The War at the Edge of the World (15 page)

‘Centurion! Centurion, get up, quick!’

A hand on his ankle, pulling at his leg. Castus sat up, grab­bing for the sheathed sword at his side. One forward lurch and he was out through the tent flap and staggering to his feet, swaying as the sleep flooded out of him. It was dark, and there was a strange noise, a buzzing and roaring carried on the breeze. He snatched the arm of the man beside him, pulling him almost off his feet.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Look over there – it’s the Picts!’

Throwing his swordbelt over his shoulder, Castus crossed to the eastern wall of the enclosure. Timotheus was there, with most of the rest of the century.

‘It started just a few moments ago,’ the optio said. ‘There was a loud shout, maybe a scream, then they started up this wailing and drumming.’

Even from a distance and in moonless darkness, it was clear that the Pictish camp was in uproar. Sparks raced on the hillside: men carrying torches running or riding in carts. The noise was a steady throb, punctuated with wild cries and shouts. Castus grabbed Caccumattus the interpreter and pulled him close.

‘What are they doing over there?’

‘I not know!’ The man shrugged. ‘Maybe bad. Make sounds of anger!’

He didn’t need a translator to tell him that.

‘Brigonius, you and two other scouts ride over there to the Pictish camp and see what you can find out. Don’t take any risks, just check and report back. But if you see the envoy or the governor’s secretary and they’re in trouble, get them out of there. Got it?’

The scout nodded and jogged away towards the horse lines. Castus glanced around him, the situation falling into focus. If Marcellinus and Strabo had managed to get clear of whatever was happening in the Pictish camp, they could be riding back even now and would need support. If not… Castus could hardly bear to imagine. They could be dead, or captured, or fighting for their lives. But he could hardly lead his whole force in battle formation into the heart of the enemy; they would be surrounded and cut off in the open country.
Think
, he told himself. He felt the pressure of expectation growing around him, the men looking to him for answers.
Think, decide
…

‘I want sixteen men, fully armed,’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster. ‘Culchianus, your section, with Januarius’s. Bradua, go to my tent and fetch my shield, mail and helmet. We’re going down to hold our side of the ford until the scouts return. Timotheus, you have command of the fort.’

‘Let me take the men out, centurion,’ Timotheus said. ‘You should stay here.’

‘No – I need to be down there, not up here.’
Down there
, he thought,
where I can better decide what to do next
. ‘With any luck the envoy and the secretary will be riding back that way soon and we can protect them.’

The runner came back with his kit, and Castus quickly shrugged on the heavy mail shirt, tightened his belts over the top and laced on his helmet. Around him the camp was in motion, men rushing to their own tents and arming themselves.

‘Keep the hornblower at your side,’ Castus told the optio. ‘Sound a long blast every quarter-hour – if we get split up out there we’ll need to find our way back in the dark. I want everyone in battle positions.’

‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ Timotheus said.

The men were formed up, the three scouts already racing away down the slope towards the ford.

‘What’s the watchword?’ the optio said as Castus made for the break in the wall.

‘
Fortuna Homebringer
. May she protect us tonight!’

Down off the hilltop and away from the circle of fortifications, the night felt heavy and damp. The noise from the Pictish camp was muffled here, only the occasional shout or wail carrying across through the trees. Castus led his men at a rapid pace, the creak and clink of boots and weapons loud in the dead stillness around them.

Promise me you’ll bring him home safely. Swear to me that you’ll look after him and watch over him at all times
… How had he failed? How had he managed to let Marcellinus walk unprotected into danger? There were so many things, now, that he knew he should have done. But none of that could change anything. Only the moment mattered, the blood pulsing in his neck, the sweat gathering in the small of his back, the fear of the men behind him like a charge in the air.

‘Halt,’ he called quietly. They were a few paces from the dip in the road that led to the ford, and through the trees he could sense the river flowing over the stones in the darkness. The men exhaled, leaning on their spears, hefting their shields. Not a sound now from the far bank. Only the lights of fires glinting from the hill slopes above them. Faint starlight picking out the glitter of moving water.

Then a cry, close and sudden. The scream of a horse, and the rapid battering of hooves on the packed dirt of the track.

‘Close order – ready javelins!’

The legionaries shifted out of column and into formation, sealing the neck of the road. The sound of horses drew closer, and then seemed to fade.

Suddenly they appeared from the trees on the far bank: two men riding at the gallop, one slumped across the mane of his mount, and a third horse following with an empty saddle. They surged down into the river and the water erupted into spray around them.

‘Hold on! They’re our scouts! Put up your javelins…’

The first rider cleared the river, and would have raced straight on up the track if Castus had not seized his bridle. The horse reared, stamped and shied.

‘What happened? Brigonius,
report
!’

The second rider came up out of the river, the injured man sliding from the saddle with the shaft of a spear jutting from his side.

‘They’re dead – the two Pictish chiefs,’ the exhausted scout gasped. ‘Ulcagnus and Vendognus. Dead in their huts – poisoned…’

‘Where are Marcellinus and Strabo?’ Castus shouted, cling­ing to the bridle. ‘Somebody catch that third horse…’

‘Don’t know… A party of warriors recognised us. They killed Buccus, and then attacked us.’

‘Juno protect us,’ Castus said. He seized the scout and dragged him off the horse. ‘I’m going over there to find our men and bring them out if I can,’ he called to the troops behind him. ‘I need two volunteers who can ride.’
Better than me, that is
, he thought. Culchianus and Vincentius stepped forward, saluting. ‘Get up on those other horses. The rest of you, take the injured man and get back to the fort, double pace. Tell Timotheus to prepare for attack, and if I’m not back in one hour, he should take command.’

He swung up into the saddle of the scout’s horse. Even now, he was not sure what he intended to do. All he could hear was the oath he had sworn to protect Marcellinus with his life.

‘Don’t stand there, go!’ he shouted, and swept out his sword. He slapped at the nearest man with the flat of his blade, and all of them broke into motion at once, spilling back from the river and away up the hill towards the fort.

The river was quiet now, whispering over the stony bed. Castus turned in the saddle. The two soldiers were mounted behind him, spears in hand.

‘You ready?’ He caught Culchianus’s answering nod. ‘Keep close behind me and watch my back. Let’s go.’

He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks, and the animal leaped forward into the water.

Chaos ruled the Pictish camp. Figures ran and shouted in the firelight, brandishing torches, shadows racing and weaving, smoke hanging in the air. The three riders came up out of the trees at a hard gallop.

‘Keep behind me,’ Castus called back over his shoulder. ‘Stay low and stay together.’ He pulled off his helmet and slung it over the saddle horn; no need to draw attention to himself just yet. His horse was already panicking, and he kept a tight grip on the reins.

Into the light of the fires, they rode together. Figures scattered to either side, shouting, some of them raising spears. Castus could see the humped bulk of the great hut at the centre of the encampment – the mass of people was thickest there. He felt a plunging reckless fury running in his blood.

A javelin flashed past his ear; he ducked low over the horse’s mane, and heard someone cry out behind him. Small bands of warriors moved in packs, angry and confused, but there were no clear allegiances between any of them. In a circle of firelight Castus saw a torn body sprawled on the turf, bright with blood: the scout Buccus, with four javelins stuck in his back. He saw a man in a chariot, one of the chiefs, screaming to the warriors gathering around him.

Dragging on the reins, Castus pulled the horse to a halt. The animal backed, circling, breathing hard. He was in the thick of the Pictish muster now, warriors all around him, women and children too. Scanning the faces, the massed shadows, he willed Marcellinus to show himself, or Strabo – as if by picturing them vividly enough he could cause them to appear. But the crowd had noticed him now, identified him as an outsider. Hoarse voices built into a chant – something like
Ladha Ruamnai
, but he could guess what it meant.
Kill the Romans
.

Culchianus was beside him, seizing the bridle of his horse. For a moment, lost in angry indecision, he could not tell what the man was shouting.

‘…have to get away… Centurion, we’ll never find them in this mess!’

He was right, Castus knew. At any moment the crowd would gather force and turn on them. But Marcellinus was still out there some­where, maybe close. He twisted in the saddle, look­ing to left and right. Across the heads of the throng he saw a figure standing in a cart: a woman with a spear in her hand. Cunomagla. She raised her head as she noticed him, her strong jaw set, then lifted the spear and pointed away towards the river.
Go
.

‘Ride fast, ahead of me, and don’t stop.’

The two soldiers were already moving, and Castus hauled his own horse around and booted it in the flanks. The animal was sweating, half blown and terrified by the flames all around, but it leaped forward again and plunged towards the darkness of the riverbank. Castus just clung on as best he could.

Ahead he saw the two soldiers riding hard; Vincentius was hurt, slumped low over the saddle horns. A man stepped up ahead of them, and Culchianus drove his spear through him.

Movement to the right: one of the chariot carts, a spearman in the back and the driver whipping the ponies furiously.

‘Keep going!’ Castus yelled. ‘Don’t hang back!’

The cart veered, angling to cut him off, the spearman stand­ing straight with feet braced and weapon raised in both hands. Onward, the vehicle closing in, then Castus dragged on the reins and jinked his horse round to the right. The animal slammed into the flank of the lead chariot pony, and the shock of the impact almost knocked him out of the saddle. Bent forward, he felt the spearhead slicing the air above his back. He swept his sword round, backhanded, and the blade sheared flesh and bone. Then he was clear, the panicked horse carrying him on as the cart veered away again.

Two men before him, raising shields, spears levelled. The first fell back as the horse kicked, and the second made a clumsy stab from his left. Castus swayed in the saddle, then he grab­bed the shaft of the spear and wrenched it aside. He swung his sword across his body, down over the saddle horn to chop into the Pict’s shoulder. The man howled and fell beneath the hooves, and Castus rode clear.

Trees to either side, then he was at the river and the water was bursting around him. On the far bank his two soldiers were waiting, and they turned together to confront their pursuers.

But the ford was clear behind them: figures on the far bank screamed from the darkness between the trees, and Castus could make out the cart circling back, the wounded spearman hunched in the back.

Riding again, the soldiers to either side, he urged his horse on up the dark slope towards the fort. The sound of a horn carried on the night air, then the calls of the sentries.

‘Halt there! Declare yourselves!’

‘
Fortuna Homebringer!
Fortuna Homebringer!
’ Castus heard his own voice shouting, hoarse, but felt only the burning pain in his throat and the heaviness of failure in his gut.

‘I had the men light cooking fires,’ Timotheus said, handing him a bowl of hot broth. ‘Reckoned they might not get another chance for a while.’

Castus nodded, spooning up soup, then cramming his mouth with hard bread. Astonishingly, so it now seemed, he and the two soldiers had returned from their foray alive. Vincentius had caught a javelin in the shoulder, but it was only a flesh wound and he could still use a weapon. The wounded scout, though, had been dead before he was brought back into the fort.

‘What’s going on over there?’ he said, his mouth full. ‘Can you see anything?’

‘Nothing very much. Just the usual clamour. The crowd’s getting thicker around the main hut, by the pattern of the torches.’

Castus swallowed heavily and wiped his mouth. ‘I ought to address the men,’ he said. ‘Form them up, but keep the sentries posted.’

‘Centurion,’ Timotheus said quietly, dropping to kneel beside him. ‘The men all know what we’re up against. They know what
you’re
up against as well.’

Castus looked around him: the legionaries spaced along the perimeter, the others gathered in the glow of the cooking fires. All that they had feared these last fifteen days, all their worst and most horrible nightmares, were now coming true. Of course they knew what they were facing.

‘All the same. It’s only right.’

As the horn sounded the assembly he paced the line of the oval wall surrounding the camp, assessing what needed to be done. His thighs still ached from riding, and there was a cold trembling sensation in his legs. His hands too felt oddly loose and weak, and he clenched his right fist and smacked it into his palm repeatedly until he felt the strength in his arms returning.

This was what his centurion had meant all those years ago, Castus realised. The bronze mask of leadership. At the time he had thought that the mask just projected inflexible strength. Now he knew the truth: the mask concealed fear.