Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

The horse crumpled on its bad leg and Fronto barely managed to push himself out of the way as the beast collapsed into the water almost on top of him, slipping sideways. He felt the tug as the sword was almost wrenched from his grasp with the movement and it was only through a superhuman effort that he managed to maintain his grip on the hilt as it tore free of the leg.

  Half-swimming backwards, he watched with sick fascination as the rider, tipped unceremoniously from his blanket seat by the screaming horse, found himself suddenly beneath both the waves and his crippled mount, pinned to the pebbles as the horse thrashed, grinding him to a pulp.

  Turning from the grisly scene, Fronto moved along to the next horse, repeating the unpleasant ‘gutting’ tactic of the Germanic warriors, ducking back into the water as the slick of the beast’s blood drenched him from above.

  Moving out away from all the action for a moment’s breather, he stood again, aware that the quantity of blood churning in the water was now making it almost impossible to see and that he was in as much danger of bumping into the beleaguered soldiers as he was of finding another horse to deal with.

  Two of the beasts that he’d attacked were dying already, thrashing in the water, part bleeding out and part drowning, while another was desperately trying to reach the ‘safety’ of the beach, a constant rain of blood falling from its undercarriage to the surface of the sea. Of their unfortunate riders he could see no sign, though the pair of legionaries who had recently been fighting to preserve their own skins had now taken the initiative and were battering native warriors down into the surf with their shields as their swords rose and fell in rhythmic butchery; likely the fate of the men Fronto had unhorsed.

  The legionaries had no time to thank him for the relief, though. Two of the riders who’d been attacking them had wheeled their mounts and pounded away through the waist deep water in search of easier targets, while the last rider, now unhorsed, floundered in the waves, trying to fight off the revenging legionaries. The fight was far from over.

  The small pockets of combat had begun to spread and increase, melding together to form one great half-submerged melee, stretching from the very edge of the water, where Petrosidius fought like a man possessed, to the waist deep area, where the last men from the two Gallic vessels struggled to catch up. Two ships’ worth? Where was everyone else?

  Horses screamed as the legionaries attacked them viciously, unable to reach their riders. Soldiers hacked and battered with sword and shield, sloshing this way and that, taking advantage of the blood-tinted sea to drop beneath the surface and disappear whenever danger loomed, rising out of the water like some avenging spirit once the trouble had passed and moving on to the next likely target.

  A quick glance around the beach revealed a sickening truth: the number of legionaries committed in the water was barely enough to hold their own against the native cavalry. If the rest of the horde decided to brave the artillery and move into the fray, all would be lost. Frowning, Fronto peered past the two nearest ships, their high-sided Gallic hulls rising majestically from the water. To his dismay, he could see soldiers lining the rails of the two triremes. Caesar had held back the men of the Tenth on his ship, and Cicero had done the same with the Seventh on his.

  Unbelievable: both officers so stubborn, even in these circumstances! Despite Fronto’s leading of two centuries from the Tenth, the general had clearly put out the call to hold the rest of the legion back, expecting the Seventh to carry out his initial orders. Cicero, equally, had either refused to commit his men, or possibly had found it impossible to force his reticent officers to lead them into the fight. Either way, the entire struggle for the beach was being carried out by two centuries from each legion.

  Insane!

  His wandering gaze took in the numerous scuffles in the water and settled on a musician with a wolf-pelt over his helmet, struggling to free himself from the bronze hoop of a bent ‘cornu’ horn in which he had somehow become tangled as a Briton rider bore down on him, bloodied long-sword raised and ready to land the blow. He was almost on the unfortunate soldier.

  “Over here!” Fronto bellowed to the endangered musician, waving his sword arm. The man turned and began to wade desperately towards him, the sodden wolf fur half obscuring his vision, the horn almost comically constricting him. The legate’s brow furrowed in concentration even as he began to move to intercept. With his shield gone he would stand about as much chance against the horseman as the entangled musician did if he tried to wade out and take him in a fair fight.

  Luckily fair fighting to Fronto was a luxury, rather than a necessity.

  Hoping he would have clear enough vision, Fronto took a deep breath and dropped beneath the surface of the water again. The salty brine had taken on the distinctive tinny tang of blood and Fronto could taste it even on his closed lips as he opened his eyes and looked up.

  The water was stained dark pink and currents of blood flowed through it sickeningly, creating darker patches here and there, but he could just make out the shapes of clouds above — it would be good enough. Praying to Fortuna that his sense of direction had held, he half-swam, half-waded onwards toward the struggling cornicen, making sure to keep his head beneath the surface.

  The musician was easy enough to spot as he passed by. The man pushed his way wearily and desperately through the deepening water towards where Fronto had been. Even through the murk of blood, Fronto could see the panic on the soldier’s face as he tried to find the officer who’d shouted him.

  And then he was past and the horse and rider were almost on him. Fronto watched the powerful equine legs pound though the water, stirring sand and pebbles into the already gloomy mix. Judging the time to be right, he stood.

  Gaius Figulus, cornicen for the second century of the first cohort in the Seventh legion lost his footing and it was then that he knew it was all over. The native horseman chasing him down had been gaining on him as he ran and the officer that had called him had somehow vanished. Panic had gripped him then. He was not a man prone to excessive fear, and he was certainly no coward, but the simple knowledge that he was out of chances had finally fought its way into his beleaguered mind and unmanned him.

  After landing in the water, following centurion Furius despite the shouted orders to the contrary, he had drawn his sword, his cornu over the other shoulder and held tight in his grip — to lose his cornu would be to suffer beatings from his centurion later, as well as a substantial loss of pay.

  In a matter of moments he’d found himself in a melee, surrounded by two enemy horsemen. With no shield, he’d managed to repeatedly block their powerful, hammering sword blows with only his gladius for a hundred speedy heartbeats. He’d even eventually managed to stab one of the horses so that the rider pulled back and retreated. Unfortunately, his cornu had taken half a dozen heavy sword blows and, at some point as he’d ducked a swipe, it had bobbed on the water and managed to slip over his head and shoulder and now pinned his left arm to his side, the slightly buckled metal digging painfully into his neck. He’d have no trouble untangling himself given the opportunity, but for the fact that the remaining rider was still swinging at him, and finally a heavy blow that landed broke several fingers on his sword hand and weakened his wrist, his gladius tumbling away into the water, lost.

  Miraculously, another legionary had appeared and distracted the rider long enough for him to flee the scene, struggling with the horn, trying to lift it off himself as he retreated. But he’d failed, his hands trapped and bloodied, and the horseman had come after him.

  And then the officer had called.

  And then disappeared.

  Figulus made one last effort to try and haul the cornu off him, but his left arm was hopelessly pinned in the circle of bronze, while his right hand throbbed painfully with broken blackened fingers and was too weak to help.

  Turning, he observed his doom thundering through the water, bearing down on him.

  And then something unexpected happened.

  A figure rose from
the water like the very embodiment of Neptune, armour glinting silver with a faint sheen of watery crimson, face a contorted grimace of anger, fingers of its left hand grasping, reaching, a gladius glittering in the right.

  Figulus boggled as the free hand grasped the passing rider’s ankle, almost hauling the apparition out of the water, but allowing the other arm to come round in a powerful swing that hacked deep into the Briton’s shin.

  The cavalryman screamed and, the tip of the gladius having pricked the horse’s side enough to draw blood, the mount also bellowed and reared up, mid-run. The rider recovered his wits quickly enough, somehow managing to hold on to the horse’s reins, but he had lost control of his steed and the beast bolted through the surf back toward the beach. Figulus stared at the officer in the expensive, if dented, helmet and muscle-shaped beaten bronze cuirass, his horsehair crest bedraggled and sagging slightly.

  “I… Uh.”

  The officer turned his gaze on Figulus and the cornicen took a tiny involuntary step back at the sheer anger in the man’s face. The officer clearly seemed to have momentarily forgotten he was there in the thrill of battle.

  “You. Can you still play that thing?”

  “I think so sir. It’s a bit bent and it might not sound quite right, though.”

  “Don’t care” the officer said flatly as he waded through the water and began to help him remove the misshapen horn from around his neck and arm. “Do you know all the army’s calls?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Right then. Sound the advance for both legions.”

  Figulus nodded and reached his lips towards the mouthpiece, his good hand gripping the curve.

  “And the command call for all ships to beach.”

  “Sir? That order can only be given by the general or his staff.”

  The officer’s expression suggested heavily that a lot of Figulus’ future rode on the next minute and he swallowed nervously, observing the officer’s dented, stained armour, his grizzled features and the very plain, utilitarian blade in his hand, slightly nicked from extended use. He could be one of the staff, if he was one who didn’t pander to appearance, or care what his peers thought.

  Then he caught the officer’s eyes again and reached for the mouthpiece of the horn, blowing the call for the ships to beach as though his life depended on it.

  Fronto patted the young musician condescendingly on the head as the last few notes rang out across the beach, his hand sinking into the saturated wolf fur. As he’d hoped, the other musicians across the ships had picked up and echoed the call, assuming the order had come from the nearby command trireme.

  Grinning, the legate could only picture Caesar’s face as he stomped around the trireme’s deck, demanding to know who had given the order. But already every remaining ship was moving gracefully through the water toward the beach, the men on their decks straining, ready to leap into the fray.

  Even by the time Fronto had turned away and started taking stock of the situation, the first men of the Tenth and Seventh were dropping into the water, sloshing forward to help their comrades. The sleek, speedy Roman triremes had taken just half a minute to move far enough forward to beach and deposit their troops, the men plunging into water that was only two feet deep, still holding their shields and swords ready, and running straight for any of the enemy they could see.

  The attack had finally begun in earnest, despite the reticence and stupidity of the senior officers.

  In response to this new threat, several discordant cacophonic blasts issued from the rear of the beach and the innumerable infantry of the native horde began to race towards the water to join the fray.

  Fronto peered around to see where he could be best used and selected a knot of small fights in the shallows where the Celtic horsemen seemed to be getting the best of the legionaries. He sloshed through the water, grateful when the glistening pink frothy surface passed his midriff and lapped around his thighs as he neared land.

  “Marcus!”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Fronto grinned at the sight of Galronus heaving his way through the water to catch up, his long Celtic cavalry blade unsheathed in his hand, no shield visible.

  “Decided to join in then?”

  “Contrary to common Roman belief, we Belgae are surprisingly adaptable” he grinned. “I can fight, piss, and even sleep without a horse between my knees.”

  “We need to force them back on to the beach where we can form up into lines. Then we’ve got ‘em”

  Galronus nodded and grinned as he caught sight of Petrosidius, only ankle deep in the water’s edge, mercilessly beating a cringing, disarmed native to death with the gleaming silver eagle of the Tenth.

  “I fear the general would have a fit if he saw your standard bearer doing that.”

  “So long as he doesn’t break the bloody thing. He’s not the carefullest of men.”

  Fronto baulked for a moment as he bumped into something soft and malleable and glanced down to see a bloodied, sightless eye staring up at him from a smashed head. The sea was becoming a sight to sicken even the hardiest of soldiers.

  Accustomed to fighting on land, Fronto was used to the unpleasant aftermath of battle: the slick of blood and organs that covered every inch of the field; the bodies lying in gruesome, twisted positions, sometimes four deep.

  The pieces of head and limb that you couldn’t avoid treading on.

  The stench.

  What he wasn’t used to, and was wholly unprepared for, was that such an action fought in waist deep water resulted in the same carnage, except that there it flowed around you as you walked, occasionally bumping into you. A hand here; half a head there.

  If he’d had anything to bring up, he’d have done it as he surveyed the scene.

  Galronus seemed to be judiciously ignoring the grisly sea, the tidal currents dragging floating detritus back out from the areas of more intense battle in the shallows.

  Closing on the knot of more intense fighting, Fronto yelled at the top of his voice to be heard over the din. “The horses! Take out the horses!”

  The focus of the struggling men changed as they began to attack the steeds while using their shields to protect themselves from the constant hammering blows from above. Pausing, he once more took stock of the situation, the water’s surface now tickling the back of his knees. The enemy warriors had only partially committed to the attack. A fresh volley of fire from the ships had strafed the screaming, advancing horde and many had drawn up short at the sudden threat and run back to their comrades beyond the beach.

  Others, however, had made it to the sea, where the ballistae wouldn’t fire for fear of hitting their own, and had joined the horsemen in the desperate struggle to prevent the Romans reaching solid land. But the numbers were tilted in the favour of the invaders now and every moment saw fresh legionaries arriving from the ships that had been at the rear of the fleet against a diminishing number of natives.

  “Come on, let’s finish this.”

  Galronus grinned by his side and the two men sloshed through the knee-deep water, racing toward a small group of howling, half-naked men wielding spears.

  Galronus found himself running lightly, almost enjoying himself as he left the last lapping wave and crunched onto fine gravel. He barely paused in his run to pull back his heavy long sword to his right and bring it round in a wide swing that took the leg clean off the nearest Briton. The man’s screaming turned from that of rage to that of agony as he fell to the shingle in two separate pieces.

  This was what every Remi son was born for.

  Life was the gift. Battle was the method. Blood was the price.

  There would be some, especially the druids, who would condemn or chastise him for this: for running with an army of Rome and bringing blood and death to fellow tribesmen — fellow worshippers of Belenus. But the history of the Belgae was a history of tribal warfare — of brother against brother. Had not the Belgae fought amongst themselves for centuries before the coming of Rome? And
now, simply because a new force had entered the arena, the secretive druids expected the tribes to band together against Rome? To deny a thousand years of warfare and enmity?

  Galronus shook his head to discard the thought and the subject entire as a screaming, moustached face beneath a shock of spiked white hair rose up in front of him. The projected spittle of the warrior’s yelled invective had hardly touched his cheek before the blood spatter joined it. Galronus paused for only a moment to heave his sword back out of the man’s neck and push him to the ground with his foot, leaving him shaking out his life spasmodically on the pebbles.

  The thing was that Galronus had fought with the legions for more than two years now, and in those long months he had not once visited his tribe. Truth be told, he rarely thought of them. Oh, he knew of them, for he had sent and received word these past two winters while they endured the bitter wet cold and he sheltered in warm, cosy Rome. They had thrived, despite the supposed loss of their freedoms. He had heard that they had begun to re-road the oppidum of his birth with flag stones and drainage ditches after the Roman fashion. He could only imagine the relief the children and women would feel not having to slop through six inches of muck as they left their house.

  The druids had abandoned them, of course. Most of the strange, powerful cult had crossed the water to the believed safety of Britannia and their sacred isle of Ynis Mon, while others had stayed in Gaul, but retreated from the open world to carry out their own little hate campaigns against Rome.

  Galronus was not stupid. Far from it. He would never delude himself and suggest that the Belgic tribes were anything other than subjects of Rome now, or that he was still a chief of the Remi, for all that he held the title. He was now an officer of Rome. He had learned their language to the extent that people were often unaware of his origins. He had taken a liking to their wine, though not watered as they would drink it — a habit he shared with Fronto. He liked their chariot racing and their taverns. He liked their culture — apart from the dreadful theatre. He liked…