The Encircling Sea

XXVI

THE STRONGHOLD LAY on a narrow headland on the north side of the bay. Its two stone ramparts crossed from shore to shore. The first was about fifteen feet high, including a simple four-foot-high stone parapet. A ditch ran in front of it, filled with a dribble of water, which would make it slippery if nothing else. The first wall had an open entrance near the sea on the left, which the pirates had blocked with a small wagon piled up with sacks and barrels. Behind the first line the land climbed, and added to the height of the second rampart, where the stone was reinforced with timber and topped by a wooden parapet, much like the one at Vindolanda or any other army base. A man on the second wall could easily throw missiles down onto the first or into the ditch in between them, but it would be much harder to shoot back at them. The main gate was on the right, protected by a tower. Inside were houses, arranged without much sense of order, and the ground rose as it narrowed. A single house stood inside a wicker fence at the end of the promontory, looking down over the bluffs.

Around the anchorage there were a dozen or more houses, a mix of the round native type and low rectangular huts were dotted around the open country, but all were empty by the time the Romans landed. The pirates left behind a small merchant ship drawn up on the sand, a few scant possessions in the buildings, and the smoking hulk of a trireme, burned almost down to the waterline. The glow of its fiery end had guided the convoy to the harbour. It seemed a strange gesture, and Crispinus wondered whether it was meant to show that the pirates would fight to the end because they had chosen not to escape. He saw no sign of unexpected allies eager to help.

‘You reckon at least one hundred and fifty fighters?’ Crispinus had already asked the question several times.

‘At least that, my lord, and probably a good few more.’ Vindex gave the same answer. ‘We may not have seen their whole strength. A good few are dead or won’t be fighting anyone for a while.’ The Brigantian had arrived as they were landing, accompanied by a Batavian, both of them shouting that they were friends to avoid being mistaken for Usipi. He had told them about the fight at the tower, and of Ferox’s plan to burn Cniva’s warship.

‘But he didn’t get near it. The Red Cat says they met a band of warriors who took the centurion and the others away. The ship was already burning. He reckoned that the warriors may have done it, but could not say for sure. They all left by boat after that.’

Crispinus was not inclined to count on help from mysterious allies, and preferred to believe that the pirates had made a grand gesture of their own. They certainly looked determined enough. He was three hundred paces from the outer rampart and he could see it lined with dark figures carrying black shields.

‘Say two hundred or so,’ Aelius Brocchus concluded, ‘along with women and others who can throw or drop rocks if they cannot swing a sword.’ If the cavalry prefect resented the presence of the military tribune, he did not show it. Crispinus had travelled back quickly from Hibernia, and by luck as much as the shipmaster’s judgement had sighted Brocchus and his ships already at sea and joined them. In spite of his youth he was senior, so assumed command of the expedition. A victory here would do much to round off his first spell with the army, adding to his earlier achievements and the promised corona civica.

Cerialis had gone with thirty Batavians to secure the tower and his lady. They had found a small cart by the houses, and the men dragged this along to help carry the wounded. That was more than an hour ago, and they ought to return before too long.

‘No archers, you say?’ Brocchus said.

‘A couple,’ Vindex said. ‘But not that good.’

‘Slings?’

‘None we saw.’

‘Good,’ the prefect said. ‘So javelins will be the big danger, and stones thrown by hand. He turned to one of the centurions commanding a trireme. ‘Are the ladders long enough?’

‘Should be, my lord. I cannot see how deep the ditch is behind the first wall, though. If it drops a lot, then they may not reach.’ They had brought four ladders with them, each a little over twenty feet long, for Brocchus had guessed that the pirates’ lair was likely to have some sort of stronghold. He wished now that he had brought more. Men had been sent to scour the buildings, but there were no timbers long enough to be made into ladders. The sailors had produced ropes with grapnels on the end, but he doubted that anyone other than the ships’ crews would have the skill to climb them.

Over half their force was from the classis Britannica, which was good in many ways because their life made them strong. Forty were marines, each man with a helmet, mail, sword, long hexagonal shield and a javelin. There were also two hundred and fifty rowers, apart from the men who remained on board the ships, but these sailors lacked body armour, and only about half had a helmet and a shield. The rest were set to entrenching a position around the beach. It might be useful, especially if they failed to break into the fort on the first day. Yet the sailors were nervous, saying that they feared a fresh storm coming in. It would be better if they could win quickly.

Brocchus had brought a hundred legionaries from II Augusta. They were picked men, all from the first cohort, with many six feet or more, tall and all experienced. Two centurions commanded them, both sound men, and Crispinus knew that these were the heart of his force, although he also had a good deal of confidence in the Batavians. Brocchus had brought fifty infantrymen under a centurion from cohors VIIII and there were also thirty of the troopers who had accompanied him to Hibernia. Cavalrymen were never keen on fighting dismounted, but anyone could sense the hatred all of them felt towards this enemy. One advantage was the detachment of twenty archers, reinforced by sailors with half a dozen of the smallest engines used by the army, little bolt-shooters. If pressed they were light enough to be carried and operated by one man, but the sailors worked in teams of two, which was more efficient, and had a third and a fourth man carrying baskets of bolts.

Crispinus summoned the officers to a consilium. He was relieved that the pirates were not choosing to make a stand outside the ramparts. Although they would be driven back in time, it would cause delay, wear his men out, and he doubted that this Cniva would be foolish enough to be lured forward and destroyed in the open.

Cerialis rode up as they were gathering. They had brought only a single horse, and the tribune had given it to the prefect to speed him as he went to find his wife.

‘I trust the Lady Sulpicia is safe, my dear Cerialis,’ the tribune said, doing his best to make it sound like no more than a polite question about someone’s health.

‘Indeed she is, my lord,’ the prefect replied, ‘but now that I have seen her, I would not wish to miss the kill. I have a good deal to pay back.’

‘Of course, of course. Well, your Batavians will form in the centre, and be the first to attack,’ Crispinus informed them. The infantry would lead, supported by the archers, and with the dismounted troopers in reserve. A second column would form on their right, led by the marines, supported by one hundred sailors as well as the bolt-shooters. Each of these columns would be given two of the precious ladders. The legionaries were placed on the left, closest to the gate in the outer wall. Half, under the junior of their centurions, would be ready to advance, with the remainder following as reserve under the command of the hastatus of the legion, Julius Tertullianus.

‘You are to wait for my signal, my dear Tertullianus.’ Crispinus was more than usually courteous, for the centurions of the first cohort were men whose opinion mattered. Tertullianus was in his early thirties, a thickset man with a bull neck, the iron shoulder bands of his segmented cuirass making him look almost square. Crispinus found himself thinking of coins of Mark Antony, for there was the same flat nose and face, giving off a sense of brooding anger. Tertullianus was young for a man of his rank, suggesting at friends in high places as well as considerable talent, and he was the choice of the legate. All of this made a display of trust in him prudent.

‘I intend to hold the legionaries back a little,’ the tribune went on. ‘We may take the first wall without their assistance.’ The senior centurion’s face was rigid. He looked angry, and that was his natural expression, but Crispinus also sensed doubt. ‘The second wall will be far harder, because it is difficult for us to approach it. I suspect that your men will lead that assault, but I am not yet sure whether to send you against the gate or part of the wall itself.’ He tried to read the impassive face, wondering whether the centurion thought this all too vague. The tribune turned to Brocchus. ‘Any luck finding material to burn the gates?’

‘Not much. It’s too early for the heather to be any use. We have stripped some thatch from the houses, and filled all the sacks we have. Tied up a few bundles of branches as well, but it is not a lot.’

‘Well, it may serve, and we shall have torches ready to light it if the chance occurs. Otherwise, it will be down to your axemen, Festus.’ This was to the centurion in command of his ship. Half a dozen burly sailors would carry axes and picks ready to hack through the gates.

‘We shall cover you like a roof,’ Tertullianus said. Even though he ought to be prepared for it by now, Crispinus still struggled not to smile at the high, squeaking voice coming from the mouth of so formidable a man. ‘The Capricorns will protect them.’ Formed by the Divine Augustus, the legion had his capricorn symbol on their shields.

‘Yes, you can rely on us,’ Crispinus added, for he was tribune of II Augusta and it never did any harm to flatter the pride of a unit.

The plan was a fairly simple one, and yet once again Crispinus was surprised at how long it took for the various parts of his tiny army to form up in position. Brocchus was busy, guiding the leaders to the right places, urging the men on and joking with them. Crispinus admired the courage of the troops, for he had seen men much like these fight and win against heavy odds, but they remained strangers to him. He would have liked to make them laugh and show how much he trusted them in the way the prefect seemed to find so easy. Yet he did not know how, and in the past when he had tried it had sounded stilted and been met with silence.

Crispinus stared at the fort instead. Now that Cerialis was back, the tribune had mounted their lone horse. He told the trumpeter and the man carrying the red vexillum with the golden embroidered figure of a Victory to stay there, while he rode a little closer to the fort. There were black-clad warriors along the first rampart. He counted fifty or so and wondered whether more were hidden. More of the enemy were visible on the second, higher rampart. At first they were silent, but when he came within one hundred paces a few started to yell.

‘Boy-lover!’

Vindex had spoken of a couple of archers, and the tribune hoped that they were as unskilled as he claimed or saving their arrows for the real assault. He rode on, gripping his sword tight in case he dropped it in his nervousness.

‘Come here, sonny, and I’ll give it to you up the arse!’

The tribune rode closer, back straight and head erect. A muscle in his thigh gave a spasm of cramping pain, and he tried to ignore it. He was seventy-five paces from the wall, and the faces along the rampart were distinct. He saw plenty of older men, most with beards, and a few younger ones. At the moment they were all bare-headed, no doubt waiting until just before the fight to don heavy and uncomfortable helmets.

‘Hey, I think he’s in love with me!’ one of them shouted, and there was a roar of laughter.

Crispinus kept going, knowing that at this range even a bad archer would struggle to miss. He was still not quite sure why he was doing this, and he imagined Ferox’s scorn at the gesture. That made him wonder where the centurion was, for the man was surely out there somewhere, and unlikely to sit out a fight unless he was held captive. Crispinus did not know, but wished the grim centurion was here, because he so often came up with a clever idea. The tribune could not think of one, so he must attack straight into the face of the defences and trust to his men to win.

At fifty paces he reined in.

‘Looks like you’ve upset the pansy!’

‘Probably smelt you and changed his mind!’

‘Oh love, come to me.’

Crispinus ignored the taunts and the laughter, and the man who thrust his bare bottom over the top of the parapet. He waited, his thigh twitching and sweat on the palm of his hand where he gripped the bone handle. At last there was silence.

‘In the name of the Lord Trajan, three times consul and master of the world,’ he began.

‘Reckon they’re surrendering,’ someone shouted.

‘Well, tell them to piss off!’ another yelled.

‘You have broken your sacramentum.’ Crispinus knew that he still had much to learn to reach the highest levels of oratory, but his was a trained voice and he made it carry without seeming to shout. ‘That oath is to the emperor and to Rome. You have broken it and committed horrible crimes.’

‘We have, sonny.’ No one on the wall laughed this time.

‘By order of the emperor, every man in this place is condemned to death. That sentence will be carried out today.’

There was silence, apart from the heavy breathing of the horse. Then Crispinus felt the animal’s spine twitch. Its tail went up and he heard the heavy smacks as the steaming droppings fell to the ground. There was nothing he could do, so he tried to make the best of it. Keeping the back legs where they were and holding the reins tight, he kicked the horse on the side to make it turn on the spot. Once it was round he pointed the tip of his sword at the dark brown pile.

‘Your lives are worth no more than that!’ This time he did shout, and the sound echoed back at him. He spat, hoping that the whole vulgar display might work for his audience. A javelin was flung from the wall, but the range was absurdly long and it fell short.

‘Coward!’ a voice yelled. ‘Come back and fight me man to man.’

Crispinus ignored him and rode back to his men. A canter would have looked like nervousness, but he let the animal trot because he could imagine the archers coming to the wall and sighting along the line of their shafts. He waited, feeling his back tense underneath the armour as he imagined a hissing arrow flying straight at him. None came. As he got close the sailors and marines started to cheer. The Batavians took up the shout, banging the shafts of their spears against the rims of their shields. The legionaries were silent, but they were further away and kept under tighter discipline.

Aelius Brocchus nodded to him as he returned to the vexillum that marked the position of the commander. No other standards were carried by the force. Crispinus decided to take the gesture as one of approval, although it was hard to tell for he could be a stern man. Lucius Ovidius showed no such restraint, and the tribune was surprised to see him there, along with others from the tower.

‘Very bold,’ the old man said cheerfully. ‘But a word of warning, though, as a man of letters – if you ever put all this to verse, I’d skip the part about the horse shit.’ Ovidius noticed that Sulpicia Lepidina was walking over, and immediately reddened, nervous that she had heard his vulgarity.

‘My lady, it is a joy to see you safe and well,’ Crispinus said, and meant it. The prefect’s wife cut an uncommonly fine figure in her simple peasant dress. Crispinus suspected that on his return to Rome in a year or so his father would insist that he marry, and at the moment he felt he could not wish for more than a younger version of this lady – or at least one from a family less heavily in debt. He was surprised that this prudent thought made him feel a pang of guilt, and decided to avoid a conversation. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, we must set to our duty. Perhaps the noble Ovidius will escort you to a place of safety?’

‘Of course,’ he said, while the lady gave a slight incline of her head.

‘My dear Brocchus, would you be kind enough to tell Cerialis that he may advance when ready.’ The prefect jogged the twenty yards to give the order, and Crispinus wondered whether he ought to have sent a simple soldier as messenger. Yet he had not thought to keep more than the trumpeter and vexillarius with him. He noticed the one-eyed Batavian and a couple of other troopers with the lady. ‘You and you.’ He pointed to the veteran and one other. ‘Come here. You will serve as runners.’

‘Sir.’ The one-eyed soldier had a hard gaze and the tribune was not sure whether the man resented being given the order. After all, they had fought and barely lived through a very tough fight in the last days, so could well feel that they had played their part. Crispinus looked around for Vindex, wanting to add him to his followers as well, but he could not see the scout so gave up the idea.

A low rumbling shout began, making the horse spin around to see what had caused it. The Batavians had begun the barritus, shields raised high in front of their mouths so that the sound reverberated. There were only eighty voices, and they began quietly, letting the sound rise like waves washing against the shore. The horse’s ears twitched, and the sound took the tribune back to the campaign against the Stallion. There was something unearthly about the noise, as it grew stronger and stronger. The Harii and Usipi were Germans as well, but no answering challenge came from the fort.

‘It’s all right, girl.’ Crispinus spoke softly to the horse as the shout reached its crescendo and ended with a bellow of sheer fury.

‘Silence!’ Flavius Crescens, the centurion leading the Batavians shouted the command in a clear voice. ‘Listen for the orders. Keep in formation. Forward march!’ Six soldiers carried each ladder, and the remaining thirty-six followed them in a column four abreast, the centurion at the head and the optio bringing up the rear. The archers scattered and jogged ahead of them. Cerialis waited for a short time, and then led his troopers in support.

There was silence apart from the rhythmical rattles and thump of armoured men marching in step. The field was flat, the thin grass short, and the men kept in their formation without difficulty. Crispinus was behind and to their right, so he could not see the red symbols on their green oval shields, but the dark hair-like moss stuck to the tops of their helmets gave the infantrymen an oddly drab look. At this distance, the bear and other animal fur glued to the helmets of the troopers looked little better.

When they were a hundred and fifty paces away, a great cheer went up from the fort. Cow horns blew and there was the shrill sound of dozens of whistles. One of the archers stopped and loosed, the arrow striking the stone parapet and bouncing back. The duplicarius in charge of the auxiliary bowmen cursed the man and told him to wait until they were closer.

Crispinus turned to Longinus. ‘Tell the fleet to attack,’ he said, and the lean veteran loped off towards the marines and sailors. They sent up a great whoop when the order came, and banged weapons against shields as they advanced. All of the marines were in a block, ten broad and four deep, and the lines were soon a little ragged in spite of the pounding of shafts against the rims of their hexagonal shields. These were painted blue, with white tridents pointing from the top and bottom edge towards the central boss. Their mail cuirasses were covered with blue-grey over-tunics, so that only their bronze helmets glinted in the sun. Sailors carried the ladders, and the teams of men with each of the hand-held bolt-shooters spread out on either side. Other men ran forward, clutching javelins.

The legionaries had not moved and stood in silence as if on parade, formed in two rectangles, the rear one echeloned back to the right. Crispinus glanced over to them, but felt no worry that they would surge into the attack before he gave the order. Tertullianus stood at the head of the leading formation, and that made the tribune wonder whether he intended to lead from the front and not stay with the reserves. After a while he decided that it was better to let the man do what he wished rather than send a fussy order to check that he understood his instructions. The burly man with the high-pitched voice had been decorated for service on the frontier in Egypt, as well as during Domitian’s wars against the Germans, so he knew what to do.

‘Hah!’ Aelius Brocchus slapped his thigh with delight, and Crispinus realised that the archers were starting to shoot. ‘Got the swine right in the face,’ the prefect explained. His relish was surprising, for he had always struck Crispinus as a calm, even mild man. Then he remembered the raid on Alauna, that these men had threatened the prefect’s family and abducted his friends. Crispinus could sense that same hatred in all ranks. It would spur them on, but he must be careful not to lose control.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s take a closer look.’ The tribune walked the horse towards the fort. It was a shame that there was no mount for Brocchus, but he could not help that and might need to move quickly from one place to another. For the moment, the ambling walk of this animal made it easy for the men on foot to keep up.

The Batavians were fifty paces from the wall. One of the men carrying the ladders dropped, an arrow in his thigh, and the five remaining men staggered as they passed him, but kept going. The auxiliary archers were shooting, and this time Crispinus was looking at the right spot when a pirate was pitched back, a shaft sprouting from his throat. The enemy had their helmets on now, and with the protection of the wall and their oval shields, nearly all of the arrows struck harmlessly.

Javelins and stones were coming from the defenders, and the men with the ladders were especially vulnerable, for it was hard to run with their burden and still keep a shield steady in the other hand. The team a man short lost another to a javelin that pinned his foot to the ground, and then a third man’s shield swayed at just the wrong moment so that a stone smashed his nose. An arrow hit the thrower at almost the same time, driving through his eye. The three men left dropped the heavy ladder, and men ran from the main group to aid them. The other team ran on unscathed, jumping down into the ditch. They waded through, ankle deep in mud. There was a dull clang as a stone hit one man on the helmet and he let go, falling to his knees in the brown water, but the others kept going and planted the ladder at the foot of the wall and began to raise it up. A pirate leaned over the parapet, javelin in hand, and then gasped as an arrow pierced his mail. He dropped rather than threw the javelin and it fell harmlessly.

With a cheer, the Batavians surged forward into the ditch. The second ladder was there as well, and men began to climb the other one.

‘They’re breaking,’ Brocchus said, his tone almost one of disappointment with a timid enemy. Crispinus had been watching the marines and sailors, who were also close to the wall, and when he looked back saw that the prefect was right. The pirates were running from the rampart in front of the Batavians. Before they went, they hoisted heavy baskets onto the parapet. One Usipi was killed by an arrow as he worked, but the rest kept on and Crispinus could imagine them grunting with effort as they tipped the baskets over and the big rocks showered down on the packed ditch. There was confusion, but the enemy were still fleeing and the first Batavian climbed over the parapet onto the wall. More followed.

Crispinus glanced back at the waiting legionaries, but decided this was too soon to add them to the attack. The marines were at the wall. A few men had fallen to missiles, but the bolt-shooters were more accurate than bows at a longer range and had driven the defenders down behind the parapet. Once the ladders were in place the defenders fled. If they had baskets of stones they did not use them, and the marines rushed up the ladders and leaped onto the wall.

‘You bring up the legionaries,’ Crispinus said to Brocchus. ‘Bring Tertullianus and get him to clear the entrance to the first wall and then be ready to assault the gate in the second.’ Without waiting for an answer, he spurred the horse into a canter straight at the marines and sailors. He wanted to be up on the wall, seeing what was going on so that he could judge what orders to give. In moments he was at the ditch, and jumped off, closer than he wanted, so that his boot slipped and he skidded down the side into the mud. His legs and the pristine white pteruges of his armour were stained dark. Sailors grinned at him and he grinned back, getting up and wading through to the nearest ladder. He patted a man on the shoulder just as he was about to climb, receiving a curse and then a hasty apology from the marine. Crispinus smiled again and pushed the man aside so that he could climb.

The ladder was steep, and the mud on his boots made him slip off one of the rungs, but he clung on somehow, round shield in one hand and sword in the other. More than a dozen men were up on the rampart above each ladder, and there were shouts of triumph and confusion. Crispinus reached the top, and one of the grey-uniformed marines reached out to help him up. The tribune was almost over, one leg on each side of the rough stone parapet, and he could see the last of the defenders running through the open gate.

‘There you go, sir,’ the marine said cheerfully, and then the man’s eyes widened and his mouth moved, but only gasps came from it. He slumped down onto the parapet, and Crispinus saw the shaft of the javelin that had struck him in the back. More missiles came, and he managed to raise his shield and block one before it hit him in the face.

The Romans were spread along a walkway about four feet wide, and above a sheer drop almost as high as the outside wall, for in the past someone had laboured to dig a ditch on the inside of the wall. Crispinus glanced down and saw several ropes down there and guessed that this was how the defenders had escaped. A stone clanged against the helmet of a marine next to him. The man turned, and the tribune saw his eyes flicker before he started to sway forward.

‘Grab him!’ the tribune yelled, and one marine dropped his spear to hold onto his comrade and stop him from falling off the wall.

The defenders were above them, no more than twenty feet away and they had javelins and stones and even a few clubs and axes piled ready and waiting. A stone struck a marine on the foot, breaking bone, and the man staggered so that a javelin came past his shield and drove through the mail shirt into his belly. The centurion of one of the triremes was yelling at his men to keep their shields up, but even when crouching it still left some of the head and legs exposed. Some marines hurled javelins up at the enemy, but the wooden parapet gave them much better cover, and so far no one had scored a hit. In return the missiles kept coming, wounding men, making it harder for them to protect themselves.

‘Come on!’ the centurion yelled, and leaped down from the wall, but he screamed as he landed badly, twisting his ankle, and then a heavy spear came from the inner rampart and its sheer weight let the narrow point punch through the left cheek piece of his helmet and drive deep into his head. The centurion was flung against the wall and collapsed in a heap back into the ditch.

Two of his men went after him, and although one hit the ground awkwardly, both were up, raising their shields protectively over the centurion.

Crispinus wondered whether he should follow, for the gate was still closing, and hoped it was not simply fear that stopped him. One of the marines in the ditch took a spear in the side a moment later, and when he fell he was pounded with rocks until he lay still. The other scrambled up the bank and ran at the gateway. A big stone slammed into his helmet when he was just yards away and the wooden gate closed as if to reinforce the hopelessness of his bravery.

The Romans screamed defiance at the defenders, but there was nothing they could do to stop this torment. The javelins and other missiles kept coming and now and then found a gap. A stunned marine tumbled down into the ditch. Another yelped when a stone clipped the toe of his boot, but the others were too distracted to laugh.

‘Back!’ Crispinus yelled, making up his mind. ‘Back down the ladders.’

They did not want to go. Partly it was because they feared the time it would take for them to climb down, and having to get over the parapet and be vulnerable to missiles, but mainly it was anger and pride. They had taken the wall from a hated enemy and they did not want to give it up.

‘You.’ Crispinus grabbed the closest marine by the arm. ‘Over the wall and back down the ladder. Now!’ The man nodded, then his head jerked to the side as a rock hit his helmet. He sank down.

‘You, lad.’ The tribune pointed at the next man. ‘Over you go.’ A javelin struck the wall near him, but the marine got over and then dropped his shield to make it easier to descend.

‘Go on, all of you.’ Crispinus’ shield rocked in his grip as a javelin struck the wooden boards before falling back. He had decided that he must be the last one down. The marines were moving now, but they seemed slow, so slow. He crouched, sheltering as much of his body behind his shield as he could. He glanced to the side, and now that men were going back he glimpsed the Batavians further along and realised that their attack had stalled in the same way.

Crispinus hoped that Cerialis would have the sense to order a retreat. A stone banged against his shield, and the tribune hoped even more that his life was not about to end here, on an old rampart on an island that seemed to have no name – or at least no name a civilised man would recognise. Up on the higher wall a great chorus of whistles blew and there were mocking shouts.