There was no sign of the priest.
‘We’ll skirt around the marsh to the riverbank and then work our way upstream,’ Vespasian shouted as he raced right, down the slope.
They were halfway across the flat ground to the riverbank when a shout caused Vespasian to pause.
‘There they are, lads; up and at ’em.’ Caelus and the sixteen men that he had used to try and break into the keep had rounded the west wall, a hundred paces away, and were sprinting down the slope towards them, silhouetted by the siege tower burning like a huge beacon.
‘Shoot on the run,’ Vespasian ordered, unslinging his bow and notching an arrow. They each had time to release three or four shots apiece before they came to the steep bank leading down to the river. The resulting fire brought down none of Caelus’ men but forced them to raise their shields and slow down to a trot so as to keep them level and firm. Vespasian and his comrades turned and pumped volley after volley at them but they came on, flamelight flickering off their helmets and shield rims, impervious, behind their shield wall, to the arrows loosed at them, until they were almost within pilum range.
‘That’s it,’ Sabinus growled, ‘we’ve got to get out of here.’
‘You’re right, brother,’ Vespasian agreed, ‘back to the-’ He was cut off before he could complete the order.
‘Men of the fourth century, third cohort, Fourth Scythia, I command you to halt!’
The powerful and unmistakable voice of their primus pilus, bellowing from behind, brought the line to a sudden stop thirty paces from Vespasian.
Caelus spun round.
‘About turn!’ Faustus yelled.
With the discipline honed from years of obeying orders unconditionally they turned their backs on their supposed Getic enemies and faced Faustus, who came running out of the shadows. With a roar Caelus threw himself at him, sword pulled back for a deadly thrust to the groin. At the very last moment Faustus deftly stepped to his left and, as Caelus overbalanced past him, brought the hilt of his gladius crashing down on the back of his neck, sending him sprawling, semi-conscious, to the ground. Faustus quickly relieved him of his weapon and turned to address the bemused legionaries.
‘This piece of filth was using you to sabotage a Roman mission,’ he bawled at them. ‘Those men are ours; they had no choice but to fire at you. Tribune Vespasian, bring your men forward.’
Vespasian led his comrades up to the legionaries and pulled off his Getic cap.
‘When I saw Caelus leading his men back through the gate I knew he’d be after you so I legged it over here,’ Faustus told him as the legionaries recognised Vespasian and started to mutter amongst themselves.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Vespasian replied, ‘I’m afraid we missed the priest though, he’ll be well away by now.’
‘Well, we’ve all had a bad night then; the attack was a fucking shambles. We didn’t seal off the village properly and almost a thousand of the Getae broke out and torched our tower as it reached the fortress walls, killing a lot of my lads, before forcing their way out through the gates in the siege-wall. But at least we’ve dealt with the rest of them, the fortress is ours.’
‘Come on, little brother, we’d best be going,’ Sabinus said. ‘There’s still an outside chance of catching Rhoteces if he’s taken a boat downriver.’
Vespasian sighed. He was exhausted, but knew that even if there was just the smallest of hopes they should try. ‘What are you going to do with him?’ he asked quietly, looking down at Caelus, who was just starting to come round.
‘Well, I couldn’t kill him in front of the men,’ Faustus replied in a low voice, kneeling down over Caelus. ‘One of them would talk and Poppaeus would have me for murder, so I’ll take him back to the fight and finish him off there.’
A quick series of shrill whinnies caused them both to turn. The air filled with the rumble of hooves.
‘Shit! The horses are coming back,’ Vespasian cried.
‘Form a wedge, shields both sides,’ Sabinus yelled. ‘Pila to the front!’
The confused legionaries, aware that there was a danger fast approaching but unaware of its nature, quickly ordered themselves around their erstwhile opponents into a pilum-bristling V-formation as the first of the horses appeared out of the night, surging towards them.
In the confusion Caelus took his chance; he whipped his pugio from its sheath and rammed it into the side of Faustus’ neck; as the blood spurted from the jugular vein he leapt to his feet and pelted towards the fort. Vespasian made to run after him but one glance left, towards the dark tide of terrified beasts now only feet away, checked him. He let the doomed centurion go and instead knelt by Faustus, desperately trying to stem the gushing stream of blood.
The stampede reached the wedge.
An instant before contact the leading horses, perhaps sensing more than seeing the solid-looking, spike-ridden obstacle in front of them, veered right and left to avoid it; the rest followed their lead and the stampede flowed around the wedge like a river streaming around an island. From the relative safety of the interior Vespasian, hands pressed to Faustus’ neck, glanced back to see Caelus flick a terrified look over his shoulder and put on another turn of speed before disappearing, with a curtailed shriek, under the torrent of hooves.
The legionaries stood firm as the stampede washed around them; the ground shook with such force they were obliged to loosen the tension in their knees to soak up the shock waves pulsing up through the earth. The cries and the hoofbeats of the maddened, wild-eyed, foaming beasts enveloping them were deafening as they passed not an arm’s length from the shields; some animal instinct kept them just clear of the pilum points.
Finally the tip of the wedge appeared through the tail of the stampede and the last horses passed either side to be sucked together again, sealing the rend in the herd as if it had never existed.
They were clear.
It was a while before anyone moved.
‘Fuck me! I think I shat myself,’ Magnus said eventually in a hoarse whisper, ‘not that you’d be able to tell over the smell of these trousers. How’s Faustus?’
Vespasian looked down at Faustus who smiled weakly. ‘I told you the horse-fuckers wouldn’t get me,’ he whispered. ‘My Lord awaits me.’
His eyes glazed over and he was gone. Vespasian closed them with the palm of his blood-soaked hand and stood up. ‘Take Centurion Faustus back to the camp with honour,’ he ordered the legionaries, ‘and scrape up that lump of shit as you go,’ he added pointing to the battered and raw body of his friend’s murderer lying in a mangled heap a few paces away.
The dazed legionaries gave a few ragged salutes and lifted their primus pilus on to their shoulders. Sabinus touched Faustus’ chest and muttered a few unintelligible words over him, and then, without a word, they walked slowly away.
As he watched his friend being borne away Vespasian’s eyes were drawn to the fortress walls. They were now clear of Getae. Small squads of legionaries sauntered along them with the nonchalance of soldiers who have survived the rigours of battle and have nothing now to fear. A small, solitary figure appeared and looked out towards the river; his high-plumed helmet and crimson cloak glowed in the firelight. Vespasian knew that it was Poppaeus; the general raised his gladius and shook it at them. Whether he could see them or not Vespasian did not know or care.
‘Let’s go,’ he said to nobody in particular, and started to trudge towards the river.
It took a while to find the place where they had left Varinus and his mates in the boat.
‘Varinus,’ Vespasian called softly.
The prow of the boat appeared out of the reeds with Lucius and Arruns rowing; Varinus steered it to the bank.