Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  In the burning fortress the Frisian cohort had retreated from their walls, those men not already felled by barbarian arrows and spears fighting their way back into the fort’s centre to mount a desperate last defence against attackers now railing at their shields from all sides. For every warrior that fell to their spears another two implacable enemies came through the gates, and when the barbarians had gained first a foothold on, and then control of, the fort’s south wall, and began to shower the troops with spears from above, the first spear had had no choice but to order a retreat. Fighting his way back through the tight streets with his men, he had been one of the first to fall to his knees with an arrow buried in his calf, decapitated an instant later by the barbarians pressing hard against the retreating troops.

  Bereft of their leader, the auxiliaries had fought on under the prefect’s command, the senior officer donning a soldier’s helmet and shield to take his place in the line, but now they were being steadily ground down by the ceaseless attacks coming from all sides as they consolidated into an increasingly beleaguered defensive square at the fort’s heart, in front of the burning headquarters.

  ‘Barely two hundred of us still standing now.’

  A panting centurion, the last officer still fighting other than the prefect himself, gave his superior a weary look and nodded agreement. The prefect grimaced from the pain of flesh wounds in his right thigh and arm, baring his teeth in a snarl of frustration.

  ‘We fight on. There’s still a chance that the legions at Noisy Valley have got wind of this. If they moved out an hour ago they could be here in minutes…’ The centurion’s face was blank with battle shock, his eyes alone betraying the combination of hope and disbelief that flickered in his otherwise reeling mind. ‘So we fight on. My turn in the line, I think, you take a moment to get your breath back. If I go down then it’ll be up to you to rally these men, and to hold on as long as you can.’

  The centurion nodded, raising his sword in salute as the prefect, his teeth bared in a snarl of defiance, stepped into the square’s thinning line one last time, parrying a barbarian spear-thrust with his borrowed shield before gutting the weapon’s owner with a blow that would have made the dead first spear nod with quiet admiration. The cohort’s remnant fought on in silent exhaustion, their meagre perimeter shrinking by the minute as the barbarians crowded in, eager to kill before the fight ended. The officer parried another attack, shouting above the barbarians’ clamour to his men.

  ‘One last song, lads, show these bastards we’re not done yet! “The General’s Wife”!’

  He led the song off, smiling grimly as the soldiers responded to the familiar words of the first verse, their voices momentarily drowning out the guttural cries of the tribesmen baying for their blood. The cohort’s remnant fought on with desperate purpose, hemmed in by the press of their enemies as the barbarians remorselessly tightened their grip on the remaining defenders. The centurion straightened his helmet and stepped into the line alongside his prefect, filling his lungs to belt out the song’s last verse.

  ‘Our hero like a gentleman inclined his head once more,

  And wondering who was booked in next he headed for the door,

  On leaving the house to his surprise he found an impatient queue,

  His chosen man, watch officer and his clerical writer too!’

  The two men shared a moment of unspoken understanding, the fact of their vastly different origins rendered meaningless by desperate circumstance. The prefect tipped his head to the centurion, lifting his shield a fraction as the barbarians massed just beyond sword-reach and readied themselves for their final assault. A voice rang out above the warband’s baying clamour, and the tribesmen fell silent. From behind the barbarian line the voice called again, this time speaking perfect Latin, to the prefect’s astonishment.

  ‘Soldiers of Rome, I am Calgus, Lord of the Northern Tribes. I have taken your messengers, burned out your fort, and reduced your strength to a shadow of its former pride with only a small portion of my army. Your position is hopeless, and in a few minutes you will all be dead, or dying in ways that will make you beg for death. If you surrender now, you can spare yourself such indignity. You have fought well against impossible odds, but there will be no rescue for you. No word of this dirty little battle will have reached your legions yet, they still lie asleep behind their walls at Noisy Valley, and you truly are alone in the dark. Surrender to me, soldiers, and renounce your service of the empire and I guarantee you will not die here…’

  Prefect and centurion shared another glance, the senior officer raising a questioning eyebrow, his grim amusement obvious. There was no way that the surrender of a Roman of the equestrian class, so obviously advertised by his purple-edged tunic, would be greeted with anything other than protracted torture from which his eventual death would be a welcome relief. The centurion spat on the blood-slickened cobbles, then called back to the unseen speaker.

  ‘You bastards just want some prisoners to make sport with. We’ll not die now, I’ll give you that, but you’ll drag us away to the hills for a more leisurely game than you’ll get here. If I’m going to die then it’ll be with a sword in my hand, and with as many of you dead as I can manage before you put me down, not with my dick sawed off and my eyes pulled out in some forest clearing. Now fight or fuck off, before the legions turn up and bend you over for a good shagging, you blue-nosed turd punchers!’

  The prefect nodded his respect, looking around at his men and raising his voice to be heard in turn.

  ‘Well said, Centurion. Let’s show this barbarian scum how Roman soldiers fight to the bitter end.’

  Calgus spoke again, his voice light with amusement.

  ‘Very well. If death is what you desire, I shall grant your wish.’

  His voice hardened as he barked out an order in his native language, the waiting warriors pressing forward to swing their swords down on to the tightly packed soldiers, while others thrust their spears into the gaps opened as the defenders lifted their shields to fend off the fierce sword-blows.

  Calgus stood in the ruins of the shattered fort, pulling his cloak over his face against the reek of smoking timbers. His bodyguard had spread out round him, stabbing down into the fallen auxiliary troops whose corpses still littered the narrow streets of White Strength to ensure that none of the fallen soldiers was faking death. The combined stench of burnt wood, blood and faeces was overpowering even through the cloak’s rough material, the bodies of the defeated Romans littering the ground in increasingly tight circles centred on the piled corpses of their last stand. The Votadini warriors he had put at the front of the assault were busy taking heads and searching for booty, but Martos spotted Calgus and called his men to attend their leader. They stood and gathered around him, bloodied but proud of their victory. Calgus stared around him with evident pride.

  ‘Warriors, you have struck a huge blow at our enemy! A whole cohort of their traitors torn to pieces! Another of their forts made useless to them, and another piece of their defences burned out. Mark my words, the soldiers to the east of this place will be clenching their arses when they see the smoke from this victory rising into the sky come the dawn!’

  He pulled his sword from his hip and punched it into the air.

  ‘Victory!’

  The warriors gathered around him echoed the shout in a mighty roar. He sheathed the blade, clasping arms with Martos.

  ‘Well done, Prince Martos, well done indeed. Your men have proved themselves, despite the mutterings of some of the men around my council fire. The Votadini will be in the front rank of the great plan that will have these Roman bastards off our land for good, and you, my friend, are going to be the man your people will praise for your victory. All that remains now is for you to complete the job, as we discussed. I’ll leave a small party of my men to guide you back to the forest when you’re done… and be assured, you’re part of my plans for the future of this country once we’ve smashed their remaining strength.’

 
Martos nodded his gratitude, turning to encourage his men in their last grisly task. Calgus moved away with a quiet smile of satisfaction, heading for the fort’s gates and the road back to the warband’s forest encampment. At the gates a single figure detached itself from the shadows and stood waiting for him. The man was reed thin, with only a short sword to burden him.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘You know what to do. Don’t fail me.’

  The gate guards standing guard duty on Noisy Valley’s northern gate tumbled sleepily out of the warmth of their guardhouse, their haste encouraged by their centurion’s shouts and liberally applied vine stick as he chivvied them up on to the fort’s wooden walls.

  ‘Get your fucking helmets on and get ready to fight, there’s something coming down the road! You, go and get the first spear! Run!’

  The sounds were distant, sometimes lost in the wind, but distinctive enough, boots and hoofs clattering on the road’s paving stones. The soldiers peered out anxiously over their shields, hefting their spears and looking for something to throw them at. The centurion strained to make out more detail in the uncertain light of the torches fixed over the wall’s parapet.

  ‘They’re ours! Get the gate open and get them inside!’

  Two hundred men and more clattered through the briefly opened gates, their centurion raising a weary hand to the guard century’s officer, who was staring at the arrow protruding from the right flank of the horse he was leading. The horse’s rider was apparently more dead than alive, slumped unconscious in the saddle with his dangling right arm black with blood. The centurion spoke with quiet authority, watching as his exhausted men marched into the safety of the fort’s walls.

  ‘Good morning, Centurion, I’m Tribulus Corvus, centurion, First Tungrian cohort. White Strength fort has been attacked by a force I estimate to be several thousand strong. The barbarians were shooting fire arrows and had broken through the gate when I last saw it…’

  The unconscious rider groaned softly, his arm dripping blood on to the road’s surface.

  ‘Mars, look at all that blood, it’s a wonder you got him this far.’ The guard centurion turned away, barking orders at his men. ‘Bandage carrier, get something round that arrow and put some pressure on it or he’ll be dead before we get him to the hospital. Chosen, you look after this lot, I’d better get the first spear and the prefect out of their beds. The war’s back on again!’

  The eastern sky was showing the first signs of the dawn’s onset by the time the toiling Votadini tribesmen had completed their grisly task, and the tribes’ warriors were eager for the command to run for the forest’s safety. A trio of Selgovae warriors stood ready to guide them, their leader a painfully thin man clearly well accustomed to covering ground at speed. Martos strode over to the man, gesturing with a hand to the north.

  ‘Our task is complete. Now we must make haste, before their cavalry find us here.’

  The leader of the guides nodded respectfully.

  ‘Then follow me, my lord, and I will lead you as instructed by my lord Calgus.’

  The warriors ran for a short time to the west, until they reached the gate through which they had breached the wall hours previously, then spilled through the small opening and headed north in a long column, following the bobbing torches carried by their guides. As the night lightened to reveal a thick blanket of early morning mist, making the direction of their travel almost impossible to discern, Martos ran forward to join the guides. They were jogging easily, he noted, where his own men, their energy nearly exhausted by the harrowing battle for the fort, were staggering along in their wake, barely managing to keep up with the easy pace being set for them.

  ‘You’re sure you know we’re on the right track? I can’t tell where we are.’

  The lead guide nodded confidently.

  ‘We planned for this, my lord; I’ve left marks to guide our steps. About another fifteen miles, I’d say.’

  Satisfied, the young chieftain dropped back to give his men the news, but as the column of men ground their way towards safety he still frequently stared out into the impenetrable murk, visibly unhappy at his lack of control of their situation. At length the guides indicated that the warband should stop for a rest break. The Votadini warriors gratefully fell out of the line of march and sat down in the pale shadows of the trees that lined the rough track they were following, chests heaving for breath as they tipped the last of their drinking water down parched throats. The Selgovae guides stayed on their feet, their leader pacing cautiously forward into the still-thick mist while his comrades stared back down the column’s length with faces set in stoic immobility. One of the tribe’s family chieftains limped tiredly up the column after a few minutes, an older man walking respectfully behind him.

  ‘My man here reckons we’re off our path, my lord.’

  Martos raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the mist around them. Behind him, unnoticed by the resting warriors, the two remaining guides exchanged significant glances and began to step carefully backwards into the mist, keeping their gazes fixed on the tribal leader’s back.

  ‘And how can he tell, in this?’

  The peasant warrior came forward, bowing his respect. His hair was grey, and his features seamed with lines, but his eyes were bright with intelligence.

  ‘Lord, I grew up on this ground many years ago. I know my own country, lord, and I just sat down by a tree I used to climb as a lad. I know every inch of that tree, and I…’

  ‘Yes. You know where we are. So where are we?’

  ‘If we’re heading back to the forest we came from, I’d say we’re too far to the west, my lord, ten miles too far.’

  Martos frowned, turning to the place where the guides had stood a moment before, only to find it empty. The sound of mocking laughter sounded from the mist, and his clan leader stared angrily into the mist beside him, a hand clenched on his sword’s hilt.

  ‘We’re betrayed, my lord. Those Selgovae bastards have led us out to the west, not to the north. They’ve hung us out for the Roman cavalry to find out here. The second this mist lifts we’ll stand out like ticks on an ox’s back, and we’re probably only ten miles from their camp.’

  Martos spat his disgust into the dirt.

  ‘Aye, and our people are exhausted. It will take us all day to reach the forest in this state…’

  The older tribesman stepped forward, his head still inclined respectfully.

  ‘If I may, my lord, I know of somewhere we might find a hiding place, less than a mile from here. If their first sweep misses us, perhaps we’ll be able to reach the forest tonight.’

  Martos nodded unhappily.

  ‘It’s not much of an option, but it’s probably the best chance we’ve got. And if we do reach the forest I’ll hunt Calgus down and carve him to ribbons for this.’

  Calgus arrived back in the barbarian camp in the middle of the afternoon, riding in at the head of his bodyguard, having left the rest of the warband marching in his wake. Aed was waiting for him at the camp’s gateway, falling in alongside the barbarian leader as he jumped down from his horse.

  ‘Success, my lord?’

  ‘Complete success. As we discussed it, both the Roman garrison and the Votadini dealt with.’

  ‘King Brennus has been asking for news of his men since sunrise. I think he may have realised just how vulnerable he is with his warriors out of the camp.’

  Calgus drew his sword, an angry scowl twisting his face.

  ‘I’ll bring him news, once my men have ripped through his bodyguard. I’ll take that sour old bastard by the throat and tell him how I’ve left his men for the Romans to make sport with. Then I’ll take my knife and carve out his…’

  Aed put a cautionary hand on his master’s arm.

  ‘It might be better, my lord, if the king were to be unmarked when the remaining nobles see his body? You can claim that his bodyguard attacked you when they realised their king was dead, and if there’s no sign of violence you can argue with a straig
ht face that he died a natural death, and that their attack and subsequent deaths were a tragic misunderstanding. He was an old man, after all…’

  Calgus nodded grimly, turning for the short walk uphill to the king’s tent and gesturing for his men to follow him.

  ‘I’ll smother the old bastard, then. It’s time to make King Brennus regret the day he ever questioned my judgement…’

  The 20th Legion returned an hour before dusk, the troops solemn in their unaccustomed silence, and the 6th came through the gates as the sun dipped to kiss the horizon, two auxiliary cohorts in column with them. First Spear Frontinius watched the sullen-faced legionaries march tiredly through the gates.

  The two legions had headed north with swift and brutal efficiency just before dawn, the leading cohorts pounding out through the gates at the double march less than half an hour after the arrival of the Tungrians. Ordered to make their maximum speed to the embattled fort, and to engage and destroy any barbarian forces they encountered, the legionaries had sallied without their packs and carrying poles to let them sustain the punishing double march for as long as required, taking their bread and water ration on the move to save precious time. The auxiliaries had been left to guard the fortress for the few hours that the legions were in the field, while the army’s two cavalry wings had ridden out shortly afterwards to scout beyond the wall, and seek any sign of where the barbarian warband might be hiding in the wake of the attack on White Strength.