hundred and more mounted barbarians were breaking from the trees in a dark wave.
9
Marcus stared across the half-mile that separated the 9th from the forest’s dark bulk, watching the enemy irregular cavalry trot briskly from their hiding places under the trees’ canopy. Forming a rough line, the horsemen accelerated to a canter, starting up the gentle slope towards the century’s fragile square. He looked about him at his men, their attention focused on the oncoming cavalry, their faces fixed in disbelief at the cruel twist in their fortunes. Even Dubnus seemed diminished, leaning on his pole as if suddenly tired, and for a second the hope went out of the young officer. He stared beyond his men, at the smaller group of horsemen that had drawn away to wait a short distance upslope of their position, just short of the slope’s crest, close enough for them to see their mocking grins. Then, with an intensity that shocked him as much as the men he commanded, his temper ignited, firing a burning fury into his voice.
‘Ninth Century, spear drill!’
A few men turned to look at him, their faces numb with the shock of their ambush by the horsemen, stoking the fire of his fury.
‘Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!’
Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.
‘You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!’
The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus’s voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.
‘On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready… Form line!’
The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.
‘About face. Charge!’
The tribesmen’s ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers’ battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.
‘Throw!’
The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.
‘Swords!’
The 9th, barely breaking step, charged in over the fallen, stabbing at men and animals with the carefree ferocity of victory, offering no mercy to those unable to run. A short, frenzied melee ended the fight, leaving half a dozen soldiers with assorted flesh wounds while almost a dozen of the dead and dying tribesmen and their mounts were scattered across the tiny battlefield.
Marcus turned back to the larger body of horse, their pace accelerating at the sight of their fellows’ slaughter, and now barely four hundred paces distant.
‘Form square.’
His men nodded grimly at the quiet command, retrieving their spears and moving swiftly into their allotted places, ready to receive the enemy charge and die. As the square formed, Marcus looked about him again, noticing with surprise the few survivors of his men’s vicious attack, having galloped away over the slope’s crest, now flying past the century in the direction of their fellow horsemen at a breakneck pace. As they passed the oncoming mass of horsemen, a couple turned back and pointed back up the slope, shouting at their fellows.
The tribal cavalry faltered, seemingly losing purpose for a second, and in the moment of their hesitation a sound came to Marcus’s ears that puzzled him. It was a distant rumble, as if thunder was grumbling somewhere beyond the clear horizon, but apparent as much through his boot soles as his ears. The rumble swelled in volume, making the soldiers’ heads turn as they realised that it was coming from behind them, from the direction of the Wall.
With a sudden explosion of movement and noise, a wall of horsemen came over the crest and charged down the slope, parting to either side of the 9th’s tiny square. Armoured cavalrymen bent over their horses’ necks and thrust long spears towards the tribesmen, who had already turned to ride for their lives, fighting horses rooted with fear by the noise of the oncoming wave of heavy cavalry. A decurion rose in his saddle, lifting his spear and shouting encouragement to his men as they passed the 9th, their shouted response lifting the hairs on Marcus’s neck with its bloodlust.
‘Petriana! Petrianaaa!’
The cavalry swept past the 9th’s square and hammered into the rearmost of the enemy riders while the century stood in amazement, watching the tidal wave of horsemen wash across the open space between the crest and the forest. A scattered detritus of dead and wounded barbarian riders and horses studded the ground over which they passed. The mass of native horsemen became thinner by the second, their blown horses easy prey for the stronger and fresher Roman mounts. Spears were thrust into the backs and necks of the fleeing Britons, making their backs arch at the moment of impact.
A group of horsemen cantered up to the tiny defensive square, pennants below their spear heads fluttering prettily in the strong breeze blowing across the open ground. A long dragon standard, twisting and flapping in wind-blown serpentine twists, rode proudly above the formation, which opened to allow a magnificent grey stallion to approach the 9th. Like those of its fellows’, the beast’s eyes and long face were protected by a decorated armoured plate that curved around the snout, vision enabled by a delicate pattern of holes drilled into the half-globe bulges over each eye. Its rider searched the ranks, age-wrinkled eyes peering from beneath the peak of a heavily decorated helmet, while the riders of his bodyguard rode out to either side, watching their surroundings with professional wariness. Marcus stepped out from the 9th’s ranks, snapping a salute at the prefect while he admired the man’s heavily muscled bronze cuirass, secured by the customary linen band. The senior officer jumped down from his horse, passing the reins to an attending trooper before returning the salute. He stared at Marcus with unveiled curiosity, turning to survey the slaughter without any change of expression, speaking without returning his eyes to the young officer, his voice a patrician rasp.
‘Y’were lucky that we happened along, young centurion, or your head would be decorating some hairy fellow’s spear point by now. I’m Licinius, prefect commanding the Petriana cavalry wing. Your unit?’
Marcus stiffened to attention and saluted.
‘Ninth Century, First Tungrian Cohort, Prefect!’
The other man turned back to look at him again, one eyebrow slightly raised. Marcus met his stare directly, noting the experience lines that ran down from either side of his nose and his furrowed forehead. The older man was, he calculated, soldier through and through, an experienced prefect with two or three previous postings behind him before being favoured with such a prestigious cavalry command.
‘Tungrian, eh? Y’don’t sound Tungrian, y’sound Roman, youngster. Look it too. So, how does the Ninth Century of the First Tungrians come to be all on its own on the wrong side of the Wall, getting ready to die on the spears of several times its strength of enemy horse, eh?’
Marcus told him the story of the last two days in quick, economical sentences that reduced their achievements to their bare bones, while the prefect watched dispassionately as his men dismounted to finish off the wounded and take souvenirs. He reached the slaughter of the oxen before the other man interrupted.
‘Wait a moment… Decurion!’
An officer detached himself from the waiting troop of horsemen, trotting across to his commander and saluting precisely.
