spread around the civilian town’s defences for Rufus’ liking, but it couldn’t be helped. He had committed as many men to that line as he was willing to spare. The harbour was slightly better defended, with men in tall timber watchtowers with signal fires to warn of any seaborne trouble. But most of the troops, including a large number of dismounted cavalry, were concentrated in the fort on the hill above Gesoriacum.
Nodding to the legionaries by the gate, he strode down the slope of the embankment on the wooden log steps, alighting on the muddy thoroughfare that had somehow — perhaps mistakenly — been termed a street rather than merely a muddy stream. Sighing and wishing that the locals had adopted a good flagged-or-cobbled road surface, he sloshed and squelched back towards the main ‘road’ that led through the town from the harbour up to the fort on the hill.
His boots began to leak almost instantly, and he felt the cold, wet muck oozing into the holes in the leather, gritting his teeth against the unpleasantness. What he wouldn’t give for a bath house, rather than a horse trough of cold water and a wool blanket.
Miserably, he trudged back into the centre of the town, pausing at the junction and wondering whether he should visit the harbour before returning to the fort. He glanced to his left, up the slope, trying not to notice the slurry slipping down the incline with the water that still seemed to be flowing from last night’s torrential downpour. He shuddered, but welcomed the sight of the burning torches on the timber walls of the fort — mere spots of light at this distance; fireflies in the mist. For all its discomfort, the fort was essentially home at the moment. His gaze then turned the other way, down the main street, also filled with running brown and lumpy water. Behind and above the squat stone and timber shops and houses of the natives he could just make out the tops of the harbour watchtowers, their torches also burning in the grey.
No. The harbour could wait until tomorrow. Now it was time to get indoors and warm up if such a thing were remotely possible.
His gaze swept around again to face up the slope to his destination, but lingered for a moment on the side- street that ran down into the backwaters of the native settlement directly opposite. Three figures had rounded a corner at the far end and were making their way toward the junction. The very presence of human life in the street was now a rare enough occurrence as to attract attention, but there was something about the figures that somehow caught his gaze and held it.
Squinting into the dismal grey, he could just discern that the three were wearing heavy wool cloaks and it took only a moment before he realised they were
Blinking, he strained to see better and was suddenly rewarded with a flash of white. The man in the middle was a tribune. Cilo, then: still trying to squeeze supplies out of an uncooperative and reticent town. His results had been poor, though Rufus was under no illusions that anyone else would have fared any better. For some reason the townsfolk were less willing to help than he’d even expected.
He tutted to himself at the man’s short-sightedness. He’d told Cilo to just take a small bodyguard, but he’d really meant more than two men. A contubernium of eight would have been more sensible. He’d have to have a word with the man.
His heart skipped a beat.
While the three men moved hurriedly up the street toward the junction, another cloaked soldier had just rounded the corner from whence they’d just come.
“What the hell?”
His heart began to hammer out an urgent tattoo in his chest as he watched the newly-visible legionary stumble out across the street, a sword glinting in his hand, before falling face first into the murk, shaking with agony. Rufus’ heart sank as his gaze refocused on the three men approaching and he realised for the first time that the two legionaries were not just escorting the tribune up the street — they were carrying him, dragging him by the shoulders, his toes bouncing off jutting stones among the muck. One of the soldiers was also limping badly, and the other had a naked blade in his hand.
“Oh, shit!”
As if to confirm his worst fears, a sudden roar split the silent miasma as a huge crowd of natives rounded that same corner at a run, brandishing weapons and bellowing war-cries.
Rufus felt the first wave of panic wrenching at his mind as he turned to check the other streets. Though he could see no further sign of an uprising, a distant roar echoed up the main street just as two beacons sprang to life atop the harbour watch towers. Cold fear gripping him, Rufus spun again at the sound of a scream and then the clash of steel at the east gate that he had just left.
Cursing under his breath, he turned back to the three men rushing towards him and beckoned desperately.
Damn it! He’d known something was wrong and he’d taken every precaution he could think of to protect Gesoriacum. No officer would have done it better, and few would have managed what he had, given his resources. But he’d been wrong-footed in the worst possible way. He’d given Gesoriacum adequate protection against anything except its own citizens.
A local uprising hadn’t even occurred to him.
The Morini had risen.
As the three soldiers reached him, the legionaries turned the corner, dragging the limp figure of Cilo. Rufus’ heart jumped again as he realised how close the mob was. The four of them would quite clearly never make it back to the fort in time like this.
Falling in next to them, he glanced at the tribune. Now that he was closer he could see the extent of the officer’s wound between the flapping folds of cloak. The man’s white tunic was soaked crimson with his blood, centred around a wide slash that had cut the man’s gut almost from side to side. Even as he moved, Rufus saw a hint of purple intestine through the blood-soaked tunic.
Reaching across, he put two of his fingers to Cilo’s neck just beneath the jaw line. The pulse was hardly there at all.
“Leave him!”
“Sir?” One of the legionaries stared at him in disbelief.
“He’s a dead man; as
“He’s alive, sir.”
Rufus reached across and jerked Cilo’s arm from the legionary’s shoulder. The dying tribune slumped between them.
“He’ll be dead before we reach the gate. Leave him; that’s an order!”
The other legionary released his grip on the tribune’s right arm and the officer collapsed to the floor, too far gone to even groan at the agony. The body slapped into the mud and shit, one leg shaking involuntarily.
“Come on!” Rufus bellowed, already breaking into a run. Next to him, the two legionaries sprang to life, racing after him. A count of five heartbeats later, half the population of Gesoriacum rounded the corner, yelling and waving swords, spears, axes and even tree branches.
“We’re in the shit, sir!”
“Not if we can reach the fort. We can last a siege for at least a month there.”
Up the slope they pounded, trying not to lose their footing in the slippery muck that flowed down the hill into the town. With a cry in familiar Latin, three legionaries suddenly dropped over a side wall from a garden to their left — some of the defenders of the town’s new walls, no doubt. From their urgency and curses it was clear that they also ran from pursuing natives.
“Report!” he bellowed between laboured breaths as they came alongside the new arrivals, one of whom was clutching a wounded, bloody arm, all three held swords, their shields abandoned in the rush to clamber over the walls.
The legionary glanced at the speaker in surprise and realised that it was his senior commander. Between wheezing breaths, he shouted as they ran.
“The wall’s over… overrun, sir. Dozens of ‘em… they… they came from every… everywhere inside the town… The lads on the… wall and down at the port…. are screwed, sir.”
“They control… the town now…. then?”
“Yessir. And… and I think there’s… more coming out… of the woods.”
“The whole… damned tribe, then!”
