Across the open plain stretched the far-flung battle line. Taking two steps forward from his position in the front rank, Castus could see the cavalry moving out on the left wing, towards the edge of the high ground almost a mile away. He looked to his right and saw another mile of troops, a wall of shields and proud standards vanishing into the distant haze. An impressive sight. But when he glanced to his rear, back through the sun-shot ranks of his own legionaries, he saw only open space; the second line had already been redeployed to widen the flanks. Now the whole army was arrayed in a single shallow formation. There were no reserves, no support. Castus thought of the membrane of skin over a healing scar: if the line ruptured at any point, the whole army would be torn in half.
Behind the troops the sun was already low, shadowing the ground in front of them. The sky to the east was still filled with light, a perfect blue fading to green near the horizon. And the horizon was filled with the enemy.
‘Like a sea of gold,’ said Brocchus, the standard-bearer, standing at Castus’s shoulder. The vast array opposite them was lit by the evening sun; the helmets and mail of the enemy soldiers burned in the hot shimmer of light, their shields were bands of glowing colour and their speartips were a forest of dancing flames. The dust stirred up by their movements hung in a low golden penumbra above their lines, and the distant cries of their officers echoed across the darkening plain.
‘Why don’t they move?’ somebody said. ‘Why don’t they attack now?’
‘They’re waiting till the sun’s gone down,’ Castus said calmly. ‘They don’t want to advance with it in their eyes.’
‘So they want to fight this battle in the dark, eh?’ Brocchus laughed nervously.
No reason why not, Castus thought. They had the numbers for it: all they needed to do was keep pushing forward. But he said nothing, worried that his words would betray his apprehension.
Six days had passed since Pompeianus had slipped through the siege lines at Verona, and for all that time, sweltering in the midsummer heat, Constantine’s men had been in a state of nervous tension. The news that Maxentius’s general was marching back against them at the head of an army came as a relief; now at last they could move, and bring the enemy to open battle. Twenty thousand men would counter-march against Pompeianus, to confront him in the field before he could raise the siege; half that number would remain behind in the lines to keep the city garrison penned up inside the walls.
They had been so eager, Castus thought, as they had marched out of the siege lines earlier that day. Aggressively enthusiastic, urging each other on. But they had not expected to fight until the next morning. Only ten miles from the city, they had been digging their camp trenches and lighting their cooking fires when a man on a lathered horse had ridden in with the news that the enemy vanguard was already in contact with the scouts and approaching fast. Confusion ensued, men falling back into march column, or battle formation, units split up, officers missing as the horns sounded the alarm and the signal trumpets blared out enemy in sight and form battle array.
Now at least the lines were steady, the formation set, although Castus had ended up with men from at least three other units mixed in with his own.
From the lines of the opposing army came the thunder of spears clashing against shields, the noise swelling and fading ominously across the plain; a moment later, Constantine’s army raised their own tumult, and for a few heartbeats it seemed to Castus as if both sides were halves of the same army, answering each other. But then he heard the booming of the Germanic war cries from along his own front line; the enemy had no answer to that.
Flexing his right arm, he felt the leather straps of the manica pull against his shoulder and the banded bronze of the armour tighten over his biceps. His cuirass, with its thick linen padding, felt unnaturally heavy on his torso. He paced slowly along the front line of his assembled men, drawing his sword and holding it high, to catch the last rays of sun.
‘Second Britannica!’ he cried, the muscles of his cheek dragging against the scar. ‘All of you know your positions – hold to them! Keep your lines steady. Do not yield, and do not allow the enemy to draw you into an advance. This ground,’ he shouted, swinging his sword down parallel to the front ranks, ‘is where we fight. We halt their advance here. All we need to do is hold them! If we hold them, we win…’
He kept on along the line, repeating his hollow words, hearing them echoed back by the centurions to the men behind them. Important that the men see him and hear him at least. But he found his eyes skating over their faces, avoiding their gazes. How many, he thought, know of what happened six nights ago? Even as he shouted, he felt the dark pressure building in his chest, the grim sensation of impending disaster. Do not think that, he told himself. Do not even consider it.
They were stretched too thinly; the troops were not ready. The enemy had forced them into a battle they could not win. Do not allow these thoughts to take hold.
Was it age counting against him? Never before had he felt this unnerved before a fight. He had known fear, mortal dread, but never this ebb of strength and focus, this sense of gathering panic. Phobos. When he gazed across at the enemy lines he thought of his wife, and of the man Lepidus back in Mediolanum. He thought of his son growing up fatherless. He remembered that moment in the last battle when the lance had punched through his face and his mouth had filled with blood.
Turning back to face his men, Castus breathed a curse through gritted teeth. He needed to get a grip on his nerves. He needed to set an example. He found that he was facing Attalus’s century: the centurion would not meet his eye, but Castus saw Trocundus and his friend glaring back at him. He breathed in, smelling dust and sweat, narrowing his gaze until the men looked away.
Now a roaring noise came rolling up the lines from the left, a swell of voices raised in acclamation. Thank the gods, Castus thought as he saw the imperial party cantering along the lines, the emperor mounted on a champing grey with his purple cloak billowing and the last fire of sunset glowing all around him. Slamming his sword back into its sheath, Castus threw up his arms in salute.
Constantine was calling out to the troops as he rode, the feather plumes on his jewelled helmet swaying, but his voice was almost drowned out by the fierce chanting of the men in the ranks. Castus caught only scraps of the emperor’s speech.
‘…before you the army of the tyrant! Destroy it and the road to Rome is clear…’
‘CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE!’
‘…when the Unconquered Sun rises once more before us… The god’s light will reveal the scale of our victory!’
‘CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE!’
At least, Castus thought, there could be no doubts about their emperor’s religious beliefs today. Before leaving camp at Verona, Constantine had sacrificed, publicly and lavishly, to Mars, Jupiter and Sol Invictus. In the blood of beasts and the swirl of incense he had petitioned the gods to give strength and victory to his army, and the soldiers had cheered him to the echo. The Christian priests had not been in evidence: rumour suggested they had gone back to Mediolanum in disgust.
The emperor rode on; the sound of his voice and the waves of chanting died away into the hanging plume of dust, and now all could hear the signal horns wailing across from the enemy formation, sounding the general advance. Castus felt the ripple of movement run through the lines as every man braced himself, the front ranks kneeling behind their shields, everyone readying spears and javelins. The sun was gone, the ground between the opposing armies dark, but the evening sky was still luminous blue as the enemy troops began to roll forward over the plain in their attack columns.
They came on slowly, keeping their shields up and their formations solid. Castus felt the breath catch in his throat – there were far more of them than he had thought. As they drew closer he made out the designs on the shields in the grey light of dusk; many of them were plain, but others he recognised from his years in the Danubian army: to one side was the Neptune emblem of Legion XI Claudia, to another the lion of IV Flavia. Then, with a clench of his heart, he spotted the Hercules blazon of II Herculia. Castus had served over ten years with the Herculiani, and still thought of the legion as his home, his true family. Great Lord Sol, he prayed, Unconquered Sun, do not allow me to kill my brothers…
He was relieved to see that the unit directly opposite him carried a shield he did not recognise: blue with the symbol of a wolf suckling two infants. Romulus and Remus, he thought; no doubt it was one of the newly raised legions from Rome, but there could still be many veterans in their ranks.
Steadily the distance between the armies narrowed, the Maxentians closing in with a regular step, formidably disciplined. At thirty paces the enemy columns came to a halt, dust billowing up between them. All along the Constantinian line men were hurling darts and javelins; a moment later, the barrage of missiles was returned from the enemy lines. Castus kept his head down, watching from behind the rim of his shield.
A javelin arced down to his left, and he heard a cry of pain. From the corner of his eye he saw the stricken man fall, the others surrounding him carrying him back through the ranks and another soldier taking his place at once. Castus could see that the legion was taking casualties all along the line, but the enemy were suffering too. Now the men in the rear ranks were passing fresh missiles forward. The air was filled with hissing steel.
With a bellowing shout the enemy column to the left surged forward, shields up in a wedge formation; they closed the distance to the Constantinian line with frightening speed. Castus could not see whether it was his own men or the Divitenses to their left who took the brunt of the assault, but he heard the noise: like a storm wave breaking against a cliff. The ripple of concussion passed along the line, men bunching into the shelter of their neighbour’s shield, turning to stare at the clash to their left.
‘Eyes front!’ Castus yelled. ‘Watch the men ahead of you!’ He could hear the centurions repeating his words all down the line, wielding their sticks to straighten the files. But already the formation opposite was lurching into motion, another massive assault wedge bearing down on Castus and his men.
‘Steady!’ Castus heard himself shouting. ‘Keep formation…!’ His words echoed back at him from the hollow of his shield, and a heartbeat later the ground in front of him was swallowed up by the rushing wall of armoured bodies.
Castus threw his shoulder behind his shield, and the next instant felt the shock of impact. All around him men staggered back, and the noise of the collision was like a single vast crash. Distance was gone; light was gone. Castus felt spears passing over his head. His shield rim took a blow, then another, and a blade skated down the armour of his right arm. Roaring, stamping his boots into the dust for grip, he pushed forward into the lock of combat.
All along the line the mesh of shields pounded and surged, men braced in the stance of wrestlers, stabbing at each other overarm. Some men staggered and fell, down among the milling boots and kicking legs, the churning dust. Castus had no thought but to keep pushing forward against the solid tide of attackers, shoving with his shield and striking out with his spear. He felt the tip clash against shield boards and grate over mail, and when he felt a gap open he thrust forward with all the strength of his arm. He could not tell what he was striking, or whom.
Beside him a man fell; his comrades dragged the body back by the legs, and another soldier clambered forward to take his place in the line. Castus felt something moving beneath him, an enemy crawling beneath his shield. He rammed down with the rim and felt it strike the man’s back, then stamped down with his boot. A moment later a spear darted forward between his knees, and he heard the man beneath him choke and die.
Two shields butted against him, and he heaved them back and punched out with his spear. A jarring impact up his arm; the spearshaft was hacked through. He hurled the stump at the enemy, then reached down for his sword. The blade grated across his cuirass, and then it was free in his hand and he was striking wildly, thrusting and cutting over the rim of his shield. A helmeted head rose before him; he stabbed it between the cheek guards and it dropped again.
The only sounds now were the grunt and hiss of breath, the battering of shields and the high clink and rasp of steel. Every time Castus sucked breath his mouth filled with dust and the stink of blood and sweat. An enemy soldier lurched forward from the mass of attackers, slamming into the wall of shields; the man swayed, his head rolling on his shoulders, and with a clench of horror Castus realised that the man was dead, a corpse held upright by the solid press of the fighting.
He was swinging blows now, hammering at the press of attackers like a blacksmith beating hot iron. He felt his blade bite into flesh, pulled and heard the scream, but did not see the man fall. Behind him his own men were pushing forward, supporting the front line with their own weight.
The enemy line gave suddenly. Castus felt the pressure on his shield slacken; he staggered, and almost fell to his knees, but somebody behind him grabbed the neck of his cuirass and hauled him back to his feet.
Gasping breath, still hefting his shield, Castus gazed at the gulf of open space opening between the lines. Already he could hear the ragged cheer going up from his own troops: the enemy were retreating; the attack had been repelled. He was grinning, and tasted blood in his mouth.
To his left he could see the front-rank man taking a step back. He was about to shout at them to hold steady, but then saw the mound of bodies piled in front of their lines. Two and three deep in places, many of the fallen were still alive, writhing and crying out. Spears flicked out from the shield wall, silencing the enemy wounded.
Only fifty paces away, Castus could see the enemy line re-forming. With a jolt of surprise he noticed that the moon was clear in the sky now, a bright white disc beaming through the haze of hanging dust. The moonlight flooded the space between the lines, picking out the fallen bodies and the bristle of spent missiles and casting the ground between them into utter darkness. The slain men appeared to be floating in a lake of ink, their upturned faces grotesquely lit, like the masks worn by actors in the theatre. Castus shuddered at the sight.
A touch on his arm, and he turned. Eumolpius was beside him, with a skin of water. Castus took the skin and tipped it, letting the water wash over his face before gulping it down.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and cuffed the young orderly on the shoulder. He passed the waterskin to Brocchus, then caught at Eumolpius’s sleeve. ‘Now run over to Macer on the left wing,’ he said. ‘Find out how he’s doing and report back to me. Go!’
Eumolpius vanished into the press of men behind him. Glancing around, Castus saw the glint of teeth in the moonlight. He heard men laughing, joking together at what they had endured. It was not over yet, Castus knew, but he was glad. Some of the men in the front ranks had begun to shout across to the enemy, challenges and abuse, cruel laughter.
‘Come on, cocksuckers! Come and have another go!’
‘Hey, bastards! I’m pissing on your slain!’
Almost immediately the cries came back from the enemy horde, ringing across the black field of fallen bodies.
‘Traitors!’
‘Barbarian scum! Fuck off back to Germania!’
Back and forth went the screams and shouts. Castus realised that he had lost all sense of time, and had no idea how long the battle had lasted. Squinting up at the moon, he was shocked to see that several hours must have passed. From somewhere to the north there was the sound of distant fighting; the battle was still raging on the wings.
‘Tribune! Messenger at the rear!’
Castus turned, handed his shield to Brocchus and began shoving his way back through the ranks. He slapped men on the shoulder as he passed, growled words of encouragement and congratulation. Several saluted him, or gripped his arms, joyful in momentary victory. By the time he moved out through the rear of the formation Castus was elated. His legs were shaking beneath him and he was breathing hard, but he felt his spirits rising warm and strong; he felt invulnerable, suddenly. He knew he could win.
A man came limping along the rear ranks, and Castus recognised him in the spill of moonlight. ‘Attalus!’ he cried, and strode over to the centurion. A reckless humour gripped him. ‘Want to try and kill me now?’ He flung out his arms. ‘Go ahead and try!’ Laughing, he watched the centurion shrug and turn away. But then he saw the lines of bodies laid out behind the rear ranks, the wounded and dead of his legion, and the laughter died inside him. Many of the wounded men were writhing and groaning, the surgeons moving between them.
‘Castus!’ Vitalis said, sliding down from the saddle beside him. ‘What’s your situation here?’
‘We held them,’ Castus replied. He realised that he was shouting. Both of them were shouting, their voices hoarse. ‘They’re forming up again for another try though. What’s happening on the wings?’
‘Our cavalry on the left have pushed back the enemy flank,’ Vitalis said, ‘but they’ve been held by their infantry reserves. We’re losing ground on the right, though – can you spare any men to reinforce them down there?’
‘None,’ Castus told him. ‘I need every man I’ve got here.’ As he spoke he was glancing back at the formation. It looked ragged, great gaps driven through the files where men had moved up to replace the fallen in the front ranks. ‘I need reinforcement myself.’
Eumolpius came jogging out of the darkness, panting.
‘Macer’s firm,’ he gasped. ‘But he needs more men.’
‘We all need more men,’ Castus said grimly. He gripped Vitalis by the shoulder. ‘Can any be spared from the left wing? We need to hold the centre – I reckon they’ll throw everything against us next time.’
Vitalis bared his teeth, staring off up the line. ‘There are four centuries of the Thirtieth pulled back into reserve. I could bring one of them up to reinforce you, maybe…’
‘Do it,’ Castus said.
Vitalis nodded, then swung himself back into the saddle and spurred his horse into a gallop. Dust funnelled up behind him, pale grey in the moonlight.
*
Forward again, pushing through the ranks, Castus reached the front line and took his shield from Brocchus, then lifted his head to check the formation of his legion. They resembled a mob now, all order frayed, penned in behind the defensive wall of shields. Already Castus could hear the enemy signals, and see the vast indistinct horde opposite stirring into motion once more. Rhythmic shouts were going up, a chant, but he could not make out the words.
Seizing a fallen spear, he clashed it against the rim of his shield. Two strikes, four, and then the men around him took up the rhythm.
‘BRITANNICA!’ Castus yelled. ‘BRITANNICA!’ He felt the force of battle flowing through him again, the fighting spirit powering his blood. All along the line, men joined the chant, the clash of spears and roar of voices filling the night.
Across the darkened enemy lines, the moon lit a fluttering banner. The white draco of Pompeianus. Castus fell silent, tightening his jaw. He dropped the spear and drew his sword. Then, a moment later, the enemy let out a single vast cheer and began their charge.
They moved from the centre, forming as they ran into a blunt-headed wedge aimed directly for Castus’s legion. Castus heard himself shouting, crying out the familiar commands, but everyone around him knew what was happening now: bodies tensed, feet braced, they counted their heartbeats until the shock of impact.
The force drove Castus back, the whole line buckling around him, and then there were spears darting and jabbing around his head. Pushing back upright, he shoved himself forward, feeling dead men beneath his feet. He was clambering over corpses piled knee-high. A shield rim punched against him, ringing off the manica that cased his right arm; Castus flicked his blade out and heard a yelp of pain. The men behind him were pressing at his back, and he was shouting, incoherent, as the two masses of men ground together.
He swung a blow overarm and felt his blade cut into an enemy shield; he tugged, but the sword was stuck fast. Another wrenching tug, then the weapon came free, but when he drew back his arm Castus saw only a stub of broken metal above the gilded hilt. He dropped it, reaching down into the crush beneath him for another weapon. His hands skated over the backs of fallen men, a bloodied face. Then he was crouching, his shield raised above him as he groped blindly in darkness. A sharp edge beneath his fingers; he ran his hand along it and felt a hilt, a worn grip. Closing his fist around the sword Castus surged back to his feet, but he was disorientated now. The crush swirled around him, a wild melee, and for a few moments he could not tell friend from foe. He heard somebody shouting: ‘HERCULIA! HERCULIA!’
Then he saw the feathered helmets of his own men, and struck out in the other direction.
A man came pushing through the ranks beside him. Castus saw only a helmet crested with horsehair, a shouting face. ‘Form a wedge on me!’ the man was yelling. ‘Form wedge and advance!’
Castus gaped at him for a moment. ‘Who are you?’ he screamed. ‘Get back in line!’
But the man was already ploughing his shield into the mass of the enemy. There were more men behind him, shoving their way up through the ranks. But not enough of them, Castus thought. Not enough to make a difference.
‘Hold your positions!’ he bellowed into the clattering din. ‘Hold steady!’
The man with the horsehair plume was still pushing forward, the line stretching in his wake as some of the front-rank men obeyed his command. With a stab of shock, Castus realised that he had recognised the man: the infantryman’s helmet had confused him, but suddenly he was certain. ‘Gods below!’ he said under his breath.
‘Brocchus!’ he cried, glancing around him. There was no sign of the eagle-bearer. ‘Brocchus! Hold the men back – keep the formation steady!’
‘Tribune.’ A figure staggered up beside him, grasping his arm. Rogatianus’s dark face was almost invisible behind the nasal bar of his helmet. ‘Tribune… was that…?’
Castus nodded, teeth clenched. He could see the horsehair plume swaying over the enemy ranks, the armoured figure of the emperor hacking a path into the heart of the opposing formation. Ice filled his veins, and he remembered the battle in the forests of Germania years before, Constantine’s mad horseback charge across the flooded valley at the barbarian fortifications… It was happening again. It was happening again, and there was nothing he could do to stop it…
‘We have to get him back!’ he shouted to Rogatianus, and the centurion nodded sharply. ‘Form two files of your men behind me, quickly – shields to the front and we go!’
Already the enemy formation, thrown into turmoil by the sudden foray, was massing again, pressing forward to seal off the emperor and his band of followers. Castus felt the jostle of men at his back, the clash and rattle of locking shields. Then he swung his hand up, a dead man’s sword lifted high, and yelled the order to advance.
At once the enemy closed around them, spears hedging them on all sides. Castus wielded his shield like a weapon, smashing aside bodies, punching the boss into the faces of men ahead of him. When he looked up he saw the horsehair plume still dancing in the moonlight. Beyond it, far beyond it over the massed gleaming helmets of the enemy, waved the white draco of the enemy commander.
The mad bastard, Castus thought. He wants to fight his way through to Pompeianus…
Fury surged through him, and a roar burst from his throat as he fought. All of this was about Constantine. The emperor’s glory, the emperor’s victory. The men whose corpses Castus stamped underfoot had died for that. The lines of dead and wounded sprawled behind the legion lines had fallen for that. Reeling on his feet, still battling forward, Castus felt a sensation of hatred flooding him. Who was this man, this emperor, to order such slaughter? For so many years Castus had followed the man, saluted and acclaimed him, bled for him, fought his battles, killed his opponents. He had risked everything, and laid a path for Constantine in the blood of other men. Only now, lost in the frenzied mesh of battle, did his heart recoil from that truth.
‘Constantine!’ he screamed, and he did not know if it was a battle cry or a curse.
There was no sign of the horsehair plume now, but when the mass of soldiers ahead of him fell back for a moment Castus saw the body sprawled across a mound of the slain. He yelled again, plunging forward; Rogatianus was right behind him, with a knot of other Britannica men, and the enemy were falling away from them.
‘Shields around me!’ Castus called over his shoulder. A last few strides, swinging his blade, and he stood over Constantine’s body. The emperor was wounded, but was still moving, trying to stand.
‘Rogatianus – two of yours to help carry him.’
A javelin smacked into his shield; another flicked over his shoulder. His men had formed a ring, surrounding the fallen emperor. When he looked down Castus saw Rogatianus on his knees, a javelin jutting from his neck. He cried out, but the centurion had already dropped at his feet.
Throwing down his shield, Castus seized Constantine under the arms and wrestled him upright. The emperor was soaked in blood: his own, or the blood of other men, Castus could not tell.
‘Forward,’ the emperor gasped, staggering on his feet. ‘We must go forward.’
Castus seized him by the shoulders. ‘No!’ he shouted, spit spraying from his mouth. ‘Listen to me, you insane idiot – you’re killing my men! How many more do you want to die? Back to the lines – now!’
Dragging the emperor behind him with one hand, sword levelled in the other, he turned and began fighting his way back to safety. Rogatianus’s few surviving men raised their shields around him, and together they beat a path through the enemy.
Chaos all around them, shouting men falling back, others pressing forward. Castus could feel hot blood coursing down his body inside the bind of his cuirass; he had a cut on his neck that he had not noticed. Behind him the emperor was still staggering, head down. The noise of battle had become a constant rumble and hiss, like the hoarse breathing of a giant. Blades clashed and flickered in the moonlight, but Castus felt numb, heedless of the danger all around him, intent only on forcing himself forward.
Then, ahead of him, the enemy ranks opened and he saw the wall of sun-wheel shields. He was shouting, the words ripping from his throat, men tumbling out of the line to surround him and draw him back between them.
Then the shields closed around him, and he was safe in the heart of the battle once more.
*
The field was rutted with the dead. The sun was still below the eastern horizon, but there was light enough in the sky to make out the corpses lying in mounds on the blackened grass. Castus walked slowly, stepping across the bodies, and with every step he felt his boots sink into the blood-soaked ground.
He had no idea how long the fighting had lasted, or truly when it had finished. The men in the battle lines had been too exhausted to cheer; they had just sunk to their knees among the bodies of their fallen comrades. Still the slaughter had continued, even after the messengers had ridden across the field with news of the victory. Hundreds, perhaps thousands more of the Maxentian soldiers had died, either trying to retreat or in desperate refusal to surrender. Pompeianus had been found dead on the field, Castus had heard, surrounded by the men of his bodyguard. He had seen nothing of Constantine after dragging him out of the battle.
Far across the field in the slow leak of daylight, Castus could see other parties moving among the bodies. Some were soldiers, searching for their fallen comrades, others were civilians who had appeared from the surrounding villages to loot the dead. A patrol of cavalry passed, their horse, stepping warily among the corpses. Castus raised his hand in tired salute; it had been the cavalry who had won the fight in the end, breaking the enemy’s right wing and rolling up their flank.
Exhaling, Castus felt the ache in his body, the slow churn of nausea in his belly. He was still wearing armour, his dented helmet clasped beneath his arm, and a thick pad of bandages tied against his neck. How many men had he lost? He had known many battlefields, but none quite like this. None where most of the fallen were Roman soldiers.
‘Dominus!’ Eumolpius cried from away to his left, raising a fallen shield. Castus made out the sun-wheel emblem, distinct in the greyness. ‘There are more here,’ the orderly called. ‘This was our position, I think…’
Castus nodded, then strode over to join him. He had not been sure where his legion had been placed, but now he saw it plainly. The dead were piled in front like a low uneven rampart, and spilled away behind.
‘Stack up some shields here as a marker,’ Castus said. ‘Then run back to the lines and fetch the stretcher parties.’
Already he could see surgeons and army slaves moving around between the bodies, kneeling beside some with bandages and water flasks, shaking their heads over others. Pacing heavily, Castus followed the line that his legion had held.
It was getting lighter now, and he could make out the faces. He forced himself to look at them, to remember their names. Fifty paces on and he paused, staring down at the choked knot of bodies sprawled together at his feet.
Salvianus, he thought. The young Christian recruit lay on his back, his face blank and oddly peaceful, sightless eyes rolled upwards in death. Beside him, lying against the piled corpses of other men, was Trocundus. Castus could not tell which of the two had fallen first, but their outflung hands were almost touching, as if they had reached out and found some unlikely companionship in death.
Castus breathed deeply, feeling the pressure in his chest. He had seen so many dead men; it should hardly matter to him. But when he raised his blood-crusted hand to his face he felt tears well from his eyes. Tired, he thought. Exhausted. He forced himself to turn away from the bodies and continue along the line.
A flash of gold, down in the muck of dust and blood. Castus stooped, groaning with the effort, and picked up the hilt of his broken sword. He was surprised nobody else had taken it yet: the gilding alone was worth a good price. He stuck it through his belt, then turned to gaze out over the plain.
‘Brother,’ a voice called weakly. ‘Brother – you got water?’
Castus paced forward, peering into the gloom. The fallen soldier lay a short distance away, propped on one elbow. Even as he approached, Castus could tell he was from the opposing army. He could also tell that the man was dying; one of his legs had been almost sheared off, and he was lying in a congealing pool of his own blood. It was amazing he was still conscious.
‘Fucking parched,’ the soldier managed to say. Castus knelt down beside him, feeling the blood soaking the knee of his breeches. He pulled a flask from his belt and held it to the soldier’s lips.
‘Wine!’ the man said, after sucking down a mouthful. He grinned, let out a shuddering gasp, then drank again. ‘Now that’s decent of you, brother…’
Castus recognised his accent. Pannonian, like his own. He could not see the fallen man’s shield, but he knew where he was from.
‘Herculiani?’ he said. The soldier nodded, then tipped his head back with a groaning sigh.
‘I was ten years in the Second Herculia,’ Castus told him, and his voice caught as he spoke. ‘Primus’s century, then Dexter’s. Ever heard of them?’
The soldier blinked, and his eyes seemed to clear a little. ‘Valerius Dexter I know,’ he said. ‘He’s a tribune now, so they say. Haven’t seen him in years.’
‘How come you’re here?’
The soldier stirred, then gasped in pain. Castus took him by the shoulder to support him. He could smell the blood all around him.
‘Came down with Galerius,’ the soldier said. ‘Six years ago, was it? Whole detachment went over to Maxentius… He’s the emperor in Rome, so we said he… must be the proper one to support. Right?’
Castus snorted a laugh, then lifted the flask for the man to drink again. It seemed the only help he could offer.
‘So what about you? How’d you end up fighting for Constan-thingy?’
‘Long story,’ Castus said in a breath. He wondered if he might somehow save the soldier, carry him to a surgeon; he glanced around for a slave he could call to help him. But no – the man’s life was ebbing fast. Even to move him would kill him.
‘Go on, then,’ the soldier said. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world…’ A shudder racked him, and he tensed. ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘No, I haven’t… ha ha!’ He was laughing through clenched teeth, still grinning.
Castus felt his own body shaking, tremors of cold running through his limbs, as if the man’s pain were soaking into him. He could not speak.
‘Oh, well,’ the dying man said. ‘They’re all the same, eh? You follow yours, I follow mine, but they’re all fucking bastards when all’s done…’ His face had turned grey, and his brow was beaded with sweat. ‘Hey,’ he said, the words seeming to leak from him. ‘Is it true your one’s turned Christian? That’s what we heard…’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Castus replied. He was holding the dying soldier to his chest now, feeling the slow creep of death.
‘Ah,’ the soldier said again. ‘Well… reckon I’m done, brother. Can’t feel a thing… Give my regards to the old Danube, if you get that far… How about another drop of that wine, eh?’
Castus lifted the flask to the man’s mouth, his hand trembling. The soldier’s lips did not move. He gave a last twitch, and then the light faded from his eyes.
Easing the body down, Castus knelt for a few moments. A sudden shudder locked his shoulders, and his chest heaved against the breastplate of his cuirass. He drew another breath, then hauled himself to his feet. Away across the plain, the first rays of sun were lighting the sky.
*
Vitalis met him as he strode back into the legion camp. Castus could see men looking at him, muttering words to each other. He assumed it was because he was covered in blood.
‘Did you lose your mind?’ Vitalis hissed, grabbing him by the shoulder.
Castus stared at him, then shook himself free and walked on. Vitalis fell into step beside him.
‘What were you thinking?’ the other officer said in a low voice. ‘I mean… the heat of battle’s one thing… but that’s no excuse!’
Ahead of him Castus could see the command tent already raised, horses and men gathered around it. Diogenes was there, with Brocchus and Modestus. They turned to stare at him as he approached, their faces blank.
‘What’s happening?’ Castus said as they parted before him. Nobody spoke. He pushed past them and on into the tent.
‘Aurelius Castus,’ a voice said. A young man, a staff officer by the look of him, was leaning against the folding table. Macer stood beside him, with a couple of orderlies. The young man straightened up.
‘By the sacred order of the emperor, Constantine Augustus,’ he said, ‘you are hereby relieved of the command of the Second Britannica Legion. Aelius Vitalis will take command in your place.’
Castus blinked, feeling the air rush from his body. He looked at Macer, and the old drillmaster shook his head sadly and turned away.
Taking the gilded sword hilt from his belt, Castus tossed it onto the floor. Then he turned and walked out of the tent, into the clean morning sunlight.
‘I’m sorry, brother,’ Vitalis said from behind him.