The Encircling Sea

XXVIII

THE TESTUDO LED the second attack and did it slowly. Five abreast and ten deep the legionaries went through the cleared entrance in the first rampart and then turned right, heading for the main gate. A spear came down and stuck into one the shields, standing up straight and wobbling slightly each time the soldiers took a pace forward. The next javelin struck the dome-like boss of another shield and bounced back.

‘Keep in step, boys,’ Tertullianus called out. He was in the third rank, his own curved rectangular scutum held up over his head and interlocked with those of his men. ‘Steady now.’

The legionaries had practised the drill many a time, although few had done it with a real enemy up above. A stone banged hard at the point where one scutum overlapped the next, sending a quiver across the whole roof of shields. Men flinched at the noise, looking up nervously.

‘Steady, boys. Keep going,’ the centurion called. His voice was firm and carried well for all its high pitch. He knew that the tone mattered more than anything he actually said.

Archers came behind them, but it was hard for them to dodge missiles in the narrow space between the inner ditch and main rampart, and harder still for them to shoot up at men on the wall. One of the auxiliary bowmen fell, struck on the helmet by a stone. Then another had his left arm broken and staggered away. Arrows stuck into the wooden parapet or sailed harmlessly overheard.

With a rumble, a basket of stones cascaded onto the testudo, scraping the calfskin cover of one of the shields so that its wooden boards were exposed. The soldier underneath went pale. Next to him a man started to mutter a prayer.

‘Liber Pater, be with me now.’

At the front, men could glimpse what lay ahead over the tops of their shields and knew that there was a long way to go. The men on the flanks saw the ramparts on either side of them inching past. Those at the back saw nothing, apart from the helmets and shoulders of their comrades, arms held up to keep the shields in place.

‘We’re doing well, boys,’ Tertullianus told them. ‘One step at a time, that’s all we need.’

Behind the archers came the Batavians, infantry and cavalry mingled together and with Cerialis at their head, a bandage around his right shin. With them went Vindex, a limping Segovax and his brother, and the other survivors of the tower, including Probus, whose bandaged side made him wince each time he moved, and Longinus, who had slipped away from the tribune. The auxiliaries carried two ladders salvaged from the first assault, and they went to the left. A few of the Harii followed them, and a trooper was pitched over with a javelin in his back, for it was hard to shelter behind shields when going in this direction. The centurion had a line of men walking backwards, shields together, but sometimes they slipped or wavered and, even when they did not, plenty of missiles sailed over their heads to strike the main group behind them. A team of sailors with a bolt-shooter stood in the open entrance way and the first heavy dart struck a pirate in the face with such force that the pyramid-shaped tip burst out of the back of his head. The second shot killed another of the defenders, and then the marines forced their way through the entrance and the men had to stop shooting. The marines had one ladder – the other had been broken in the earlier fighting – as well as a couple of ropes, and they followed the legionaries and the archers.

The testudo continued its slow, jerking progress. Up on the rampart, one of the pirates climbed onto the lip of the parapet and stood up straight, a big rock held above his head in both hands. He flung it down, his comrades grabbing his legs because he nearly unbalanced with the motion. The impact was dreadful, and the noise far worse, as the boulder cracked the boss of a man’s scutum, forcing him down to his knees. For a moment, there was a gap in the shields. Someone threw a burning torch from the rampart, but it missed the hole and simply lay on the top of the testudo, smouldering for a while before it went out.

‘Liber Pater, be with me now.’ The prayer was almost a whimper.

‘Bastards,’ hissed another legionary. ‘I’m going to kill every bastard bastard of the bastards, and that bastard god if he gets in my way. Let him stick to wine and wild women.’

‘Wish I could,’ said another, and there was laughter – tense and nervous, but laughter nevertheless.

‘Steady lads, keep together,’ the centurion called. ‘Not far now.’

The soldier stood up, knuckles hurting, and his shield rose to meet the others again. An arrow struck the man standing on the parapet, the point forcing its way through where four scales of his cuirass joined together. He twisted away from the blow, and his friends lost their grip so that he fell off, limbs waving, and smacked into the roof of shields.

‘Shit!’ yelled the soldier who had been praying. The noise was appalling, and half a dozen men staggered as they felt the blow, but the weight was spread and they soon recovered.

‘Come on, boys,’ Tertullianus said. ‘Not far, not far.’

The testudo jerked along, the spread-eagled body of the pirate lying on top, moaning.

Behind the legionaries, Batavians and marines were falling, and men tripped over the wounded and dead, but already Cerialis’ men had raised the ladders. A pirate tried to push one over, but ducked back when a javelin struck the parapet beside him, throwing up splinters.

‘Follow me!’ the prefect yelled, pushing one of his troopers aside and scrambling up the wooden rungs. He did not use his hands, and had sword in one hand and his raised shield in the other, so that he could not see the top of the ladder or the wall. Something slammed into the shield, but he kept going. Close by, one of his men was climbing the other ladder, but then slumped back, his helmet dented from the strike of a stone, and the man stuck there, legs caught so that he hung down and blocked the way.

Cerialis saw the wood of the parapet, the drab shield of one of the defenders in his path, and a spearhead came past his own shield and only just missed his face. Then the pirate vanished, falling back with the bolt from one of the engines in the throat. The prefect took another step, then another, and punched a warrior in the face with the boss of his shield, knocking the man back. With a shout, a soldier had pulled the stunned trooper off the other ladder and was climbing. Cerialis stabbed with his sword through the opening in the parapet, striking against a shield, but once again his opponent went back a step. Vindex watched from the ditch, saw a man coming from the side, knew the prefect could not see him, saw the slicing blow of his sword break through the boards of Cerialis’ shield, but then the pirate fell with a bolt in his shoulder.

The testudo was almost at the gate, the wounded pirate slipping with each movement and sobbing with pain. Up on the rampart men were lifting something heavy. An archer saw the bronze cauldron and yelled a warning, even as he loosed an arrow. One of the pirates carrying it let go, clutching at the shaft in his arm. More archers shot, and it was enough to panic the men so that the cauldron tipped too early. One of the pirates screamed as the scalding oil splashed onto his legs. Wood on the parapet smouldered, but most of the contents went in a wave down the stone side of the rampart. A legionary yelped as little spots of hot oil flicked onto his breeches. More struck the pirate lying on top of the testudo, and he writhed, making the shields bob underneath him. Then the cauldron thumped onto his chest, breaking ribs, and the men underneath staggered.

‘Hold together, lads. Nearly there,’ the centurion called. ‘Another pace, another. Now!’

The front rank had held their rectangular shields ahead of them. Now they raised them, adding to the roof of shields so that it reached the timbers of the gate. The second rank was tightly packed against them, for it consisted of sailors with axes and the dolabra pick-axe that was the army’s universal tool, and these men squeezed past to get to the front. There was not much room, but they swung the blades and started to bite into the timber. Stones smacked onto the shields above them, and then a pirate who had leaned over to throw at them screamed because an arrow hit him in the face.

The marines were raising their ladder, men starting to climb, when a second cauldron appeared on the wall. It was too heavy for the pirates to carry up to the gate and use on the testudo, so they raised it here and strained as they tipped the mouth over. Warning shouts came too late, and the stream of yellow liquid hissed as it fell. Men screamed as their flesh was scorched and blistered. One fell from the ladder, arms flailing. Another man was desperately struggling with the shoulder buckles on his mail because the liquid had seeped inside and was burning him. A shout of triumph came from the rampart.

Over to the left, near the sea, Cerialis was on the wall and could not remember how he had vaulted across. Two infantrymen and a trooper were beside him, the closest pirates dead, wounded or holding back, and the prefect bellowed because they had done it and were up.

‘Come on,’ he shouted to his men, and led them along the walkway to clear it of enemies. More and more Batavians clambered up behind them. There was a smooth ramp behind the wall, and the prefect kept an eye open in case some of the Harii gathered to attack him in the flank, but there was no sign of this. Men on the wall saw him coming and turned to face him, and he stabbed and hacked at them, smelling their rank breath as he killed them.

Vindex grunted with effort as he pulled himself up over the parapet. To his right the prefect and a dozen Batavians were making good progress along the wall, as the centurion led another twenty down across the ramp to cover their advance. There seemed fewer of the Harii and Usipi than he expected, and no sign of a reserve waiting to beat back any breaks in the line. Dark smoke rose from the cluster of roofs inside the stronghold. The Brigantian waited for Segovax, the Red Cat, and the others to join him. Probus needed help to get in and his pain was obvious.

‘You should stay here and rest,’ Longinus told him.

‘No,’ was the only answer the merchant would give. Behind them, Crispinus led the fifty legionaries kept in reserve and a force of sailors in through the entrance. Cerialis had passed the spot where the smoking ladder raised by the marines still stood, and the blue-grey clad men threw a couple of grapnel lines onto the parapet and were starting to climb. The rampart curved so that he could not see the gate, only the tower above it, and pirates were still there, hurling anything they could find down into the ditch. Vindex doubted that the legionaries would break through before the gates were opened from inside. The stronghold was falling, there was no doubt of that.

‘Which way?’ Longinus asked.

Vindex pointed at the smoke from the burning building, suspecting that his friend was behind such mischief. He circled his arm to point that they would work their way round to the left. No one spoke as they headed down the grassy ramp behind the wall.

The barn burned faster than Ferox expected, part of its thatched roof collapsing in a great gout of flame and smoke as he ran past it, feeling the wave of heat. There must have been something stored there to make the fire rage so quickly. He saw Brigita, waiting where the alley wound sharply round a house. Women were screaming, but he could not see them and guessed that the cries were prompted by the fire. He coughed because the smoke was blowing around him, little pieces of burning thatch wafting on the wind.

Ferox came around the corner, and was glad to see that someone had had enough sense to take them all back past the next bend. Around that corner the path opened out, and he found his little force waiting for him. He stood in the middle, Brigita beside him, with the redhead next to her and two of the lads to make up the rest of the front rank. The others waited behind them. The house to their left gave them some shelter from the smoke, but he could hear their pursuers spluttering before they reached the corner.

A hope that Cniva might lead so that they could kill him proved vain when half a dozen pirates spilled into the lane ahead of them, their shields on the wrong side because of the bend.

‘Now!’ Ferox yelled and the second rank threw javelins. One of the enemy was hit in the leg, another on the hand, making him let go of his sword.

‘Charge!’ Ferox screamed the command in Latin, but the others understood and followed as he ran at the pirates. Men turned, wanting to flee, but there were others behind them and in the tight alleyway there was no room to escape. He punched with his shield, making the man with the wounded hand stagger, and then rammed the gladius into his belly, feeling the long triangular point snap through the mail cuirass. Brigita cut down another before he could turn and use his shield for protection. A lad drove his leaf-headed spear right through the thigh of a pirate, so that the head burst out the other side, but the weapon stuck there, and the wounded man turned his scream of agony into one of anger as he hacked at the boy’s neck. The young warrior fell, blood jetting high, and the bare-breasted girl stepped over him and finished the pirate with a thrust through his mouth. A man came at Ferox, his shield up too high so that he could not see, and he swept underneath with his sword, cutting almost through the pirate’s leg.

Suddenly the Harii were gone, apart from those left dead or moaning in the mud of the alley. Ferox glimpsed the rest running, then a waft of black smoke made him blink.

‘Back!’ he yelled, ‘Back!’ because he knew that the relief would be short. He led them out past the buildings onto the open slope leading up to the lone hall where they held Genialis. They were only just in time, for a couple of men in black had appeared from another lane through the houses and could have got behind them.

‘In a line,’ Ferox shouted. ‘Here we make our stand.’ These youngsters were trained to fight as individuals, and with their small shields and inexperience he was not sure how long they would last in close slogging fights among the buildings. Here in the open they could fight as they had practised and prove themselves. Or they might just run away if the enemy came at them in a rush. Ferox was not sure, but reckoned that this was their best chance.

Three pirates came from the other lane, and they charged as soon as they saw the young warriors. One of the boys shouted something Ferox did not catch as he ran for the leader, and he wondered whether the lad was calling out his name or a taunt, but it did not matter when he ducked a wild hack and stabbed the pirate underneath his armour. Another boy, a little older than the first, slipped on the grass, and then gasped as the point of a gladius went through his armour and into his chest. He fell back, sobbing, the sword still in his body and pulled from the pirate’s grip. The redhead threw her last javelin, the point breaking through a pirate’s shield and sticking fast in his belt. She drew her sword and hacked the empty hand of the man who had lost his sword, then followed up, slicing into his leg just above the knee. He fell, and she strode past, going for the last man, who was struggling to drop his shield but could not because the spear would not move. The young woman’s face was contorted with hate as she spat at him and then hacked hard at his neck.

More pirates appeared, but these came with more caution. A whistle blew and Cniva rode out behind them, and they shook themselves into a formation two ranks deep.

‘Back!’ Ferox called, and the lad and the red-headed woman came back to form a line facing the enemy. Someone pushed Brigita aside to stand next to him and he was surprised to see that it was the mother. Her face showed no emotion.

Cniva blew his whistle, a shrill note, and then drew his own sword. He did not join his men as they began to walk up the slope, going slowly to keep in line. All of the second rank and most of the first had spears, ready to thrust overarm.

‘Cniva, you bastard!’ Ferox yelled, taking a pace forward. ‘Do you dare to fight me as a man?’

The leader of the Harii said nothing. His men took another pace forward and the distance now was no more than a dozen steps.

‘Kill them all!’ Ferox yelled. This was not the fight that he had wanted, but it was too late for that. ‘Come on!’ He turned the last word into a scream of rage and ran at the black shields of the enemy. There was a strange ululating screech in his ear and he realised that the mother was making it as she came with him, and then the other women took up the unearthly cry. The boys shouted, one of their voices beginning as a deep bellow and cracking into a squeak and that might have been funny if their deaths were not in front of them.

Ferox could see the faces of the men over their shields, and most were fair haired, but their skin was lined and he guessed that these men were Harii and Usipi from the days of the mutiny. There were none of the young boys who had grown up or been captured and raised by these pirates.

The former auxiliaries and mutineers did not flinch. One of his young lads threw himself at the enemy and was impaled through the head on a spear, but the others sensed their determination and stopped a little short. A spear point jabbed at Ferox and he caught it on his little shield, then gave way as the man punched at him with his own, bigger shield. Beside him, the mother had found a shield from somewhere, presumably from one of the boys who had fallen, and she twisted it, so that the edge half spun as she flicked it over the top of her adversary’s shield and smashed his nose. The pirate reeled and her sword darted upwards, taking him in the chin just where his cheek pieces tied together. The man’s eyes rolled up, so that only the whites were visible, and when she drew the blade out with a sucking sound he slumped forward. The woman jumped back, then came forward again before the warrior in the second rank could take the dead man’s place. She ducked, going under his spear, and he panicked, dropping it and reaching for his sword, a movement that opened him to a thrust into his side. The mail was strong enough to stop it being fatal, but he yelped and let go of his shield. The next attack was a thrust to the face and the man stepped back to avoid it.

Ferox’s opponent’s eyes flicked to the side when the man next to him died. The Roman jabbed at the pirate’s face, stopping the blow as the black shield came up to block it, and instead whipped the beautifully balanced sword down to strike the man’s thigh. It was a light blow, but the spear thrust that came back at him was weak and ill aimed. Ferox had his sword up again, point ready to lance forward.

The mother spun around as she slashed the man in the leg and he fell. She was through the formation, heading for Cniva, and some of the men in the second rank were turning around to reach her, breaking the line apart. There was an appalling scream as a spear drove deep into the redhead’s upper thigh. As the pirate wrenched it free a fountain of blood pumped all over him from the ruptured artery and drenched his legs and shield. He stepped over her, coming up on the unprotected side of the blonde, who went backwards, feinting against each of her opponents in turn. The neat lines had gone, but numbers were starting to tell. One of the boys, bleeding from a graze on his leg, desperately blocked cuts from a sword, and each time less of his shield was left. He slashed back at the pirate, but the man was bigger and had a longer reach.

Ferox looped his own shield over the top of his opponent’s bigger, oval shield, yanking it down so that he could stab the man in the face. An instant before the point speared through the man’s eye, the pirate’s spearhead struck him on the right side and drove through one of the plates. The pirate fell, and Ferox was gasping for breath, feeling the pain but not yet weakened.

A pirate came from behind the mother, and she somehow sensed and spun almost like a dancer, going towards him and slashing her blade across his throat. Cniva drove his horse at her, and the animal’s shoulder knocked the woman over. She rolled away and was up in a moment, but a spear took her in the side. Cniva slashed down, cutting into her shoulder so that she dropped her shield.

Brigita saw her plight and screamed as she hacked lumps out of her opponent’s shield, her sheer fury forcing him back. The rest of her warriors were too hard pressed to see what was happening, but the queen shattered the man’s shield and then sliced into his arm. The pirate’s sword grazed her leg, but she ignored it, stamping forward, right arm out and most of her body unprotected by her shield as she drove the blade through the man’s armour and into his heart.

Ferox was sure that the mother looked at him for an instant, then she dived under Cniva’s horse, stabbing its belly with her sword. The animal screamed, rearing, and its hind feet trampled on her before it threw its rider and fell. A pirate had his spear in both hands as he ran it into the woman’s body. Cniva was up, helmet gone but sword still in his hands. His horse sank down on its front knees, steaming entrails spilling onto the grass.

‘Bastard!’ Ferox yelled, his voice croaking because his mouth was so dry, and his side aching. He lifted his shield, saw the pirate meet it by raising his own, and instead twisted his wrist to thrust down, missing the man’s face but digging into his neck. Cniva was not paying any attention to him but was looking over to the right and suddenly there was a shout and men were coming at the pirates from behind. He saw Vindex, and one-eyed Longinus, but out in front was Probus, his face very pale.

The merchant’s brother said nothing, but waited, and at the last minute dodged the attack, and cut at Probus as his momentum carried him past. Blood pulsed from where the shoulder of his mail split. The merchant turned, thrusting with his sword. Cniva was too fast, ducked down and then grabbed the other man’s arm, pulling him into the stab of his own sword.

Ferox tried to push through. A pirate appeared, his beard more grey than brown and speckled blood on his face. The man had a spear down low and although Ferox pushed at the shaft with his shield it gouged a line across his calf. He punched the man with his fist, then hammered his face with the pommel of his sword. A horn sounded from the buildings ahead of them, the distinctive brazen challenge of the army’s cornu.

The pirates were breaking. They ran, hoping to escape, and a few threw down weapons and begged for mercy. There was none. Vindex killed two men as they turned and ran, and Longinus beheaded another pirate who kneeled in supplication. The Brigantian stared for a moment as the bare-chested young woman hacked again and again at a body lying on the ground, and Ferox could not tell whether it was the savagery or her nakedness that drew his interest.

Cniva stood in a circle of enemies. Segovax was there, and the Red Cat, and Brigita and two of the Batavians who had held the tower. Already the pirate chief was bleeding from cuts to the legs and arms, not knowing which way to turn as the spears and swords came at him.

Ferox was about to force his way through when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Vindex grinned. ‘Leave ’em. They’ve earned it.’

Segovax drove a spear into Cniva’s thigh and twisted it free. Then he swung the shaft, making his brother duck and one of the Batavians swear in alarm, and the wooden pole hit the leader on the side of the head. The northerner dropped his shield from his bandaged hand. He swung the spear again, two-handed this time, battering the pirate chief on the head. Cniva fell. Brigita and the Red Cat leaped at the same moment and their blades punched through the man’s armour and through his ribs. Cniva gasped, blood bubbling at his mouth, and if he was trying to speak no words could be made out. The Red Cat stared at him for a moment, and then began hacking at his neck to take the head as a trophy.

Probus had managed to sit up. Blood pooled around him, so fast was the flow from the great gash in his body that it could not seep into the ground fast enough. Pale before, he was now white as the bleached toga of a political candidate. His face twitched when the northerners raised the severed head of his brother. Then he began to laugh, a bitter, haunting sound racked with sorrow as well as pain. It turned into a cough, and blood spewed from his lips before he fell back.

Brigita kneeled by the mother. Her eyes were glassy, but she did not cry, unlike the other survivors who held the dead to them and wept. Vindex stood by the corpse of the redhead and shook his head. Ferox was too tired to know what he felt, although he suspected that the vision of a pretty young woman lying dead in a pool of her own drying blood would return to haunt him in dreams, worse even than the usual ones that came when he remembered past fights. The Brigantian crouched down and spoke to the girl with brown hair, who was cushioning the dead woman’s head in her lap, ignoring the blood that covered her.

‘She was called Cabura.’ The scout spoke with great sadness, and Ferox felt guilty that he had not learned the names of any of the people who had followed him. ‘That’s my wife’s name,’ he added, voice filled with the sadness of old loss and fear of pain to come.

Ferox could not think of anything to say, and was spared by the arrival of Crispinus, Brocchus and Cerialis at the head of a mix of legionaries, marines and Batavians. The Batavian’s prefect whistled. ‘Seems like you have had a bit of a time of it,’ he said. In the background there were screams, as the Romans hunted the last surviving pirates out and killed them. The women and children were to be spared, but some of the cries suggested that some of the women were not to be spared everything.

Crispinus was panting, face black from the smoke apart from a few lines made by beads of sweat. He gathered himself. ‘Report, centurion.’

Ferox did his best to explain what he had done. He showed them Cniva’s corpse. The northerners had planted the head on a spear stuck into the ground.

‘Do you want to take it back?’ Crispinus asked the prefect.

Cerialis shook his head. ‘No, it’s unlucky. Leave it here for the crows.’

Then Ferox told them about Genialis. ‘I was going to leave him to his father to deal with. Well, the man who raised him,’ he added, remembering that the tribune knew that he was really Cniva’s son. Probus lay under a blanket just a few paces away.

‘Instead you lay the decision on me, centurion.’

‘Yes, my lord. That’s what comes with rank.’

‘So it does,’ Crispinus said. ‘Well, let’s have a look at the little cuss.’ He left, followed by Cerialis and several legionaries.

Ferox felt the wound at his side. At the moment, the surgeons were too busy with the badly injured for him to trouble them. He really ought to take off the scale cuirass and clean it up, but he knew that it would be painful to do, so delayed, telling himself that it was because he might be needed.

‘Centurion,’ Crispinus called a moment later, so that at present it was not simply an excuse. The short tribune had come out of the hall. His helmet was under his arm, and he ran a grimy hand through his white hair. ‘Would you come here, please.’

Ferox marched over. ‘My lord.’

‘Ah yes, centurion.’ Crispinus peered at him as if he had not just summoned him over. ‘Your capture of the former hostage and fugitive Genialis was well done. However, when you told me that you had the lad, I did expect to find him with a head still on his shoulders.’