Claudius

XXIX

A few miles upriver, Rufus stood beside Bersheba close behind the centre of the Batavian force. Frontinus had inspected the defensive line all the way from the river to the place where the red cliffs rose, giving quiet words of encouragement to his men and directions to the two centurions and the clerk who accompanied him. When he returned, Rufus could see the frown of concentration on his face as his mind went over every challenge the day would bring and how he would meet it. Frontinus knew there would be disaster as well as triumph, and chaos amidst the carnage, for that was the way of battles. But there would be a moment — there was always a moment — when the unexpected, or perhaps a combination of unexpecteds, would bring the crisis that would win or lose the fight. Nothing he did, no amount of preparation or thought, would prevent its happening and it was the way he, Frontinus, reacted that would swing the balance one way or the other. That was why he had placed Rufus where he was.

He explained: ‘No matter how many pretty speeches I make, how brave I sound, or how much my men respect me, the only certainty is that at some point we will be outnumbered, perhaps by as many as ten to one. I must use every weapon, every stratagem at my disposal to offset that fact, and no matter what you or your friend Narcissus say, the elephant is a potential weapon. The barbarians fear her. Adminius confirmed it, and even if he had not, the reaction of his warriors would have convinced me. So I want you here, at my side, in the place of greatest danger. She may make no difference, probably will not, but I can’t take the chance of losing any advantage she might give us when the lives of my soldiers may depend upon it.’

The wall of shields ahead of them was not yet an unbroken line. It was breached by four distinct gaps through which the survivors of the raid on Togodumnus’s horse lines would retreat when they fled before the barbarian host Frontinus thought — hoped — would follow them. Only when the last man was within the ranks would the gaps close. Adminius had demanded that his warriors be allowed to accompany the Batavian raid and take their revenge upon those who had humiliated them and ravaged their lands, but Frontinus refused. When Adminius talked of vengeance the prefect heard plunder, and in any case he did not need one more complicating factor in an already complicated plan. Instead, he suggested the Cantiaci king take his men to the top of the cliffs and protect the Batavian flank. The rain finally stopped, and the night was pleasantly mild after the suffocating heat of the day, but still Rufus found himself shivering. He tried to disguise it, for it was evidence of the fear that made his belly feel on fire and his bladder as if it might burst.

Frontinus appeared at his side. ‘Do not think you are the only man here who is afraid, Rufus. Look at them.’ He gestured to the wall of chain-clad backs in front of them. ‘Experience of war does not make it any less frightening. There are men here who have fought a dozen battles and shown dauntless bravery in each one. But a man’s reservoir of courage is not bottomless, and when the enemy is screaming in their faces their first instinct will be to flee — just as yours will. But they will stand, because they are soldiers and because their fear of the enemy is less than the shame of letting down the man next to them. When the time comes, Rufus, I will stand next to you and you will not run.’

That was when the soldiers came.

They saw the flames first, downstream and set back from the river. Quite small and then growing, feeding off the thatch and wattle of whatever house or storage hut the Batavian raiding party had set afire, until they reached up into the night sky like so many fingers clawing for support. One, then two, five, a dozen and finally too many to count.

They were too far away to hear the screams of the crippled ponies, hamstrung by the pitiless blades of the auxiliaries so they could be of no further use to their masters. But Rufus knew it was happening, because he had heard Frontinus order it. He imagined the carnage and panic as the sinister shadows slipped furtively among the tethered beasts, hacking this way and that, leaping to escape the lashing hooves as the stricken animals thrashed and shuddered and choked to death on their tethers. The British would hear it, though, and would have seen the flames of the burning huts. By now they would already be in their battle positions along the river, waiting for the Romans to come. But the Romans had tricked them, and they would rush to take revenge. How many had Adminius estimated? Fifteen thousand? Against two thousand. Rufus slipped his short sword from its scabbard and tested the blade.

The flawless black of the night sky had faded to sullen pewter by the time the raiders returned. They came in small groups, and at the run, but there was no panic. Every man knew his allotted place in the line and made unswervingly for the gap closest to his position. Frontinus had forbidden any looting, but Rufus noticed that a few of the Batavians at least were carrying prizes and cheerfully displaying them to their comrades. A small leather bag containing some nameless treasure. A Samian-ware drinking bowl that must have been imported from Gaul. The severed head of a small girl dangling by her blonde hair. The flow of soldiers slowed from a rush to a trickle and finally the space Frontinus had cleared between the defenders and the riverside scrub was unnervingly empty. Two thousand men held their breath and waited.

It was just light enough to see now; a ghostly, shadow light that made the impending tragedy all the more intimate. The Batavians must have been among those furthest into the British positions when Taurinus was wounded. The centurion was a big man, made heavier by the mail shirt he wore, and he was still semi-conscious, although he had taken a spear thrust in his upper leg that had crippled him. Two of his comrades carried him, stumbling over the rough ground beneath his weight. A third came behind, his face and his sword towards the enemy, and he was screaming at them to hurry. At first it was a shadow among the trees and bushes, a solid dark line against a lighter background a few dozen paces beyond the Batavians. Then the shadow took form and solidified into running men who stuttered to a silent, disbelieving halt when they saw the Roman ranks before them. As Rufus watched, the line thickened and became a wall, with the sense of an immense mass pushing behind it, urging the reluctant vanguard forward. Three hundred paces separated the pursuing British warriors from the Roman line. Taurinus and his rescuers were a third of the way across the cleared ground when the Britons noticed them. With a savage cry, a group of around thirty warriors broke clear and sprinted towards the little quartet. Rufus saw what was happening; understood the inevitable outcome.

The auxiliary acting as rearguard screamed a warning and ran for his life past the trio he had been protecting. At first, the two men carrying the injured centurian were so exhausted by the physical effort that they didn’t recognize the danger. Then Rufus saw them stop and look at each other. They knew what they were doing, understood what their decision meant to Taurinus. The very fact that they had risked their lives to stay with him was testament to the comradeship they felt. Yet there was a greater imperative: survival. They dropped their burden and ran. As he flopped to the ground, their friend was bewildered by the sudden change in his circumstances. He had been part of a unit — part of something more than a unit: a brotherhood. When the spear pierced his leg he had known, without doubt, that his comrades would bring him home. Now he was faint from lack of blood, disorientated by the shock of his wound and dumped among the filth and the sand. He opened his eyes and saw three retreating backs, closed them again. Where was he? Why had they left him? He reached out, tried to use his arms to force himself to his feet, but the strength he had always accepted as his right had deserted him. He lay back, trying to understand, but the waves of pain and exhaustion tossed him like some piece of ocean flotsam. Once more, he attempted to gather his thoughts; opened his eyes to see the roseate light of the dawn rising glorious above the trees. He had seen many such dawns. Dawns in far Germania, dawns in the sharp icy air of the Pannonian mountains; in the heat and dust of Spain. So many dawns. His mind picked him up and he ran among the woodlands of his youth, felt the sun on his back and lay down, waiting. She came then, as he always knew she would come. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was the one everyone wanted, and now she was his. A shadow covered the sun and he waited to feel the softness of her body upon his. He smiled.

Rufus saw the soldiers drop the wounded man. Knew it was the only thing they could do. Hated them for it. The pack which had broken free from the British force soon realized they would never catch the three able-bodied auxiliaries. They slowed, and very deliberately approached the crumpled form abandoned in the dirt. He watched the swords rise and fall, rise and fall again, faster and more frenzied, wisps of moisture clouding the air around the blades. Above the compact mass of British warriors first one object was raised, then another. He tried not to think what they were, but his eyes wouldn’t lie. An arm. Part of a leg. A head still encased in its helmet. A howl — more than a howl — a sound more animal than human rose from the British ranks, and Rufus realized they were not fighting an army; not fighting individuals. They were fighting a beast that craved Roman blood.