Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

Timotheus was right; Castus slapped him on the shoulder and paced towards his tent. He tried to avoid glancing back at the Pictish camp. There was nothing more he could do now. Darkness, perhaps, would bring answers.

In the tent he stretched out on his bedroll, fully dressed, boots on. He had the ability, common to soldiers, to sleep at any hour of the day of night, whatever tumultuous noise was going on around him. Four hours, into sleep and then out again, without needing to be woken. Now, though, he lay awake staring at the leather of the tent above his head, listening to the subdued sounds of the camp outside. Nothing to be done, he told himself, and closed his eyes.

What was his friend Valens doing now, back at Eboracum? And Modestus, the shirker he had left in the hospital? He tried to picture the familiar route from the barracks to the bath-house, guiding his mind along it towards sleep. The Blue House appeared to him. Afrodisia coming down the stairs with a jug of wine. Then he saw another woman, her face a pale oval in darkness. Promise me you’ll protect him and bring him home safely … No, he did not want to think about that. He thought of a bare white wall, the cracks in the plaster. The wall of his sleeping cubicle when he was a boy. His father’s voice… Where was the old man now? Living or dead? But his mind wandered, deeper into sleep. He was walking across a dark landscape. Then there was a stag’s head set on a pole, and it was talking to him…

‘Centurion! Centurion, get up, quick!’

A hand on his ankle, pulling at his leg. Castus sat up, grab shy;bing for the sheathed sword at his side. One forward lurch and he was out through the tent flap and staggering to his feet, swaying as the sleep flooded out of him. It was dark, and there was a strange noise, a buzzing and roaring carried on the breeze. He snatched the arm of the man beside him, pulling him almost off his feet.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Look over there – it’s the Picts!’

Throwing his swordbelt over his shoulder, Castus crossed to the eastern wall of the enclosure. Timotheus was there, with most of the rest of the century.

‘It started just a few moments ago,’ the optio said. ‘There was a loud shout, maybe a scream, then they started up this wailing and drumming.’

Even from a distance and in moonless darkness, it was clear that the Pictish camp was in uproar. Sparks raced on the hillside: men carrying torches running or riding in carts. The noise was a steady throb, punctuated with wild cries and shouts. Castus grabbed Caccumattus the interpreter and pulled him close.

‘What are they doing over there?’

‘I not know!’ The man shrugged. ‘Maybe bad. Make sounds of anger!’

He didn’t need a translator to tell him that.

‘Brigonius, you and two other scouts ride over there to the Pictish camp and see what you can find out. Don’t take any risks, just check and report back. But if you see the envoy or the governor’s secretary and they’re in trouble, get them out of there. Got it?’

The scout nodded and jogged away towards the horse lines. Castus glanced around him, the situation falling into focus. If Marcellinus and Strabo had managed to get clear of whatever was happening in the Pictish camp, they could be riding back even now and would need support. If not… Castus could hardly bear to imagine. They could be dead, or captured, or fighting for their lives. But he could hardly lead his whole force in battle formation into the heart of the enemy; they would be surrounded and cut off in the open country. Think , he told himself. He felt the pressure of expectation growing around him, the men looking to him for answers. Think, decide …

‘I want sixteen men, fully armed,’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster. ‘Culchianus, your section, with Januarius’s. Bradua, go to my tent and fetch my shield, mail and helmet. We’re going down to hold our side of the ford until the scouts return. Timotheus, you have command of the fort.’

‘Let me take the men out, centurion,’ Timotheus said. ‘You should stay here.’

‘No – I need to be down there, not up here.’ Down there , he thought, where I can better decide what to do next . ‘With any luck the envoy and the secretary will be riding back that way soon and we can protect them.’

The runner came back with his kit, and Castus quickly shrugged on the heavy mail shirt, tightened his belts over the top and laced on his helmet. Around him the camp was in motion, men rushing to their own tents and arming themselves.

‘Keep the hornblower at your side,’ Castus told the optio. ‘Sound a long blast every quarter-hour – if we get split up out there we’ll need to find our way back in the dark. I want everyone in battle positions.’

‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ Timotheus said.

The men were formed up, the three scouts already racing away down the slope towards the ford.

‘What’s the watchword?’ the optio said as Castus made for the break in the wall.

‘ Fortuna Homebringer . May she protect us tonight!’

Down off the hilltop and away from the circle of fortifications, the night felt heavy and damp. The noise from the Pictish camp was muffled here, only the occasional shout or wail carrying across through the trees. Castus led his men at a rapid pace, the creak and clink of boots and weapons loud in the dead stillness around them.

Promise me you’ll bring him home safely. Swear to me that you’ll look after him and watch over him at all times … How had he failed? How had he managed to let Marcellinus walk unprotected into danger? There were so many things, now, that he knew he should have done. But none of that could change anything. Only the moment mattered, the blood pulsing in his neck, the sweat gathering in the small of his back, the fear of the men behind him like a charge in the air.

‘Halt,’ he called quietly. They were a few paces from the dip in the road that led to the ford, and through the trees he could sense the river flowing over the stones in the darkness. The men exhaled, leaning on their spears, hefting their shields. Not a sound now from the far bank. Only the lights of fires glinting from the hill slopes above them. Faint starlight picking out the glitter of moving water.

Then a cry, close and sudden. The scream of a horse, and the rapid battering of hooves on the packed dirt of the track.

‘Close order – ready javelins!’

The legionaries shifted out of column and into formation, sealing the neck of the road. The sound of horses drew closer, and then seemed to fade.

Suddenly they appeared from the trees on the far bank: two men riding at the gallop, one slumped across the mane of his mount, and a third horse following with an empty saddle. They surged down into the river and the water erupted into spray around them.

‘Hold on! They’re our scouts! Put up your javelins…’

The first rider cleared the river, and would have raced straight on up the track if Castus had not seized his bridle. The horse reared, stamped and shied.

‘What happened? Brigonius, report !’

The second rider came up out of the river, the injured man sliding from the saddle with the shaft of a spear jutting from his side.

‘They’re dead – the two Pictish chiefs,’ the exhausted scout gasped. ‘Ulcagnus and Vendognus. Dead in their huts – poisoned…’

‘Where are Marcellinus and Strabo?’ Castus shouted, cling shy;ing to the bridle. ‘Somebody catch that third horse…’

‘Don’t know… A party of warriors recognised us. They killed Buccus, and then attacked us.’

‘Juno protect us,’ Castus said. He seized the scout and dragged him off the horse. ‘I’m going over there to find our men and bring them out if I can,’ he called to the troops behind him. ‘I need two volunteers who can ride.’ Better than me, that is , he thought. Culchianus and Vincentius stepped forward, saluting. ‘Get up on those other horses. The rest of you, take the injured man and get back to the fort, double pace. Tell Timotheus to prepare for attack, and if I’m not back in one hour, he should take command.’