‘If they attack in that strength we’ll have to abandon the line and fight in pairs, back to back.’
Marcus nodded, his mouth dry. As he squinted through the smoke, it appeared that to either side of the position the battle was yet to begin, the thousands of warriors in the flanking warbands apparently content to threaten the Tungrian flanks and hold the bulk of the cohort in position, rather than commit to an attack.
‘Why don’t they attack along our whole length? Surely they could push both flanks in and turn to roll us up with those numbers.’
Rufius answered him without taking his eyes off the advancing barbarians.
‘Calgus wants to blood the men that haven’t fought yet, give them back their manhood after Uncle Sextus put them down so cruelly. The main attack will come through the middle, right here, and we’re the men that will have to stop it.’
‘An interesting life and a short one, eh, brothers?’
They turned, finding Frontinius standing behind them.
‘I thought your men might be feeling a little exposed, so I’ve come to share in the fun and show them that we’re all in the same shitty boat. Julius, it’s time your century stopped sitting about and actually did some fighting, so I’ve brought them down to strengthen the line.’
He pointed to their left, and Julius turned to see his men coming out of the smoke, his chosen man guiding them into the gap opening up as the 4th Century went to ground to let them through and into the line. Caelius, so far unscathed, pulled back with his soldiers, shot Frontinius a quick salute and then led the 4th off down the line, following the First Spear’s pointed direction. Julius smiled broadly at the sight of his men.
‘And about time. Excuse me, brothers. Right, ladies, get your shields up and your spears ready to throw. Let’s show these bluefaced bum-fuckers the entrance to Hades!’
He trotted away to rejoin his men, shouting encouragement as he ran. To the right, beyond Rufius’s 6th, the big men of the 10th Century were replacing the battered 7th. Rufius nodded grimly.
‘That’s going to be a nasty shock for the blue-faces. A century of axes is a terrifying prospect when they start lopping off arms and cleaving heads. The Bear’s boys will be painted black from head to foot before this is over. Right, I’d best go and get my lads ready.’
He headed off to his century, leaving Frontinius and Marcus alone behind the 9th. The First Spear watched the enemy massing to their front impassively from behind his borrowed shield, keeping his eyes on the enemy as he addressed Marcus for what would probably be the last time.
‘Well, Centurion, whether you be Tribulus Corvus or Valerius Aquila, I think you can take comfort in the fact that you’ve proved an exemplary officer these last few days. If I have to meet Cocidius in the next few minutes I’ll be honoured to do so in your company.’
Marcus nodded.
‘Thank you, sir.’
An arrow sailed past his head, as a sudden barrage of missiles made the soldiers hunch deeper behind their shields. The barbarian archers, using the wall of corpses for cover, began sending a continuous rain of missiles against the two centuries. Steel-tipped arrows hummed and whirred through the line, accurate shots punching into shields and clicking off helmets. Frontinius stood straight in the face of the barrage, raising his voice to continue his monologue.
‘They’ll keep this up for a moment or two; pick a few of us off with lucky shots, then charge in for the kill. When they do, you fight in pairs with your partner. If he’s dead, find another, or fight in a three. Watch each other’s backs, and don’t leave your partner. If your partner is wounded, concentrate on killing blue-faces, not looking after him, or you’ll be next…’
And he stopped, his eyes suddenly wide with the impact of an arrow between the greave that shielded his calf and the chain mail that ran down to mid-thigh. The missile had skewered his leg above the knee, toppling him unceremoniously on to the grass with a rivulet of blood seeping around the shaft. With a delighted roar the barbarians that had crossed the wall of bodies surged forward en masse, eager to take the one head that mattered to them above all.
The line disintegrated into a whirling melee, Marcus and Dubnus going back to back over Frontinius as a tide of tribal warriors washed past them. Several men moved to encircle them, drawing a tightening circle of swords around the three men, gathering themselves for the kill. With an incoherent, berserk scream, Antenoch hit the men facing Marcus from behind, thrusting his sword through one’s back and stamping him off the blade before swinging fiercely at the other’s shield. Marcus and Dubnus went on to the offensive, killing two men and putting the other two to startled flight.
Across the century’s frontage knots of men were fighting their own personal wars, still parrying barbarian swords and thrusting back with their short swords, but the fight was descending into a deadly mass brawl, and without the disciplined protection of the shield wall the soldiers were horribly outnumbered. Ten yards in front of Marcus two barbarians had a single soldier cornered, one hammering at his shield while the other outflanked him and sank his sword into the beleaguered man’s neck in the gap between helmet and mail. The soldier crumpled instantly, just as the sprinting centurion hit his attackers from behind, running one man through with his cavalry sword and leaving the weapon sheathed in his back, smashing the other to the ground with a shield swipe and drawing his gladius to finish the stunned warrior where he lay.
As the struggle hung in the balance, and quite without fanfare, a wave of fresh troops charged down the slope into the battle, suddenly equalising the odds and chasing off the startled barbarians. Marcus and Dubnus stood panting over their wounded superior as the reinforcements finished off the enemy wounded around them with swift unconsidered efficiency. Following the bellowed commands of their officers, the new arrivals slotted into the line between the cohort’s decimated centuries, bolstering the defence to more than its original strength.
The men of the 9th Century jeered as they recognised their new companions in adversity.
‘It’s the fucking Second Cohort. Well done, lads, you managed to find the battlefield at last, then?’
A solidly built watch officer muscled his way into the front rank, his spear held ready to throw. He shot Scarface an indifferent glance, his attention riveted on the regrouping warband.
‘That’s better, all front-rankers together. Just about now one of those blue-faced boys would have been hacking your head off to take home to frighten his kids with when they wouldn’t go to their bed at night. But some idiot officer said we had a duty to pull your knackers out of the fire, what with you being our sister cohort.’
He spat on the ground noisily.
‘Sisters being just about right. Anyway, here we are and here we stand. No reason why you lot should get all the fun. When does the next session start?’
Where the line had been thinning to the point of desperate vulnerability there were now three unbroken lines of shields, the newcomers’ strength giving fresh heart to the desperately tired Tungrians. Those of the cohort’s survivors with the energy shouted the time-worn insults that had always been exchanged when the 1st and 2nd Tungrians met in the field. An officer walked out of the smoke that still drifted across the slope in pale grey curtains, his sword drawn, searching for the First Spear. Frontinius winced as Dubnus finished lashing a broken spear shaft to his wounded leg as a makeshift splint, raising a weary hand in salute as the other man stopped in front of where he lay.
‘Prefect Bassus. I can honestly say I’ve never been quite so pleased to see the Second Cohort…’
The prefect laughed, looking out over the rampart of bodies.
‘We heard your trumpet calls on the wind, so faint that some men swore it was only the wind, but the stand fast was clear enough for those with ears to hear it. The other prefects insisted on following their orders, but I never liked that greasy little shit Perennis, and seeing this lot proves I was right. Beside, Tungrians never leave their brothers dangling.’
‘I fear all you’ve achieved is to dangle alongside us, but I appreciate the company while we wait to die. And now, if you’ll excuse me?’
The First Spear hobbled off up the slope to make his report to Equitius, using another broken spear to support his weight on the wounded leg. Bassus looked to Dubnus, raising a questioning eyebrow.
‘Excuse us for a moment, Chosen.’
He waited for the big man to walk out of earshot before speaking to Marcus, his face suddenly dark with anger.
‘I received a message yesterday night, a tablet from my wife, respectfully asking me for a divorce. It seems that she has tired of my company and, I can only presume, wishes for that of another. While this is hardly the time for such a discussion, I will be expecting a frank conversation with you once we have these barbarians running.’
He turned on his heel and walked away to attend to his command. Julius strolled back across the slope with a sidelong glance at the senior officer.
‘Trouble?’
‘Nothing I haven’t earned.’
The other man smiled easily.
‘I don’t think he’ll be troubling you after the battle. Not from what I’ve been hearing his troops say in the last couple of minutes.’
Marcus stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Never mind. Everything in its time.’
The two men took stock as corpses and the seriously wounded were carried away up the slope by the walking wounded, counting another twenty casualties between their two centuries as their line clung to its ground with what was, even with the reinforcement of another eight hundred men, a tenuous hold. Through a gap in the smoke Marcus saw the Petriana waiting still on their ridge-line, the sparse forest of their spears unreduced and unmoving. Julius followed his gaze, then spat on the bloodied grass.
‘No help to be expected from that direction. Bloody cavalry are all the same, good for the chase once the battle’s won, just never around when the shit starts flying.’
Marcus nodded grimly, watching the barbarians working themselves up for another charge. Julius spat on to the scarred turf again, examining his sword’s edge.
‘This is it. This time they’ll throw everything they have at us, here, on the flanks, everywhere, and that will be it, Second Tungrians or no Second Tungrians. Are you ready to die for the empire?’
‘For the cohort. The empire can kiss my hairy arse.’
The older man laughed with a dark delight, his eyes wild with the fight.
‘Spoken like a real Tungrian. Let’s get into the line and get ready to go out in style.’ Up the slope, the prefect was weighing his options, watching as a medic carried out field treatment on Frontinius. The medic, having cleaned the entry and exit wounds around the arrow’s shaft with water and a clean cloth, took an exploratory grip of the feathered end that protruded from the First Spear’s knee. The prefect winced with his friend’s obvious pain. Frontinius leant back on the grass wearily, closing his eyes as the bandage carrier took a firmer grip of the arrow. With a sudden twist, the medic snapped the arrow’s shaft, then swiftly pulled the barbed end out of the back of the officer’s knee. Frontinius watched with narrowed eyes as he expertly bandaged the wound, winding the cloth tightly as blood blossomed through its weave.
‘You can stand, First Spear, but you have to keep the leg straight. And keep your weight off it.’
Frontinius struggled to his feet, accepting the prefect’s offered hand to pull him erect.
‘I’ll be separated from my head quite shortly, sonny boy. The knee can…’
His retort trailed off as movement up the slope, at the wood’s edge, caught his eye. The Tungrians watched the wall of barbarians slowly wash up the hill towards them, picking their way carefully across the wall of their dead. There was no headstrong charge this time, only a steady advance by the thousands of men to their front, confident in their numerical advantage but made cautious by the sight and smell of the dead and dying littering the ground around them. Facing them, men from both cohorts stood in an ordered line, calm in their resignation for the most part. A man close to Scarface whimpered with fear, quietening as the veteran soldier glared down the line at him and barked out his name. The 2nd Cohort watch officer nodded approvingly.
‘Too late for second thoughts now, my lads. If you can’t take a joke then you shouldn’t have joined in the first place. Just make sure you take some of the bastards across the river with you.’
With certain death at hand, men tightened their sweat-and-blood-slickened grip on swords and shields, waiting to kill for the last time.
The barbarian line passed over the wall of dead, speeding up to walking pace with the obstacle crossed, the lack of spears in Roman hands having reduced it to a hindrance rather than the death trap it had been earlier in the morning. Twenty yards from the Tungrians they stopped at a shouted command, allowing Calgus’s messenger to step into the gap between the two forces.
‘Tungrians, the Lord Calgus offers you one last chance to live. Surrender now and you will be well treated…’
His voice tailed away as Julius stepped forward, his armour painted with the blood of a dozen men, his shield scored and notched by swords, the shafts of three arrows protruding from its wooden face.
‘One step more and I’ll send your cock back to the Lord Calgus while the rest of you stays here. You want these…’
He raised sword and shield into their fighting positions, backing carefully into the line as the men to either side readied themselves in similar fashion.
‘… then fucking well come and get them, cum stain.’
The messenger shrugged indifferently, then turned away and was absorbed into the barbarian mass. The warband’s fresh warriors began banging their swords and shields, creating a wall of sound that bore down oppressively on the Tungrians, first advancing one step, then another, some swinging their swords in extravagant arcs and screaming of the slaughter to come. The Tungrians waited, hollow eyed, for the barbarian line to charge across the narrowing gap and finish the unequal contest.
13
The barbarian line gathered itself to pounce, the mass of shaggy-haired warriors baying for blood as the Tungrian cohorts waited grimly for their assault. Frontinius’s voice rang out over the din, his command the last Marcus would have expected.
‘Tungrians, on the ground! On the ground!’
The line went to the ground after a second’s bewildered pause, the brighter soldiers realising what it meant and twisting to look back to their rear as they fell. The barbarian line wavered at the sight, as a line of hard-faced soldiers, fresh and unblooded, came out of the smoke. These men were different to those in the Tungrian line, their armour fashioned from overlaid plates rather than chain mail, their javelins topped with slender iron shanks sprouting viciously barbed points. Scarface and the 2nd Cohort watch officer exchanged looks of amazed glee.
‘Legionaries? Fuck me, it’s the Sixth, or what’s left of ’em. They must be gagging to get into this lot.’
The watch officer nodded as he hugged the blood-sodden grass.
‘They do look a tiny bit pissed off.’
‘Halt!’
Prefect Licinius’s voice was authoritative above the warband’s din, all urbanity lost in the harsh command. The newcomers’ force stretched all the way across the small battlefield behind the Tungrians, three lines of men with spears held ready to throw. More men were advancing out of the smoke behind them. A lot more men.
‘Front rank, throw!’
The advancing soldiers took an unhesitating three-step run-up and launched a volley of spears into the warband’s front rank.
‘Front rank, kneel! Second rank, throw!’
Another rain of spears showered on to the barbarians.
‘Second rank, kneel! Third rank, throw!’
The warband shuddered under the third volley, hundreds of men having fallen in the previous few seconds. Licinius�
��s voice hardened.
‘Sixth Legion, on your feet. Form line for attack.’
The legionaries were on their feet with their line dressed and ready in seconds, a wall of shields and swords suddenly presented to their amazed enemy.
‘Sixth Legion, for the honour of your fallen dead…’
The hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck lifted with the emotion in the prefect’s voice. A sudden silence descended on the battlefield as the warband grew quiet with apprehension, their presumed easy victory suddenly impending disaster. Only the cries and moans of the wounded broke the silence. Licinius growled into the hush the last command that would be needed to start the slaughter, his harsh voice audible from one end of the line to other.
‘… no… prisoners!’
The depleted legion’s centurions echoed the command, ordering the surviving cohorts forward in a deliberate advance. Their determined tread took them over and past the Tungrians, the supine bodies trampled by men fixated with the view to their front. As the warband’s front rank quailed at their remorseless advance, unable to retreat owing to the sheer mass of men packed in behind them, the legionaries closed the gap between them and started their slaughter with ruthless efficiency and barely restrained fury.
‘Find the officers!’
Marcus recognised the voice, and stood up in the shelter of the legion’s line.
‘No need, Prefect, we’re here.’
Licinius nodded impassively, then switched his gaze to stare out across the valley.
Through the smoke’s dying efforts Marcus could just make out a mass of men emerging from the cover of the wood to their right, a cohort at the least. The thick column kept on coming, pouring on to the slope like a monstrous armoured snake. Julius, staring at the mass of troops with eyes that seemed unfocused, pulled off his helmet and scratched his sweaty scalp.
‘How many?’
The prefect smiled grimly.
‘Six thousand. That’s the entire Twentieth Legion. And to our left is the Second, the other half of the nutcrackers. These barbarian bastards are going to pay in blood for what they’ve done today.’
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 34
