‘That was a diversion, and not much more by my reckoning. There are men moving along the bank in both directions. Let’s hope your men up and downriver are up to the task, Prefect Furius.’
The bands of warriors dispatched along the Red’s banks moved quickly, the northern group climbing the gentle slope until the wide expanse of the ford gave way to the steeper and narrower banks of the river where it ran through the softer rock that had once overlain the ford’s granite shelf. Higher they climbed, seeking a narrow point at which to wade or jump the river and thus reach the western bank unopposed. To the south another warband headed downriver, skirting round the falls by way of a slow, steep climb down the sloping rock face before jogging downstream in search of their own crossing point. Frontinius watched them go, his eyes narrowed in calculation as he stared into the rain, the downpour slowing as the clouds above them started to lift.
‘The rain’s stopping. Which means we’ll only have a few hours before the ford reduces in speed and depth enough for them to rush us in real numbers.’
Three hundred paces upriver the northern warband had found what they were looking for, a narrowing in the stream caused by the presence of a huge boulder buried deeply in the eastern bank. The massive, ancient rock reduced the river’s width to less than a running man’s jump, if well judged. Half a dozen men stepped back and ran at the jump, vaulting off the boulder and landing, in all but one case, squarely on the far bank. The one exception missed the bank’s edge by six inches, floundered and was swept away downstream in an instant by the fast-moving stream.
The remaining warriors turned to signal to their comrades, and went down under a volley of spears from the nearest 2nd Cohort century as they advanced out of the thinning rain. The soldiers rushed to the bank and formed a hasty line, meeting the next wave of warriors with spear points that dumped every man unceremoniously into the Red to be washed back downstream to the ford in clouds of their own blood. The centurion gestured to his men, half of them forming a defensive line while the rest set to work behind them with their turf-cutting spades to open a gap which, when cut through to the river’s bank, would widen the river sufficiently to make the leap impossible. Without the cover afforded by the rain the 2nd Cohort’s dispositions were now becoming clear, several centuries stepped up the western bank in ambush positions for just such an eventuality. Scaurus watched as the 2nd Cohort men toiled at the riverbank, his face thoughtful.
‘They’ll get no joy that way, the river’s moving far too quickly. It’s a crossing downstream from the falls that worries me — the flow might be slow enough for them to find a way across somewhere down there.’
Frontinius grimaced into the gentle drizzle that still drifted in the air.
‘I could send more men down there…’
‘Yes, but we need to keep the whole length of the river defended as well as possible. Weaken the section upstream of the falls and they’ll find a way across there instead. We’ll just have to make the best of what we have.’
He looked to the south again, but the Venico warriors that had gone south down the Red’s eastern bank were now invisible in the afternoon’s murk, a thick mist replacing the rain as the day’s warmth steamed moisture out of the sodden ground.
The 8th Century and Martos’s warriors lay soaked, muddy and bedraggled against the northern bank of a small stream, a tributary of the Red that ran in the shadow of the long rocky shelf scarring the hillside to the east of the falls. With his feet in the fast-flowing water Marcus peeped over the bank’s crest, just able to make out the figures of the Venicones as they hunted down the Red’s eastern bank less than two hundred paces away. Within a minute, he realised, they would draw level with the stream’s entrance into the river, and have clear line of sight to the 8th’s hiding place. He looked up and down the line of his men, gesturing them to stay prone against the mud. A single warrior moved into view, his presence almost ghostly in the curtains of mist hanging in the muggy afternoon air. The man stood slightly crouched, scouting the path for the warband behind him, his head cocked to one side as he listened for any threat, then slowly moved on down the river’s bank. Another man followed, then more, these warriors less alert than their scout.
‘How could he not see us?’
Martos answered his quiet question in an equally low voice.
‘Mist. Mud. Luck…’
‘They’re looking for a way across the river.’
‘Yes. Did you see their axes? They will look for a tree to drop across the river, then call the warband down here and seek to cross it in stealth. Your people will have centuries posted along the bank, but with this mist…’
He shook his head, and Marcus understood his frustration. With such restricted visibility such a breach of the cohorts’ defences might go unnoticed long enough to allow a build-up of warriors on the far bank too strong to be contained.
‘There were only thirty of them by my count.’
Marcus turned to face the Votadini leader.
‘You propose to attack them?’
Martos pursed his lips, his gaze steady.
‘In this mist they will not see us until we are almost on top of them.’
‘And if there are more following?’
‘Then we will make a brave stand until your men’s arrows are spent. We cannot stand by while these men breach your defences undetected.’
Marcus nodded.
‘You’re right. Let’s get into them before any more of them climb down the outcrop and pitch up here.’
Martos clapped him on the shoulder.
‘That’s the way. My men will go first, and take down those few, and I suggest your men take our northern flank, get their bows uncased now that the rain has stopped and be ready to shoot. The next few minutes will be exciting for us all.’
The Venico scouts had ghosted noiselessly through the shifting curtains of mist for half a mile down the Red River’s course before they found what they had been sent to look for, a pair of trees at the river’s edge which could, with the right felling, be dropped neatly on to the far bank and so form a makeshift bridge. Sending a man back to call for reinforcement, the warband’s leader ordered his four best axemen to set about the trees’ thick trunks, watching with satisfaction as they hammered deep notches into the wood, their cuts perfectly placed to put the trees’ leafy tops on to the eastern bank as they fell. The river’s far bank was wreathed in mist that was rising from the saturated ground under the sun’s heat as the rain clouds temporarily cleared, and the sound of their axes was muffled by the murk to the degree that he doubted anyone more than a couple of hundred paces away would have any clue as to the threat they would shortly pose to the Roman right flank.
With a creaking tear the first tree fell exactly as required, its leafy branches easily reaching the far bank. The tree’s massive trunk stretched out into the misty air above the swollen river, an immovable bridge into the heart of the Roman defence. A moment later the second tree fell, bouncing off the trunk of its companion and coming to rest tidily alongside it. A man grunted behind him, and the chieftain turned to find one of his men on his knees with a spear protruding from his chest. Even as he took in the scene, a dozen indistinct figures charged out of the mist, mud-coated wraiths wielding long swords and butchering his unsuspecting men. Even as they realised they were under attack the Venico warriors hesitated for fateful seconds at the sight of the men running at them, long haired and clad in clothing identical to their own, and their weapons equally familiar. The Venico leader’s realisation that these were not his own people came to him far too late, as he saw that the mud-smeared man shaping to attack him was not only wielding two swords, one long, one short, but was wearing a Roman centurion’s helmet. The attacker brushed his sword aside with one blade, then punched the other into his chest so quickly that he hardly saw it coming. Even as he gaped at the sudden shocking pain, the mud-coated warrior drove the other sword under his ribs before ripping both blades free and shouldering him aside to
fall dying on the muddy ground. As his life slipped away from him he saw a tall and muscular warrior walk up to the Roman, slapping him on the back in congratulation.
‘A good kill, Centurion.’
Marcus nodded, watching the Venico leader’s glassy eyes lose their final spark as the man’s spirit left him.
‘The poor bastard didn’t realise what was going on, not until he felt my iron in his heart.’
He shook himself free from the moment of reverie, calling out to his men, still hidden in the mist.
‘Eighth Century, to me, quickly now!’ His men hurried from their hiding place to join him, clustering round their officer with the air of lost children. Martos smiled around him, recognising the Hamians’ fear of such an unexpected and desperate circumstance.
‘That was our turn to do the killing, little brothers, but yours will come soon enough. Make your hearts hard, as they were at the hill fort, for you will soon be killing your enemies again. This I can promise you.’
The archers stared back at him without comprehension, their eyes wide at the sight of the bodies of the Venico warriors, and Marcus realised with a start that his men, for all the slaughter they had wreaked on Martos’s warband days before, had not yet been face to face with the human debris of battle. He clapped his hands to get their attention.
‘Eighth Century, the time has come for your greatest test. At the end of this day you’ll all be able to hold your heads up among the soldiers of our cohort as warriors. Now, follow me across this makeshift bridge, and once you’re across unpack your bows and get ready to shoot. Nobody looses an arrow without my command, because Martos and his men will be following us across. Martos, bring your men over as quickly as you can, there’ll be more of them along.’
He nodded to the Briton, and then clambered nimbly on to and along the trunk of one of the fallen trees with Morban following closely behind him. Jumping down on to the Red’s western bank, he turned back to wave the 8th Century across. Shapes were forming in the mist in front of him, soldiers drawn by the sound of the tree’s fall advancing to attack with their spears ready, and Marcus threw himself to the ground, pulling the standard-bearer down with him, knowing that the first spears would be thrown at chest height.
‘Roman soldiers! Eighth Century, First Tungrians!’
A soldier loomed out of the mist, his spear held low and ready to thrust, and Marcus called out again, his voice tight with urgency.
‘Roman soldiers!’
The spear’s point stopped an inch from his throat, and the soldier behind it braced the weapon, ready to drive it home.
‘Get up.’
Marcus climbed to his feet, wiping a fresh coating of mud from his face.
‘I’m Corvus, centurion of the Eighth Century, First Cohort. Those men across the river…’
The soldier turned away.
‘Centurion Appius!’
His officer came forward to the riverbank, took one look at Marcus and shouted for his chosen man. He turned back to the Roman with a wry smile.
‘Well now, look at you, Centurion Two Knives. There’s me looking all over for you, and then just when I’m least expecting it the gods drop you out of the sky, or so it seems. We’ll have to…’
Marcus interrupted him with a dismissive shake of his head.
‘No time. We can discuss whatever it is you want from me later, but for now my century is across the river, waiting to cross!’
Appius nodded.
‘We’ll talk later, then. Chosen!’
Appius’s second-in-command got the Hamians moving across the tree trunks, while the two centurions considered the threat to the cohorts’ defences. Marcus pointed into the mist towards the outcrop, hidden in the rolling mist.
‘They sent a runner back to the warband. We killed the rest of them, but he was gone too quickly. As long as it takes to get back to the ford and back again, then we’ll be knee deep in barbarians. Speaking of which, there are friendly locals on the other side too, so you’d better pass the word for your men to hold on to their spears until they hear the command to throw…’
Antenoch dropped from the tree’s curved surface, saluting both officers.
‘Centurion Corvus, there are warriors climbing down the rocks, we can hear them.’
Marcus turned to the other centurion.
‘We’ve got five minutes, no more, and there’ll be hundreds of them fighting us for this piece of riverbank. My archers can hold them off for a time, but we need to destroy these trees.’
Appius’s men took guard around the tree’s impromptu bridge while the Hamians, the last men of the 8th Century still crossing, took their positions up and downstream, readying their bows to shoot. The first of the Votadini came across the bridge at something close to a run, the urgency of the situation telling in the speed with which the warriors crossed, one or two coming perilously close to falling into the Red. Martos, the last man across, walked across the impromptu bridge at a more dignified pace, pointing back across the river.
‘They’re close, I could hear them shouting to each other. They’ll be trying to cross in less than a minute, and nothing short of burning these trees out will keep them at bay, if that were even possible.’
Appius snapped his fingers, turning to Marcus with a new light in his eyes.
‘Fire! That’s it! I know a man that keeps a ready supply. Keep them busy, eh, Two Knives? You’re in charge here until I get back!’
Marcus caught his arm as he turned to go.
‘Take our Votadini allies with you, there’s no way they can stay here.’ He turned to Martos, offering the Votadini warrior his hand. ‘Thank you for staying back to lead us to safety, we would have been found and slaughtered without your guidance. Follow this officer and he will lead you to the main body. You’ll be better off there, safe from the risk that some idiot will take you for a Venico…’
Martos nodded, taking the offered hand before beckoning his men to follow him, then ran north along the riverbank behind Appius, heading for the ford.
Marcus called Qadir to his side.
‘Right, Chosen, I suggest that you get your men ready to start shooting. There are no friendlies left to cross the bridge. Aimed shots only and no volleys, we need to make every arrow count.’
The shouts of the approaching Venicones were audible over the river’s babble now. Their excitement turned to anger as they encountered the bodies of their comrades. In the mist wreathing the Red’s far bank they milled around for a moment and then, goaded by their leaders, started their assault. Leaping on to the fallen tree with swords and spears ready to fight, they advanced along its length, hideously vulnerable targets for the waiting bows. The Hamian archers picked them off with lethal precision, dropping the warriors into the river’s fast-moving water with their blood spraying from two or three arrow wounds apiece.
As the skirmish played out before him, Marcus was looking not to the barbarians his men were killing by the numbers, but to those on the bank behind them, their number swelling by the minute as more of the warband struggled down the outcrop and ran to join their comrades. Still calculating the odds, he staggered back as an arrow punched into the mail armour covering his chest, the missile dropping to the damp grass with its energy dissipated against the stout iron rings. Another arrow flicked off Morban’s helmet, and the standard-bearer ducked for cover behind the Hamian line with an unaccustomed agility.
‘Archers! Target the far bank with volleys.’
He smiled grimly as the Hamians loosed a volley of arrows across the river which resulted in a chorus of groans and screams from the warriors milling about on the far bank, recognising the tactics being employed by whoever was in command on the far side. In an instant, whether deliberately or not, the game had been changed. Forced to fire en masse in order to kill or suppress the barbarian archers, the Hamians would run through their remaining arrows in minutes, rather than the much longer time possible if they were required only to pick off single targets.
/> While the first volley tore into the mass of barbarians lining the far bank, sending most of them to earth, the second and third found far fewer targets as a result.
‘Cease volleys! Aimed shots only!’
And probably a tenth of their stock of arrows were expended in less than half a minute. An astute leader on the far bank might reckon it worth the loss to throw his men back on to their feet to make the Romans run through their arrows, and remove the threat to their crossing at the cost of a few hundred lives. Without the threat of the archers, and with their bowmen to keep the defenders’ heads down, whoever was leading the men on the far bank would be able to mass twenty or thirty men on the trees’ broad trunks, ready to rush into their midst with hundreds more at their back. A few well-picked men with their feet on the western bank might occupy the defenders for long enough for their fellow warriors to reinforce them and secure the tiny bridgehead, allowing the trickle to become a flood. The warriors were on their feet again quickly enough once the iron rain no longer fell among them, barbarian arrows once more flicking through the ranks of the Hamian and Tungrian defenders.
‘Volleys!’
Another three volleys were loosed to good effect, another tenth of their arrows gone. The situation was descending into a straight trade-off, bodies for arrows, and with sick certainty Marcus watched as the warriors rose again, some with more than one arrow wound.
‘Qadir!’
The chosen man hurried across to him, keeping low as barbarian arrows resumed their irregular but potentially lethal hail.
‘How many arrows do we have left?’
The big man grimaced.
‘Perhaps fifteen per man.’
They had enough arrows for five more rounds of their deadly game, perhaps seven or eight if he restricted them to two shots each time. Ten minutes’ worth, and no more.
‘Aimed shots only. No more volleys. Tell your men I want no wasted arrows.’ He turned to the other century’s chosen man and watch officer, shaking his head in apology. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, your boys will have to take their chances with the barbarian archers. If I keep firing volleys to make them keep their heads down I’ll be out of arrows in less time than it’ll take for reinforcements to arrive.’
Arrows of Fury e-2 Page 30
