Anthony Riches - Arrows of Fury

Julius fought his way through the chaos to Martos, nodding in respect at the panting chieftain.

‘Well fought, Votadini. Can you finish them?’

The other man nodded.

‘We’ll hunt them down to the last man. I have a score to settle with these bastards.’

Julius nodded, turning back to his men.

‘To the bridge!’

‘So Martos broke the deadlock? In that case he’s been instrumental in more than one last-minute rescue. I thought we were dead men when the barbarians came out of the mist to our front with their swords ready, back there on the other side of the river. My lads were terrified, of course, so it was a good thing that it was him and his men and not the real thing, or we’d all have been dead inside a minute.’

Marcus rubbed at his still-wet hair with one bloody hand, his eyes blank as he remembered the frantic retreat from the Venicone warband.

‘He saved us, of course. Led us up the hill to our left, took us out of sight of the warband when they came thundering past a few minutes later. After that we just walked south until we came to the outcrop and climbed down it to reach the far bank of the Red. You know the rest, and you’ve seen the mess that the Venicones made of the Eighth, but I’ll wager when we count the corpses we’ll have killed five men for every one we lost. They’ve earned their right to be called Tungrians, I’d say. What happened after the Votadini came down the hill in our armour then?’

Julius grinned, still elated with their victory.

‘You should have seen it, man, the Bear’s lads just ran wild. They hacked their way to the bridge those Venico bastards had thrown across the river and left a trail of bodies with their heads stove in and arms and legs lopped off. The barbarians tried to put them off, of course, chucked bucket-loads of arrows and spears at us from the other side of the Red, but we put a double line of shields on the riverbank and the Tenth took turns chopping at the trees behind them. Once the tops were off it was easy enough to push the trunks into the river, and that was that, pretty much. If only they hadn’t managed to put a spear into Dubnus I’d be counting this as a right result. As it is…’

Julius’s face darkened. Marcus shook his head sadly.

‘He shouldn’t have been in the front rank. He kicked my backside hard enough when I did it…’

Both men were silent for a moment, staring out across the river at the thousands of Venicone warriors still waiting in silence. The four centuries that Julius had led down the riverbank to deny them their last chance of crossing the river were now back in place at the ford, the two cohorts’ massed spears sufficient to deter any further attempt to force the crossing. The river itself was running slightly lower than had been the case during their first abortive attempt, but still had too much power for the warband’s leaders to seriously consider throwing their men across the river to die on the Roman defences.

‘I heard about Antenoch. He died defending the child?’

Marcus shrugged tiredly.

‘He died defending the supplies. Lupus was an incidental. Our prefect was a bit of a revelation, though…’

Julius raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. I fought off the first group to come over the hill, but then another group followed them in and took the three of us on, me, Arminius and the prefect. I suggested that he stand back and let the German and me do the fighting, but he just laughed at me and stood his ground.’

‘And…?’

‘And put down three of them without much difficulty, from what I gather. I was too busy while it was happening, but I had a quick word with Arminius after the fight was done, while Scaurus was busy making sure that they were all dead. All this time we’ve been assuming that the bodyguard’s the fighter, but it turns out he’s been taking lessons from the prefect since the day he was taken prisoner.’

Tiberius Rufius walked up with a weary demeanour, squatting down on his haunches opposite the other two, who both stared at him with open curiosity. He shrugged.

‘He’ll live, just as long as the gods keep smiling on him. The prefect’s got half a dozen tents up for the wounded and he’s warm enough, plus his wound’s stopped bleeding for the time being. Got any water left?’

Marcus passed over his water skin, waiting until his friend had drunk his fill before speaking again.

‘We need to get him back to Noisy Valley. That wound needs to be cleaned out before it closes up…’

‘In which case, that’s probably good news.’

Julius pointed up the road away from the ford. Half a mile distant, where the track met the skyline, the distant silhouettes of Roman soldiers were appearing against the bright evening sky. He stood up, looking back over his shoulder at the Venicones still waiting on the other side of the slowly subsiding river.

‘It’s their turn to run now. If that’s one full legion, never mind two, they’ll not want to be anywhere close to hand when that lot cross to the far side. Come on, let’s go and watch them leg it. And remember to put on a brave face for the troops; they need better from us than the despondency we’re feeling to show in our faces. We faced ten times our strength of the nastiest bastards in this whole shitty country and lived. Again. There are few enough men that have done that once, never mind twice in one year.’

The Tungrian cohorts marched into Noisy Valley behind the Petriana cavalry wing late the next day, having slogged back down the north road that afternoon. The surviving wounded had been carried on the carts that usually mounted the cohorts’ tents and cooking equipment, the dead left for burial by the soldiers of the 6th and 20th Legions. Scaurus had received his orders from the governor in the quiet of the man’s command tent the previous night, once the Legions had set up camp for the night beside the now quiescent Red River.

‘You’ve done a good job here, Prefect Scaurus, saved us from being ambushed by those ugly tattooed buggers. How many men did you lose?’

Scaurus made a show of consulting his tablet, although in truth the numbers, and their significance, were already burned into his brain.

‘Seventy-three men dead and a hundred and twenty-one wounded, seventy-six of them walking. The medics expect another dozen of the wounded to die before sunrise.’

The governor waited for a long moment.

‘And the Second Cohort…?’

‘Thirteen dead and twenty-five wounded, sir. Only one of their centuries actually saw any real combat.’

The tone of the governor’s reply made clear the frustration that was taking hold of his superior officer.

‘I know. I also know that a makeshift century composed mainly of Arab archers took more than double that number of casualties in the same action and still managed to frustrate an attempt by the Venicones to get over the river. I had Legatus Equitius make discreet enquiries of your first spear, and you’ll be aware of the mutual esteem in which your centurions and their former commander hold each other. Not to mention the off-the-record comments I’ve had from Tribune Licinius after his debriefing of his message riders. It seems you were forced to take control of his cohort for fear that he would panic and scare his men into running?’

‘Governor, I must…’

‘No. I think not, Rutilius Scaurus. I knew you would try to protect that fool Furius, just as you did ten years ago when he panicked in battle against the Quadi, although for the life of me the reason for your doing so still eludes me.’

Scaurus squared his shoulders.

‘I will not condemn a fellow officer, sir, no matter how great the provocation.’

The governor snorted his amusement.