The War at the Edge of the World (40 page)

‘Yes, dominus,’ Castus said, reddening, but could not meet the tribune’s eye.

‘Look at those German cocksuckers!’ Modestus laughed. ‘Hey, Minervia!’ he called out. ‘Put some balls into it!’

All across the flank of the hill, the legionaries of I Minervia were toiling upwards, stripped to their tunics, lugging heavy baulks of shaped timber, rolls of cable and sheaves of iron-tipped bolts. Some hefted huge earthenware jars, carrying them carefully in rope slings. Castus paused to watch them; the line of men stretched away down the hill towards the marching camp in the valley below. Cavalry troopers stood guard all along the route.

‘Let’s go,’ Castus said, and gestured on upwards. The men of his century straggled behind him, climbing up the steeper slope past the labouring legionaries. They were sweating in full equipment and armour; none carried spears or javelins, but every sixth man had a coil of rope and a hooked grapnel over his shoulder.

Reaching the crest of the ridge, Castus paused again, breath­ing hard. The engineers were at work here in the hot sun, piling together stones and turf to build artillery platforms. Along the ridge to the east the ground dipped, and then rose again, and there at the last summit Castus could see the fort. It appeared very close now, fewer than five hundred paces away, and very clear in the bright daylight. He could pick out the figures of men moving on the wall ramparts, gesticulating and waving spears.

‘Why don’t they try to escape?’ Diogenes said, coming up behind him. ‘They can surely see what’s happening up here.’

‘They must think they can hold out against us.’

‘They’ve got a shock coming then!’ called Modestus. The optio was bringing up the rear of the century, herding the last stragglers up onto the summit. ‘They haven’t seen what one of these bastards can do!’ He gestured to the first of the artillery platforms, where the engineers were slotting and bolting the heavy timbers together, preparing the drums of cable that they would tighten into powerful torsion springs. Already the first of the massive long-armed
onager
catapults was taking shape. Further east, where the ground dipped, groups of soldiers from VIII Augusta were assembling the smaller bolt-throwing ballistae only a couple of hundred paces from the fort.

But those huge stone walls, cut into the hillside and lined with palisades, looked strong enough even to resist artillery. Maybe, Castus thought, the defenders were not so stupid after all.

‘Could we not merely starve them out?’ Diogenes asked, looking perplexed. ‘Surely we’d need only to wait, and after a few days…’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ Castus said, and cuffed the teacher’s shoulder. ‘Anyway, there’s no glory in it. Not the Roman way.’

Diogenes gave a resigned shrug. ‘
These are your arts, O Roman
,’ he gravely intoned, ‘
to impose peace, spare the van
­
quished, and crush the proud
… I suppose it must be so, then.’

‘Mule approaching,’ Flaccus the
signifer
muttered under his breath.

‘Dominus!’ Castus cried, standing to attention as Victorinus strode towards them. The rest of the century shuffled into line behind him.

‘Brothers,’ the tribune said, ‘the great work commences!’ The rest of the assault party were coming up the hill now, led by Valens and the third centurion, a wiry African named Rogatianus, who had been promoted from Legion XXII Primi­genia. The centurions gathered around Victorinus, giving their salutes.

The tribune showed his teeth as he squinted, pointing with his staff towards the fort. ‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘the land falls away on both sides and to the rear. Once night falls, the artillery attack will begin on the north-west side, facing us here… They’ll be using incendiary missiles, to set fires along the rampart there and among the huts in the lower enclosure behind it. Meanwhile, you’ll drop down off the ridge to the south and circle around into the valley to the east…’

Castus sucked his lip, trying to judge the distances in his mind.

‘Once you see the flames take hold,’ the tribune went on, ‘you’ll climb up the far slope to the south-east rampart. Castus’s century will lead. Once you reach the rampart, get inside as soon as you can…’

‘What if they see us climbing the hill?’ Valens asked.

‘Then you’ll have to fight your way in, and may the gods aid you in that. Hopefully the defenders will be distracted by the artillery attack. Once you’re inside the lower enclosure, one group will circle around to the right and seize the main gate from the inside, over there at the north-east end of the fort. A storming party from the Eighth Augusta will be waiting outside. Give a single call on the horn, then open the gates and let them in. A second group will scale the inner wall and enter the upper enclosure, then circle around in the same way and secure the inner gate. It’s vital that you do so – otherwise the storming party will be trapped between the  two walls.’

‘Oh, a simple exercise then,’ Valens said. He glanced warily at Castus. ‘Was this all Knucklehead’s idea?’

‘We’ve had patrols up and down the valley to the east all day,’ Victorinus said, ignoring the remark, ‘so it should be clear of hostiles, but once you’re down there, keep silent and stay under cover until you’re ready to begin the assault. When you see the first fires, get moving. The watchword is
Constantius Victor
… We’ve got four hours until dusk, and there’s a work camp below the summit over there – rest your men and have them cook and eat. They won’t get any more hot food until tomorrow.’

‘Or until we breakfast with Father Hades!’ Valens said.

Castus slept for two hours, lying on the springy turf with his cloak across his head, and woke suddenly with the sensation that somebody was looking at him. He threw the cloak aside and stared around him. The sun was already low, and long shadows stretched across the ridge. Against the lit western sky he could see the jutting catapult arms rising from the artillery platforms. Then he turned his head and saw the thick red features of Placidus as the soldier knelt beside him.

‘Tribune wants to see you,’ Placidus said. ‘He said it’s urgent…
centurion
.’

Scrambling to his feet, Castus rolled his cloak and slung it over his shoulder before following Placidus back up the slope towards the artillery positions. What did Victorinus want now? Had the plan been changed? The last shreds of disturbed sleep slipped from his mind as he toiled up onto the ridge.

The engineers were still making their final adjustments to the torsion ropes of the heavy catapults, and Castus paused a moment to watch them. Beside each machine were piled the big earthenware jars, still in their slings of plaited rope. Each would be filled with pitch, oil and sulphur, incendiaries ready to spill over the wooden ramparts of the enemy fort.

‘Centurion Castus,’ a voice called. Castus looked up; it was not Victorinus that had summoned him, he realised. His blood slowed, and he tried to keep his expression blank.

Nigrinus was flanked by two bodyguards, both almost as broad as Castus himself and dressed in the scale corselets of the Praetorian Cohorts. Compared to them, the notary appeared almost insubstantial, his head emerging from the folds of his moth-coloured cape like a mushroom. Placidus had fallen in behind him, smirking openly.

‘Centurion,’ Nigrinus said, drawing closer and dropping his voice. ‘You are the only member of the assault party who can identify the barbarian leaders by sight. I mean Drustagnus and the woman Cunomagla. It’s vital that you do so, and that you ensure they are… neutralised. By your own hand, if necessary. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘I’ve ordered one of your own men, here,’ Nigrinus went on, pointing to the lurking Placidus, ‘to stay close to you once you get inside the fort, and make sure you… do what’s required.’

‘I’m capable of ordering my own men. Dominus.’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ the notary said with a thin flickering smile. ‘Listen,’ he said, leaning even closer until Castus could taste his breath. ‘The emperor has placed great trust in you. If either of the barbarian leaders escape to rally further opposition elsewhere, the campaign could appear… less than entirely successful. So we need to make sure that there are no mistakes. I think we discussed your debt of loyalty before. This is your opportunity to pay it.’

With my life, he means
, Castus thought. And if that failed, there was Placidus ready to finish the job. He smiled. In his mind he was taking that brown cape in his fist and twisting it into a throttling tourniquet around the man’s neck.

‘I’m very grateful, dominus,’ he said, without warmth. Nigrinus too smiled.
We are neither of us fools
, he seemed to say.

‘Remember. The emperor is relying on you.’

They waited, sitting on the hillside in the cover of a thorny thicket, until the sun had gone and dusk swelled from the valleys.

‘Carry your shields on your backs,’ he told them. ‘Put your cloaks on over the top and pull the hoods up over your helmets.’ He scratched up a clod of earth, then dashed water over it from his canteen. Rubbing his hands, he turned the dry earth to mud, and then smeared it over his face.

‘Like that,’ he said. ‘All of you. There’ll be some sharp eyes up in that fort, and they know this country well.’

Then they rose and moved, two scouts going ahead of them and a party of archers bringing up the rear. A few men slipped as they descended the slope. Muffled curses, the sound of a blow. The sky was still deep blue, but the ground ahead was dark, tangled with bushes and low rocks, threaded through with streams. From high above them, the men heard wailing voices and shouts from the fort. The cries of defiance.

An hour of scrambling and clambering in darkness, picking their way down the slope and along the narrow valley. Each man clung to the cloak of the man in front, alert for any sound or movement from the massed shadows on either side. Castus went in front, trying to make out the shapes of the scouts moving ahead of him. He remembered this valley – he had passed this way during his escape from the fort the summer before. The memory was uncomfortably clear now. Every rearing shape around him looked like a hunched dog, ready to spring. He splashed through a shallow stream, and his boots grated on the stones.

Finally the soldiers reached the slope on the far side of the valley and crouched, cloaks pulled around them. The fort was directly above them now, up the steep, rutted hillside. Castus could see little of the ground; all he remembered of it was a long reeling descent, tumbling and leaping. He looked around him at the grey shapes of his men hunched in the darkness. Modestus squatted nearby, with Flaccus at his side. Diogenes, with his hood almost completely covering his face. Placidus caught his eye, and creased his brow before turning away. How much, Castus wondered, had the notary offered to turn Placidus into his willing accomplice? A purse of gold, a guarantee of promotion? Or just a chance to avenge himself for past insults?

And perhaps Placidus was not the only one. Castus remem­bered seeing Valens leaving the notary’s tent that rainy night. Was he too now an enemy? He glanced up towards the fort ramparts. If Cunomagla were in there, she would fight. Strange, Castus thought, that she had helped to save his life, when so many on his own side seemed determined to take it from him.

A moment later the first muffled thuds came from high on the ridge. From where they were waiting in the valley, Castus and his men could not see the great catapult arms swinging up and over, the slings whipping their missiles into high arcing flight. But as they stared up into the last glow of the western sky, they saw the dark shapes passing briefly, and then falling towards the fort. Castus knew the incendiary pots would be dropping onto the ramparts, shattering and spraying flammable liquid over the wooden palisades and the thatch of the huts in the lower enclosure.

‘Won’t be long now,’ he said quietly.

Sure enough, the waiting soldiers soon saw the streaks of flame against the sky: burning bolts shot by the bal­listae further down the slope to ignite the incendiary liquid. They sat, or squatted on their haunches, cloaks pulled around them, watch­ing the sky and the dark loom of the hill above them, the ring of stone wall high on the brink. The smell of burning came to them, the distant crackle of fires, and then they saw the sparks showering upwards against the night sky in the billow of smoke.

‘Form up,’ Castus said. ‘Pass the word along to Valens and Rogatianus.’

A rustle of low noise along the valley as two hundred legion­aries rose and moved forward towards the slope, tighten­ing belts and checking weapons, securing their cloaks to hide the gleam of their mail.

‘Hook-men and archers after me,’ Castus whispered to the men at his back. ‘The rest, follow the man in front of you and keep silent. We’ll reassemble below their wall.’

A figure stepped up close, dim in the shadow. Valens took his hand, clasping tightly. ‘Good luck, brother,’ he said quietly. ‘Juno protect us, Father Mars guide us!’ Castus saw the faint gleam of his teeth. They embraced fiercely and then moved apart, and the stir of sound died as the last men got into position.

‘So,’ Castus said. ‘Let’s begin.’

Scrambling, dragging himself up hand over hand, Castus tried to keep moving up the slope and not think about what might be waiting at the top. The hillside was far steeper than it had seemed when he had escaped from the fort, rutted with grassy hummocks, tangled with thorny bushes and studded with rocks and patches of loose stones. How had he not noticed that before? Cursing under his breath, dragging his cloak through the thorns, he forced himself on upwards. Behind him he could hear the men whispering, shields rattling, the bright clink of mail and weapons and the steady scrabbling thud of hobnailed boots.

When he glanced up quickly he saw the sky above the fort already dull orange with the fires and smoke from the far side. The wall and the palisade at the top were silhouetted solid black against the glow: how would they ever get over that?
Don’t think
, he told himself. His hands and face were scratched, and his bruised hip ached with every heaving step upwards.