Pinnata Castra was not so intimidating in the daylight with half a dozen Speculatores under his command, and the co-Emperor of Rome and the best part of three Roman legions close behind. It was even less intimidating completely empty of barbarians. Maglorix had already departed.
Silus had guessed they would be gone. When Maglorix learned that Silus had escaped, he would have hastened to depart before Caracalla’s army could reach them. The barbarians had made no attempt to conceal the recent occupation. Why would they? Either Caracalla was miles away to the north, or if Silus had reached Caracalla with news of their plans, then their whereabouts would have been known anyway.
The ash in the camp fires had not yet washed away. Tracks of chariots, hoofprints, and footprints were visible everywhere in the partly dried mud. The detritus of a large body of men was strewn about the old fortress: irreparably broken weapons and pottery, the bones of cooked animals, shells, and shards of metal and splinters of wood left behind by the blacksmiths and carpenters. Their mounts shifted and snorted, unsettled by the sights and smells. They tied their horses, and Silus sent the other scouts to scour the camp for any barbarian hangers-on or any resources or information that could be of use.
In the centre of the camp, where the old Praetorium stood, was an oak tree that had grown up to be tall and strong in the century or more since the Romans had abandoned the fortress. From its broad branches, three naked corpses were suspended by their wrists. Silus and Atius walked forward for a closer look.
They were two men and one woman. The woman was young, similar in age and appearance to Enid. A Brigantian slave, Silus suspected. Her death had been recent enough that Silus could see the rope marks around her neck from the hanging that had killed her. Then he looked to the other two. They were men – he could tell that but not much more. One was charred black, limbs twisted into the position they had contracted in the heat, charcoal lips drawn black to reveal broken, ash-stained teeth. The odour of cooked meat still permeated the air, but was largely drowned by the other putrid scents of death.
The third corpse had had his skin removed. Silus stared at the revealed anatomy that he had only ever glimpsed in parts before, usually through the mortal wounds of comrades and enemies. The blood had congealed on the surface of muscles striped with tendons and veins. The abdomen had been cut and the guts spilled out. Wild animals, unable to reach the corpses, had feasted on the offal, and the stench of decaying guts was stupefying.
Atius was staring open-mouthed at the three victims.
‘Come away,’ said Silus, putting a hand out to touch his friend’s arm.
‘This? This was to be our fate?’
Silus nodded. ‘Yes, and you can thank your god that fate fell on others.’
Silus tried to take his friend’s elbow, but Atius pushed him away angrily. He bowed his head, and muttered a prayer.
‘Christos, accept these poor souls into your kingdom, and give them the peace they didn’t find on earth.’
Silus waited a respectful moment until he was sure Atius had finished his prayer.
‘Come, we need to report back to Caracalla, and start to track Maglorix. We don’t know how much of a head start he has on us.’
Atius looked like he would be sick, but turned on his heel and walked back towards the main entrance.
‘Will we be able to catch him?’
‘I’m not sure. He knows the country better and will be travelling lighter. But his army is barbarian, and comprised of many tribes. I suspect getting them all to follow his exact orders will be like herding cats.’
A whistle reached them from the other side of the fortress; a warning signal. Silus and Atius ran, swift and low, to where the scout was looking through a gap in the fortress wall. When they reached him, he pointed, and Silus looked out. Approaching, a few hundred feet off, were four riders, long-haired, carrying spears and shields. Silus recognised Caledonian tribe markings.
The other Speculatores converged on their position.
‘What are your orders?’ asked Atius.
Silus watched their approach for a short moment, gauging where they would enter the fortress. Although the main entrance was on the other side of the fort, on this side the ditch had partially filled over time, and there was a large breach big enough for two horses to enter side by side. The Caledonians seemed to be heading for the breech.
‘Into cover, quickly,’ said Silus. ‘On my signal, we take them down. Make sure one is left alive.’
The Roman scouts flattened themselves against the inside of the fortress wall, with three on either side of the breach, while Silus and Atius concealed themselves behind a pile of rubble near the breach. Silus watched the Caledonians approach and ride through the breach. He waited, bow strung and arrow knocked, controlling his breathing, silent, until all four had entered the fortress. Then he stood, drew his bow string back, and sent an arrow straight into the chest of the leading barbarian.
As the struck barbarian toppled from his horse with a cry, the horse of the barbarian next to him reared and bolted. The Caledonian hung on desperately. Atius tracked the horse’s flight with the tip of his arrow, and loosed, striking the horse behind the elbow. The horse went down, flinging its rider over its head. The Caledonian lay still, stunned. Atius ran towards him.
Silus turned to see the other barbarians were already dead, dragged off their horses by the scouts who had been hiding behind the wall, and dispatched efficiently with knife thrusts. Silus ran after Atius.
By the time he reached him, Atius already had the Caledonian’s hands trussed behind his back. The barbarian had a head wound and was groaning, but he was conscious.
‘Wake him up,’ said Silus.
Atius slapped the barbarian around the face twice, hard, rocking his head from side to side. The Caledonian groaned, opened his eyes and grimaced at the sight of the two Roman scouts looking down at him. A series of expletives emerged from him in Brittonic that was heavily flavoured with an accent Silus didn’t recognise.
‘What’s your name, Caledonian?’
The barbarian frowned, then said proudly, ‘I am Guthor, son of Boisil, the Chief of the Cornovii.’
‘We have captured a prince,’ said Silus to Atius. ‘The Augustus will want to speak to this one.’
Silus settled down on the damp earth, pulled out some cheese wrapped in cloth, and ate slowly.
The main Roman force was not long in arriving, and Silus dispatched one of the Speculatores to get word to Caracalla that they had captured a Caledonian noble.
Caracalla arrived promptly, dressed in full armour immaculately polished but flecked with splashes of mud from the journey, and accompanied by Papinianus and two Praetorians. Even being Emperor did not protect you from the grime gathered while travelling. Silus grabbed Guthor by his long hair and pushed him onto his knees before the Augustus.
‘What have we got here, Silus?’ asked Caracalla, dismounting from his finely muscled chestnut stallion. Papinianus dismounted and stood protectively behind his right shoulder.
‘Augustus, we captured this one when his party arrived at the fortress just after us. The rest are dead. He says he is called Guthor, son of Boisil, who he claims is the Cornoviian Chief.’
Guthor looked defiantly up at Caracalla when he heard his name being spoken, even if he didn’t understand the Latin words that were being used. But Silus could see the fear in his eyes, as he understood he was kneeling before Caracalla himself.
‘Have you interrogated him yet?’
‘No, Augustus. I thought you might want to do that yourself.’
‘Like everything else around here,’ sighed Caracalla, but Silus saw the trace of a smile through his tight-curled beard. ‘Very well, ask him why he has come to Pinnata Castra.’
Silus relayed the question, translating into Brittonic. Guthor spat back his answer angrily.
‘He says he was answering the call to war of Maglorix of the Maeatae. That he was sent by his father with five hundred men to cast the Roman invader out of Caledonia.’
‘Ask him where the rest of his men are and where Maglorix has gone.’
Silus translated again. Guthor obviously felt he was offering nothing of value to the Romans, as he answered freely.
‘He says that his men are a day’s travel behind him, that he went on ahead to let Maglorix know he had more men coming to augment his host. He says that Maglorix was still supposed to be here and that he doesn’t know where he has gone. I think, Augustus, that may explain why they approached the fortress so carelessly. Maglorix has departed ahead of schedule.’
‘No doubt because he knew I would be on his tail after you brought me word of his plans.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘So, Maglorix has bolted from his hole and we must pursue. Like a fox, hunting a hare, being in turn chased by a pack of hounds. The chase is on, Silus.’
‘Yes, Augustus. What do you want to do with the Caledonian? I suppose he may fetch a handsome ransom.’
Caracalla drew his gladius and in one smooth motion thrust it downwards into the gap between shoulder and neck, deep into Guthor’s chest. A gladiator’s killing blow. Guthor died with barely a sound.
‘My father gave orders,’ said Caracalla. ‘No one is to be left alive.’
He handed his sword to Papinianus, who handed it to a Praetorian, who cleaned it on his red cloak, and offered it back.
Caracalla remounted with an athletic leap. ‘Papinianus, we need to stop these bastards before they cross the vallum Hadriani and start causing havoc in the Roman province. Give the order to assemble, Papinianus. Forced marching until we catch them.’
Maglorix’s host was not hard to track. It was impossible to hide the passage of that many men, even in the woods and marshes, the valleys and hills of the inhospitable Caledonian countryside. Like the other scouts, Silus and Atius ranged ahead of Caracalla’s legions, seeking out the quickest marching routes, alert for sites that would afford the enemy a good opportunity for ambush.
The Maeatae and Caledonians tried to make things hard for the pursing Roman forces, and the scouts had to be on their toes. Various traps were set on the main marching routes. In one place the path was sprinkled with caltrops – small ones for men and large ones for horses hidden beneath the mulch of the previous winter’s leaf fall, and a small number of men and mounts were put out of action by the spikes, lacerating tendons or penetrating soles. At other points on the route, spiked pits covered with branches had been dug, and thin cords strung between trees at neck height to decapitate an incautiously fast rider, or at ankle height to break horses’ legs.
One time, a group of scouts came across a small herd of cows wandering a short distance away. Mindful of the supply problems that always dogged an army in foreign fields, they rode off to round them up, straight into a Maeatae ambush. Four were killed in the initial hail of arrows, and three were captured. The screams as they were tortured taunted the marching Romans, who muttered curses and wards against evil, and complained to each other that they didn’t belong in that accursed country anyway. Scouts were dispatched to rescue them, but only ever found the traces of a freshly vacated camp.
Caracalla heard the effect the haunting sounds were having on his men, and summoned Silus and Atius.
‘Find those men and free them, or put an end to their suffering,’ he commanded.
Silus and Atius tracked alongside the army on foot, waiting for the torture to start up again. When the piercing screams began again, they moved quickly, darting through the brush like a hare avoiding an eagle. The barbarians were encamped a half mile from the Roman advance, near enough that the tortured prisoners could be heard by the Roman soldiers.
Silus approached them to within a few feet without detection, and peered out between the branches of a holly bush. Atius crept up behind him. Silus counted five barbarians with their lean ponies tied up close to hand. He held up five fingers to Atius and pointed out their locations.
The three Roman prisoners were trussed like chickens ready for the oven. Two were gagged, lying motionless in the dirt, only their gently moving chests indicating life. Their weapons and armour were gone, their tunics torn and bloody, and gashes, lacerations and burns showed through the holes in their clothing. One was missing a hand, the stump unbandaged, kept alive by a tourniquet on his forearm, while the other had oozing red wounds where his ears should be.
The third Roman was being held upright by two of the barbarians, and another barbarian stood behind him, a strong arm clamped around his neck, his head pulled back by the hair. The apparent leader of the group held a dry stick before the prisoner’s face. Then, as Silus and Atius watched in horror, he pushed the stick into the prisoner’s eye.
Up close the screams were shrill and piercing, and Silus had to force himself not to look away. When the stick was withdrawn, blood and a clear liquid ran down the prisoner’s face. The screams subsided into hacking sobs, and Atius whispered into Silus’ ear, ‘There are too many. We need to go for help.’
Silus shook his head. ‘By the time we get back, these bastards will have disappeared again. They know they can’t stay in one place for long. You heard our orders. We need to end this.’
He nocked an arrow to his bow, and indicated he would target the earless prisoner. Atius took aim at the one-handed one. In perfect synchronisation, they let fly. The prisoners cried out as the arrows flew true and pierced their chests, struggling in their bonds as they bled and wheezed and coughed up red fluid.
The barbarians looked around in alarm, reaching for their spears as they searched for the source of the attack. The prisoner who had just had his eye gouged out was let go, and he stumbled onto his knees, where he began to howl again.
With no need for verbal communication, they both nocked another arrow and loosed them into the miserable Roman. He tumbled over backwards, two shafts protruding from his chest and was still.
One of the barbarians spotted the movement of their release in the bushes, and pointed and shouted to his comrades. Silus and Atius shouldered their bows, turned and ran. They made no attempt at discretion, just put their heads down, ignoring the branches and thorns that ripped at their clothes and skin as they sprinted through the undergrowth.
For a while the pursuers seemed to grow closer. These barbarians were fit and fast. But the shouts of anger abruptly stopped. Silus knew that they would not chase them too near to the Roman army for fear of being captured in turn, and figured they had pursued them as far as they dared. He tugged Atius’ elbow to slow him down. They stopped and put their hands on their knees, sucking air back into their lungs.
‘Those bastards will get away to do this to some other poor sod,’ said Atius.
‘Maybe,’ said Silus. ‘Let’s hope no one else is as stupid as the last lot of sods. But at least those sods aren’t upsetting the lads any more.’
Atius scowled, then marched backwards to the camp. Silus watched his retreating back, then followed.
Ultimately the ambushes and traps and tortured prisoners had no effect on the fighting power of Caracalla’s army. The numbers killed or incapacitated were a tiny proportion of the whole of that enormous force. But it slowed them down and sapped their morale. The veterans of the last campaign reminisced glumly about the toll taken by the underhand tactics of the barbarians on the army led by Severus the previous year, scaring the new recruits. And the frequent halts to clear traps or to scout areas of possible ambush reduced the marching speed.
They reached the wall of Antoninus at the site of the fort immediately west of Voltanio. There were signs of a battle, but it had been short and bloody. The Roman auxiliaries left behind as a garrison were too few in number and had had too little time to repair the defences to provide much resistance to Maglorix’s horde. What new defences had been raised, or what had not been set on fire on Maglorix’s previous assault on the wall, had been reduced to charred timber and ash.
A pyre had been made in the centre of the fort, around which shields and swords had been placed, and some pots of honey and oil. Skeletons were visible amongst the still smouldering cinders, but they were few. Silus could picture the druids giving their honoured dead their funerary rites, waving his carved aspen rod and chanting instructions on how to reach the next world.
The Roman corpses had been left where they had fallen, for the carrion feeders.
Silus glumly watched the party detailed to collect the Roman fallen and give them an honourable cremation. At least they hadn’t passed back through Voltanio. He didn’t know if he could have borne to see his old base destroyed again, the garrison slaughtered.
They didn’t tarry. As soon as the bodies had been dealt with, respectfully but efficiently, Caracalla ordered the army to march once more. From this point on it was easy to pick up the broad Roman road that ran from the wall of Antoninus to the wall of Hadrianus and beyond to Eboracum. No longer on rough terrain, no longer as vulnerable to Maglorix’s surprises, their marching speed increased considerably.
Even after leaving the supply wagons behind, with a sizeable guard of course, and being able to march faster and for longer each day by reusing the marching camps they had made on their outward-bound journey, it became clear as days went by that they were gaining on Maglorix’s host too slowly, if at all.
One evening, Caracalla summoned Silus and Atius to his Praetorium. When the Praetorian guard that had fetched them escorted them into the Imperial presence, they found Caracalla and Papinianus poring over a map. Silus and Atius stood at attention, ignored for the time being.
‘We have one days’ food left, Augustus,’ Papinianus was saying. ‘The men could carry no more on their backs. We should wait for the wagons to catch up.’
‘We will halve the rations.’
‘Augustus, the men cannot maintain a forced march on empty stomachs.’
Caracalla banged his fist on the table.
‘Prefect, do not presume to question me!’
Papinianus’ tone became conciliatory.
‘Augustus, I do not question, I merely point out the difficulty.’
‘The difficulty, dear Prefect, is that Maglorix will reach the vallum Hadriani in two days, and we will reach it in three. If they are not held there long enough for us to overtake them, they will be into the Roman province proper, wreaking havoc among the Roman towns and marching on my Imperial father and brother in Eboracum while we sit on our hairy arses waiting for the wagons to catch up.’
Papinianus bowed his head, saying nothing. Caracalla looked up, seeming to notice Silus and Atius for the first time. He glared at them, and for a moment, Silus felt as if the co-Emperor was thinking that all this was Silus’ fault.
‘You two, we need you to get word to the vallum Hadriani. We have been discussing the route Maglorix is likely to take. Will the barbarians attempt to cross the wall at Cilurnum, so they can use the bridge across the River Vedra?’
Silus hesitated. Was the ruler of the world really asking for his opinion?
‘Yes, Augustus,’ said Atius, and Silus groaned inwardly at the temerity of his outspoken friend. ‘They know they are being pursued. Their goal is to strike Eboracum and end the invasion by killing your father. Speed is of the essence to them. Cilurnum and its bridge offer them the quickest route into the province.’
Caracalla smiled. ‘It was a rhetorical question, soldier, but your reasoning accords with my own. You two are to get word to Cilurnum that the enemy will be upon them. You will need to bypass Maglorix’s army, or ride through the enemy lines. Cilurnum is to gather what forces it can from along the wall. Its orders are to hold the barbarians in the field until I arrive with the legions. They are to stand fast, no matter what the cost, until the last man falls, should it come to that. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
Caracalla handed Silus a scroll, closed with the Imperial seal. ‘My orders in writing. Put them in the hands of the cavalry commander at Cilurnum.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘Take the swiftest horses we have. The more warning you can give Cilurnum, the more prepared they will be. Dismissed.’
Silus and Atius bowed deep, and the Praetorian guard escorted them back out.
Silus took a deep breath of the cool evening air.
‘Haven’t we already done our duty?’ muttered Atius.
‘I think the Emperor likes us,’ said Silus. ‘Unfortunately.’
Cilurnum fort was primarily a cavalry fort, garrisoned by the 500-strong Ala II Asturum, a cavalry wing originally recruited from the Astures tribe in Hispania. It was designed to protect the important bridge over the River Vedra, a useful natural defence against barbarian armies and raiding parties. Built in the usual rectangular shape, the fort had been continually occupied since it was first constructed around ninety years earlier at the same time as the vallum Hadriani. Compared to the forts and the wall of Antoninus, which were only occupied for about eight years after the completion of the wall before being abandoned during the reign of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, and only recently having been reoccupied by Severus, the forts and vallum Hadriani felt more solid and substantial. The vallum Hadriani itself was stone, unlike the turf wall of Antoninus. The fort had benefited from decades of improvements from its successive occupants.
The fort protruded north of the wall, with three gates on the north side and one to the south. The gates were double-portalled to allow two wheeled vehicles through at once, with a central spine separating the two portals. They were flanked by two stone towers on which were situated ballistae capable of firing huge bolts up to five hundred yards, far enough to reach halfway to the nearest milecastle fortlet, and so provide continuous cover along the whole length of the wall. The stones used to construct the gates were much larger than those used in the walls of the fort, resistant to most forms of attack employed by the barbarians.
But, despite the awe-inspiring sight of the massive fortification, which stretched from one coast to another, the vallum Hadriani was not actually designed as a defensive structure. Partly political – a way of cowing the natives with a display of Roman might – and partly offensive, the wall made incursions into the Roman province difficult but not impossible. The mutually reinforcing forts and milecastles were designed more for counterattacks. Assailants would be trapped against the wall and held by the defenders while reinforcements from the adjacent milecastles attacked from the flanks. For this reason, too, the garrisons were proportionately heavy in cavalry, fast and mobile for swift retaliation. The legionaries and auxiliaries of the vallum Hadriani could hit back at any invaders so hard that they would never dare attack in the first place.
That was the theory anyway.
Standing on the walkway at the top of the wall abutting the northern gate, the rising sun bathing the right side of his face, Silus looked out across thousands of barbarians yelling and screaming for Roman blood, and worried that the whole principle was a load of bollocks.
The headlong race to catch up with and bypass Maglorix’s army had taken all of Silus’ extensive stealth skills and all of his limited riding skills. On three occasions as they skirted the barbarian horde, they were detected and chased. The barbarian warriors rode short wiry ponies, which were suited to cold winters and were easily manoeuvrable in battlefield skirmishes, but were not as fast as the Roman horses used by the messenger services, which Silus and Atius had taken from a cavalry wing. Although arrows had whistled past them and even grazed Atius’ upper arm once, they had managed to outrun their pursuit largely unscathed.
They had reached Cilurnum the night before, half a day ahead of the barbarians. The fort prefect, an Italian aristocrat called Gaius Sicinius, had paled on reading the message from Caracalla, and Silus wondered if the man had the mettle to deal with this crisis. But Sicinius had responded promptly and decisively. He had dispatched fast messengers to neighbouring forts and milecastles to send reinforcements to concentrate their force in Cilurnum. He had his troops gathering and stockpiling ammunition and anti-siege materials, making last minute repairs to armour and weapons. And though initially he did not want to divert the resources for this, at Silus’ urging he sent word to warn the local civilians to flee south.
The result was that Cilurnum, while still woefully unprepared for a prolonged siege, was in much better shape than the garrison at Voltanio had been at the time of Maglorix’s surprise attack.
But the force confronting them was vastly larger, some ten times the size. Conventional military wisdom was that an attacking force needed to be only three times the size of a defending force to overcome the defenders. Given time it would easily overwhelm the defences, raze the fort and burst through into Britannia province.
Time. That was the critical factor here. Maglorix needed to defeat the defenders quickly, before Caracalla’s army arrived. The defenders of Cilurnum had to hold the barbarians for the same length of time.
Maglorix could have changed the location of his attack, probing for weaknesses further along the wall, or attempting to cross the wall itself at a position halfway between two forts. But crossing the wall using ladders would be very time consuming for such a large horde and risked him being caught with his force split on either side of the wall. Probing defences would take time and would lead them away from the broad Roman road and the bridge over the river Vedra that would take them rapidly down to Eboracum, their goal.
So it all came down to Cilurnum. The defenders here had to hold the barbarians for one day. If they failed, not only would they be slaughtered, but the whole province would pay for it.
Atius stood by Silus’ side, bow slung loosely over his shoulder, a score of arrows at his feet. On the other side was another auxiliary archer – smooth-chinned, pale and sweating. Few of the defenders would have seen large scale battles such as this. Most would have plenty of experience of patrols in enemy territory, skirmishes and raids, but this was on a totally different scale.
‘What’s your name?’ said Silus to the man on his right.
‘Julius Vitalis,’ said the young man.
‘How many winters have you?’
‘Nineteen.’ He jutted his chin forward defiantly, inviting a comment about his youth. Silus didn’t bite.
‘We are going to get through this, Vitalis. For the Emperor, and the people of the province of Britannia.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m not your commander. Are you any good with that thing?’
‘I can hit a moving hare at two hundred yards.’
Silus doubted that, but he nodded encouragingly.
‘Make sure each arrow counts. And if you see anyone who looks like they are bossing the others around, take him out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Boy, I’m really not your commanding officer. Just another poor sap out here trying to do his duty.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Silus sighed and turned his gaze back to the barbarians.
‘How do you think they will play it?’ asked Atius.
‘It’s got to be a rush job. They are getting their battle lust up. Once Maglorix judges the time is right, he will send them on a suicidal dash to scale the walls and breach the gates. He needs to use his numbers to overwhelm us.’
‘And? Do you think he can?’
Silus shrugged. ‘We’ll know soon.’
‘Soldiers of Cilurnum.’ Sicinius’ voice reached them from below, and they turned to see the fort commander standing before the arrayed reserve of mounted and dismounted cavalry that stood behind the northern gates. His accent was Italian and rather high class, but it carried well enough. ‘We face formidable odds. But we have been given a task by the Emperor Antoninus himself to hold here at all costs. The province of Britannia, our Emperors, our comrades, our civilian families and friends are all relying on us. We are soldiers of Rome. We will not fail!’
A huge roar echoed up from the courtyard and down from the walls and towers. Atius and Vitalis roared too, and Silus found himself joining in. It was not only the barbarians whose blood was up. He hoped the attack would not be too long in coming. Waiting was the worst.
Maglorix did not disappoint him. The answering roar from the Maeatae and Caledonian horde was blood-curdling. They beat their spears on their shields, screamed curses, thumped their chests and tore their hair in fury. Then, at an unseen command, they charged.
‘Remember,’ said Silus. ‘Don’t waste them. You may be able to hit a hare at two hundred yards, but these bastards will be a lot closer. Speed is what counts. Wait for it.’
Silus, Atius and Vitalis, like the rest of the archers along the wall, nocked arrows and half drew, waiting for the charging barbarians to come into range.
Vitalis loosed first. Silus was about to admonish him, but saw that his first shot had taken down a giant barbarian who had got ahead of his fellows. A neat shot, dead centre in the chest. Silus picked a target, pulled back and let fly. He took his man in the eye. Silus couldn’t help but look across at Vitalis, a little smug at his accuracy. The young soldier paid no attention, though, taking aim again and shooting another warrior through the neck.
Atius held fire. He had the range but not the accuracy of his colleagues. As soon as he was confident though, he added his own missiles to the hail.
From the towers on either side of the gate, ballistae shot enormous bolts into the melee, spearing one, two or even three warriors at once. More ballista bolts fired into the flanks from the adjacent milecastles, shooting at the extremities of their range, but not needing accuracy against the tightly packed barbarians.
Too many made it to the walls. Some carried ladders, roughly constructed from tall saplings with the branches hacked off and tied on cross ways to make the rungs, and some carried poles which could simply be rested against the wall and shinned up as if climbing a tree.
The archers directed their aim at those carrying the ladders and poles, but as quickly as they were shot down, their comrades picked up the climbing equipment and continued. Soon the ladders and poles were slamming against the walls. The archers continued firing as the first barbarians started their ascent. Some auxiliaries and legionaries manning the walls used long poles of their own to push the ladders backwards, while others hurled rocks, masonry and burning pieces of wood onto the heads of the attackers.
The effect was tremendous. Maeatae and Caledonian warriors screamed as they fell off their ladders from a great height, breaking their backs and skulls on impact with the ground. Others crumpled, broken, under the solid stone landing on them from above, or ran screaming with their hair on fire.
Silus heard a commotion to his right. The barbarians had brought up a ram. Again, it was not constructed to Roman standards; it was just a hefty tree trunk with the branches cut short to make hand holds. A dozen warriors held it at waist height and charged the main gates at full tilt. One or two went down to arrow and sling shots, but the ram impacted the gates with an enormous thud that Silus could feel through his feet as much as hear.
The gates shifted inward a little, then recoiled back. The barbarians backed up to charge again, with more warriors taking the positions of their fallen comrades. Once again they crashed into the gate, and Silus winced as the sound of splintering wood cracked through the air. This time, however, the defenders on the gates poured boiling oil onto the ram and those holding it. All those who were touched by the oil screamed at the excruciating heat and abandoned the attack. Then archers sent fire arrows down onto the oil-drenched ram which promptly ignited, making it unusable.
A horn sounded from the enemy lines, and reluctantly and with ill-discipline, the barbarians slowly withdrew beyond arrow range. The ballistae could have continued to make a nuisance of themselves, but Sicinius had obviously ordered them to conserve their ammunition for when the targets were near enough to ensure accuracy, as well as to help break the charge of the next wave.
Silus took a long drink of water from his bottle and passed it to Atius and Vitalis. He called down for more ammunition, and a young auxiliary ran up the steps to the wall with some bundles of arrows, which he dumped at their feet. Silus watched the barbarians, squinting into their ranks. The druids were at the back, chanting to the sky and screaming at the warriors, no doubt issuing threats and promises of curses or glory from the gods for the cowards and heroes of the day. Silus wondered how many attacks they would have to endure before Caracalla arrived. Would the Emperor march his men through the night, or would he camp once the sun fell, as centuries of Roman military doctrine dictated? It could mean the difference between the Emperor arriving at a fort still being defended, or finding one destroyed, with a barbarian horde loose in Britannia.
The next attack came after the flames on the ram had died down. It started in the same way: the banging of spears on shields, war cries, horns – everything that could make a noise to intimidate the defenders. Silus glanced sidelong at Vitalis, and saw the tip of the arrow on the young man’s half drawn bow was trembling. Silus put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re doing well, boy. The Emperor would be proud. Keep it up.’
The charge came, but this time accompanied by slingshots and arrows from the attackers. Silus felt a stone zing past here and ducked instinctively, even though he knew that by the time he had heard it, it was too late. A dozen yards to Silus’ left, a defender took a slingshot in the mouth and toppled backwards into the courtyard below, where he lay, crying wordlessly, limbs at unnatural angles, until a medicus and his assistant dragged him off to the valetudinarium. More projectiles whizzed past them, and all around the walls, defenders fell, back into the fort where, if not already dead, they stood a chance of survival, or outwards where they were quickly killed by the spears of the barbarians as they reached the walls.
Fire arrows arced out from the barbarian archers, the tips wrapped in ignited oil-soaked cloth. The sun was high in the sky now, so the visual effect was not as profound as it would have been in twilight. The physical effect was the same, though, as they impacted the wooden gates and started to burn.
The defenders were prepared though. The gates had already been soaked before the barbarians arrived, and although they were drying out as the day warmed up, there were plenty of buckets of water in reserve to douse the flames. Some of the defenders fell to slingshots as they leaned over to slosh water down the gates, and one was struck by a fire arrow and fell dramatically, the flaming oil igniting his clothes. His cries were cut short as he hit the ground, where his corpse lay burning.
Another ram was brought up, as well as more ladders. Maeatae and Caledonians swarmed up the ladders as the ram thudded into the gates. The archers split their fire between those scaling the walls and those trying to smash in the gates. The loss of either would be disastrous. A breach in the gates would allow the attackers to pour in and use their overwhelming numbers. If they gained the walls, they could fire slingshots and arrows down into the ranks of defending soldiers and slaughter them without trading blows.
The division of focus of the archers between the two sets of attackers reduced the effectiveness of the defence. For every ram bearer struck down, another was swift to take his place, and for every ladder pushed over backwards, or barbarian trying to climb up felled with a rock or arrow, replacements came instantaneously. Maglorix was clearly throwing everything into this assault, doubtlessly casting fearful glances behind him to see if Caracalla was upon them yet.
A wild-haired, tattooed Caledonian tribesman suddenly appeared over the wall in front of Silus as he was taking aim at one of the ram-bearers. The barbarian carried an axe in one hand, and as he hauled himself up over the parapet, he swung at Silus’ head. Silus ducked and his arrow flew wild. The barbarian vaulted onto the walkway, and charged at Silus, axe swinging wildly, forcing Silus to jump backwards. Behind the barbarian, another head poked over the wall at the top of the ladder. Vitalis shot him point blank in the face, but another appeared even before the previous attacker’s screams were cut short by the fall to the ground. As he drew his sword, Silus backed into Atius, who likewise had his sword out, and was confronting a barbarian who had ascended another ladder to Silus’ right. Wordlessly, with just grunts and exhalations, the two friends fought back to back, ducking blows and thrusting with short swords into exposed body parts.
The attackers had not been able to carry shields and weapons up the walls, and eschewing armour, they were sorely exposed. Silus killed one with a thrust to the guts. Stab, twist, pull, kick. He fell into the courtyard below. The narrow walkway at the top of the wall only allowed the invaders to attack single file, and so Silus engaged each attacker in single-handed combat, one on one. He had the advantage: armour, shield, and low cunning honed in a hundred skirmishes while fighting for his life in enemy territory. One barbarian went down to a sword thrust to the neck, while another crumpled under a kick to the knee from Silus’ hob-nailed boot that caused him to topple into the fort, where he was swiftly dispatched with a long cavalry sword.
But it was tiring, and more were coming up the two ladders that had not yet been pushed back. Then he saw a relief force, a score of dismounted cavalry, racing up the steps on the inside of the wall. He traded sword blows with a chunky red-haired Caledonian, chest inked with tribal tattoos. A blow grazed his upper thigh, slicing into flesh but failing to penetrate. Silus grunted, his shield dropping for a moment. He locked eyes with his opponent and saw a momentary gleam of triumph there. Then a spatha spitted him from behind.
The cavalry auxiliaries swiftly cleared the walls. It was not a form of fighting they were used to, but at the end of the day, killing was killing, and they had enough of a local superiority in numbers to push the barbarians back and thrust the ladders away.
The defenders had been neglecting the ram as they fought the barbarians who had reached the parapet at multiple points around the fort. The walls shuddered under each crashing impact of the ram, and the gates bent. Silus saw that some parts of the gate were buckling inwards, split by great cracks. But they held, for now.
Silus ignored the pain in his thigh and returned his fire on the barbarians smashing the ram forwards. The attack on the walls petered out, and with the full fire of arrows, slings, rock and ballistae turned onto the enemies assaulting the gates, it soon became impossible for enough barbarians to hold onto the ram, and they dropped it and ran back to their own lines, out of range.
As the noise of battle died down, except for the jeers from the Roman side at the failed attack and the answering curses from the Maeatae and Caledonians, Silus took a few deep breaths to slow his heart. His hands trembled from fatigue and fear, and he clenched his fists so it didn’t show.
Vitalis was unharmed but pale, legs trembling and teeth chattering. Atius looked tired, but had a satisfied smile on his face, like he had just won a sporting contest. Silus shook his head.
Atius noted the blood flowing freely from Silus’ leg, and made a tutting noise.
‘Bit careless, friend.’ He looked around, and shouted, ‘Anyone got a spare bandage?’
A nearby auxiliary tossed him a rolled-up cloth bandage. Without asking permission, Atius pulled Silus’ mail vest up around his waist, and bandaged the wound tight.
‘Make sure you see a medicus after the battle and get some cobwebs, honey and vinegar on that,’ he said. ‘If you die of gangrene, I’ll kill you.’
Silus smiled weakly, and looked out from the walls. The sun was well past its zenith now. The base of the walls was scattered with dead, mainly Maeatae and Caledonian, but also many Romans. Beyond, though, out of range of slings and arrows, was still a vast number of barbarian warriors, angry now as a provoked swarm of wasps.
The low twang of a firing ballista could be heard sporadically, but the missiles were more of an irritant than a cause of serious attrition. The rate of fire, and the accuracy at that distance, were both too low.
Maglorix clearly had little experience with siege warfare. The previous raid on Voltanio and the scuffles with rival hillforts were completely different in scale from a full-frontal attack on a well-defended, well-prepared fort on the wall of Hadrianus.
But he was a quick learner and he still had numbers on his side, if not time. However, he couldn’t afford to waste men needlessly. He needed a big army to pour into Britannia to wreak the havoc he craved. He could continue these assaults and wait for the inevitable but risk being caught by Caracalla. Or he could try something else.
Silus squinted into the distance, trying to make out the nature of the activity that was taking place in the barbarian camp. A large number of trees had been felled and were being dragged together. They were tall, at least twenty to thirty feet, thick-trunked and still covered in branches and leaves. Silus thought at first that they were just making more rams, but Maglorix had more imagination. The trees were trimmed and lashed together with thick ropes, making a broad platform like a raft. But the fort and wall were still between the barbarians and the river, so that couldn’t be its purpose. Then it struck him.
‘It’s a ramp. To reach to the top of the walls.’
Atius looked at his friend quizzically. ‘Is it tall enough?’
Silus remembered his father trying to teach him mathematics. There was an old Greek called Pythagoras or something similar. Silus frowned, trying to recall the details, doing the calculation in his head. The square on the hypotenuse something something. If the walls were sixteen feet high and they were going to put a ramp against them with a one-to-one incline…
‘Yes,’ he said, with more confidence than his maths justified. He was sure that was what they had in mind. ‘I have to tell the Prefect.’
Silus pushed past Atius and ran down the steps, ignoring the curious looks he drew. Sicinius was talking to his second in command, directing the resupply of ammunition and organising a small group of engineers to reinforce the damaged gates with crosswise planks of wood and propped beams.
‘Sir,’ said Silus, a little breathless. Sicinius ignored him, yelling instead at a soldier who was taking a break from carrying rocks up the gates, leaning against a wall and breathing heavily.
‘Sir,’ said Silus insistently.
‘What is it, Silus? I’m busy.’
‘I know what they are planning.’
‘Oh, really. Listen, you did a good job warning us in time. And you fought well today. I’ve noticed. But that doesn’t make you an expert in siege tactics.’
‘Sir, they are making a ramp. I’m sure of it. They are gathering trees and tying them together.’
‘A ramp? Nonsense. They are just making more rams. We need to concentrate our efforts on reinforcing the gates.’
‘No, we need to reinforce the walls. They are going to throw a broad ramp up, clamber up en masse and storm them.’
‘These barbarians are stupid. They know nothing about taking a fortified position. It will be brute force attacks over and over until they wear us down.’
‘No, sir.’ Sicinius glared at Silus, angry at being contradicted, but Silus stood his ground and carried on. ‘I know Maglorix. I have met him and fought with him. He is not stupid. He won’t keep trying the same thing. He is in a hurry, but he can’t just throw men away.’
Sicinius looked doubtful.
‘Please, sir. We need to stop them on the walls.’
Sicinius considered then shook his head. ‘No, the gates are the priority. That’s where they will concentrate their next attack. Now get back to your post.’
Silus opened his mouth to protest further, then gave up and trudged back up the steps to his position on the wall. He leaned against the stonework, and retrieved some hard biscuit from his pack. He took a large bite, then offered the rest to Vitalis and Atius. Vitalis looked nauseous and shook his head, but Atius took the offering and wolfed it down.
Silus chewed his biscuit unenthusiastically, not hungry but knowing he would need the energy for the rest of the long day. He looked back out at the barbarians, watching the structure slowly being assembled. He was in no doubt; it was an enormous ramp that could be the basis for a massed assault on the walls. He sighed. Sicinius would realise and would have time to move men around when the assault started. It was just a shame he was wasting preparation time now on reinforcing the gates when he should be strengthening the defences on the walls.
Silus noticed a figure moving around in front of the wooden construction, waving his arms, seeming to direct things. A nobleman? Clan leader? He squinted and strained his eyes. Something about the way he moved…
Fucking Mars, Mithras and Isis. It was Maglorix.
Silus thumped Atius on the shoulder and pointed. Atius followed the direction he was indicating.
‘Mother of Christos. Isn’t that him?’
Silus nodded, gauging the distance through narrowed eyes. He pulled his bow off his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and drew experimentally. He estimated the strength of the wind, calculated the trajectory the arrow would need to arc up and back down into the barbarian leader. He drew the string back fully.
Then he let the tension out of the string, the tip of the arrow drooping down to the floor. Atius looked at him questioningly.
‘It’s too far. Fuck!’
Vitalis nodded. ‘Even I couldn’t hit him from here.’
Silus looked at him, half bemused at the scared young man’s arrogance, but half appreciative of him now that he had seen him fight.
‘What?’ said Vitalis. ‘You would need a ballista to reach him from here.’
Silus and Atius looked at each other, eyes widening as they both thought the same thing.
‘Follow me,’ said Silus to Atius. They hustled along the wall past a few archers and slingers who swore as their precious respite was disturbed.
They entered the side door of the tower next to the gate and climbed up to the platform at the top. Three auxiliaries were leaning against their ballista, taking it in turn to swig water from a skin. They looked at the two newcomers with suspicion.
‘What do you want?’ said the most senior, an optio.
‘You busy, boys?’ asked Silus. Their current state of inactivity suggested they weren’t.
‘We got orders to take pot shots when we like. Just to keep them stirred up. Don’t want to waste ammunition at this range.’
Silus sized up the ballista. The machine was like a bow, but rotated ninety degrees so the angle the drawn bowstring made was parallel to the ground rather than perpendicular. On top of a stand sat a slider into which bolts were loaded. The bowstring was winched back, the strain taken by springs made of sinew ropes. Iron caps secured the springs, and these could be adjusted with pins for accuracy. The bolts were five feet long and weighed eight pounds and a direct hit could make a hole through the thickest armour and leave the victim a bloody wreck, no matter where on the body it hit.
‘I’ve heard the ballista boys at Banna reckon they are the best in the whole of Britannia. They say they can put a bolt through a cat’s eye at a hundred yards.’
The optio scoffed. ‘The Banna lot couldn’t hit an elephant at five feet.’
‘So you guys are good with this thing?’
‘We do alright.’
Silus looked over the parapet. Maglorix was still there, waving his hands. His heart pounded. These guys were not under his command; he couldn’t order them to do anything. He could try to threaten them with a sword in their backs, but that wouldn’t get the best out of them, and besides, there were three of them against only himself and Atius.
Feigning nonchalance, he indicated the distant figure of Maglorix.
‘Reckon you could slot him?’
The optio narrowed his eyes as he weighed up the shot.
‘Piece of piss. But why should I?’
‘He looks important.’
The optio shrugged.
Silus let out a humourless laugh. ‘Thought as much. You’re all mouth.’
‘If I say I can hit him, I can hit him.’
‘Care to put some hard cash on that? A week’s pay says you can’t.’
‘You’re on.’ The optio spat on his hand, Silus did likewise and they shook.
‘You might want to hurry up about that. If he moves out of range before you get your act together, I still win.’
The optio gave Silus an angry glance, and gestured to his men to help. They placed the heavy bolt into the slider, then winched the bowstring back, the torsion coils taking up the strain, storing the immense energy that the men loaded into the machine. The ballista swivelled on a base, and its elevation could be altered by tilting the whole device. The optio carefully took aim, calculating distance and wind speed. Then he waited for the right moment to present itself.
Silus could feel his heart beating in his throat. Was this the moment he was finally revenged? He had hoped to be the one to end Maglorix personally, to look into his enemy’s eyes as he slid a blade between his ribs. But this would do just fine. And if Maglorix died, and then the fort was overrun and Silus was killed in the assault, then that was fine too. Maybe he would join Sergia and Velua in Hades or the Elysian Fields or heaven or wherever the fuck you went after you died.
Maglorix stopped pacing, his back to the fort, bending over to inspect some part of the structure the barbarians were building.
The optio loosed the bolt.
There was an enormous twang as the torsion springs unwound, and the mechanism rattled loudly as the arms sprang forward and came to an abrupt halt.
The bolt was in the air for a heartbeat, two, three, arcing up and then down, eating up the distance to Maglorix at frightening speed. Silus held his breath.
Maglorix maintained an outward air of calm authority, while inwardly he raged. What he wouldn’t give for a single Roman legion, with all their discipline and respect for orders. Trying to manage this confederation of unruly belligerent tribes, who had warred against each other for centuries, was like trying to herd a pack of wildcats.
He knew how short time was. In part, he blamed himself. He shouldn’t have been so careless with the Roman prisoners. He knew that Silus could be wily, and he had been too confident that they would receive no aid from within the Maeatae camp, forgetting that there were some who had no reason to love him and his men. Their escape had meant word of their plans getting out sooner than he expected. But it would not matter if they could just breach these defences. Once through, there would be no fortification and no significant army to stop them from devastating the Roman province.
Many civilians would die as his warriors were set loose on the farms and villas and towns. He took satisfaction from this. The British tribes who had surrendered to the Romans and now lived softly with their baths and their imported wine and olives deserved no mercy. And when he reached Eboracum, the Emperor who had commanded the man who killed his father would kneel at his feet in abject surrender before Maglorix had him brutally murdered. He hadn’t decided on the manner of his execution yet, but it would be both painful and humiliating.
But first he needed to get past this fort, which had proved surprisingly tough. Again, he had been complacent, his previous victories making him believe that the fort would be quickly crushed. He guessed that they had lost the element of surprise, and the fort had been reinforced. Even so, he had been dismayed to see his warriors beaten back, and the failure of the assaults on the walls and the gates had shaken him.
This would not fail though. It was time-consuming, and the Maeatae and Caledonians quarrelled about the division of labour, about the best wood to use, even about the best way to tie the ramp together. But once it was built, it would be unstoppable. The ramp itself would provide protection against arrows and slingshots, the freshly cut wood it was made from would retard any attempt to set it alight, and once it was thrown against the wall, his men could swarm up and overwhelm the numerically inferior defenders.
As long as it was all over before Caracalla arrived with the Roman army.
He stopped to talk to one of his men who was overseeing the construction. Taximagulus, his loyal lieutenant, stood in his accustomed position, behind him and to one side. Buan, his bodyguard, was a short distance away, talking to a warrior. Maglorix bent forward and took a grip of the rope holding the tree trunks together and pulled on it hard, testing the strength of the binding.
He heard a whistling sound. He started to straighten, to turn.
A huge force hit him in his back and he tumbled forward, sprawling against the wood, his bearded face scraping against the bark.
For a moment he lay still, winded. All around was stunned silence. Slowly he regained his feet.
Taximagulus lay face down in the dirt. A javelin-sized bolt pinned him to the ground, through his back and out the front of his chest. It still quivered with the vast energy it had contained before expending it in the Damnonian warrior.
Taximagulus made no movement. He had died instantly, thrusting his chief out of the way of the missile and taking the bolt instead. Maglorix stared at his friend and ally. Then he looked over to the fort. A man was looking out from the gate tower. Across the distance they locked eyes.
It was too far to make out detail. But Maglorix knew. It was Silus.
He threw his head back and let out a roar of rage and grief and anger. Then he picked up a spear and hurled it towards the fort.
It was a futile gesture, his projectile travelling only a fraction of the distance to his enemy. He howled again and raged at his men to redouble their efforts, then stalked further away from the fort, out of range.
The sun was below the horizon by the time the next attack finally began. A spectacular cloud pattern was lit from beneath, making the sky in the west look like molten iron in a blacksmith’s forge, ready to be poured out into the mould to cast a sword.
The die is cast, thought Silus as the wide wooden structure was hoisted upright by a score of warriors. Slowly, it advanced towards the walls. Two ballista bolts in succession fired into it, but the first passed straight through harmlessly, and the second simply hung there, buried in a trunk. The barbarians had given the ramp a flat base when held vertically, which allowed them to use a roller system to move it. This involved placing rounded logs in front, then retrieving them from behind when the structure had passed over, to replace them once more at the front. When the structure came into range, the archers and slingers joined in, but they had no effect on the integrity of the ramp itself, and fire arrows did not make the freshly cut wood catch fire. The warriors given the risky job of moving the rollers were exposed to fire, and several fell to missiles, but there was a seemingly endless supply of replacements.
Sicinius joined Silus on the wall to watch the approach, and grunted a grudging apology for his doubts. Ultimately, though, repositioning his forces was just a matter of inconvenience. The progress of the ramp was so slow it gave the prefect plenty of time to prepare. But how did you actually prepare against an assault like this?
The sky darkened. The final battle was at hand. They could only hold for so long. Now everything depended on Caracalla, and whether he had broken with military tradition and continued to march through the night. And if so, whether he would reach them in time. Silus had no doubt the battle would be over long before dawn.
Darkness had fallen by the time the ramp reached the walls. Its progress slowed as the range for the archers closed and they were able to pick off the men moving the rollers at will. But it never stopped, and eventually the warriors who had been standing behind the ramp, keeping it upright with long ropes, were given the order to release.
Like a score of trees being felled simultaneously, the ramp toppled forwards, slowly at first, then gathering momentum. Maglorix’s maths had been up to the job. The ramp crashed down onto the top of the walls with a few feet to spare. Those defenders too slow or too unlucky were crushed under the impact.
A huge roar rose from the ranks of the Maeatae and Caledonian confederacy, and the waves of barbarians surged forward. The first to clamber up the ramp were struck by a volley of arrows and slingshots, and most went down, rolling back down the slope or toppling off the sides. The few who made it to the top were quickly dispatched by the concentrated force of defenders. But wave after wave followed behind, and soon the Romans on the wall were engaged in vicious hand to hand combat. Axes and spears crashed into shields. Short swords plunged forward: stab, twist, pull back. The air was full of shouts of anger and screams of fear and pain.
Silus, Atius and Vitalis were stationed on the tower by the gates, and so were able to continue to rain fire down onto the barbarians climbing the ramp. Space on the parapet was limited, and there was a queue of defenders further round the walls and on the internal staircase, waiting to take the place of the fallen. But they were pitifully few compared to the overwhelming numbers of the attackers.
Slowly, the attackers gained the wall. First a foothold, with a small body of warriors fighting back to back. Then a larger group that the defenders desperately tried to force back over the walls.
Silus paused his firing. His drawing arm was become fatigued and his aim was suffering. Vitalis kept up a constant rate of fire, hitting more often than he missed, his youth giving him energy and endurance. Atius’ strength also allowed him to keep firing, albeit with lower accuracy and rapidity.
Despite the darkness, Silus could see the hordes of attackers lining up to mount the ramp. The structure remained sturdy, the wood impervious to fire arrows. But it had to be destroyed, or they would all be soon overwhelmed.
He stared, thinking hard. The wood was non-flammable. But what about the horse-hair ropes that held it all together?
‘Vitalis. Nock a fire arrow.’
Vitalis looked questioningly, but did as he was told.
‘Can you see the ropes? Think you can hit them?’
In answer, Vitalis loosed the arrow. It struck the middle of a rope, severing a few strands, though not enough to weaken its tensile strength significantly. But then the rope started to smoulder, to catch. As Silus watched in hope, the rope ignited, then split apart.
It made no difference to the integrity of the ramp. It was lashed together by scores of the horse-hair bindings. But there were a lot of archers, and they had not yet found a use for the fire arrows that they had stored.
‘Pass the word,’ yelled Silus to all who could hear. ‘Archers, the ropes are flammable. Aim for the ropes.’
Silus and Atius grabbed fire arrows – their cloth tips soaked in oil – ignited them, and fired.
At first the effect was negligible. But as word spread, as the archers began to realise the effect, more fire arrows were shot at the vulnerable bindings. Most missed. But a sufficient number were close enough that soon ropes were burning across the ramp.
The first trunk at the periphery of the ramp separated. It rolled sideways, spilling half a dozen warriors off the edge. The next trunk came loose soon afterwards, then another, and suddenly the whole structure fell apart.
It didn’t collapse, as the individual trunks still rested against the wall. But they rolled wildly as warriors tried to climb, with many tumbling off. Those making it to the top slowed from a flood to a trickle. Sicinius, seeing the opportunity, threw his reserves against the pocket of warriors that still held part of the wall.
The archers and slingers continued to pick off warriors attempting to ascend the trunks. Silus took his time. Pick a target, nock, close one eye, draw, let the string roll off your fingers. Repeat. His chest and arm muscles burnt, but he kept going.
Over the noise of the battle, he heard cries from far to his right. He looked over. The sentries stationed there were frantically waving to attract attention. He frowned, puzzled at what had worried them.
Then he saw the tops of ladders thumping against the wall.
Maglorix hadn’t gambled all on one throw of the dice after all. While the defenders were fully occupied, he had sent another force around to take the wall on the opposite side of the fort. As Silus watched, barbarians began to swarm up the ladders and over the top of the parapet.
Silus looked around desperately. Sicinius was fully occupied with directing the defence against the ramp, and had not noticed the danger.
‘Vitalis. Go to Sicinius and tell him the barbarians are coming over the east wall. Everyone else, follow me.’
Silus held no position of command here, but his authoritative voice and his actions held sway. A dozen auxiliaries, some bowmen and slingers, some infantry, followed him around the wall. They charged into the attacking barbarians with shields out, and several tribesmen were tipped backwards over the wall by the force of the impact.
Then it was the hard work of hand-to-hand combat. Advance, parry, thrust, withdraw. The barbarians here were fighting on two fronts, assailed from the north and south along the east wall. Compared to the melee still raging on the north wall, the combatants here were few in number, and the battle, real as it was to those in its midst, almost seemed a sideshow.
Almost. Because on the south section of the east wall were internal stairs leading down into the courtyard. Right next to the east gate. And when Silus glanced to his left, he could see tribesmen massing, readying themselves to swarm into the fort. He cried to the men around to redouble their efforts to force the invaders back, over the walls, off the ladders. And they succeeded. The barbarians gave ground, step by step, some retreating along the wall, some tossed over the side.
But to the south, the defenders were less numerous, and they were also being forced back. For each step forward Silus and his comrades took from the north, the Romans to the south were taking one back. Then suddenly, they broke.
A handful of Maeatae warriors charged down the steps towards the east gate while the rest held the Romans to the north back. Silus looked around to the north wall to see where Sicinius was. He could make out Vitalis talking to him urgently, pointing, and Sicinius turning to see the threat, dispatching men.
It was way too late.
The Maeatae reached the gate and engaged the half a dozen Roman defenders stationed before it. Silus disengaged from the battle and looked around desperately. The barbarians blocked access along the walkway to the stairs, and it was too high to jump down without serious injury. But there were no more attackers coming up the ladders.
‘Atius, help me with this.’ He indicated an abandoned ladder, and together they hauled it up the outside of the wall, then dropped it down the inside. With Atius following closely, he threw himself down the ladder, two rungs at a time. They hit the ground and sprinted for the gates. Four defenders were already down, dead or incapacitated. Three barbarians were lying supine or prone too, two of them unmoving. But six attackers still confronted just two defenders, who fought desperately for their lives. As Silus and Atius arrived, one more defender fell to a spear thrust through the guts.
The two friends barrelled into two of the attackers from behind, sending them flying. Before they could rise, Silus and Atius had thrust daggers through their necks, and pulled them out with a sawing motion. The barbarians coughed out blood through the gaping wounds. Instantly, Silus and Atius were on their feet, short swords drawn. Two barbarians turned to confront them, one hefting an axe, one with a spear. Silus sized them up. They were typically large, dirty, with long straggly hair and beards, and blood was spattered across their bare torsos. They took a step forwards, then the spearman abruptly lunged at Atius, while the axeman swung at Silus’ head.
Atius dodged, Silus ducked. They both counter-attacked, but the men they faced were competent fighters, maybe even hand-picked for their mission to open the gates while the main attack was ongoing. It was unconventional combat – none of them carrying shields, with mismatched weapons, like gladiators. Silus saw over the shoulder of his assailant the last defender of the gate being forced back. He thrust, thrust again, leapt backwards as the axe swung at his midriff, then caught his opponent with a stab through his side.
It wasn’t a killing blow, just slicing the skin and muscles on the side of the barbarian’s abdomen. It slowed him, but still he held Silus at bay, swinging his axe one-handed while clutching his side with the other hand. Next to him, Atius was struggling against the superior reach of the spear.
Then a spear found the upper thigh of the last defender of the gate. It buckled, he fell, and a second spear thrust through his chest pinned him to the ground. Desperately, Silus redoubled his efforts against the axeman, and a further thrust to the barbarian’s armpit left his non-weapon arm hanging limp, blood streaming in rivulets down the inside and dripping from his fingertips. Still the man would not fall, fending him off with the shaft of his axe, displaying incredible endurance.
The blood loss told, though, and he dropped to his knees. Silus looked his opponent in the eyes, nodded, then thrust his sword downwards behind the collar bone into the chest. The barbarian died wordlessly. Silus raised his head to the barbarians at the gates, and watched helplessly as they lifted the cross bar that held the gates locked. He ran forwards, aware that Atius had finally defeated the spearman and was close behind him. The barbarians grunted with the effort of lifting the heavy wooden bar.
They reached the gates just as the bar toppled out of its seating and crashed to the floor. For a moment, the Romans and the barbarians stared at it, both sides as amazed as each other that it had actually happened.
Then the gates crashed open, and with a roar, the barbarians flooded in.
Silus and Atius stood their ground, lightly armoured, no shields, their short swords held forwards to fend off two score of charging, screaming warriors.
They might as well have tried to hold back an avalanche. The impact of the charge knocked Silus off his feet, and he fell onto his back winded. A tattooed warrior leered over him, lifted his spear and thrust down.
Just before the spear went through his guts, a figure hit the warrior in his midriff, arms outstretched, and the tip of the spear went through the muscle of his inner thigh. Silus let out a scream at the intense pain. A roar filled his ears, and for a moment he thought it came from within. Then he saw hob-nailed boots and Roman armour above him, the counter-attack pushing the barbarians back.
Atius finished off the warrior who had speared Silus, then came over to him, looking down on his friend with a face full of concern. He tried to draw the spear, but Silus shrieked and grabbed his arm. Instead, he pulled the spear out of the ground, leaving it buried in Silus’ leg. Then he lifted his friend, threw him over his soldier, and retreated inwards away from the battle.
Silus fought to retain consciousness as his friend sawed away the spear on either side of the leg, then packed the wound with bandages. Weakly he tried to stop him.
‘It’s pointless,’ he whispered. ‘There are too many.’
The Roman counter-attack had pushed the barbarians back temporarily, but as Maglorix allocated more and more of his men to holding the gates they had gained, they were forced back, step by grudging step. Roman soldiers were masters of defence, interlocking shields to form barriers that the barbarians struggled to penetrate, but numbers told.
‘They will be on us soon,’ whispered Silus. ‘It’s over. Leave me.’
‘Fuck you, Silus. What do you think I am? I ran once, because I was ordered to, and all my friends died. I’m not running again.’
Silus clutched his friend’s arm and closed his eyes. He could feel himself nodding, like he was fighting to stay awake, despite the noise and the agony shooting up from his leg. Atius slapped his face.
‘Stay awake, friend. This is no time for naps.’
Silus smiled weakly. ‘It seems like the perfect time for a nap.’
Silus lay back, body relaxing. The sounds of battle came nearer and nearer, and Silus felt at peace. He would soon join Sergia and Velua. Wherever they were now, they would all be together. And that was fine.
Then he frowned. Something was different. The noise of the battle had changed. The Romans were cheering about something.
‘Atius, what’s going on?’ Silus tried to sit up, groaned, but pushed himself upright nevertheless. There was commotion beyond the gates, beyond the fight. The barbarians were trying to fall back, but something was stopping them.
Atius got to his feet, drew up to his full height and stood on tiptoe. He let out a long whistle. ‘Christos.’
‘Atius, what the fuck is it?’
‘The Emperor’s here.’
The words sunk in slowly.
‘Thank your God for me,’ said Silus. And then he drifted away.