‘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.