Anthony Riches - Fortress of Spears

‘I’ll see you buried properly, Tiberius Rufius, and then I’ll take as many of my men as will follow me, track down that bastard Calgus and make sure he dies in agony for you.’ He turned back to Morban, who was standing at his shoulder, aghast at the death of the man who was both Marcus’s saviour and his closest friend, his voice hoarse with sudden grief. ‘Standard-bearer, at the slow march, retreat back up the slope. Now they’ve finally got here we’d best give the bloody legion some room to work.’

King Drust looked about him as the Venicone warband climbed the bare hillside high above the doomed barbarian camp, scanning the empty ground to either side before glancing back over his shoulder, panting with the effort of the climb up the wooded slope below. The forest’s upper limit was five hundred paces behind the rearmost of the Venicone warriors, whose initial headlong charge from the embattled camp had quickly been reduced to a long loping stride as they had weaved their way through the densely packed trees. His warriors were marching in a long, straggling column as they climbed the mountain’s unforgiving slope, moving in family groups of spearmen and archers whose breath steamed around them in the cold morning air. He spat on to the hillside’s thin turf and grunted a comment at the leader of his personal bodyguard jogging along beside him.

‘Perhaps we got away clean, but I doubt it. Those Roman bastards don’t give up that easily.’

The other man grimaced at the pain gnawing at his chest, as the effort of the long climb started to tell upon him.

‘Aye, and we’re leaving a trail that a blind man could follow.’

The king nodded, looking back at the treeline again.

‘Their soldiers will never catch us, not over this ground and carrying that much weight in weapons and armour. It’s their horsemen that worry me.’

‘Worry you, Drust? I thought you and your tribesmen feared no man?’

The king looked up, to find that Calgus, still being carried over the massive shoulder of the man who had beaten him into unconsciousness, had regained his wits. His voice was weak with the after-effects of being stunned, but the acerbic note was unmistakable. He reached out and tapped Calgus’s head with his knuckle, causing the rebellion’s former leader to wince in pain.

‘Calgus! You still live, then? I thought Maon might have hit you too hard, but I see your skull is every bit as thick as I imagined.’

Calgus smiled wanly.

‘Insult me as you will, Drust, I can see that I am due a long period at your mercy before you sell me to the Romans. If they let you escape, that is…’

Drust laughed in his face, hefting his hammer with a grim smile.

‘Oh, they’ll do their very best to stop us, Calgus, and they might kill a few of us, but all they’ll really manage to do is pick off a few weaklings and provide us with fresh…’

A horn sounded back down the slope, and Drust turned back to stare down at the trees. A single horseman had fought clear of the forest’s thick growth, and was sounding the signal to alert his comrades of the Venicone warband’s presence high on the hill to their north. Drust laughed at Calgus’s expression, caught between hope and fear.

‘It’s a tough choice, eh, Calgus? To be carried off into slavery by me, or to be rescued by the Romans, whose strongest desire is to put you on a cross and watch the crows pull your eyes out while you’re still breathing. Cut his bonds and put him down, Maon, I’ll have your sword-arm free for more important work. Calgus can either keep up this gentle pace we’re setting, or he can fall behind and find out what the Romans have in store for him.’ He raised his voice to a bellow. ‘My brother warriors, very soon now the Roman horsemen will be snapping at our heels, eager to take our heads for the bounty they will earn for each man they kill! We must keep moving, no matter how many times they attack! If they can stop us here, they will bring their soldiers up the hill to surround us and slaughter us from behind their shields! Keep moving, and use your spears to make them keep their distance. Archers, pick your targets well, and wait until you cannot miss before you shoot! We must keep moving, cross this miserable bump of a hill and make for our own land! The horsemen will give it up soon enough. And remember, brothers, tonight we dine on horse flesh!’

Calgus, initially unsteady on his feet after being unceremoniously tipped on to them by the massively built Maon, gritted his teeth and fell in alongside Drust, a cynical smile playing across his face despite the pain throbbing in his head and the weakness in his knees.

‘“Tonight we dine on horse flesh?” And I thought I was the expert at keeping the facts from my people!’

The Venicone king looked back at the forest’s edge again, where another half-dozen horsemen had emerged from the trees and were trotting their mounts easily up the bare slope behind the warband.

‘Enjoy your good humour while it lasts, Calgus, I’m away to find my body slave and relieve him of a heavy burden. Those bastards are going to keep us in sight until enough of them have gathered to start picking off the stragglers with their spears, and shooting arrows into us from our flanks. And you, Calgus, have no shield.’

‘Look at him, strutting around like he had anything to do with the fighting.’

Soldier Manius poured a small measure of water on to his cupped palm, rubbing it vigorously on to his face to dislodge as much of the dried blood as possible, then poured another measure on to his sweat-crusted hair, grimacing at the dirt that came away on his hand. He shot another glance at the 20th Legion’s first spear as the senior officer walked past the Tungrians, bellowing a command at his men, and nudged the man standing next to him.

‘All big and brave when it’s all done bar the shouting, but nowhere to be seen when the iron’s flying, from what I’ve heard. A legionary from their First Cohort was telling me that…’

A roared command from their centurion, a twenty-year veteran with a battered face by the name of Otho, silenced him.

‘Stand to, Seventh Century! Stop your moaning and get in line! There’s work to be done and we’re the men to do it!’

The voices of the cohort’s other centurions were ringing out along the length of the defensive position that the Tungrians had fought grimly to defend in the dawn’s pale light, urging their men back on to their feet.

‘Good old Knuckles, now there’s an officer who’ll stand in line when the time comes. And you wouldn’t want to trade blows with…’

‘Anyone with his mouth still open, shut it now, or I’ll come and shut it for you!’

Manius nodded to his mate with a knowing look, but kept his mouth closed. Otho glanced along the line of his men for a long moment, satisfying himself that he had their full attention before speaking again.

‘That’s better. We have new orders, Seventh Century. We are to search whatever parts of this camp the legions haven’t already burned to the ground for anything that might be of value to the empire. There will still be a few of the blue-faced bastards hiding and waiting for dark to fall, so don’t use the door of any tent unless you want your head taken off. Cut a flap in the side of the tent with your sword, have a good look through it, and if it’s empty step inside to see what you can find. If you can see anyone inside the tent do not go in after him, but call on him to surrender. If you have to, surround the tent and use your spears to drive him out. And don’t kill any of the bastards unless you absolutely have to, they’re worth a lot of money to the empire. Tribune Scaurus will catch shit from above if we don’t bring a few of them out alive, and we all know that shit rolls downhill! Inside the tent you may find weapons and personal effects abandoned in the battle. Do not try to hang on to any such item, not if you don’t want me in your face. Any man found attempting to hide any booty will probably be flogged in front of the cohort, but he’ll already have a set of lumps courtesy of this…’ He held up his right fist, the knuckles criss-crossed with the scars of fights long forgotten. ‘Right, get to it! Seventh Century, advance!’