Swords Around the Throne (10 page)

‘Who?' Castus demanded, and then broke into a run again before the man could blurt out his guesses. Already he could see the cluster of soldiers surrounding the fallen man; their dark blue shields had the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth Legion. The lean grey dog sat to one side, its head down on its outstretched paws.

Before he could reach them, Rogatianus was holding him back, a palm on his chest. ‘I'm sorry, brother,' he said. ‘Nothing you can do for him now.'

Castus shoved him aside. He strode the last few paces, hauled the men back from the fallen figure and dropped to his knees.

Valens turned his head, wincing with the effort, and Castus could see the pain in his eyes. His friend's mouth was bloody, and there was a slow red lake forming in the dirt below him. He was not wearing his mail shirt, and half of his tunic was soaked with gore.

‘Got them,' Valens said weakly, and stretched his mouth in a wry grin. ‘Reckon we got them all!'

Castus took his hand and clenched it tight. He tried to speak, but there was a knot of iron twisting in his throat, and he knew Valens would hear nothing now.

The ground opens up
, he thought,
and down you go
.

The roaring echoed through the mutilated forest, between the trees and across the hacked stumps and the muddy green-scummed floodwater. It started as a low humming, then built rapidly into a bellow of massed voices before cresting with a shout. A moment of silence, then the hollow drumming rattle of spears against shields reverberated from behind the barricades. And then the great cry went up once more.

Castus remembered the noise the Picts had made, the hissing and howling they had raised before their attack on the hilltop redoubt, years ago in the far north of Britain. This war cry of the Bructeri was similar, but more unnerving in its volume and its barely leashed aggression. Many of the men in the Roman battle line were clearly feeling its effects; they stood with wide eyes and clenched teeth, gripping their shields and the shafts of their weapons. Some of the younger men were visibly trembling.

‘They should save their breath for fighting,' Castus called out as another roar came from the enemy lines. ‘They'll need it soon enough.'

A few of the men laughed, if nervously, though Castus was in no mood for humour. The death of his friend was a stone in his heart, and he felt primed with a violent need for revenge. Even so, for all his desire for battle it was clear that there would be no combat soon. The Bructeri had constructed a formidable fortification, and were not about to sally out of it and fight in the open. And any force trying to attack them would take severe casualties. All the Roman troops could do was shelter behind their shields and try not to lose their nerve as that terrifying noise rose from the forest opposite them.

It was even worse that they could barely see their enemy; only the tips of their wickedly barbed spears showed above the rampart of fallen trees the Bructeri had constructed on the far side of the shallow valley. The stream had been dammed or diverted in some way, and the waters had swelled to flood the valley floor, transforming it into a wide morass of muddy pools studded with the stumps of the hacked-down trees. Many of the tree stumps had been sharpened into stakes; in the sunlight the water appeared placid, shimmering with tiny insects, but many more such stakes were surely concealed beneath the surface, ready to impale the legs or groin of anyone attempting to wade across.

The distance over the valley and the swollen stream was not too great – Castus reckoned that a man could cover it on dry ground in two score running paces. But as soon as anyone left the cover of the trees on the Roman side they would be in range of the slingshot and arrows from the men behind the barricade, even as the water and sharpened stumps slowed any charge to a stumbling crawl. And after that, a scramble up a muddy slope into a storm of javelins, then a climb across a head-high breastwork of creaking timber. And only then would they get to face the enemy. Against those obstacles, any advance would be a slaughter yard. A prospect to chill the blood.

But that was not the plan, Castus reminded himself. The legionaries in the centre were just a blocking force, drawing the attention of the enemy while the cavalry and light troops forded the stream further to the west before attacking on the flank. Only when the cavalry attack had gone in would the legions advance. But they had been nearly an hour waiting in stoic passivity, and there had been no word from the flanking column at all.

Every time he closed his eyes, Castus saw Valens lying in the dust. The town where he had died was only two miles to the south; the scouts had reported the Bructeri position an hour after his death. The day had already been sinking into evening by then, but the soldiers had clamoured to advance at once, shouting down their tribunes when they had given the order to make camp for the night, even raising angry voices to the emperor himself as he had ridden among them. But the order was justified: the troops had been exhausted, and they had a hard fight ahead of them. Besides, the Bructeri clearly were not going anywhere.

That night the town had burned, flooding the camp of the Roman army with hot orange light and filling the sky with sparks and smoke. It was a fitting send-off for Valens, Castus thought as he stood at the camp boundary watching the fires. His friend's funeral pyre had been built of beams and hut-posts ripped from the town, stacked high, with his linen-wrapped body placed on top, the centurion's stick laid on his breast. Many of the men of Valens's century had wept openly as the pyre burned. Castus did not weep. Valens had been his closest friend since he had joined the legion back in Britain, and even if he once had reason to distrust the man, he had since forgiven him. Certainly Valens had saved his life that night on the riverbank. But all he felt was a cold desolate anger, and a sense of shame that he had not been there to help his friend in the fight. When the smoke smarted in his eyes he just blinked it away, staring into the twisting flames.

The army camped under arms, every man lying beside his shield and weapons, with a double sentry guard. Few of them slept, and in the dew-damp ash-grey dawn they rose and assembled in battle formation for their march to meet the enemy.

And there they were, Castus thought, impregnable behind their barricades. He had not had a good look before at the warriors of the Bructeri, but now as he watched he saw several of them climbing up onto their own wooden rampart to gesture and yell abuse or challenges at the Roman lines. They were tall men, muscular, some stripped to the waist and others dressed in woollen tunics. All were bearded, their long yellow hair drawn up and tied at the top of their heads, and they carried round shields painted in bold patterns of red, white and black.

Besides the barbed spears and javelins, many of them were armed with long, powerful-looking bows. The Romans were assembled in their cohorts just beyond effective archery range, but now and again one of the warriors leaped up on the barricade, flexed his arms and shot an arrow arcing over the swampy water. Most fell short, but when an arrow came down through the trees, shivering the leaves and bark overhead, the soldiers recoiled, cowering behind their shields in the fear that the slightest scratch or nip from one of those terrible missiles could bring a rapid and hideous death.

Castus had no idea whether the arrows were poisoned or not, but the fear was eating through his men, and their lust for battle of the evening before was rapidly draining away.

He looked to his right along the lines, and saw Rogatianus standing before his men, shield up, almost daring the distant archers to take a shot at him. On the far side of Rogatianus's men were the big red shields of Legion XXX Ulpia Victrix. To Castus's left was the old century of Valens, now commanded by his optio Macrinus. And beyond them, Castus could see the serried sky-blue shields of Legion II Augusta, with centurion Urbicus prominent in the front rank.

Urbicus glanced around, as if he sensed Castus's gaze upon him. He raised his hand in a mocking salute, his top lip drawn back from his teeth, then made a weighing gesture with his open palm. Castus lifted his sword in reply.
If I meet you on the battlefield...

‘Centurion!' a voice cried, and Castus looked back to see a runner pushing his way between the armoured bodies of the men in the battle line. ‘Tribune Jovianus sends his greetings and requests to speak to you!' the man declared, pointing back through the trees.

Castus nodded, directed a last glare across the water at the enemy barricade, then followed the runner back through the lines, calling out to Modestus to take over. He stamped his way over the bracken and trampled ferns behind the last ranks, and by the time he found Jovianus most of the other centurions of the detachment had already joined the tribune. Urbicus was there too, standing to one side with his arms folded across his chest.

‘I'll make this brief,' Jovianus said, to a growl of assent. ‘The flanking attack by the cavalry and auxilia has been held up – the stream further down was wider and deeper than expected, and they've had to march further west and south to find a crossing. Therefore, the legions must advance against the enemy position.'

‘Against that?' said Rogatianus, flinging his hand in the direction of the barricade. ‘Dominus, we'll be cut to pieces!'

‘That matters little,' the tribune declared. ‘We are soldiers, and we have our orders... I will lead the advance myself, and the centuries of the Sixth and Second Legions will be the vanguard.'

As he spoke, Castus could see the twitch of the tribune's jaw. The man was trying not to let his fear show. He had never thought much of Jovianus, but at least he was brave, or attempting to be.

By the time he returned to the front ranks of his men, the news of the impending attack had already spread among them. They muttered, many of them bunching closer together and crouching tighter behind their shields as if they wanted to root themselves to the ground.

‘Men of the British legions!' Jovianus cried, striding out into the mud-scarred clearing before the battle lines. ‘Now is your chance to redeem your reputation as soldiers! Now, before the eyes of the emperor himself, you can display the true courageous virtue of Roman warriors!'

That was a mistake, Castus thought. At the mention of the emperor half of the men had turned to look back, craning their heads to stare through the trees. The barbarians on the other side of the flooded valley must have heard it too. They sent up a massed yell of defiance, then started beating their weapons and shields against the timbers of their barricade.

‘Soldiers, face to the front!' Jovianus cried, his voice cracking. He swept his cloak back from his sword arm, hefted his shield. ‘After me – ad-
vance
!'

A shiver ran along the lines, a few knots of men edging forward. Castus stepped out from the ranks of his men, swinging the flat of his blade against the nearest shields.
Unconquered Sun, protect me now... Your light between us and evil...

‘Come on, then!' he said. ‘Or are you going to let me and the tribune fight this battle on our own?'

The line shuddered again, the men keeping themselves covered. Only a few of them began to shuffle forward, one step at a time. Castus felt cold sweat breaking all over his body. He had trained these men himself – would they really disgrace him now? Or, he thought as he turned again to face across the swamp, was the disgrace his own? He felt the fear racking him, threatening to buckle his body. His men could read that, as clearly as they could hear the fear in the tribune's voice when he had addressed them...

Only madmen and liars say they are not afraid
.

Yells from his left, and Castus glanced around to see Jovianus sprawled on his back. He thought the tribune had slipped in the mud, then saw the blood welling from between the cheek guards of his helmet. On the enemy barricade, a lone bare-chested slinger gave a shout of triumph, raising his fist above his head before dropping back out of sight. A party of soldiers rushed out from the Roman lines to raise their shields over the fallen tribune.

‘Slingshot hit him in the mouth,' Flaccus said, wincing as he gripped the standard with white knuckles. ‘Reckon that's the end of his career as a public speaker.'

From the enemy barricades the great roaring battle cry went up again. But now the Roman horns were blowing the general advance, a discordant brassy braying. Castus saw Rogatianus and his men beginning to push forward towards the swampy water.

A little to the left, a fallen tree lay partially submerged, black with rot and old moss, but the jutting craggy branches offered some cover.

‘This way,' Castus called quickly, gesturing to Flaccus, then scrambled down the slope towards the tree. When he turned he saw the standard-bearer coming after him, a loose array of men following. His boots slid in mud, then he was in water up to his knees. Already arrows were pocking the surface ahead of him, some of them smacking into the wet timber of the tree. Castus recoiled as a slingstone exploded off the trunk beside him, scattering flakes of bark. To his right, Rogatianus and his men were wading out into the flood, surging the water into dark brown froth, but their advance was already slowing under the rain of missiles.

Shouts from behind him, a trumpet cry and the sound of horses; Castus crouched beside the fallen tree and looked back, and the blood froze in his body.

Three riders, coming at the gallop down through the troop lines. Two wore the white cloaks of the Corps of Protectores, but the lead rider blazed in purple and gold.

‘Men of the Sixth Legion!' the emperor cried as his champing horse circled before the trees. ‘Remember Eboracum! You were first to acclaim me then – who will follow me now?'

Without waiting for an answer, Constantine spurred his mount forward towards the water, the two bodyguards galloping after him. For a moment the troops were motionless, stunned, their faces blanched above their shields.