William Dietrich - Hadrian's wall

A few Celts saw the danger. Brisa sent missiles at the charging Romans and watched in frustration as they stuck harmlessly in shields. Then she herself was hit in the arm, the impact throwing her onto her bow and breaking it. She cursed in pain.

Arden's spearhead of tribesmen hadn't yet noticed the envelopment of new Romans on the Wall behind them. They were still fanning out between Wall and dike, losing any sense of formation even as their chieftain shouted at them to maintain some kind of order. How many times had he lectured on the importance of discipline? Now they thought the battle was over.

"Not yet." Galba was watching their cohesion dissipate. "Not yet…"

The two charging columns of Romans atop the wall converged on the milecastle with crushing speed, slamming into the handful of Celts on the parapet between them like angry rams. Spears sliced through bodies, and Caledonii went over like pins, survivors spilling in confusion back down the milecastle stairs. They cried alarm, trying to warn Arden and his warriors of this fresh attack, but it was too late. The Roman columns met atop a litter of bodies over the archway of the outer gate, and quick commands brought heavy pots forward. These were upended, and their black contents spilled through firing portals onto the Celts milling in confusion in the passageway below.

The barbarians began to panic.

A torch was passed, and the sticky fluid exploded. Greek fire!

The passageway flashed into an oily inferno, setting aflame the warriors who were trying to press forward through it. The ignited men lurched and ran screaming back down the slope toward the river, blindly seeking relief. As they burned, Celtic fervor began to waver.

A disciplined Roman fire of missiles from atop the fortification began to grow again. Barbarian after barbarian pitched over in agony, the charms of the druids failing to save them from Roman ashwood shafts. The charging legionaries retook the ballista once more and began firing its heavy missiles as well, each bolt cutting down a file of attackers like a scythe. Other Romans ran to the rear wall of the milecastle and slammed shut the second gate there, sealing Arden's wave of barbarians off from retreat.

The Celtic army had been cut in two. The Wall was closed, its outer portal on fire, its inner one shut, its crest manned more heavily than ever. Caratacus and two hundred of his followers were suddenly trapped south of the barrier.

"Annihilation!" Galba roared.

A shout went up, there was a blare of trumpets, and suddenly the Roman cavalry surged up and over the earthen dike as if they were the dead of Samhain leaping out of the ground. They used the dike's downslope to accelerate their charge as they rode for the winded enemy.

"Betrayal!" Arden cried out in warning. It was too late.

There was a huge splintering of shields and lances as cavalry and Celtic infantry met, the screams of skewered men and disemboweled horses, and then a melee of combat, the senior tribune slashing with his spatha as he kicked his horse toward Arden.

"I want him alive, remember! He's no use to me dead!"

More trumpets, and then cheers from the Romans on the Wall.

Outside and to the north, Marcus and two hundred additional troopers of the Petriana had just swept out of the trees and were attacking as well. Just as Galba was about to pin part of the barbarian army against the southern side of the Wall, Marcus was going to pin the remainder against the north.

Lucius Marcus Flavius, his wife in prison and his career in probable ruin, was going to win glory this day. Glory, or die in the attempt. Rome was built on bloody conquest, and its history had proved that military victory could relieve every embarrassment, erase every humiliation. Rome was built on sacrifice, and a dead warrior could reclaim any honor lost while living.

This was his moment of redemption.

Marcus and his men had issued from the fort of the Petrianis at dusk the previous night, two hundred of his cavalry on a desperate swing through enemy territory to take the attacking barbarians in the rear. His garrison had been stripped bare of soldiers by the sortie and miles of the Wall were hollow, but Galba had persuaded his praefectus to take this gamble, that the barbarians would concentrate where he'd told Caratacus to attack. How else could the Petriana prevail against overwhelming numbers?

The Roman cavalry had drawn up in a grove of beech to the north of the Wall before dawn, watching the attack unfold and waiting impatiently for the flaming arrow that would be Galba's signal. Now the Celtic army had been neatly snipped in two, as the senior tribune had promised, and Marcus had the opportunity to destroy its rearward portion. If they could crush the barbarians between them and kill Caratacus- bring Valeria the man's bloody, dirtied head-maybe he could salvage something of his career and his marriage. And if he died in the attempt, well, there was a peace in that too. Certainly life had come to seem more burden than joy. His wife's abduction had been humiliation, and her infidelity a crushing betrayal. His tenure on the Wall had turned to chaos. His future had dissolved into recriminations.

So he'd oil his sword with the blood of the Caledonii this day, these Picts and Attacotti and Scotti and Saxons, and give back to them some of the sorrow they'd inflicted on him. That, or perish in the attempt.

"We take them from behind!" he cried. "For Mars and Mithras, charge!"

The line of Roman cavalry burst from the trees as if the forest had exploded, shields on the left arm, lances leveling on the right, the sound of hooves on frozen ground thundering like barbarian drums. The hundreds of Celts before them were milling in confusion in front of Hadrian's Wall after being hurled back from the burning gateway. Warnings were shouted, warriors turned, and they looked at his cavalry charge at their rear in horrified wonder, each individual barbarian deciding whether to fight or run.

Run where? The Wall and its rain of arrows were at their backs.

Marcus's own line widened as each trooper picked a target and aimed his lance.

Many Celts howled defiance, of course, running to meet this new threat with the fatalism of the condemned. Shields were raised and swords brandished. Their tactical hopelessness was perversely giving them maniacal courage. They'd fight as berserk individuals, and that, the Roman knew, would prove their undoing. They fought with bravery, but not with thought. And so they were doomed, or so Marcus hoped.

The cavalry first ran down some camp followers and wounded at the rear of the barbarian mass, the victims screaming in terror as the thrashing mill of hooves chewed over them. Then came a ragged line of defiant warriors, shields up, axes poised, a few of their arrows striking home and spilling some of Marcus's cavalry from their saddles. Brisa had pulled the shaft from her own arm and found another bow. Now, desperate and heedless of the flow of her own blood, she was firing as fast as she was able.

It wasn't enough. The Romans simply ran over them. The woman saw a blur of horseflesh, a maelstrom of hooves, and then she was under and trampled, blacking out. There was another concussive collision, its sound like a clap of thunder, and the two armies north of the Wall were shredded together as they were to the south, lances impaling the Celts who didn't dodge fast enough, horses screaming and toppling, men butted aside like dolls. The power and weight of the cavalry shattered the barbarian formation, and the Romans shouted fierce satisfaction as they wheeled their horses to work with their swords. The blades rose and fell in awful rhythm, like the arms of a primitive machine.

Marcus expertly guided his horse through the confusing combat, its horror more familiar now after the battle in the grove. He feinted as if to pass to the right of a painted barbarian carrying a two-handed broadsword, then cut his horse to take the man by surprise on his left. The praefectus's shield arm went out to fend off the barbarian's blow even as his own spatha swung in a great deadly arc. The handle stung as it chopped into muscle and bone. The barbarian screamed and went down. Then Marcus was beyond him, using the prancing hooves of his excited horse to push more of the barbarians into the cold river, trampling some underfoot. He saw a javelin catch one young cavalryman in the back, spilling him, but then another Roman rode up and cleaved the thrower's head.