‘Get them back ten paces, Qadir, we’re in spear range. I suggest you do the same, Cho…’
The instruction died in his throat as he turned away from his men, the iron head and ash shaft of a Venico spear hissing past his face close enough that he felt the wind of its passing on his cheek. The other century’s chosen man jerked backwards a pace as the spear, having missed its target by the merest fraction, buried itself in his throat and took his life as compensation. Another half-dozen men were hit as they retreated from the river’s bank, two of them Hamians. While the first archer’s mail coat saved him from any harm worse than a severe bruise, the second man hit was less lucky, and went down with a spear through his back as his mail’s rings parted under the weapon’s impact. Qadir ran forward and grabbed the fallen Hamian by the collar of his ring mail, snatching up his shield and raising it against further attack as he dragged him back to safety. Marcus knelt by the man’s head and put a finger to his throat.
‘He’s dead.’
The men of the 8th watched him lying motionless in the mud with what the young centurion momentarily took for numb detachment, until he realised that the dead man was the first casualty the century had suffered since his assumption of command. Marcus and Qadir stood behind their men, watching as the Hamians systematically shot down any man that set foot on the fallen tree trunks, steadily depleting their remaining arrows.
‘They’re manoeuvring us neatly into position to be mobbed once we’ve run out of arrows and shot back whatever they’ve shot at us. We can’t defend the bank, they’ll just shower us with spears and bleed us dry, and that means they can throw men across until they’ve built enough strength to roll us over. Make sure every arrow finds a target
…’
He stalked away, forcing himself to ignore the arrows aimed at his distinctive helmet as he approached the 2nd Cohort soldiers cowering behind their shields. With their chosen man dead the century was leaderless, at least until Appius returned from whatever task he had decided would provide an answer to the fallen trees’ threat.
‘Watch officer and standard-bearer, to me!’
A pair of soldiers detached themselves from the century, using their shields for protection against the intermittent barbarian arrows. Marcus hefted the shield he had picked up from beside the dead chosen man, and ducked into its cover.
‘With your chosen man dead you’re the only leadership left for your men.’
The two men regarded him unhappily. Content to enforce their officer’s discipline, and to organise the more mundane duties of the century, neither looked particularly eager to assume the burden of command. He stepped in closer to the pair, leaning to put his face only inches from theirs and to allow him to speak more quietly, but with an unmistakable edge to his voice.
‘I can see that you don’t like the idea, but you have no choice in the matter. Without your leadership these men will break and run once my archers run out of arrows, and the barbarians will come across that bridge with their tails up and looking for the revenge on us for all the men we’ve killed here. And if your men run, if you let that happen, they will be hacked to pieces inside five minutes. As will we all. Within half an hour every man in both cohorts will either be running for their lives or have their guts laid out for inspection. So, gentlemen, what will it be? Death, or glory?’ The two soldiers looked at each other, each of them seeing his own uncertainty mirrored in the other’s face. Marcus changed tack, reaching for humour where the plain facts weren’t succeeding. ‘You’re both scared shitless, right?’
They nodded reluctantly, the standard-bearer cracking the thinnest of smiles as he spoke.
‘I’ll probably manage one good shit once those bastards are across the river.’
Marcus sighed gently, thanking his gods for the soldier’s unfailing gift of humour in the darkest situations. He looked quickly to Qadir, who held up a hand with the five digits splayed out. Five arrows per man, perhaps three more minutes.
‘I’ll let you into a secret, then. I’ve just led these lads, all scared out of their wits by those headhunting bastards, through rain and mud and blood to get across the river in one piece. All that time, hiding up hills and in ditches, and I’ve been busting for a good long sit-down all that time.’ The two men goggled at him. An officer, and clearly a nicely brought-up boy too, telling them that he needed the latrine? ‘And if I can hold on to my arse all afternoon on the wrong side of the river with that lot running around, then I’m sure that you two can give me a few minutes of leadership for these poor buggers. So here’s the deal. You take four tent parties each, and you deploy them to either side of my lads, one left, one right…’
His plan explained, he hurried back to his century, drawing his cavalry sword and praying for both men to find their courage when the time came.
‘How many left?’
‘One or two arrows apiece.’
He took a deep breath.
‘Eighth Century, every man without any arrows remaining, raise your right hand.’
Two dozen or so hands went up. When another dozen barbarians had been toppled from the tree trunks he shouted again.
‘If you’re out of arrows, right hand up and keep it up!’
About sixty this time. Looking back into the mist he could see nothing, no sign of reinforcement. That they would have to fight hand to hand was now inevitable. That there was only one way that they could fight successfully, and even then only for a very limited time, seemed equally likely.
‘Eighth Century, those of you with arrows, keep shooting, but listen to me! When you run out of arrows put your arm in the air. When enough men have run out, I will give the order to draw swords. If you’re still shooting, put your bow down and air your blade. Pick your shield up and form a line, two men deep just as we trained you.’
More hands went up in the air, until about ninety per cent of his men were no longer able to shoot at the attacking Venicones.
‘Draw your swords!’
The remaining archers stood, and with the rasp of metal on metal the century drew their swords and jostled into something approaching the standard defensive formation, twenty paces or so from the riverbank. The Venicones were already crossing the trees in numbers, perhaps a dozen men now visible on the western bank. Marcus muttered under his breath, judging the right moment to commit his men.
‘Mithras forgive me sending these innocents to face those animals.’ He drew breath and bellowed in his best parade ground roar. ‘Eighth Century! At the walk! Advance!’
For an awful moment nothing happened, as the archers struggled to digest the terrible novelty of their situation. From his place behind the century Qadir suddenly roared a command, his voice unrecognisable compared to his usual mannered speech.
‘FORWARD!’
Where the formal command had failed to galvanise the Hamians, the sudden bellow from their rear set them moving. Crouching behind their shields like terrified recruits faced with their first practice battle perhaps, but nevertheless advancing on the baying tribesmen. Marcus shot a surprised look at Qadir, and was amazed at the fierce stare he received in return as his chosen man spoke, his voice an angry snarl.
‘They’re dead, whether they attack or simply stand and wait for it to happen. They might as well go to meet their goddess with their dignity intact.’
Marcus nodded, stepping forward to stay close to the rear rank, pushing at their backs with the dead chosen man’s long wooden pole as Qadir followed suit with his own. The bellowing Venicones were less than ten paces away, hammering swords against their small shields to raise a din calculated to stand off the numerically superior Roman force while more men crossed the river behind them. Qadir’s voice boomed out over the tumult again.
‘Forward! Board and swords, gut the bastards!’
The Hamians edged forward, their reluctance to take the fight to the wild-eyed warriors railing at them painfully obvious. The Venico tribesmen’s confidence visibly grew as they took in their opponents’ clear desire to be somewhere else, half a dozen of them stepping boldly across the slowly narrowing gap to hammer at the archers’ shields with their long swords. One of them, his confidence in the face of such poor opposition clearly sky high, angled his sword down over a shield in a powerful thrust, putting the blade’s tip through the throat of the man behind it. The dying Hamian convulsed with the wound’s shock, his struggles disrupting the century’s line of shields and encouraging another tribesman to step in and attempt a kill. The blade flashed down in a vicious arc, missing its intended target by a hair’s breadth but, more critically, scaring the wits out of the men to either side and
