Wounds of Honour: Empire I (28 page)

‘Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!’

Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.

‘You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!’

The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus’s voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.

‘On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready … Form line!’

The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.

‘About face. Charge!’

The tribesmen’s ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers’ battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.

‘Throw!’

The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.

‘Swords!’

The 9th, barely breaking step, charged in over the fallen, stabbing at men and animals with the carefree ferocity of victory, offering no mercy to those unable to run. A short, frenzied melee ended the fight, leaving half a dozen soldiers with assorted flesh wounds while almost a dozen of the dead and dying tribesmen and their mounts were scattered across the tiny battlefield.

Marcus turned back to the larger body of horse, their pace accelerating at the sight of their fellows’ slaughter, and now barely four hundred paces distant.

‘Form square.’

His men nodded grimly at the quiet command, retrieving their spears and moving swiftly into their allotted places, ready to receive the enemy charge and die. As the square formed, Marcus looked about him again, noticing with surprise the few survivors of his men’s vicious attack, having galloped away over the slope’s crest, now flying past the century in the direction of their fellow horsemen at a breakneck pace. As they passed the oncoming mass of horsemen, a couple turned back and pointed back up the slope, shouting at their fellows.

The tribal cavalry faltered, seemingly losing purpose for a second, and in the moment of their hesitation a sound came to Marcus’s ears that puzzled him. It was a distant rumble, as if thunder was grumbling somewhere beyond the clear horizon, but apparent as much through his boot soles as his ears. The rumble swelled in volume, making the soldiers’ heads turn as they realised that it was coming from behind them, from the direction of the Wall.

With a sudden explosion of movement and noise, a wall of horsemen came over the crest and charged down the slope, parting to either side of the 9th’s tiny square. Armoured cavalrymen bent over their horses’ necks and thrust long spears towards the tribesmen, who had already turned to ride for their lives, fighting horses rooted with fear by the noise of the oncoming wave of heavy cavalry. A decurion rose in his saddle, lifting his spear and shouting encouragement to his men as they passed the 9th, their shouted response lifting the hairs on Marcus’s neck with its bloodlust.

‘
Petriana! Petrianaaa!’

The cavalry swept past the 9th’s square and hammered into the rearmost of the enemy riders while the century stood in amazement, watching the tidal wave of horsemen wash across the open space between the crest and the forest. A scattered detritus of dead and wounded barbarian riders and horses studded the ground over which they passed. The mass of native horsemen became thinner by the second, their blown horses easy prey for the stronger and fresher Roman mounts. Spears were thrust into the backs and necks of the fleeing Britons, making their backs arch at the moment of impact.

A group of horsemen cantered up to the tiny defensive square, pennants below their spear heads fluttering prettily in the strong breeze blowing across the open ground. A long dragon standard, twisting and flapping in wind-blown serpentine twists, rode proudly above the formation, which opened to allow a magnificent grey stallion to approach the 9th. Like those of its fellows’, the beast’s eyes and long face were protected by a decorated armoured plate that curved around the snout, vision enabled by a delicate pattern of holes drilled into the half-globe bulges over each eye. Its rider searched the ranks, age-wrinkled eyes peering from beneath the peak of a heavily decorated helmet, while the riders of his bodyguard rode out to either side, watching their surroundings with professional wariness. Marcus stepped out from the 9th’s ranks, snapping a salute at the prefect while he admired the man’s heavily muscled bronze cuirass, secured by the customary linen band. The senior officer jumped down from his horse, passing the reins to an attending trooper before returning the salute. He stared at Marcus with unveiled curiosity, turning to survey the slaughter without any change of expression, speaking without returning his eyes to the young officer, his voice a patrician rasp.

‘Y’were lucky that we happened along, young centurion, or your head would be decorating some hairy fellow’s spear point by now. I’m Licinius, prefect commanding the Petriana cavalry wing. Your unit?’

Marcus stiffened to attention and saluted.

‘Ninth Century, First Tungrian Cohort, Prefect!’

The other man turned back to look at him again, one eyebrow slightly raised. Marcus met his stare directly, noting the experience lines that ran down from either side of his nose and his furrowed forehead. The older man was, he calculated, soldier through and through, an experienced prefect with two or three previous postings behind him before being favoured with such a prestigious cavalry command.

‘Tungrian, eh? Y’don’t
sound
Tungrian, y’sound Roman, youngster. Look it too. So, how does the Ninth Century of the First Tungrians come to be all on its own on the wrong side of the Wall, getting ready to die on the spears of several times its strength of enemy horse, eh?’

Marcus told him the story of the last two days in quick, economical sentences that reduced their achievements to their bare bones, while the prefect watched dispassionately as his men dismounted to finish off the wounded and take souvenirs. He reached the slaughter of the oxen before the other man interrupted.

‘Wait a moment …
Decurion
!’

An officer detached himself from the waiting troop of horsemen, trotting across to his commander and saluting precisely.

‘Sir?’

‘Dispatch a message rider to Cauldron Pool, message to read …’

The troop commander fished out his writing tablet, the stylus poised over its wax.

‘From Petriana Wing. Rescued First Tungrian Ninth under barbarian horse attack to north of Wall at mile fort twenty-seven. Debriefed centurion. Fifty-plus oxen found ten miles to north-east of the Hill. Cattle slaughtered and burned to deny enemy supply. Number of oxen and enemy horse suggest enemy warband ten to fifteen thousand strong in vicinity, now likely to be falling back for alternative supply. Attack on Wall in this sector temporarily unlikely. Forward to commander Sixth Legion immediately. Ends. Give the rider a twenty-man escort. Go!’

The officer turned away to his task.

‘Carry on, Centurion.’

Marcus completed the story, explaining their return to the barbarian side of the Wall in defence of their comrade. The prefect pulled his helmet off and tossed it to a trooper, running a hand through his thick head of hair. Streaks of grey ran through the black. After a moment of thought he turned back to Marcus and his waiting soldiers, nodding with pursed lips.

‘Well, Centurion, either Fortuna herself smiles down on you, or you’re an exceptionally competent officer. Either way, you have a century to be proud of. Not many infantrymen of
my
experience would have taken the risk your men did in seeking to safeguard your friend. I salute you all!’

And, to Marcus’s amazement, he did just that, clapping him on the shoulder in congratulation.

‘I would regard it as a privilege to escort you and your men to Cauldron Pool, and to take a cup of wine with you once you’ve had time to get your unit settled. Trumpeter, sound the recall, those layabouts have had long enough to take every blasted head on the battlefield. Now, young man, I’m intrigued by your accent. Tell me more about yourself.’

Marcus, caught in the full glare of the man’s piercing intellect, and unprepared for another explanation as to his origins, thought frantically. Antenoch stepped forward neatly, saluting with a gusto that raised eyebrows throughout the 9th.

‘Prefect, sir, excuse me, but our centurion has omitted to inform you that there is a young Roman lady waiting for us at the Wall gate. Your eminence might want to detail an escort to her, to ensure her personal safety in these rough circumstances?’

The prefect nodded sagely, a faint smile creasing his lips.

‘Quite so, soldier, and right of you to point out the fact. Let us get back on the road to the east, Centurion, and perhaps you and I can talk further in the more relaxed atmosphere of Cauldron Pool.’

He remounted, pulled his helmet back on and rode away, spurring the magnificent grey into a canter back towards the Wall, his bodyguard wheeling their horses to follow.

By late afternoon Legatus Sollemnis was forced to admit to himself that he felt more relaxed with the circumstances of his command than at any time in the past week. He relaxed in his chair while the 6th Legion’s staff officers briefed him on the current situation and felt, for the first time in several days, as if a measure of control over the whole awful mess had come his way. The sounds of tree-felling came distantly into the command tent, as his engineers laboured to perfect the field defences that would protect their flanks and rear, and reduce any frontal attack to a vulnerable crawl. With these defences, and the legion artillery commanding murderous firing arcs, his six thousand men could hold such a well-founded position at the forest’s edge against thee times their number.

At length Titus Tigidius Perennis took centre stage as the legion’s senior tribune, moving to the map and pointing to their position astride the road to Yew Grove ten miles south of the Wall, then to the auxiliary battle group’s location at Cauldron Pool.

‘So, Legatus, in summary, we face a loose enemy formation of about fifteen thousand men. Our current dispositions limit the enemy warband from doing very much other than burning a few garrison forts. If Calgus attacks south to attempt a breakthrough towards Yew Grove, we can provide the defensive anvil while Prefect Licinius and his auxiliary cohorts, plus the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, swing the hammer into their rear. On the other hand, if he tries a push to the west, the auxiliaries can hold him if they choose the right ground, and we can break from our defensive position and do the hammering. Either way, if he moves to attack either force we’ll have him straddled like a Robbers counter, ripe for a battle of annihilation. Our good fortune in the discovery and destruction of the supplies for their presumed western force, and the Petriana’s annihilation of their cavalry, has made Prefect Licinius’s rear safe for the time being. The only question now is how we should capitalise on this development.’

Sollemnis nodded, staring intently at the map in front of him.

‘Yes, we seem to have Calgus in a trap of his failed strategy. Without his western force he’s unable to remove Licinius’s threat to his flank, and effectively unable to move either west or south without dire risk. And to attack to the east would be both largely pointless and risk hemming himself in between Wall and sea. I think we have him, gentlemen, or at least we’ve balanced the situation enough to have stopped his rampage for the time being. My opinion is that we keep sufficient measure of the initiative just by digging in where we are, and so forcing Calgus to decide what to do next. If he attacks he puts himself at risk of being assaulted from two sides; if he waits he plays into our hands by bringing the Second and Twentieth Legions into play. Any other opinions?’

His First Spear spoke up.

‘I agree, Legatus. We must stay defensive until the other legions arrive. Fighting from behind our temporary defences, with our artillery positioned to support the line, we can hold his barbarians off for long enough to let the auxiliaries strike to flank and rear. Moving forward would be suicide with only our six thousand spears.’

Perennis nodded his support.

‘I agree with the First Spear, with one small addition. When Calgus moves back to the north, as he is bound to do given his position, we should follow up smartly and get north of the Wall. I have a perfect location for a forward camp in mind once we’re free to advance.’

Sollemnis stood with the decision clear.

‘Very well, we hold what we have for now, and push the decision on to Calgus. Let’s see what he does with several barbarian tribes baying for our heads but no safe way to give them what they crave.’

The road to the fort at Cauldron Pool was uneventful enough, a gentle stroll by the standard of their regular exertions, but the spectacle of the cavalrymen riding easily to either side, heads dangling from saddle horns and spears, eventually started to rankle. Morban rattled his standard at the 9th Century, leading them off in a spirited rendition of a favourite marching song.