Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘You bastards! Every one of those cattle represented life or death to a crofting family, and you’ve slaughtered them without a second thought.’

  Dubnus stepped forward, interposing himself between them before Antenoch had a chance to take umbrage.

  ‘These cattle were either taken or purchased from the crofters to feed a barbarian warband. Either way, we’re denying food to the enemy.’

  He turned away, accepting a torch from one of the soldiers sadly staring at the scene.

  ‘Pour on the pitch!’

  A dozen men hefted heavy jars, pulling their stoppers and pouring the sticky, viscous pitch, half liquid, half solid, over the dead animals, then repeated the act with fresh jars, until the pungent aroma spread across the field. More men stepped up with further jars, pouring until the fumes made Marcus’s eyes sting and water. Dubnus stepped up to the nearest corpse, muttering a swift prayer under his breath as he lowered his torch to the dead animal’s sticky fur. The pitch smoked for a long moment before catching fire, the flames slowly spreading across the pile of dead animals. The flames sent a pungent scent of roasting hair to assault their nostrils, the 9th’s soldiers standing in reverential silence at the destruction of such great wealth. Smoke from the burning beasts created an artificial fog to replace that burnt away by the heat, making the men cough, and cover their faces with their sweat rags. The century watched the growing blaze for a few moments more, every man taking a drink of beer from jars found in the farmhouse as reward for their efforts with a prim-looking Cyclops posted to ensure that nobody drank more than would be prudent so far into unfriendly country. Once everyone had taken their share, and several had been turned away with bristling indignation by the beer’s custodian, Marcus shook himself from his tired reverie.

  ‘Time we weren’t here. Century, form ranks for the march!’

  Men ran to assume formation, transforming chaos into ordered ranks with a practised ease, half a dozen men holding the halters of ponies taken from the farm’s enclosure. Marcus turned to the woman, his smile tight lipped with fatigue and residual anger at her outburst.

  ‘Well, ma’am, would you care to ride or walk?’

  She glared at him, then stalked away and mounted one of the ponies.

  ‘Ninth Century, at the quick march ... march!’

  They moved quickly down to the farm. The flour intended for loaves to feed the oncoming warband had been stacked in the farm’s main room, and doused with more jars of the aromatic amber pine pitch, ready for burning. Dubnus tossed a torch in through the door with a sad smile, then led them back up the hill on the far side in grim silence. At the crest he halted them temporarily, turning them to look back into the valley as the first rays of the rising sun lit the hilltops around them. The reek from the burning oxen and the newly fired farmhouse was rising in a thick dark column that would be visible for twenty miles. If there were a warband heading for the farm, its leader would shortly be doubling his efforts to reach the scene, and probably throwing whatever he had by way of mounted scouts forward at their best speed to investigate the reason for the fire. Marcus turned to face his men.

  ‘Ninth Century, this is a major victory. There’s almost certainly a large enemy warband within a day or two’s march of this place, probably marching in the expectation of replenishing their supplies in preparation for an attack on the Wall. Perhaps even on the Hill ... What they will find, thanks to us, is their meat destroyed, the pitch for their torches burned and their flour gone up in flames with it. Unless they have an alternative source of supply, their leader will be forced to fall back on more friendly territory in search of food.

  ‘Now ...’

  He paused for effect, aware that every eye was locked on him, their sensitivities about the destruction of so many fine oxen forgotten. The responsibility of bringing the century back to its parent unit intact weighed him down for a moment.

  ‘... now we have to think of ourselves. There might well be scouts heading for the farm even as we speak, quite possibly in numbers that would overwhelm us on open ground. My intention is that we should make a forced march for the Wall, and get it between us and any potential threat.’

  He grinned at them wolfishly.

  ‘Now’s the time that we get some return on all that training. We’ll eat breakfast once we’re back on the civilised side of the Wall. We move in two minutes, so make fast and get ready to run.’

  The soldiers set to work, tightening fastenings and making sure that their boots were secure. Once the century was on the move, any man who dropped an item, or whose footwear loosened, would be forced to drop out, then run twice as hard to catch up again. He pulled Dubnus to one side, speaking quietly in his ear.

  ‘We need to know what happens here in the next couple of hours. Choose a good distance runner, share his kit out and have him find a sheltered spot to watch the fire. He waits until mid-morning, then pulls out and follows us back to the Wall.’

  The chosen nodded silently, walking away into the century’s activity. The morning air was a cool relief as the 9th jogged towards the Wall; it was too early for the sun to be uncomfortable. Looking back, even ten miles from the farm, Marcus was amazed at the size of the pillar of smoke that rose into the heavens, shearing suddenly to the west where it met a high air current thousands of feet above the ground. He smiled wryly at the probable effect of the sign on his own side of the Wall, and what it might be mistaken for. At least he could expect to meet friendly faces once the 9th had crossed the border. Scout units would in all likelihood be racing for the spot from both east and west.

  They reached their original crossing point at mid-morning, and set up a temporary camp on the southern side of the Wall. Marcus gave the command for field rations to be opened, and luxuriated in dried meat and the last of the previous day’s bread issue, with a little pickle from a jar that Antenoch had slipped into his pack. Climbing the rampart to survey the ground to their north, he saw that the pillar of smoke was lightening, the fire presumably having consumed the farm buildings. Its top stretched, a dirty stain in the clear blue sky, for a dozen miles or so to the west, slowly dispersing in the gentle winds. The ground in front of the Wall climbed gently for a few hundred years before falling away towards a distant line of trees. From the ground on that slope, he mused, it would be impossible to see the Wall.

  He made his way back to the ground, and walked over to where the woman was taking a solitary breakfast, still guarded by the same soldiers who had shared her vigil over the dying man at dawn. Dismissing the men, Marcus squatted on to his haunches when she showed no sign of standing to meet him. Her face, seen for the first time in the daylight, bore the marks of a heavy beating within the past week, bruises past their first lividity still evident as shadows on her cheekbones and jawline.

  ‘Ma’am, we’ve had no formal introduction ...’

  She looked up at him with a quizzical gaze, then offered her hand. He noticed the wedding ring.

  ‘Your husband must be worried ...’

  ‘I doubt that very much. He’s the reason I’m here.’

  He caught the tone in her voice, and skirted away from the subject.

  ‘Marcus Valerius Aquila at your service ... although that isn’t a name I’ve spoken to anybody else these last three months.’

  She smiled for the first time, perhaps at his formality.

  ‘When I left Rome the Valerius Aquila brothers were among the most respected senators in the city. My father spoke of them frequently. What relation are you to them?’

  His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.

  ‘I’m sorry ...’

  He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.

  ‘That’s all right ... It’s just that you’re the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I’d do when the time came – lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.’

  He took a deep bre
ath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.

  ‘My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I’ve been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion ...’

  Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.

  ‘... my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father ...’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won’t you return the compliment by telling me your name?’

  She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.

  ‘With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!’

  She glowered at the ground for a moment.

  ‘Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.’

  ‘Except, perhaps, when it results in the abduction and ... mistreatment of a Roman citizen?’

  She laughed again, a strange reaction in someone who had endured the torments attributed to her captivity by their first informant.

  ‘I wasn’t mistreated in any particular way, and these bruises predate my time in captivity. I probably would have been raped senseless if the warband had arrived before your rescue, but those people were more embarrassed than excited by my presence. I ran away from my husband’s fort when his cruelty and violence towards me became too much to bear. I persuaded my serving maid to disguise me as one of her own once we were out of sight of the fort. We slipped through one of the mile fort gates a week ago, and were caught by the master of that farm a day later, heading for my maid’s home village. He locked me up, probably wanted to force himself on me, but his wife was too fiercely opposed, said it would bring the legions down on them. I think she took pity on the state of my face.’

  ‘She might well have been jealous too.’

  She smiled again, ruefully this time.

  ‘Thank you for your gallantry. They still hadn’t decided what to do with me when you arrived. What made you come?’

  ‘We captured the husband spying on our fort at the Hill. One of his men told us that he’d already ...’

  He paused, embarrassed at the word’s implication. Touched by his embarrassment, she put her hand on his arm.

  ‘I’d guess he boasted in public to maintain his reputation. I ...’

  A shout from the Wall’s top grabbed Marcus’s attention. Dubnus beat him to the ladder, the pair of them bundling breathlessly on to the flat surface atop the mile fort’s structure. In the middle distance, half a mile or so from their gate, a single man was running across the wind-blown grass.

  ‘That’s our scout!’

  Dubnus nodded grimly.

  ‘Yes, and he’s running too fast for my liking ...’

  He turned back to look down at the resting soldiers.

  ‘Ninth Century, stand to! Fighting order.’

  Even as he spoke, a dozen horsemen broke from the cover of the trees to the north, another mile or so behind the running figure.

  Dubnus hurled himself down the ladder, while Marcus scanned the distant trees for any more movement. He turned to look down at the century, each man holding his shield and javelins at the parade rest, their faces filthy from the night’s impromptu camouflage of dirt, their armour and bodies covered with dried blood. Get them moving first, his instincts told him, and then explain the dangers.

  ‘First tent party, open the gate!’

  Marcus slid down the ladder, drawing his sword, which flashed in the sunlight.

  ‘Follow me!’

  He ran through the open gate, turning to watch his men charge through the opening four abreast. Jogging backwards and watching their faces, he saw fear and determination written in equal proportions. He gestured with the sword, catching their attention with its flashing arc.

  ‘Ninth Century, we have a comrade in danger. There may be more cavalry lurking in ambush, waiting until we’re clear of the Wall. If there are, we might all die seeking to rescue one man, but think how he feels seeing us coming out to him. We’re going out to him, we’re going to bring him back with us, or they’ll have to cut every one of us down to take any one of us.’

  More than a few faces stared at him in disbelief, though their legs kept them moving away from the Wall’s shelter. He sensed the situation slipping away from him, and felt the first touch of panic grip his mind. Suddenly he had no words to reassure or embolden them. He turned his back on them, mutely waving the sword forward in another flashing arc that pointed to the enemy cavalry galloping across the grass. From the century’s rear another voice sounded, deep and harsh, booming across the open space.

  ‘Ninth Century ... at the run ... Run!’

  Where the appeal to reason had faltered, the whiplash of command took the soldiers and threw them forward into a headlong run without any conscious thought process. The century put its collective head back and ran, the ranks opening out slightly as men opened their legs for the task. Marcus looked gratefully back at Dubnus, but the big chosen simply waved him forward to do his job, and in that second he understood and embraced what he had to do if they were to succeed, the adrenalin kick giving his words an unaccustomed savagery.

  ‘Run, you bastards, no fucking horse boy beats me to one of my own!’

  Grabbing a deep breath, he ran to catch the front rank, then matched strides with them and started to accelerate, pulling them out across the murderously empty ground in a race with the barbarian cavalry. They crested the gentle ridge and ran down the slope on its far side to reach the exhausted scout with seconds to spare, bundling him into the hollow square that Marcus had shouted for as he fell into their arms. The small cavalry band, shaggy-haired men on hardy ponies with long spears and round wooden shields, simply parted to either side of the square and rode around them, clearly not willing to tackle so many infantrymen readied in defensive formation. The 9th jeered and waved their spears, shouting abuse at the circling horsemen, venting their relief at the stand-off. As he stood in their midst watching the native cavalry circle impotently, Marcus felt a pull at his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Brigantia! Gods help us ...’

  Marcus looked at the point to which Antenoch pointed, his face suddenly pale with the sickening realisation that there was in reality no need for the relatively few horsemen riding round their square to take them on. A hundred and more mounted barbarians were breaking from the trees in a dark wave.

  9

  Marcus stared across the half-mile that separated the 9th from the forest’s dark bulk, watching the enemy irregular cavalry trot briskly from their hiding places under the trees’ canopy. Forming a rough line, the horsemen accelerated to a canter, starting up the gentle slope towards the century’s fragile square. He looked about him at his men, their attention focused on the oncoming cavalry, their faces fixed in disbelief at the cruel twist in their fortunes. Even Dubnus seemed diminished, leaning on his pole as if suddenly tired, and for a second the hope went out of the young officer. He stared beyond his men, at the smaller group of horsemen that had drawn away to wait a short distance upslope of their position, just short of the slope’s crest, close enough for them to see their mocking grins. Then, with an intensity that shocked him as much as the men he commanded, his temper ignited, firing a burning fury
into his voice.

  ‘Ninth Century, spear drill!’

  A few men turned to look at him, their faces numb with the shock of their ambush by the horsemen, stoking the fire of his fury.

  ‘Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!’

  Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.

  ‘You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!’

  The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus’s voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.

  ‘On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready ... Form line!’

  The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.

  ‘About face. Charge!’

  The tribesmen’s ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers’ battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.

  ‘Throw!’

  The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.