S.J.A. Turney: Tales of Ancient Rome

“Cover!”

A hail of arrows began as the four defenders on the wall ducked behind the stonework, their shields raised. A hundred or more arrows hissed past them, falling into the yard below and peppering the dead; others bounced from the wall below the battlements, disappearing back down into the white.

Forgais gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He knew very well what a cloud of arrows meant. This would be perhaps the tenth time the manoeuvre had been tried in the past two days. As the last arrow fell, he stood again, dropping his shield to the walkway.

“Defend!” he bellowed, and lunged to the parapet, his spear reversed in his grasp again, the point facing down.

Below the battlements the defenders had used the cover of the arrows to rush roughly-constructed ladders to the wall and raise them. The hail of missiles had now halted to allow their own men to climb safely.

With a shout of rage, the commander leaned over the parapet and thrust down, the spear’s leaf-blade stabbing into the man climbing the ladder between his neck and shoulder and sliding deep into his chest cavity, impaling organs on its journey. The man grunted, dead before he even had time to scream, and fell into the white.

Desperately, Forgais tried to maintain his grip on the spear, but it was too tightly wedged in the falling corpse and was ripped from his grasp. Leaning over the battlement and wincing at the slight movement in the stones, he grasped the top of the ladder and thrust it back out, away from the wall.

A shout to his left attracted his attention. The curse had been in Latin. Artorio staggered back from the edge, clutching his chest. His face had that look that the commander dreaded: half surprise, half resignation.

“Sorry” was all he managed, as he toppled back from the walkway to land among his brothers in the courtyard below, a blossom of red growing on his white tunic, a flower of death.

Forgais muttered a brief prayer; all there was time for.

A face appeared at the edge, frost in the shaggy brown hair and moustache, rotten teeth bared in anger. A muscular arm hooked itself over the top as the man tried to clamber on to the parapet. Grasping the hilt of his long sword where it stood leaning against the stone, Forgais spun a full circle, picking up enough speed as he swept out with the blade to take the top half of the man’s head off.

The commander shrank back, appalled at the sight of the man’s sheared head, his brain slopping out as he toppled from the wall, his expression invisible behind the destruction of his face. He turned his face away.

Happier times they had been, back in Isurium, selling fruit and vegetables, before the army had begun calling up everyone they could. Before he was made an offer he couldn’t refuse and shipped to this border zone at the end of the Empire.

“Sir!”

He turned at the shout. Saturninus was gesturing toward the other end of the fort. In confusion, Forgais turned and looked at the south gate. Slowly, his ears caught the sound of combat out there in the mist. Shouts in Latin echoed away in the white and, miraculously, there was a heavy thump at the gate.

“Go get it open. Must be the relief!”

Grinning, Saturninus paused briefly to smash a climbing barbarian in the face with the pommel of his sword before running down the stairs and crossing the courtyard, leaping over the piles of his comrades until he reached the gate.

“Who goes there?” he yelled, though he was already unlatching the heavy bar.

“Volusianus, centurion of the Cohors Secundae Asturum at Aesica. Open up.”

With a relieved smile, Saturninus finished unbarring the gate and swung the heavy portal open. Without pause or acknowledgement, a rider trotted into the courtyard and reigned in at the centre, close to the piles of bodies, his horse prancing impatiently, four heavily-armoured men following him in and standing to attention behind him. Saturninus peered through the gate but, seeing nothing without, turned back to the visitor, frowning.

A brief glance over the wall’s edge told Forgais he had a few moments before the next push. Two bodies screamed and writhed at the wall’s foot, but nothing else stirred in the mist. Turning in to look down at the figure in the courtyard, he sighed with relief.

“Sir?” he shouted, his heart lurching. He barely allowed himself to believe it. Relief! The relief was arriving at last. They had clearly dealt with the archers outside the south gate already from the earlier sounds of combat.

“Who’s in command here?” the centurion called out, eyeing the dead before him.

“I am, sir. Forgais: commander of the Numerus Gaesatorum Raetorum. We never thought you’d arrive, sir. We’ve held. Almost to the last man, but the wall’s held, sir.”

The man’s expression hardly changed.

“You are under attack?”

Forgais squinted through the drifting mist.

“Sir? Yes. The wall holds, but not for much longer. Where are the others?”

The officer frowned, waving the question aside with a sweep of his hand.

“How many are left here?”

“Four, sir. And they’re still coming.”

As if to add weight to his words more crashes and shouts arose and Finn, at end of the wall, lunged out across the battlements with his sword. Forgais nodded at his friend and then turned back to the visitor. It was hard to feel pride in Rome when she barely knew you existed these days, but pride in duty and a job well-done was hard to take away.

“Sir?”

The centurion nodded, thoughtfully and tapped his lip.

“Well, come down from there and gather your equipment quickly. Four men is better than none, I suppose, though I was expecting the full numerus.”

It was Forgais’ turn to frown.

“Sir?” he repeated once more.

“The general Magnus Maximus had ordered the withdrawal of our forces. The prefect at Aesica sent me to fetch your unit. Be proud, commander. We travel to Rome to make an Emperor.”

“But the wall?” Forgais gestured to the small fort around him.

“Leave it for the farmers; we have higher concerns now. I shall expect you at Aesica within the hour.”

Without a further glance, the officer turned and rode back out through the south gate, his guard of four men following obediently. Forgais stood silent, his eyes wide and angry, breath frosting in the air. His gaze took in the milecastle with its twin barrack blocks, stripped of bunks yesterday to provide the timber to reinforce and bolster the north gate. The bodies of the numerus, laying where they fell, mute witness to the proud defence of… what? A wall that some Spanish ponce in a fur hat had decided was no longer important if he had a chance at the purple?

He realised the others had paused and were watching him, waiting for orders. Even as they stood silently, regarding their commander, the hail of arrows began again, the very first one taking Saturninus through the eye and plunging him over the edge to the ever-increasing pile of their fallen companions.

“What do we do?”

Forgais turned to Finn and shrugged.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t care what the commander at Aesica says, Gratianus is my Emperor, not Magnus Maximus or any other would-be usurper. I intend to follow the orders of my emperor: hold the wall.”

The hail of arrows slowed and ended.

“Ready for the ladders, lads!”

Cries of rage, defiance and pride rang out, enveloped quickly by the shrouding mist.

Gaius Postumus turned over in his bed, snorting and pulling the cover tight up to his throat. What a lovely dream. He knew it was a dream, for sure, but continued forcing himself to stay that little bit more sleepy, prolonging the night time images as long as possible. Half a sow turned on the spit, fat dripping down into the fire and sizzling with a delicious smell. Probably wine. Those goblets looked like wine goblets. He wondered who was holding the party, since he seemed to be the only guest. Why so many goblets and so much food just for him.