Calgus strained to hear the words, a fresh premonition of disaster stroking the hairs on the back of his neck. Frontinius lifted head and torc, the former dangling by its greasy hair, the latter glinting in the early afternoon sun. Inflating his barrel chest, he bellowed out across the mass of men below, silencing their growing noise.
‘Leave this place now, or we will kill you all! Warriors?! You have failed once, and you will fail again like the children that you are compared to real soldiers.’
He paused for breath, and allowed the silence to drag on for a long moment.
‘We killed your leaders and threw you back down this insignificant hill with ease. You came seeking heads and left your own by the hundred! If you come back up again, we will do the same to you. See, the head of a defeated chieftain!’
He swung the dead man’s head in a lazy arc by its hair, resisting the temptation to hurl its obscenity away from him and into the seething tribesmen, raising the heavy torc to glint in the sunshine and be recognised as a symbol of authority.
‘You were weak, and we punished you. Now run away, before we treat you all like this!’
Feeling queasy, he put the head to his crotch and pushed his hips at it in an unmistakable gesture, then threw it high into the air above their heads. With an angry roar the tribesmen surged forward, charging up the hill in their mad fury. Frontinius ducked back into the line of soldiers, shouting for them to ready their spears. To the warband’s rear, Calgus closed his eyes for a moment as the realisation hit him.
‘My lord…’
‘I know. I have no choice. I must kill the prisoners and send the entire warband up that hill. But not on their terms. Get me the tribal leaders.’ The Tungrians loosed their second and last volley of spears, plunging the barbarian front rank into chaos once more, then huddled into their own shields with swords ready. The oncoming rush slowed to a walk across the slippery ground, to a crawl over the wall of their dead and wounded, until the tribesmen arrived, in ones and twos, in front of the Roman shield wall. With Frontinius disdaining a charge against such disorganised opposition, preferring to keep his men on firm ground, they waited for their enemy to stagger exhaustedly on to their shields, then began their slaughter with a professional ease. Even when more men had struggled through the obstacles in front of the cohort’s line, building the attacking force to a more respectable size, the anger that had burnt out of them was replaced by a wary respect, most of them holding off from the Roman swords, content to shout defiance at the Tungrians.
Scarface’s tent party crouched ready to engage behind their shields, sensing that the fight had gone out of their opponents but unwilling to believe the battle could end so easily. A single man leapt from the barbarian line, a huge warrior swinging a six-foot-long blade around his head and bellowing abuse at the Tungrians. Stripped naked and possessed by a mighty rage, he swung his long sword over the top of the shield wall and opened the two new front-rankers’ throats with the blade’s end before whipping it back above his head to hack down into the Tungrian shields. Scarface’s neighbour, caught beneath the sword’s descending blade, raised his shield two-handed in self- defence. He staggered backwards as the savage blow chopped through the iron frame and sank the razor-sharp blade deep into his shield’s wooden layers. Both Scarface and the soldier on the far side of the attacker stepped in and stabbed their swords deeply into the naked warrior’s sides, Scarface backhanding his stabbing stroke into the man’s side and ripping the blade out through his stomach muscles to release a slippery rope of guts. Releasing the long sword’s hilt, the warrior staggered back from the shield wall with blood pouring down his legs from his dreadful wounds. The two men whose throats he had slashed died where they fell, bleeding out from their severed arteries in less then a minute. They were unceremoniously dragged away behind the line, two more rear rankers taking their places.
The prefect and Frontinius had little concern for their front, however, their attention being fixed on the mass of men gathering at the slope’s foot.
‘He’ll put more men in to threaten our flanks to fix us, perhaps throw in some skirmishers to keep our heads down, then throw that mob up the middle and look to crush us under their numbers…’
The prefect nodded unhappily.
As they watched, the warband’s bulk split into three groups. Two smaller groups split to left and right, and began climbing the slope with grim purpose, while a larger third body of men, perhaps ten thousand strong, started moving up to reinforce their attackers.
‘What would you advise?’
Frontinius shook his head unhappily.
‘All we can do is reposition some of the weakened centuries from the centre to the flanks and hope they can hold off the fixing attacks, then strengthen the centre with our reserves.’
‘It isn’t much of an option.’
‘Prefect, it’s no option at all. Either way we’ll all be dead quite shortly unless Prefect Licinius manages to get some troops here within the next ten minutes.’
The other man drew his sword, glaring down at the mass of men moving up the hill to either side of their embattled position.
‘Very well, take the Fourth and Seventh out of the centre and put the Fifth and Tenth in to replace them. I can’t see a reserve being much use when this comes to knife fighting. Good luck to you, First Spear. Let’s hope we meet again under more promising circumstances.’
They clasped hands, then Frontinius strode down the slope, bellowing orders to his centurions and setting their last desperate plan in motion. The 5th and 10th Centuries streamed down the slope to reinforce the centre of the line. Marcus and Julius stood together behind the thin line of their men, watching as their attackers, beaten back once more by the cohort’s swords, gathered their strength. Rufius had strolled across to join them for a moment, his vine stick now tucked into his belt and his sword drawn and bloody. More and more men were clambering over the wall of dead and dying warriors, to swell the numbers facing them. To make matters worse smoke had begun to blow across their line, from trees set ablaze in the forest upwind to their right, making it harder by the moment to see their enemy. The barbarians were hammering on their shields, screaming abuse at the Tungrians, who, understanding the depth of their situation, were increasingly casting nervous glances to their rear rather than to the front. Julius stared out at the clamouring horde dispassionately.
‘If they attack in that strength we’ll have to abandon the line and fight in pairs, back to back.’
Marcus nodded, his mouth dry. As he squinted through the smoke, it appeared that to either side of the position the battle was yet to begin, the thousands of warriors in the flanking warbands apparently content to threaten the Tungrian flanks and hold the bulk of the cohort in position, rather than commit to an attack.
‘Why don’t they attack along our whole length? Surely they could push both flanks in and turn to roll us up with those numbers.’
Rufius answered him without taking his eyes off the advancing barbarians.
‘Calgus wants to blood the men that haven’t fought yet, give them back their manhood after Uncle Sextus put them down so cruelly. The main attack will come through the middle, right here, and we’re the men that will have to stop it.’
‘An interesting life and a short one, eh, brothers?’
They turned, finding Frontinius standing behind them.
‘I thought your men might be feeling a little exposed, so I’ve come to share in the fun and show them that we’re all in the same shitty boat. Julius, it’s time your century stopped sitting about and actually did some fighting, so I’ve brought them down to strengthen the line.’
He pointed to their left, and Julius turned to see his men coming out of the smoke, his chosen man guiding them into the gap opening up as the 4th Century went to ground to let them through and into the line. Caelius, so far unscathed, pulled back with his soldiers, shot Frontinius a quick salute and then led the 4th off down the line, following the First Spear’s pointed direction. Julius smiled broadly at the sight of his men.
‘And about time. Excuse me, brothers. Right, ladies, get your shields up and your spears ready to throw. Let’s show these bluefaced bum-fuckers the entrance to Hades!’
He trotted away to rejoin his men, shouting encouragement as he ran. To the right, beyond Rufius’s 6th, the big men of the 10th Century were replacing the battered 7th. Rufius nodded grimly.
‘That’s going to be a nasty shock for the blue-faces. A century of axes is a terrifying prospect when they start lopping off arms and cleaving heads. The Bear’s boys will be painted black from head to foot before this is over. Right, I’d best go and get my lads ready.’
He headed off to his century, leaving Frontinius and Marcus alone behind the 9th. The First Spear watched
