Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two (40 page)

Frontinius and Neuto turned to face Scaurus as he walked up to them, the German at his shoulder holding a message cylinder with its wax seal still intact. Scaurus held out his hand and took it from him, gesturing to it as he addressed the two men. Scaurus nodded to both men.

‘Gentlemen, this scroll contains some very explicit instructions from the governor as to the limits of my authority, which, for the avoidance of doubt, are just about non-existent unless and until I’m talking to a legatus. I’m taking command of this defence in order to ensure that there are no unfortunate misunderstandings on my
colleague Furius’s behalf. We stand here, gentlemen, and we either hold this position or we go down fighting.’

He stared at his subordinates, waiting for any comment. Neuto scratched under his helmet’s left cheek guard before replying, his face impassive.

‘And about time too, if you were to ask me. Let’s get on with it.’

The Venicones arrived on the far bank half an hour later, at first in a trickle down the eastern slope of the Red River’s valley but soon in greater numbers, until the eastern bank of the river was thronged with warriors. A few were waving heads and Roman helmets at the defenders, but given the rain it was impossible to make out any detail. Julius and Rufius stood and watched them, desperate to know whether Marcus had fallen victim to the barbarians.

‘Could be our boy, but then again …’

Tiberius Rufius turned away, sickened at the sight of what might be his friend’s severed head.

‘If it was him, then at least it was probably quick.’

Rufius nodded, acknowledging Julius’s point.

‘I’ll give you that. If I’d known that those bloody archers would lead to this I’d have …’

‘You’d have what? Stopped him from adopting them? Made sure that the prefect made a point of dumping them on that prick Furius? Nothing you or I, or even the first spear, could have done would have prevented what’s happened, and what is simply
is.
Now, if you don’t want to make your exit the same way that poor bastard did,
whoever
he is, then get your shit in a pile and get ready to defend this piece of riverbank.’

Rufius nodded again, breathed deeply and then held a hand out to his friend.

‘I’ll see you when this squalid little fight’s done, either here or in Hades.’

The 1st Cohort were drawn up behind the freshly built wall in battle order, their shields running with water as the rain showed no sign of abating. Each man in the front rank held a spear ready to use, while the men in the rank behind held three apiece, each
with the front ranker’s spare and his own pair, ready to hold the soldier to their front in place on the slippery ground with a steady grip on his belt.

‘When they come across the river, the front rank will ready spears for defence. Take your spears to them while they’re climbing out of the water. Do
not
wait for them to get to the top of the rampart.’

Dubnus was ranging along the rear of the 9th Century, bellowing out his last instructions to the soldiers waiting tensely for the fight to begin.

‘Keep your wits about you and your shields ready, and watch out for their swords.’

Scarface tested his footing behind the turf wall’s modest defence, seeking a firm footing before the fighting began. He muttered quietly to his neighbour, tipping his head to indicate their centurion.

‘I’m not sure what’s worse, that lot over the river shouting the odds or having him strutting up and down like he’s an officer or something.’

The other man nodded, spitting morosely into the river’s fast-flowing water.

‘Yeah. Was better when we had our young gentleman to tell us what to do, an’ he was stood behind us with the big stick. Don’t suppose we’ll be seeing Two Knives again, though …’

Scarface nodded morosely before looking back over his shoulder.

‘You, rear rank, you’ll have to keep a better grip of my belt than that unless you want me in the river with those tattooed bastards.’

Across the river, after the expected period of time for orders to work their way down to the family groups that made up the warband, the Venicones stopped milling about and advanced into the river with fresh purpose. The water reached almost to their knees, reducing their progress to a slow walk as they fought against the Red’s continual efforts to pull them off their feet. The waiting Tungrians settled down behind their shields, crouching into their shelter as the stronger Venico warriors began hurling their spears, for the most part futilely, although one lucky throw toppled a 3rd Century soldier across the rampart with his throat torn open.

The barbarians advanced through the freezing river’s flow to the western riverbank and began their assault in earnest, attempting to climb the earth wall and get to close quarters where their swords could come into play. Hopelessly disadvantaged by the turf rampart, losing the ability to use either spear or sword against the defenders as they climbed out of the water, they were easy meat for the Tungrians’ spear-thrusts. Within half a minute blood clouded the river’s water, as dozens of men fell back from the attack with horrific upper-body wounds inflicted by the darting spearheads that struck repeatedly into their ranks. A warrior might fight on for a short time with a single wound, but with hundreds of spears thrusting at the attackers ten or twelve times a minute the slaughter was more than the Venicones could sustain. A horn blew and the remaining attackers withdrew past their dead and dying comrades, shouting insults and threats at the impassive soldiers. Scarface took a deep breath, wiping the blood from his face where it had sprayed after his spear had pierced deep into a Venico warrior’s chest. He spat over the rampart into the river’s torrent, watching the surviving barbarians straggling back to the far bank.

‘Easy enough. I did for five of the fuckers without ever even seeing a blade, never mind using my shield. They can keep doing that as long as they like …’

On the eastern hillside, in a position chosen to allow the senior officers to see over the 1st Cohort, and with uninterrupted views to both north and south, the two cohorts’ tribunes and first spears watched as the Venico warriors backed away from the earth rampart. First Spear Frontinius curled his lip dismissively, pulling unconsciously on his moustache.

‘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.