The War at the Edge of the World (41 page)

Then, suddenly, the ground levelled and the first massive stones of the wall were before him. He looked up and saw no enemy heads along the parapet. From inside the fort, he could hear men shouting, screams, the noise of panicking animals and the steady rushing crackle of the fire. Most of the defenders were surely trying to extinguish the blaze before it destroyed their huts and defences – but sulphurous pitch burns hot and is hard to quench.

Castus threw his back to the wall. Other men were stumbling up around him now; he needed to wait until the main force was assembled before beginning the assault, if it were to stand any chance of succeeding. But more than half the men were still straggling around on the slope, clawing their way up in the dark. He gestured ferociously, cursing through his teeth.
Come on, come on
…

‘Archers!’ he hissed. ‘Spread out along the wall and watch the parapet. Shoot anyone you see. Grapnels: get up here quick.’

More cursing and fumbling in the darkness. One of the men slipped and fell on his grapnel, crying out in pain. No point in silence now…

‘On my command, throw together. As soon as you’ve got a firm hold, get up those ropes and start tearing down the parapets!’

Men spread out along the base of the wall. Valens came running up, panting breath, with most of his men clambering after him. Castus could wait no longer.

‘Throw!’

Air whined as the iron hooks were whirled and slung, a score of ropes uncoiling upwards into the glow of the fires. Iron clinked on stone or wrenched against wood. The man nearest Castus, a lumpish slow-witted youth, slung his grapnel up and then stared dumbly as it thumped against the wooden parapet and tumbled back, almost hitting him as it fell.

‘Give me that,’ Castus snarled. The youth was already on his knees, groping in the grass, but Castus found the grapnel first and snatched it up. He gathered a coil of line, then whirled the grapnel and threw with all his strength. For a moment he saw the iron hook dark against the sky’s glow, before it crossed the parapet and he started dragging on the rope until it ran taut.

Two tugs with his weight behind them: the grapnel held. All along the wall a web of ropes were pulled tight, men already scrambling upwards. Castus ran at the wall, feeding the rope between his hands and planting his boots against the rough stones. Muscles bunched, he started hauling himself up. He felt his own sixteen stone of weight, plus the weight of his mail and shield, stretching the rope. He feared that it would break, or the palisade collapse before he gained the top of the wall. Anyone up there with a spear, even a rock, could knock him down now… Grunting every breath, kicking his boots for grip against the wall, he dragged himself up hand  over hand.

Then the rope ran horizontal, and the wooden stakes of the palisade were in front of him. He grabbed at them, vaulting across the summit and dropping into a crouch on the far side. In one motion he slung the shield from his back and drew his sword.

He was alone. First on the wall, and no sign of the defenders.

Then bodies crashed against the palisade, soldiers dragging themselves up and over onto the wall walk. In the space of six heartbeats there were a dozen up, then a score, some of them taking position with raised shields, others hacking and pulling at the palisade stakes, others leaning back over to help their comrades scramble in through the breaches.

Castus let out a long breath. The air inside the fort was fogged with smoke, the walls and huts lit by a dull orange glow. There was only a narrow space of ground on this side, between the outer rampart and the wall of upper compound, but it was mazed with animal pens and small thatched shelters. Castus heard a shout from his left, and saw men running between the pens.

‘Shields up,’ he shouted. ‘Form a barrier along the rampart!’

Soldiers stepped in to either side of him, clattering their shields against his. Behind them, more men were climbing the wall, the space inside the shield wall crowding with armoured bodies. A flung javelin struck the shields, then another.

‘Valens! Take your men and go for the gate. I’ll take the inner wall.’

He saw his friend raise a fist, and then signal to his men; the ring of shields broke, Valens and his century veering off to the right along the line of the rampart. Castus stared across at the inner wall. It was over ten feet high, with another palisade at the top, but it sloped inwards from the base and the stones were worn and old. No time now to retrieve the grapnels and ropes.

‘Modestus: take ten men and form testudo against the base of the wall. Ramped towards the top. Understand? The rest of you, stay close on me.’

Leaping down off the walkway, he jogged across the ground between the animal pens. Sounds of fighting to his right. Valens and his men had met the first wave of defenders. He glanced around, looking for Placidus, but there was no sign of him.

Suddenly a figure lurched up in front of him, a Pict with a tall ruff of hair. ‘
Ha!
’ the man yelled, darting a spear at his face. Castus turned the blow with his shield and hacked the man down without breaking stride.

Modestus was shouting, pushing his group of men against the inner wall. They stumbled together, and then their raised shields rattled above their heads. There were figures moving along the higher parapet. Castus saw the shaved skulls, the matted hair-crests. A spear came down and struck one of the soldiers.

‘Remigius, Attalus: form your men behind me,’ Castus roared. ‘We’re going over that wall at a run – kill every­one that gets in your way!’

He felt the bunched strength in his arms, the force of the blood filling his head. The dim glow of the fires seemed as bright as daylight. Three running strides, and he launched himself up onto the ramp of locked and levelled shields.

For a moment they tilted, the men beneath gasping as they took his weight. Castus rolled, sliding on the slick boards; then he got his knees beneath him and managed to stand. A roar from Modestus, and he felt himself boosted upwards as the men heaved against the shields. Sword in hand, he took three long steps forward and snatched at the palisade above his head, dragging himself up onto the crest of the wall.

Thunder of boots on shield boards behind him. Remigius and Attalus leading their men up across the testudo. Castus raised his head over the palisade, but ducked immediately. A blade whirred above him, and he struck back with a wild swing. A crunch of bone, a scream. Then he vaulted the palisade and came down inside the upper enclosure, dropping into a fighting stance.

The sky beyond the far boundary was full of fire, and the shapes of running men threw mad distorted shadows through the smoke. Remigius scrambled across the palisade behind Castus, with three of his men following him.

But the defenders were already upon them: a pack of them, ten or fifteen, coming at a run with shields raised, darting their spears overhead. No time to form up. Castus charged at the first Pict, beat his spear aside and knocked him down with his shield. A second stabbed at him. Castus yelled, a full-throated roar, sliced through the shaft of the spear, and then hacked the man through the head on the backswing. From the corner of his eye he saw Remigius take on two warriors: the soldier lunged for the first, but the second cut low with a sword and sheared the blade through his leg.

Castus stepped back towards the palisade. Chaos of shouting down below: the testudo had buckled and collapsed, but soldiers were scrambling up with their bare hands now, or pushing each other up on their shoulders. Only six men inside the enclosure. Retreat? The thought died – no chance of getting out of here alive now.

Blades on all sides. Castus blocked a blow, turned the sword aside and slipped his own blade down it to shear off the attacker’s knuckles. A spear jabbed at his shoulder, punch­ing into the mail. Another thudded into his shield, splitting the boards. Feet braced, Castus felt an odd calm settling over him. He moved without thinking, fought without fear. All the men who had followed him over the wall were down and only he remained.
Move, block, cut
. A blade slashed his leg above the knee, but he barely felt it.
If I die here
, he thought.
If I die here
… Blood sprayed hot across his face.

Then the rush came from behind him, the chorus of shouts as Modestus and his men vaulted in across the wall and flung themselves into the fight. Castus took two long strides forward. Drove his levelled blade against the silhouette of a warrior and heard him shriek. Wheeled, slashed back. His sword sliced through a man’s arm, and he saw blood jump in a black torrent.

‘What took you?’ he said, but it came out as a scream.

‘Sorry, got into a scrum down there!’ Modestus was laugh­ing, his mouth bleeding.

Sound of a horn blast from the lower enclosure: Valens and his men had captured the outer gate. The defenders in the upper fort were hanging back now, hurling javelins from the weaving shadows. The air was full of drifting sparks and flecks of flame.

‘Get to the inner gate!’ Castus shouted. ‘Form wedge and straight across the compound!’

They formed up around him as he moved, raised shields butting rim against rim, swords levelled. Castus set the pace, jogging, the knot of armoured men tight to either side. He had no real idea how many had followed Modestus over the wall – enough, he hoped. Ten paces, then fifteen, the defenders falling back before the moving wedge. A steady clatter and thunk of flung javelins against the wall of shields. With a jolt of surprise, Castus realised that the man to his right was Diogenes.

Staring over the upper rim of his shield, Castus could see the mass of men gathering around the upper gate. Warriors, all of them: Drustagnus’s picked warband. And there with them, standing up on the low wall above, was Drustagnus himself. Castus recognised him at once: the flat scowling face, the crest of black curls. For a moment he thought the Pictish chief had recognised him too – but Drustagnus was calling to his warriors, screaming at them to turn and face the approaching enemies who had somehow forced their way into his fortress.

The gateway was a narrow stepped passage cut down through the rampart and the rock beneath, sealed with a gate and covered with a wooden platform. The passage was only wide enough for three men standing abreast; attacked from below, it would be almost impregnable. But from the upper fort it was no more than a culvert, a gap in the low wall.

The space between the gate and the moving wedge of Roman troops narrowed fast. A hedge of spears against them now, a rising wall of men.

‘Double pace!’ Castus shouted, his voice ringing between the close shields. ‘
Charge...!
’

The wedge drove into the thicket of spears at a run, crashing aside the first few warriors. The others gathered, crowding together. Four more paces and Castus ran his shield up against the pack of bodies. Diogenes was pressed against his side, another soldier to his left. Together they shoved, sliding blades out between the shield rims. Spears jabbed and flickered above them.

A long moment of heaving, then the pack broke and Castus staggered forward, half tripping over a dead man. A sword clashed off the bowl of his helmet, and he felt the dizzying clamour of it in his skull.

Fighting all around now, the wedge splitting, the opening of the gate passage still blocked by a solid plug of enemy warriors. Castus hammered down an enemy shield, slammed his own into the man’s chest and knocked him aside.

‘Diogenes! Keep close behind me!’

Blood filled his left eye and he blinked it clear. He chopped down at an attacker, once and then twice; the warrior’s sword broke near the hilt, and he hurled the shard at Castus’s face. Another lunged forward from the press: one hammering blow shattered the man’s shield, the next chopped into his shoulder.

The Pict buckled and fell, dragging Castus’s arm down, the sword still firmly caught in his shoulder blade. Castus kicked at the dying man’s chest, hauling on his sword hilt, but the weapon was trapped. He released it, got both hands behind his shield.

‘Sword!’ he yelled. ‘Somebody get me a
fucking sword
!’

He swung the shield with both fists behind the boss, punch­ing it against men to left and right. A blade struck the neckplate of his helmet and raked down his back, grating against the mail. The boards of his shield were split, and only the rawhide rim held it together. Then it was ripped from his grasp completely, and Castus saw a huge bare-chested warrior raising a spear to strike at him. For a heartbeat he stood, open-handed, open-mouthed. Then Diogenes darted in from his right and slashed the big Pict across the stretched muscles of his abdomen. The man crumpled, dropped the spear and fell back.

‘Thanks,’ Castus said, planting his boot on the chest of the corpse at his feet and hauling his weapon free.

Above him, on the wall, Drustagnus stood alone directing his warriors. Castus glanced up at him, then down at the mass of men still blocking the gate. He reached out his left hand, seized a Pict by the hair and dragged him close, hacking at his neck with the sword. Kicking the body away from him he pushed forward, barging the enemy aside with his shoulders. He could sense the fight ebbing from them now, the panic taking hold. Trapped in the narrow gate passage, they could already hear the Roman horns blaring from the lower enclosure. Castus raised his sword in a two-handed grip, feinting at the warriors in front of him, and they dropped and squirmed aside, writhing up out of the gate passage like snakes from a burning wheatfield.

‘Modestus, get the gate open!’ he cried, not even sure if Modestus was there. Then he was scrambling up onto the wall parapet. His left leg was pouring blood, the fabric of his breeches soaked black, and his head was still ringing from the blow to his helmet.

Drustagnus was only a few paces away, brandishing his spear at the men below him. Castus edged forward, crouching. He could take the man with a rush and a swift strike, but something stopped him. A heady rush of wild pride.

‘Hey!’ he called out. ‘You know me?’

The Pictish chief turned quickly, swinging his spear down level in a boar-hunter’s grip. No sign of recognition on his face; he just snarled and lunged. Castus slashed back, and his sword rang against the iron spearhead. Drustagnus stabbed again, breathing hard from his throat, and Castus stepped back and parried the blow. With the third lunge, Castus twisted to his right and grabbed at the spearshaft with his free hand. Drustagnus dragged back on the spear, but Castus was already inside his guard. For a moment they wrestled together, their weapons trapped between them. Castus felt the heat of the man’s body close against him, smelled his breath and his sweat. Then he drew back his head and butted it forward into the Pict’s face, heard bone and cartilage crunch under the iron rim of his helmet. The spear went up, and he levelled his blade and drove it in low. Drustagnus fell against him, choking blood.