The orderly scurried over to the dressed and armoured senior centurion and helped him fasten on the leather harness draped with torcs and phalera. Still pale and unhealthy-looking, Baculus had been forbidden any kind of hard exercise by the medicus, but that hardly mattered now that the man was busy setting up his hospital for the inevitable influx of wounded, the orderlies rushing around obeying the man’s commands.
Even from here, if they paused and listened, they could hear the howling and baying of the enemy outside the walls. Baculus drew his gladius, nodding his satisfaction at the oiled hiss as the well-kept blade came free.
‘Is this wise, Sir?’
‘Just get back to counting bandages,’ Baculus snapped and turned, fully equipped and ready, if a little wobbly on his feet, just as the sick ward door opened.
He took a few tottering steps forward as half a dozen legionaries limped in.
‘Where are you lot going?’
The man at the front of the small group stopped in surprise, his eyes widening at the sight of the senior centurion before him.
‘Sir?’
‘I said: where are you lot going, soldier?’
‘Sick-listed, sir. We were all consigned to the sick huts and the duty centurion let us go when Trebulus back there threw up on his foot. We’re all sick, sir.’
‘You seem to have the requisite number of limbs and you’re walking a sight easier than me,’ Baculus growled. ‘I’ll give you the count of three to turn on your heel and get back out there to the camp walls before I test just how much strength I have beating the shit out of half a dozen shirkers!’
‘But sir?’
‘Now!’ bellowed Baculus glaring at them and underlining the word with a sword-waving gesture.
The legionaries, suddenly finding themselves a lot more hale and hearty than they’d reckoned a moment ago, turned and hurried out of the hospital. Baculus watched them go and glanced over his shoulder at the orderly. ‘Anyone else malingering needs to go to the wall. I will hold you responsible if we’re undermanned and I later find out there were men here abed who could stand and wield a sword.’
Without waiting for a retort from the medical staff, who were always outspoken and believed they outranked everyone bar the Gods, Baculus stomped out into the camp wishing he had his vine staff for his free hand.
Chaos appeared to be reigning in the fort. With no apparent organisation, men were everywhere, some huddled in the shelter of the granaries, where a small altar to Mars stood, throwing wine and offerings onto the hollowed top and casting up desperate prayers. Others ran back and forth, apparently randomly. A couple of men seemed to be loading a pack animal with bags.
At least the six he’d chastised were now making for the rampart. With a deep grumbling breath, Baculus stomped over to the men with the donkey.
‘What, pray, are you two men doing?’
‘Preparing to fall back, sir!’
‘What? Why?’
‘Centurion’s orders, sir. They say Caesar’s army has been defeated and now the tribes have come to finish us off.’
‘Do they indeed?’
‘Centurion wants the unit money chests and the standards secured to leave, sir.’
‘Does he? Did he tell you how he intended to retreat, given that, from a simple check with my ears, it appears that the camp is surrounded?’
‘Dunno, sir. We just…’
Baculus grasped the man by the scruff of the neck, bunched up his tunic in his fist and dragged the man forward until their noses almost touched.
‘Get back to the wall and leave the donkey. Draw a sword and shield and kill some of those bastards.’
‘But sir…’
‘If the enemy don’t kill you, I might consider it myself.’ His hand went meaningfully to his sword hilt and the two legionaries saluted hurriedly in a panic.
‘And when you speak to your centurion, tell that cowardly turd that when this is over, Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, would like to see him in the headquarters.’
Ignoring the two men as they ran off, leaving the donkey looking faintly bored and tethered to the wall, Baculus turned and picked out the men at the altar.
‘I think Mars is probably honoured enough, now.’
The men turned to see the senior centurion and saluted.
‘Well?’
‘Sir?’
‘Why are you still here?’
‘Sir, this place is cursed. We have to invoke Mars continually, because…’
‘Cursed?’
‘Yessir. Cotta and Sabinus, Sir. The Fourteenth died here to a man, sir, and the place is full of restless spirits. Now it’s our turn.’
‘No one is dying here without my permission!’ Baculus snapped.
‘The Gods, sir?’
‘Mars has been honoured enough, soldier. And no amount of divine favour compares to shields and swords up on that wall, now return to duty before I start laying about me.’
‘But sir…’
‘To the walls!’ Baculus yelled, so close and angry that flecks of spittle hit the man in the face. As the men scurried off, Baculus paused. He could hear the sound of a native charge, all ‘dying-ox’ music and screaming, outside the Praetorian gate. His eyes picked out an optio who seemed to be a man after his own heart, standing in the mud at the camp’s centre, grabbing soldiers who ran this way and that in a panic and issuing commands to them.
Striding over, Baculus stopped in front of the officer.
‘Good work. I don’t want to see a single man in this whole fort who is not busy on an assigned task or at the walls. No shirking or panicking.’
The optio saluted with a professional smile, and Baculus found himself starting to calm down. ‘Direct things here, but I need your shield.’
The optio without question handed over the curved shield, emblazoned with Caesar’s Taurus and the rearing horse over an ‘X’ that the Tenth Legion had affected since their arrival in Gaul. The Tenth? Then this optio was also officially on the sick list. Good man, to be out and doing his duty regardless. Grappling the shield, Baculus staggered a little, still weak, under the weight, and then jogged off towards the west gate, where the renewed sounds of battle were rising into the night air.
Rounding the last building and heading for the gate, Baculus found his heart almost in his mouth. Whoever was in charge of manning the walls was doing a poor job. There were maybe a dozen men around the gate top and another half dozen on the walls to either side. His ears strained over the noise and he could hear the tell-tale sounds of scorpion bolts being released up in the towers, but his experienced, professional ear could only pick out two sources, while there were four towers from which the weapons could be brought to bear. Sure enough, as he looked up, approaching the scene, only two of the towers showed any sign of occupancy. A legionary, leaning on his shield, his leg sheeted with blood, was busy giving out orders as though he held rank, and Baculus naturally made for him.
‘You in charge here, soldier?’
‘Yessir,’ the legionary said, bending to pull the tourniquet on his leg tighter, staunching the blood flow.
‘Where’s your officer?’
‘No idea, sir. He muttered something about supplies and pissed off a while ago, sir.’
Baculus shook his head in disbelief.
‘Consider this a field promotion, optio. Get runners sent to any barracks where the men are still not engaged. We need a full artillery crew in each tower, with support and any missile troops you can dig up. And I want ten times this number of men up on the wall.’
‘Yes sir,’ the soldier nodded emphatically. ‘If I’d had the authority…’
‘You’ve got it now. Invoke the name Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth and get everything you need.’
‘Yes sir.’
Leaving the soldier to his tasks, Baculus laboured up the steps to the wall, watching the timber gates bowing alarmingly and the locking bar straining as the four men there threw precious grain sacks behind the leaves of the gate to impede the attempts to break in.