battle later. We’ll be lucky to beat the bastards off at the first assault.”

  Outside, the wind and rain whipped fiercely around us, fit to knock us over, and we had to raise our voices to be heard above the noise. The blackness was so complete it seemed solid, and our fires and torches and lanterns gave pathetically little light. We checked the guards around the gate and the front half of the fencing; they were alert and itching for a fight. Marius went off to find Junius, leaving me alone in the forecourt, with the fitful firelight making huge shadows everywhere. I could find my way about without lights, but the inky blackness was unnerving. I decided to head for the stables to see if the horses were all right.

  As I went towards the rear, where the fence backed onto the paddocks, I heard a raised voice and a string of choice curses. It turned out to be Junius, laying into one of the field-hands.

  “Stupid bastard left the cover off this pile of fireballs and the rain’s got to them,” he snarled, pointing to a soaking pile of hay-bundles. “Ruined them! Sheer incompetence!”

  “I never!” the man was protesting. “I never touched them, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Well, somebody did. You were supposed to be guarding them, so if you’ve let someone else get at them, it’s just as bad.”

  “We’ve plenty more bundles,” I said. “Don’t let’s waste time over it. What’s happening outside?”

  “Not much so far. There were men moving about in the paddock, coming up to the fence, but when we started throwing fireballs out they pulled back. They haven’t gone far.”

  There was a loud yell from the front of the house. “Here! This way! Tribune, this way, quick!”

  Junius and I ran to the open ground between the bar-room door and the new gate. Taurus was there, pointing over the fence. “I heard something,” he said. I doubted it myself, in this wind, but there was only one way to find out. Without thinking, I started to climb up the big old oak tree. I’d climbed it ever since my childhood; I knew every toehold and handhold, though the clumsy, thick sagum kept catching as I went up. Soon I was high enough to look over the fence, but it was hard to make much out in the blackness. I could dimly see a group of figures manoeuvring something bulky from among the trees that bordered the road. It could have been anything from a small cart to a giant barrel. Someone was uttering rhythmic shouts, presumably giving the time for them to heave or push. “Fireballs at the front!” I yelled. Two of our farm boys clambered up onto the nearest platform, and a third began passing them lighted hay-bundles, which they tossed out over the stockade. By their blazing light I could see the attackers scatter, and I could make out that what they were moving was a large tree-trunk, roughly pointed at the nearer end. A battering-ram then, a very crude one, to be moved by the brute force of a team of men. Our stockade was stout, but the sections to either side of the front gate were vulnerable, because on the road side there wasn’t a ditch, just a few thorn-bushes on good firm paving.

  Still, the ram would be slow to move, and we had bowmen. I’d station one of them by the gate on permanent guard, I decided, with orders to shoot at anything that moved, and to let loose occasional arrows even if all was quiet, to keep the besiegers at a respectful distance. Meantime I watched with pleasure how the fireballs’ light and flames were keeping the attackers back. I tried to count the men, nine, ten, eleven…and then my heart almost stopped. In the fitful light it was hard to be sure, but I could swear one of the attackers wore a skull mask. The Shadow of Death was leading his band in person.

  Suddenly close behind me I heard a branch creak. There was someone else up here! I froze with horror for a couple of heartbeats, then I collected what was left of my courage, pulled out my knife and twisted round, calling out, “Keep still or I’ll slit your throat.”

  A familiar voice said, “It’s only Titch, Mistress. This is a brilliant place to keep lookout. I’ll send someone up here to watch, shall I? You’ll be needed on the ground.”

  The boy was right, and I should have thought of it myself. I said “Good idea,” and started on my way down.

  Taurus helped me down the last few feet. The paving was slippery with rain and I was glad to steady myself against his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you do that for a year or two, Mistress.” He gave me his slow smile. “You haven’t lost the knack though.”

  “Titch,” I said, as the boy landed beside me, “tell Junius I want one of the bowmen permanently covering the front gate. They mustn’t get that ram any closer.”

  “Aye, Mistress,” he said, and vanished into the dark.

  “Aurelia! Aurelia, here! The horses!” That was Hippon’s voice, sounding desperate.

  “Mistress Aurelia, come quick!” Milo’s shrill shriek carried from the stable yard above the storm.

  I raced for the stable block; even in the dark I knew the way well enough to run. As I came near I could hear the horses were panicking, calling each other and trampling around.

  “They’ve broken in somehow,” young Milo panted. “Look!”

  Two horses lay dead on the ground, their throats cut. The rest of the animals were milling about, too close to a stampede for my liking, with Hippon and the stable-hands trying to calm them.

  “Go and help quieten them,” I said to the boy.

  Junius came hurrying over. He took in the scene and swore. “Nobody could have broken through, we’d have seen them.”

  “Shadow-men!” I exclaimed. “Well-named. Who’s supposed to be on guard in the yard here? Marsus? Marsus! MARSUS!” But there was no reply.

  Then Milo screeched again, from the other side of the horse pen. “Dead! He’s dead!” I hurried to him through the circling horses, my heart pounding.

  Marsus lay spread-eagled on the ground, bleeding profusely from a hole in his belly, with half his guts spilling out of it. The milling horses were managing to avoid trampling on him, but it was close.

  Who’d done this? My mind started to race, but there wasn’t time to think about it. I wanted to be sick, but there wasn’t time for that either.

  I knelt down by his head. He was still conscious, but not for much longer, by the look of him. I took his hand.

  “Marsus, you’ll be all right. We’ll carry you inside where it’s warm, and Albia will patch you up. Just hold on till we get a stretcher.”

  “No.” His voice was more or less a whisper; I had to lean so close I could feel his breath on my face.

  “Don’t waste…men. I’m done. But lis
ten, Mistress….”

  “Yes?”

  “The tribune did this. I tried to stop him….” His voice tailed off.

  “Which tribune, Marsus? Which was it?”

  But there was no answer, nor ever would be. He was dead.

  The tribune….

  O holy Diana, I whispered, help us! Help us now!

  Before I could even find someone to move Marsus’ body, I heard shrill triumphant yells from outside the fence, and then an animal screamed. The bastards were butchering the mules in the paddock. We hadn’t been able to bring all the stock in, so the less valuable mules were still out there. I clambered up onto one of the log platforms and looked over, unable to see anything; but the yelling and the animal noises told me where the enemy were, and they were too far away for the fireballs to reach them. I pictured my tough reliable old mules, being chased and killed by the barbarian savages. I hoped one or two of them landed some hard kicks as they were caught. I cursed like a fish-wife, hurling insults over the fence, but the wind whirled my voice into oblivion, which made me feel even more helpless, and angry tears came to my eyes.

  “Fire! Fire! Bring water here!” That was Albia, and it sounded as if she was near the slaves’ quarters, out behind the bath-house. Gods, what now?

  I raced towards her voice, and she wasn’t hard to find because indeed there was a fire, inside the slave block, and the smoky flames lighted my way. Several of the farm-hands were busy with buckets of water and it didn’t take long to douse the flames, but it was clear someone must have started the blaze deliberately. And surely nobody had broken in here, so near the buildings? It must have been done from inside. By whoever had killed Marsus? One of the tribunes—but which?

  We got the fire out, and before we’d finished that, there was another assault on the fence, near the front gate, about as far from the slave block as it could be. And I began to see a pattern in the attacks. The Shadow-men couldn’t get over our stockade quickly, but they had only to threaten to break in, sending small groups of attackers one after another at different points outside the compound. By constantly changing their focus of attack, they could force us to race from end to end of our enclosure to oppose them. That, combined with the damage being done by the traitor inside, would be enough to wear us down and break us. Good, sound tactics, and they almost worked.