Anthony Riches - Fortress of Spears

‘Ninth Century, advance!’

As the two lines of soldiers stepped off down the hill, Scarface thrust one of his spears at the man behind him.

‘You, pass this forward to me when I’ve put the first one through some fucker’s back, and make sure you’re ready with it as soon as I’ve thrown this one, or there’ll be a short and very interesting discussion once we’ve sorted these long-haired cunts out.’ The men around him smiled despite themselves, as amused as they always were by his blend of bombast and single-minded purpose. Without taking his eyes off the ground in front of him, the veteran soldier hawked noisily and spat into the grass. ‘The rest of you, stop your grinning and get your fucking spears ready to throw!’

Thirty paces down the slope, the century got their first glimpse of the enemy through a momentary gap in the smoke. The mass of tribesmen were pressing harder on the Tungrian line than before, clearly wearing the embattled soldiers down by the sheer weight of their numbers, and the cohort’s grip on its foothold inside the barbarian camp had visibly reduced in size since Marcus’s last quick look. Another ten paces saw the century within a spear’s-throw of the raging tribesmen, and yet still undetected. Marcus lifted his sword and then dropped the blade. Whatever the trumpeter might have been feeling, his lungs seemed unaffected, a loud note from his horn pealing out over the battlefield and snatching the attention of the enemy warriors. The 9th Century’s front rank roared their defiance, shaking their spears at the surprised barbarians, and Marcus raised his sword again.

‘Spears…’

The men in the front rank leaned backwards, their left arms reaching forward for balance as they pulled their spears back until the iron heads were level with their helmets. Scarface turned his face and kissed the cold iron, feeling the blade’s ragged edge on his lower lip, then locked his gaze on a warrior twenty paces distant in the barbarian warband’s rear.

‘Throw!’

The front rank took a collective two steps forward, exhaling noisily as they hurled their weapons into the enemy warriors.

‘Spears… throw!’

Reaching back to take their second spears from the men behind them, the soldiers hurled themselves forward again, and launched a second volley into the barbarian rear. Dozens of the enemy were now out of the fight, some toppled to the ground, others on their knees or held upright by the crush of their numbers.

‘Form line!’

The century was back in line within seconds, staring down at their enemy as a wave of confusion spread through the barbarians.

‘Swords!’

The front rank unsheathed their short swords, a sudden pale gleam in the dawn light. Marcus pointed his sword at the enemy warriors, raising his voice to a roar.

‘Attack!’

Scarface pointed his sword at the barbarian he’d decided to kill first, screaming his challenge.

‘Come on, you fuckers!’

He bounded down the hill, the men to either side of him howling their own battle cries as they made their own charges, punching his shield into the barbarian’s face and stabbing his gladius into his guts before the other man had the chance to recover from the blow. Driven by their recent experience of battle with the tribes, and knowing what would inevitably come next, the front rank pulled their shields together to form a defensive wall, while the rear-rankers stepped in close and caught hold of their belts, steadying them against the assault to come. With a roar of anger the barbarian warband slammed back against their defence, hammering at their shields and helmeted heads with swords and spears as they recovered from their shock and threw themselves at the new threat.

Tribune Licinius spurred his horse forward up the line of the 20th Legion’s column to meet the scout riders racing towards him from the barbarian camp’s northern face. His cavalry wing was strung out over the hundreds of paces behind him, still making their way through the forest that surrounded the camp, along a tortuous hunter’s path that had been scouted as an approach route in the days that had followed the near-disaster at the Red River. Sending half a legion down the path first had been a necessary measure, given the need for the heavy infantry to break into the camp and defeat the warband before the cavalry could follow up and chase down any survivors, but their lack of urgency in the approach march had tested his patience beyond its limits. The lead rider reined in his sweating horse alongside the tribune’s magnificent grey, his voice urgent as he saluted his superior and launched into a description of what was happening at the head of the column.

‘The northern palisade has been breached from the inside, Tribune, and there’s a warband running north in tribal strength. We saw their rearguard heading off into the forest, at least a thousand men strong, and they looked like Venicones.’

Licinius nodded, thinking quickly.

‘Those tattooed buggers must have decided to quit Calgus’s war even before the attack on the camp became evident to them. What about the legion?’

The decurion shook his head dismissively.

‘Too slow and too late, I’d say, Tribune. The leading cohorts are just wasting time forming up on the open ground between forest and palisade, with no sign that they intend getting stuck in any time soon.’

Licinius’s temper boiled over.

‘With me!’

He spurred the grey down the line of troops followed by his bodyguard, seeking out the group of men that represented the point of the 20th Legion’s spear.

‘Tribune Laenas, might I ask exactly what the fuck you think you’re doing?’

The legion’s second-in-command, a tribune whose tunic bore the broad purple stripe of the Roman senatorial class, and a man unused to having his judgement questioned, turned away from a frustrated-looking group of the cohorts’ senior centurions with a look of incredulity, opening his mouth to snarl a response that died in his throat when he saw who was doing the questioning.

‘Ah, Tribune Licinius, we’re, ah just making sure that we’ve got everything in place before…’

Licinius rode over his half-hearted explanation with a patrician disregard for manners, leaning in close and speaking in quiet but fierce tones.

‘What it looks like, Tribune Laenas, is that you’re dithering in the face of a fight. These gentlemen around you know that the time to strike was while the barbarians were still escaping into the forest. Since even my old ears can clearly make out the sound of battle from inside that palisade, I suggest that you get your cohorts through the gap those blue-nosed blighters have torn in the fence and get them into action. If, that is, you don’t want to be dismissed and censured for lack of commitment by the governor. And let me make this very clear; if your soldiers aren’t out of my way very quickly I will simply ride my cavalry through and if need be over them. There’s a Venicone warband making their escape while we sit here wasting time, and I intend making sure that as few as possible of them get away, if you’ll get your men out of my path.’

He sat back in his saddle with one eyebrow raised. Laenas swallowed unhappily, then turned back to face his officers.

‘Ah, gentlemen, we will advance into the enemy camp and join battle immediately.’

The legion’s most senior centurion nodded briskly, his smile speaking volumes for his pleasure at the cavalryman’s intervention.

‘At the double march, Tribune?’

Laenas swallowed and nodded.

‘Indeed. At the double march, First Spear Canutius.’

‘It’s a good thing we’ve got the advantage of the slope!’

Qadir nodded in response to Marcus’s shouted comment. The century were starting to tire, the front rank becoming more interested in keeping their feet and fending off the barbarian spears than taking their iron to the enemy, who in their turn had burned through their first rage and were attacking with less vigour than moments before. A horn sounded across the smoke-wreathed camp from the northern palisade, and the front rank of a legion cohort swept into view through a gap in the camp’s northern fence. Marcus shot the oncoming legionnaires a dark glance.