The War at the Edge of the World (38 page)

Musk flooded over him, a thick and heady scent: Cunomagla appeared before his dreaming eyes now, splendid and terrible in her barbaric scar tattoos.
Why did you fail me?
Her voice low and hoarse, almost sorrowful.
You are a liar, like all Romans.

He tried to speak, but his throat was locked. Then the heat was gone and a cool hand pressed his forehead. A soft voice, whispering to him.
Don’t worry. You are a good man. You broke no vows.
He opened his eyes and saw Marcellina leaning over him, her face pale from shadow. He reached up to her…

‘Centurion? Centurion!’

With a grunt and a jolt he was awake, sitting upright on his hard bed mat. The slave was shaking him by the ankle, and he gestured for the man to get out of the tent. Once he was alone he splashed his face with water from the jug and scrubbed his head with hard, stiff fingers. He seldom dreamed, and was glad of that. Dreams brought messages – from the gods, or from spirits. Or from the land of death. But already the sensations were leaving him, the images fading into the dull greyness of morning.

On his feet, he dressed and pulled his boots on, and then ducked out of the tent into the damp air. Greyness all around, the sun not yet risen, no trumpets to bring the soldiers to order but already activity filled the camp. Men stumbled in the half-dark, pulling on helmets and buckling belts. Others sat around the firepits, cursing and blowing, trying to coax a flame from a spark and a fistful of damp tinder. Horses kicked and snorted in the misty shadows.

Castus winged his arms, feeling the blood beginning to rush in his body. Standing, he ate a crust of dry bread, washing it down with sour watered wine, then the slave returned and helped him into his armour: the padded vest and mail coat; the plumed helmet. Pulling his belt tight and shrugging the sword baldric across his shoulder, Castus set off through the gloom of the waking camp. Then the first trumpet call rang out, booming brass through the mist.

The army had left their camp on the river the day before, flattening their ramparts and trenches and forming up for a rapid ten-mile march, following an old Roman road along the crest of a ridge that ran eastwards towards the coast. The prisoners had given the necessary information: the Pictish host was gathered in the wide river valley to the south-east, around one of their sacred sites.

Castus had learned of the strategy that evening, as his men had set up camp on the southern slope: with their march along the ridge, the Romans could threaten the enemy’s line of retreat into the mountains, and stood poised to strike down into the valley at the fertile lands and villages further east. But the emperor had divided his army, with a light detachment supported by the Alamanni moving on ahead and making camp a mile further east, and the cavalry swinging around to the south and taking up a position screened by a lateral hill. The remaining force of four thousand infantry would appear a tempting target, but the Picts would need to ford the river at the foot of the slope and climb up through a crooked steep-sided defile to reach the heights. Before dark the scouts had returned, and reported the enemy camped on the far bank on the river, drinking and feasting, confident of victory. The trap was set and the bait laid.

Now Castus joined the group assembling around the stand­ards: the centurions and tribunes of the cohorts, with the men gathered behind them. Smoke from the torches and braziers hung in the air, under the thin misty rain. The draco standards of the cohorts hung limp, but the
signa
of the centuries caught the gleam of the fires. All stood silent while the priests conducted the sacrifices, intoning prayers to Mars, Jupiter and the Unconquered Sun. Four thousand voices sounded the response, a strangely muffled rumble. Then the ranks of the officers and Praetorians parted, and a stooped figure in a dark purple cloak climbed onto the piled turf tribunal.

The emperor.

‘Fellow soldiers,’ he called, and his voice barely carried through the dawn murk. The ranks shifted, men moving closer. ‘Fellow soldiers,’ the emperor said again, more clearly, ‘I need say few words to you. Out there are the hordes of our enemies, eager to throw themselves upon your swords. Do not disappoint them!’

Sudden laughter from the assembly, men flinging up their arms in salute. The emperor raised his hand, and then stifled a cough. His face was waxy grey in the low light.

‘Remember…’ he said, clasping his cloak to his neck, ‘these are the savages who despoiled our province last year. Who burned our cities, our homes, raped our women, murdered our children…’ He paused again, coughing into his fist. ‘Show them no mercy! Let not one of them survive!’

The shout of acclaim was huge, echoing in the damp air. The soldiers surged forward, pushing against their officers, but the emperor was already clambering down from the tribunal, helped by his slaves. The moment of unity died into muttering, clattering of arms and shields, tramping of feet.

Castus turned and found Modestus behind him. The optio swung a quick salute.

‘Century assembled, centurion! All present and ready for orders!’

‘Form them up, optio. Wait for my command.’

The gathering of officers was breaking up now, individual tribunes gathering their centurions around them. Castus pushed through the throng until he stood with Valens and the others of the Sixth, formed in a rough circle around Tribune Victorinus.

‘The surveyors have already marked out your start positions,’ the tribune was saying. ‘We form battle line across the head of the valley – the Sixth are on the left flank, with the First Minervia to our right. Form up in open order, two centuries deep. Keep the formation until the enemy get within five hun­dred paces, then at the signal retreat by line until you reach close order… At the second signal, discharge javelins, and the third advance by century. We’ll have artillery and archers behind us throughout, but they’ll have the ranges marked. Any questions?’

There were none. Castus felt Valens slapping him across the shoulders. His friend grinned, wolfish.

By daybreak the battle line was formed across the head of the valley, and the soldiers turned to the east and saluted the direction of the rising sun. The sun itself was invisible behind cloud – just a watery gleam low in the sky. Castus pulled his belts tight and squared his shoulders. On the march down from the camp his dream had returned to him: the faces of the dead. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the images from his mind.

To his left, the men of his century were waiting in position. A few of them swigged water, others talked in low nervous voices, others pissed where they stood. Behind him, Castus could hear Flaccus the standard-bearer whistling under his breath. They held the rear of the position; Valens’s century was in front, but each rank of men stood six paces from the next. The formation was deep, spreading over the upper slopes of the valley, but would appear thinly stretched to the enemy.

And the enemy, Castus noticed, were already appearing. The narrow wooded defile leading up from the river opened out as it climbed, and the valley formed a shallow amphitheatre below the crest of the ridge with the slopes thick with thorny scrub. Already Pictish riders were cantering up from the throat of the defile, warriors on foot massing behind them, filling the lower end of the valley. Castus listened carefully, but could hear nothing; the damp morning air seemed to muffle all sounds. He saw Valens glance back at him from his position with the forward century.

A distant shout cut through the mist, then a chorus of yells. Figures ran across the open ground: archers and slingers in loose formation, pelting the gathering mass of the enemy and then running back. A low swell of noise came from the Picts, a wordless roar and a percussive rattle and clash of spear-butts on shields. The noise rolled across the hollow of the valley in waves.

How many of them now?
Castus squinted, trying to count, dividing the horde up into sections and estimating their numbers as he had been taught.
Five thousand? Six?
Most were on foot, with a few carts heaving through the mass, nobles or chiefs brandishing spears. The details became clearer as they approached: now Castus could make out the high crests of their hair, the scars swirling over their naked limbs. The men beside him were beginning to shuffle, ducking their heads and edging their shields higher.

‘Keep formation,’ he called. ‘Wait for them to come to us.’

There was a slight breeze now, stirring the bright tails of the draco standards. A good omen, Castus thought.

A sharp snapping sound from the rear, and a ballista bolt arced across the Roman lines and darted down into the for­ward ranks of the enemy. Ranging shot. A moment later, fifty catapults fired in unison; a volley of snaps and thuds, and the bolts flickered dark against the sky, then arced and fell. The Pictish mass shuddered under the impact, and a great groan went up from them.

Now they charge
, Castus said under his breath.

But still the Picts hung back, massing in lines across the width of the valley. More of them came from the defile, pouring like liquid from the neck of a jug. The forward groups shouted and chanted, banging their weapons, taunting the Romans in their own tongue. Another volley of ballista bolts dropped into them, goading them, but still they did not break.

Castus glanced back towards the command position on the hillside, and saw the emperor’s purple draco standard swirling and flapping around its shaft. A shout went up from the cohorts of VIII Augusta, holding the centre of the line: ‘
ROME AND VICTORY!
’

The shout spread through the flanking cohorts.

‘
ROME AND VICTORY!
’ Castus cried, and his men took up the shout. Spears drummed off shield rims all along the Roman line. Some of the Picts were climbing up the slopes of the valley to dart javelins, but the archers and slingers on the heights drove them back.

Now the trumpet signal rang out. Valens called out the order, and the forward century began edging backwards, closing up the ranks. Castus swung his arm, and the front three lines of his own men backed up. Slowly, steadily, the gaps between the ranks narrowed. A cheer went up from the Picts. Some of them were already dashing forward, flinging spears, thinking that their enemy was retreating. Those at the rear of the mass began to surge forward, ordered on by their chiefs.

‘Steady,’ Castus called. ‘Hold steady… Back six paces…’

The leading century had already closed ranks, Valens’s men locking their shields together; now, as the Picts began their charge, they found a solid mass of armoured men facing them, a wall of shields and levelled spears. Castus could see Modestus moving along the rear ranks, shoving the men into line with his staff.

‘Ready javelins.’

Behind him he could still hear the thump and crack of the artil­lery; the sky overhead was stippled with arrows and ballista bolts.

‘
Loose!
’ he shouted, and as one the men of the front rank lunged forward and hurled their javelins. The missiles curved over the leading century and struck the face of the Pictish charge. At once the next rank stepped forward and threw: javelins clashed and shivered the air.

Castus stretched up, staring over the massed helmets of Valens’s men. The enemy charge had faltered under the storm of missiles, great gaps torn in the Pictish mass. But others were pressing forward, stumbling over the fallen bodies. Now a volley of throwing darts followed the javelins, pelting sharp iron down into the enemy horde.

‘Ready spears – prepare to advance!’

He heard the trumpet call even as he spoke, and Valens’s cry of command at the same moment. The leading century seemed to rear up, massing towards the front, and then suddenly lurched into motion.

‘Advance!’

Slow heavy movement, turf thick underfoot. Ahead, the noise of Valens’s men smashing into the riven horde of the enemy. Screams, sudden and high-pitched, and the hollow thud of shields. Pacing forward, wanting to run, Castus glanced to his left, down the line of his front-rank men. Spears gripped, shields up, the line held steady.

He saw the first enemy bodies, left twisted and bleeding on the ground as the leading ranks stepped over and across them. One of his own men darted his spear down to stab at a fallen man as he advanced. Others did the same, spears rising and falling like darning needles.

Up ahead, the leading century was moving through the Picts like reapers through a wheatfield. Through the shouts, the screaming, Castus could clearly pick out the chop and suck of blades cutting flesh and hacking bone. Occasionally an enemy javelin would flicker across the wall of shields and into the ranks of the armoured men.

Cheering from the right. When he looked up again, Castus saw the first wave of cavalry crashing down the far slopes, towards the open flank of the massed enemy. He looked to the left, and there were the Alamanni pouring down the steep hillside above the defile, hollering their own barbaric war cries.

At the apex of the cavalry attack, galloping on his grey horse, was the tribune Constantine. Castus saw him clearly: the golden helmet with its feathered crest, the white cloak swinging behind him, his mouth open in a scream of joyous violence.

The cavalry struck, ripping into the Pictish flank. From his vantage point on the slope Castus saw a wave of panic pass through the mass of the enemy, warriors turning to flee from the horses, colliding and pressing together. Those who fled forward faced the advancing line of infantry, the impregnable shields and reaping blades. Others tried to retreat back into the defile, but it was already choked by fugitives. Carts and horses meshed in the rout, while the Alamanni swarmed down from the higher slopes.

The advance slowed, Valens and his men pushing against a bulwark of desperate, dying men. Swords still thundered against the pressing shields, javelins arced, but it was butcher’s work now: the hollow of the valley was heaving with trapped Picts, cropped down on all sides, dying in a bloody morass.

Then, as Castus watched, he saw a knot of enemy warriors plunging forward towards the infantry lines, all of them scarred and painted nobles, screaming defiance. At their heart was a single battle cart, their leader standing high and proud, spear raised. Castus saw the long face and goatlike beard, the dyed mane of hair, and recognised Talorcagus, High King of the Picts. For a few heartbeats the warband pressed forward, until it appeared that they might breach the mob of their own panicked men. Then Valens yelled out the order to his troops:
Shield wall!
And like a ship caught in a storm wave, the chariot and the warriors surrounding it veered and tilted, capsizing into the surge of bodies. Castus stared as the king went down, Talorcagus toppling from his cart and falling into the melee.