Every time he closed his eyes, Castus saw Valens lying in the dust. The town where he had died was only two miles to the south; the scouts had reported the Bructeri position an hour after his death. The day had already been sinking into evening by then, but the soldiers had clamoured to advance at once, shouting down their tribunes when they had given the order to make camp for the night, even raising angry voices to the emperor himself as he had ridden among them. But the order was justified: the troops had been exhausted, and they had a hard fight ahead of them. Besides, the Bructeri clearly were not going anywhere.
That night the town had burned, flooding the camp of the Roman army with hot orange light and filling the sky with sparks and smoke. It was a fitting send-off for Valens, Castus thought as he stood at the camp boundary watching the fires. His friend’s funeral pyre had been built of beams and hut-posts ripped from the town, stacked high, with his linen-wrapped body placed on top, the centurion’s stick laid on his breast. Many of the men of Valens’s century had wept openly as the pyre burned. Castus did not weep. Valens had been his closest friend since he had joined the legion back in Britain, and even if he once had reason to distrust the man, he had since forgiven him. Certainly Valens had saved his life that night on the riverbank. But all he felt was a cold desolate anger, and a sense of shame that he had not been there to help his friend in the fight. When the smoke smarted in his eyes he just blinked it away, staring into the twisting flames.
The army camped under arms, every man lying beside his shield and weapons, with a double sentry guard. Few of them slept, and in the dew-damp ash-grey dawn they rose and assembled in battle formation for their march to meet the enemy.
And there they were, Castus thought, impregnable behind their barricades. He had not had a good look before at the warriors of the Bructeri, but now as he watched he saw several of them climbing up onto their own wooden rampart to gesture and yell abuse or challenges at the Roman lines. They were tall men, muscular, some stripped to the waist and others dressed in woollen tunics. All were bearded, their long yellow hair drawn up and tied at the top of their heads, and they carried round shields painted in bold patterns of red, white and black.
Besides the barbed spears and javelins, many of them were armed with long, powerful-looking bows. The Romans were assembled in their cohorts just beyond effective archery range, but now and again one of the warriors leaped up on the barricade, flexed his arms and shot an arrow arcing over the swampy water. Most fell short, but when an arrow came down through the trees, shivering the leaves and bark overhead, the soldiers recoiled, cowering behind their shields in the fear that the slightest scratch or nip from one of those terrible missiles could bring a rapid and hideous death.
Castus had no idea whether the arrows were poisoned or not, but the fear was eating through his men, and their lust for battle of the evening before was rapidly draining away.
He looked to his right along the lines, and saw Rogatianus standing before his men, shield up, almost daring the distant archers to take a shot at him. On the far side of Rogatianus’s men were the big red shields of Legion XXX Ulpia Victrix. To Castus’s left was the old century of Valens, now commanded by his optio Macrinus. And beyond them, Castus could see the serried sky-blue shields of Legion II Augusta, with centurion Urbicus prominent in the front rank.
Urbicus glanced around, as if he sensed Castus’s gaze upon him. He raised his hand in a mocking salute, his top lip drawn back from his teeth, then made a weighing gesture with his open palm. Castus lifted his sword in reply. If I meet you on the battlefield…
‘Centurion!’ a voice cried, and Castus looked back to see a runner pushing his way between the armoured bodies of the men in the battle line. ‘Tribune Jovianus sends his greetings and requests to speak to you!’ the man declared, pointing back through the trees.
Castus nodded, directed a last glare across the water at the enemy barricade, then followed the runner back through the lines, calling out to Modestus to take over. He stamped his way over the bracken and trampled ferns behind the last ranks, and by the time he found Jovianus most of the other centurions of the detachment had already joined the tribune. Urbicus was there too, standing to one side with his arms folded across his chest.
‘I’ll make this brief,’ Jovianus said, to a growl of assent. ‘The flanking attack by the cavalry and auxilia has been held up – the stream further down was wider and deeper than expected, and they’ve had to march further west and south to find a crossing. Therefore, the legions must advance against the enemy position.’
‘Against that?’ said Rogatianus, flinging his hand in the direction of the barricade. ‘Dominus, we’ll be cut to pieces!’
‘That matters little,’ the tribune declared. ‘We are soldiers, and we have our orders… I will lead the advance myself, and the centuries of the Sixth and Second Legions will be the vanguard.’
As he spoke, Castus could see the twitch of the tribune’s jaw. The man was trying not to let his fear show. He had never thought much of Jovianus, but at least he was brave, or attempting to be.
By the time he returned to the front ranks of his men, the news of the impending attack had already spread among them. They muttered, many of them bunching closer together and crouching tighter behind their shields as if they wanted to root themselves to the ground.
‘Men of the British legions!’ Jovianus cried, striding out into the mud-scarred clearing before the battle lines. ‘Now is your chance to redeem your reputation as soldiers! Now, before the eyes of the emperor himself, you can display the true courageous virtue of Roman warriors!’
That was a mistake, Castus thought. At the mention of the emperor half of the men had turned to look back, craning their heads to stare through the trees. The barbarians on the other side of the flooded valley must have heard it too. They sent up a massed yell of defiance, then started beating their weapons and shields against the timbers of their barricade.
‘Soldiers, face to the front!’ Jovianus cried, his voice cracking. He swept his cloak back from his sword arm, hefted his shield. ‘After me – ad-vance!’
A shiver ran along the lines, a few knots of men edging forward. Castus stepped out from the ranks of his men, swinging the flat of his blade against the nearest shields. Unconquered Sun, protect me now… Your light between us and evil…
‘Come on, then!’ he said. ‘Or are you going to let me and the tribune fight this battle on our own?’
The line shuddered again, the men keeping themselves covered. Only a few of them began to shuffle forward, one step at a time. Castus felt cold sweat breaking all over his body. He had trained these men himself – would they really disgrace him now? Or, he thought as he turned again to face across the swamp, was the disgrace his own? He felt the fear racking him, threatening to buckle his body. His men could read that, as clearly as they could hear the fear in the tribune’s voice when he had addressed them…
Only madmen and liars say they are not afraid.
Yells from his left, and Castus glanced around to see Jovianus sprawled on his back. He thought the tribune had slipped in the mud, then saw the blood welling from between the cheek guards of his helmet. On the enemy barricade, a lone bare-chested slinger gave a shout of triumph, raising his fist above his head before dropping back out of sight. A party of soldiers rushed out from the Roman lines to raise their shields over the fallen tribune.
‘Slingshot hit him in the mouth,’ Flaccus said, wincing as he gripped the standard with white knuckles. ‘Reckon that’s the end of his career as a public speaker.’