‘Qadir, now!’
At his chosen man’s shouted command the archers stopped marching, swivelled to face the horsemen and lifted their bows to shoot, the riders’ proximity making their marks laughably easy. Their broad-headed arrows flicked across the gap, punching into the horses’ sides with savage power, and the animals screamed as the chisel- tipped arrows did what they were specifically designed to do. The flat-headed arrows’ horrific power punched chunks of ribcage snapped free by their impact deep into the animals’ bodies, crushing their lungs and internal organs and inflicting fatal wounds on the hapless beasts. Their riders were pitched from their saddles by the sudden collapse of their horses, struggling back to their feet only to find themselves facing a line of bows that riddled them with arrows in seconds. The few horses that didn’t fall immediately struggled away in obvious difficulty, the arrows protruding from their sides slick with frothy blood spouting from their punctured lungs, and their riders made easy targets for the arrows that dropped them from their dying mounts. Inside seconds the pursuit had gone from easy chase to bloody ruin, a single rider-less horse trotting slowly out of arrow range before slumping to its knees, unable to rise as its blood sluiced from three deep chest wounds.
‘Keep moving!’ Marcus pointed impatiently at the next hill, waving the 8th Century forward. ‘Morban, a hundred and twenty a minute. Let’s get out of here.’
The 8th Century ground on up the slope, the 2nd Cohort already over the top and on their way down the other side. There were still, Marcus reckoned, another three valleys between them and the ford, a good two hours’ marching even in good weather.
With a gentle patter the long-awaited rain started to fall, the initial shower intensifying quickly until the Hamians were marching through a downpour, their bows quickly hidden from the rain in oiled goatskin bags. At the top of the slope Marcus stopped, letting the century continue past him as he squinted back through the rain. On the crest of the valley’s far slope a mile or so distant, their numbers made uncertain by the shifting curtains of rain, a mass of warriors were crossing the summit and starting to pour down the hill. They would catch his men in much less than half an hour, he guessed. He turned back to find his century’s ordered line of march suddenly disintegrating into chaos as a hundred and more barbarians charged out of the rain to their front.
The 1st Cohort reached the Red River’s ford by mid-afternoon, exhausted soldiers splashing their way through water already a good six inches deeper than had been the case that morning, the rain beating off their helmets with increasing vigour as the last centuries staggered up the Red’s western bank. One tired Tungrian slipped into the rushing water, and for a moment it was touch and go as to whether he would find his feet again or be washed downriver and over the falls on to the rocks below. It was a mark of their physical exhaustion that not a single soldier took the chance to poke fun when he rose out of the river’s icy grip, water streaming from his helmet, and made the bank in a flurry of limbs. First Spear Frontinius greeted each century that crossed with the same greeting.
‘Fill your water bottles! Get any food you’ve got down your necks and get ready to stand to. Centurions, to me…’
When the officers were all gathered, bedraggled and mudstained, he laid out his proposal for the defence.
‘We’ve no choice but to make our stand here, it’s the only defensive position for miles. It’ll be dark in about six hours, so we’ll have to hold them off that long unless the rain gets heavier and makes the ford impassable. We’ll hold the riverbank unless anyone’s got any better ideas, two-man depth and four-hundred… three-hundred-and- twenty-man width, that should be plenty to stop them getting any foothold on this side. We’ll build an earth wall on the riverbank, use the turfs from the marching camp, then fight with spears, not swords, and keep them down in the water and at the mercy of the cold and the current. One tent party per century to set up the tents as cover for the wounded, the rest of the cohort to build that wall as fast as possible. And be careful to leave a gap for the Second Cohort to cross through. Tribune, anything to add?’
Scaurus shook his head, clearly still exhausted after the punishing pace of their march.
‘Anyone else got a question? Centurion Rufius, is this about the Eighth Century?’
Rufius nodded tensely.
‘Yes, First Spear, I request permission to take a small party back out and look for the Eighth.’
‘Denied, Centurion, and you too, Julius, before you ask. The Eighth will have to take their chances. Get to work! Dubnus, you left here this morning with two centuries’ worth of Votadini but I don’t see them now. I don’t suppose you could enlighten me as to where they are?’
Dubnus grimaced, waving an arm back across the river.
‘Martos wasn’t about to leave the Eighth on their own to be slaughtered, First Spear, he said there were too many good men to leave to the Venicones.’
‘And he wasn’t about to ask me for permission to leave the cohort either, I suppose?’
Dubnus nodded tiredly.
‘For what it’s worth, I think he’ll be back, and hopefully with the Eighth following him.’
‘For what it’s worth, Centurion, I hope you’re right.’
The 2nd Cohort struggled across the ford fifteen minutes later, and Neuto found Frontinius supervising the building of the earth rampart along the ford’s western bank, pointing critically at the way the soldiers were stacking their turfs.
‘Not too close to the water, or it’ll be washed away if there’s much more rainfall farther up the valley. Like this… see? Now carry on, only faster.’
He turned to face Neuto, shaking the mud from his hands.
‘Glad you could join us. All present?’
The other man nodded dourly, shaking droplets off the brim of his helmet.
‘We lost a few that couldn’t take the pace, they’ll be dead by now, but the rest all got here. The last we saw of your boys they were shooting holes in the Venicone horse scouts, but then the rain came down like the sky was falling and we lost any sight of them.’
Frontinius nodded, his expression forcedly neutral.
‘Now you’re in we can close the wall. I doubt we’ll get it more than three feet high before they’re crossing the river but even that should be enough. Now, let’s discuss what your boys can add to the defence…’
Scaurus had greeted Furius as his horse climbed from the river, taking a grip of the animal’s bridle and leading it away from the soldiers toiling to fortify the Red’s treacherously slippery bank in the pounding rain. Arminius followed the two men as Scaurus took his colleague far enough from the troops that their privacy was guaranteed, turning his back on the officers to face the river and ensure that no one tried to interrupt them. Furius climbed stiffly down from the exhausted animal and turned to face Scaurus, but before he had time to say anything the other man forestalled him by raising a hand to silence whatever it was he had been about to say.
‘I’m taking command, Gracilus Furius. I’m sorry, but there’s no way to sugar-coat it so we’re best getting it out of the way here and now.’
Furius’s eyes widened with anger.
‘You’re taking command? By what authority…’
Scaurus smiled grimly, shaking his head in quiet amusement. ‘It’s always about power and rank with you, isn’t it, Furius? By Ulpius Marcellus’s authority, who else could give it to me? I was sent north on a scouting mission before he was even formally appointed, when it was clear to everyone but the last governor that the northern tribes were ready to boil over. Of course, it had all gone to ratshit by the time I got here, but that didn’t make my job any less valid, just a damn sight more dangerous…’
Furius interrupted impatiently.
‘So fucking what?! You’ve no more right to…’
‘Shut up.’
Furius’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck, and before he had any chance to regain his composure he found Scaurus’s face close to his own, his eyes suddenly slitted with anger in a face white with suppressed anger, and his voice a furious monotone.
‘One more word from you and I’ll take my sword to you. I know you, Gracilus Furius, I know what you’re capable of, on and off the battlefield. You’re the big man in camp all right, all spunk and swagger when there’s a condemned man to nail to a cross or some helpless girl to terrorise, but I stood next to you that day at Thunderbolt Gorge and watched you change from a self-assured bully to a snivelling coward in the time it took for you to decide that we were all going to die. If you think I’m going to let you anywhere near those soldiers once there are ten
