Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two (43 page)

The two prefects and their first spears were standing on the hillside behind the 1st Cohort’s defence of the ford, watching the Venicone warriors on the far bank as they stood immobile in silent ranks, eerily quiet as they waited behind the mist’s diaphanous veil.

‘They can’t ford the river here, not while it’s flowing this fast and not with our spears waiting for them, and they can’t cross up or downstream because we’ve got men waiting for them there too. What else can they do but wait?’

Frontinius fell silent for a moment as he stared down at the silent tribesmen massed on the river’s far bank, then turned to his opposite number.

‘How many of them would you say there are down there?’

The 2nd’s Cohort’s first spear pursed his lips.

‘I can see … four, perhaps five thousand of them or so. Why, are you wondering where the rest are?’

Frontinius nodded slowly.

‘So am I. That many of them just don’t seem enough for their leaders to have made the gamble to throw their lot in with Calgus. I would have been expecting ten thousand at the very l … hang on, what’s that?’

A body of barbarian warriors was advancing quickly into view up the Red’s western bank, running ten paces behind a single man with his sword drawn, and for a moment the watching officers believed that some great catastrophe had occurred farther to the south and the Venicones were upon them. Then, even as Frontinius opened his mouth to start shouting orders, he found Neuto’s hand on his arm in unexpected restraint.

‘Hold up, that’s my man Appius leading them in! Those blue-noses must be your tame Votadini.’

Frontinius narrowed his eyes and peered down at the newcomers.

‘You’re right. Coming with me?’

Neuto nodded tersely, and Frontinius turned to the prefects, saluting quickly.

‘Excuse us, gentlemen.’

The two men bounded down the hill, Frontinius favouring his bad leg, meeting Appius at the bottom. The panting officer gasped out a brief account of the 8th’s crossing of the Red, beckoning Martos forward to join them. The Votadini leader stepped up, nodding his respect to the officers while Appius eased himself out of their field of view, then turned and slipped unnoticed away to the rear.

‘Your officer has his men in good order, but he told me to warn you that they will only hold for as long as they have arrows to shoot. You must take reinforcements to them, or the Venicones will cross the river and sweep your men away.’

Frontinius turned to Neuto.

‘Three centuries?’

His colleague thought for a moment.

‘Four, I’d say. We have no idea what we might be running into.’

Frontinius turned to the 1st Cohort’s line along the riverbank, shouting to his officers.

‘Centurions Julius, Dubnus, Rufius and Titus, to me, and bring your centuries with you! Quickly!

The rest of you, take a wider spacing and keep your guard up. There’s no telling when that lot might choose to start shooting arrows at you. Otho, you have command here until I get back, take your instruction from the prefect.’

He turned back to Martos, pointing to the hill behind them.

‘You’ve done well, but this is our fight now. Stay here, and keep out of the way unless you don’t have a choice.’

The officers marched off to get the 1st Cohort’s centuries moving, and Martos spoke to the men gathered around him without taking his eyes off their retreating backs.

‘So, do we stay here and wait for something to happen as instructed, or do we go with them and
make
it happen?’

His one surviving chieftain stepped forward.

‘We should go and find a fight, my lord, although we may be mistaken for the Venicones in this mist.’

Martos nodded grimly.

‘It’s a risk I’ll take. We fight.’

On the hill above them Furius and Scaurus stood in uncomfortable silence, watching as the four centuries disengaged from their defensive line and hastily formed a column of march. A movement below them caught Scaurus’s eye, and he nudged Furius, pointing down at the running man.

‘It’s that officer of yours again. Appius, is it? But why’s he carrying a torch at this time of day … and what’s in that jar?’

Prefect Furius stiffened, recognising the bright red pot …

‘Jar? Gods below, that’s my bloody naphtha!’

On the riverbank downstream the Hamians waited nervously, watching as the Venicone warriors once more built up their strength on the Red’s western bank in ones and twos, crossing the bridge in safety now that their opponents’ arrows were exhausted, the Hamians having shot back the scattering of barbarian arrows they had scavenged from the ground around them. Marcus and Qadir stared into the mist, spotting figures moving on the other bank, but they were too far back from the river to be sure, given the mist’s obstruction. Morban joined them, his standard held in one hand as he stared across the river’s thirty-foot width.

‘What’s happening over there? It looks like …’

Marcus nodded.

‘Like a body of men passing to the south. A lot of men.

Sounds like it too, from the little I can hear with this mist deadening everything. Nothing we can do about it, though, so I don’t intend giving it very much thought.’

Qadir shivered. His battle rage had long since burned out, leaving him damp and tired.

‘There must be sixty or seventy of them now. Should we attack again?’

Marcus shook his head, his gaze fixed on the gathering tribesmen huddling defiantly around the fallen trees’ branches.

‘Soon. I want more of them across the river before we go again.’

‘More?’

‘More. If we attack too soon their archers will pepper us as we close for the fight, but if there are enough of them across the river their view will be blocked. Besides, we were successful last time mainly as a result of your heroics. This time we’re going to do it my way.’

He looked to either side of the Hamian line to check that the Tungrian century was still in position, the soldiers prone on the damp ground and therefore effectively invisible in the mist. The barbarians continued to cross the river until he judged that there were enough of them on the western bank for his purpose. He stepped forward, raising his sword to get the Hamians’ attention.

‘Eighth Century. You’ve done it once, you can do it again. To the river!’

The Hamians went forward without bravado, but steadily enough, while the Venicones waited for their attack with grim faces, aware from the corpses clustered around them that the previous fight had gone against them. When the archers had advanced into sword-reach the barbarians began their furious assault in near-silence. They were fighting for their lives, hacking brutally at the Hamians’ shields and helmets, and for a moment, as first one and then another of the men close to him reeled from the fight with horrific head wounds, Marcus wondered whether he’d left it too late to make the attack. The century held its ground, though, fighting back with the grim resolve of men that knew they lacked any other option, however terrifying the disfiguring injuries of their comrades. It was time for the other century to play their part.

‘Eighth Century, at the walk, pull back! Morban, as we discussed it …’

He exchanged a glance with Qadir, both of their faces taut with the moment’s uncertainty. If the century had mastered the idea of
the fighting retreat they would pull off the simple trick he had planned for the barbarians, if not then the plan would most likely turn into a bloody rout. Slowly, almost reluctantly, they retreated at the pace the standard-bearer was dictating, Qadir’s long pole held across their backs to keep them steady. As the Hamians pulled back from the barbarian warriors their unbroken wall of shields and readied swords kept the Venicones, advancing in their wake, firmly at bay. For thirty steady paces the Hamians pulled back, their pace remaining even and their attention focused on the warriors to their front. Nearly … Marcus glanced quickly to his left, looking for the watch officer he needed to be waiting there. The 2nd Cohort man, now on his feet and waiting for the signal, caught his eye through the mist and raised his sword to show that he was ready. Looking to the right, he found the standard-bearer equally ready to fight.

‘Eighth Century, stand fast!’

It was the pivotal moment. Would the Hamians be capable of halting their retreat, however measured? Qadir’s bellow rasped out along the wavering line.

‘Hold them! Deasura!’

The response was immediate, a stiffening of backs and a shouted response.

‘Deasura!’

The Hamians stopped in their tracks, catching the advancing Venicones off guard as they blundered on to the waiting swords. Recoiling from the shock of the suddenly stiffened Roman defence, they presented the opportunity Marcus had been waiting for.

‘Tungrians, attack!’

The 2nd Cohort centuries rose from the mist-covered ground to either side of the barbarians, still unnoticed by the tribesmen. The watch officer to Marcus’s left spat on the wet grass, hefting his broad-bladed thrusting spear and muttering encouragement to the men alongside him.

‘Come on, then, my lads, if these puny little bastards can show the blue-noses the colour of their guts I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t have some fun too.
Advance!
’

Four tent parties to either side, the Tungrians advanced swiftly from their hiding places, driving hard into the flanks of the Venicones with their spears. Some of the enemy warriors fell without ever seeing their attackers, others turned to face dim figures half seen in the mist and went down under their attack without ever raising their swords in defence. Turning to face the unexpected attack from their right, the beleaguered warriors offered an undefended target to the four tent parties still waiting unseen to their left. Rising out of the mist, they too tore into the unprotected flank presented to them, spears flashing from their line of shields to spill yet more Venico blood. Caught between the two attacks, and with the Hamians’ line of shields obdurate to their front, the tribesmen fought and died where they stood, the slaughter complete in less than a minute. Panting from their exertion, the watch officers found Marcus and saluted, both men’s armour sprayed with blood from the massacre.

‘What now, sir?’

‘Take your men and …’

His attention faltered as a light grew in the mist to their left, swelling from a glow to a point of fire in seconds. Appius ran out of the mist, his blazing torch casting shadows across the waiting soldiers. Breathing hard, he stopped running and arched his body backwards to ease the pain in his sides.

‘Take this …’

He passed the torch to Marcus, hefting the jar as he sucked air into his lungs to speak again.

‘Naphtha … belongs to our prefect … magic stuff … you just … put a splash … on a fire … then set … a spark … to it … burns lovely. We empty this … on that tree … it’ll burn like … year-old firewood. I’ll do the pouring … you throw the torch on … once I’m clear.’

The two officers moved forward, accompanied by two tent parties of Tungrians, who hunted down the few tribesmen lurking in the mist close to the riverbank. Gulping another deep breath into his heaving chest, the Tungrian centurion unstoppered the heavy jar and stepped into the foliage, pouring splashes of the pungent fluid over the branches. With the trees’ topmost foliage
ready to burn, he stepped away, putting a hand up to Marcus to forestall any move to throw the torch into the fume laden air.

‘Plenty left. Let’s do this properly.’

Stepping through the spread of branches to the river’s bank he poured more naphtha over the lower branches, emptying the jar with a last flourish and dropping it into the mass of leaves. Turning to leave, he staggered as if he had tripped, putting a hand into the naphtha-soaked foliage to stop himself from pitching on to his face. As he straightened up from his crouching position, the arrow which had struck him protruding from his neck and a look of disbelief on his face, a volley of spears arced low across the river, one of them punching through his armoured back and dropping him face down across the tree’s leafy mass. Raising his head with agonised slowness, he lifted an arm, beckoning feebly to the waiting soldiers. The standard-bearer started forward, but found his arm gripped by the stony-faced centurion.

‘That isn’t what he’s asking for.’

The fallen officer waved again, pointing feebly at the tree’s pale foliage. A pair of tribesmen mounted the trunk, ignoring the reek of naphtha as they scurried across the river to reach him. The dying man’s head and helmet would make a mighty prize. Marcus lifted the torch, offering it to the watch officer and standard-bearer.

‘He’s got an arrow through his neck and a spear in his back, and those blue-nosed bastards will have his head off before he dies unless we do something.
This
is what he wants. He’s your officer, do either of you want to …?’

Both men shook their heads.

‘In that case may Mithras forgive me for sending him a warrior in such circumstances …’

He threw the torch into the trees’ mass of fading greenery. As the flaming stave hit the fallen tree’s branches the naphtha ignited with a heavy thump, shooting a ball of fire unlike anything that any of the men present had ever witnessed high into the misty air. Appius reared up out of the flames with one fist held high, then sank slowly back into their grip. Somewhere in the blaze something exploded, presumably the jar, and a fresh gout of flame bloomed
briefly in the branches, already well alight. The barbarians who had crossed the river to take the dying centurion’s head dived from the burning trees into the river, their hair and clothes burning, and the mist around the violent blaze vanished in seconds, vaporised by the intense heat.