Now Castus joined the group assembling around the stand shy;ards: the centurions and tribunes of the cohorts, with the men gathered behind them. Smoke from the torches and braziers hung in the air, under the thin misty rain. The draco standards of the cohorts hung limp, but the signa of the centuries caught the gleam of the fires. All stood silent while the priests conducted the sacrifices, intoning prayers to Mars, Jupiter and the Unconquered Sun. Four thousand voices sounded the response, a strangely muffled rumble. Then the ranks of the officers and Praetorians parted, and a stooped figure in a dark purple cloak climbed onto the piled turf tribunal.
The emperor.
‘Fellow soldiers,’ he called, and his voice barely carried through the dawn murk. The ranks shifted, men moving closer. ‘Fellow soldiers,’ the emperor said again, more clearly, ‘I need say few words to you. Out there are the hordes of our enemies, eager to throw themselves upon your swords. Do not disappoint them!’
Sudden laughter from the assembly, men flinging up their arms in salute. The emperor raised his hand, and then stifled a cough. His face was waxy grey in the low light.
‘Remember…’ he said, clasping his cloak to his neck, ‘these are the savages who despoiled our province last year. Who burned our cities, our homes, raped our women, murdered our children…’ He paused again, coughing into his fist. ‘Show them no mercy! Let not one of them survive!’
The shout of acclaim was huge, echoing in the damp air. The soldiers surged forward, pushing against their officers, but the emperor was already clambering down from the tribunal, helped by his slaves. The moment of unity died into muttering, clattering of arms and shields, tramping of feet.
Castus turned and found Modestus behind him. The optio swung a quick salute.
‘Century assembled, centurion! All present and ready for orders!’
‘Form them up, optio. Wait for my command.’
The gathering of officers was breaking up now, individual tribunes gathering their centurions around them. Castus pushed through the throng until he stood with Valens and the others of the Sixth, formed in a rough circle around Tribune Victorinus.
‘The surveyors have already marked out your start positions,’ the tribune was saying. ‘We form battle line across the head of the valley – the Sixth are on the left flank, with the First Minervia to our right. Form up in open order, two centuries deep. Keep the formation until the enemy get within five hun shy;dred paces, then at the signal retreat by line until you reach close order… At the second signal, discharge javelins, and the third advance by century. We’ll have artillery and archers behind us throughout, but they’ll have the ranges marked. Any questions?’
There were none. Castus felt Valens slapping him across the shoulders. His friend grinned, wolfish.
By daybreak the battle line was formed across the head of the valley, and the soldiers turned to the east and saluted the direction of the rising sun. The sun itself was invisible behind cloud – just a watery gleam low in the sky. Castus pulled his belts tight and squared his shoulders. On the march down from the camp his dream had returned to him: the faces of the dead. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the images from his mind.
To his left, the men of his century were waiting in position. A few of them swigged water, others talked in low nervous voices, others pissed where they stood. Behind him, Castus could hear Flaccus the standard-bearer whistling under his breath. They held the rear of the position; Valens’s century was in front, but each rank of men stood six paces from the next. The formation was deep, spreading over the upper slopes of the valley, but would appear thinly stretched to the enemy.
And the enemy, Castus noticed, were already appearing. The narrow wooded defile leading up from the river opened out as it climbed, and the valley formed a shallow amphitheatre below the crest of the ridge with the slopes thick with thorny scrub. Already Pictish riders were cantering up from the throat of the defile, warriors on foot massing behind them, filling the lower end of the valley. Castus listened carefully, but could hear nothing; the damp morning air seemed to muffle all sounds. He saw Valens glance back at him from his position with the forward century.
A distant shout cut through the mist, then a chorus of yells. Figures ran across the open ground: archers and slingers in loose formation, pelting the gathering mass of the enemy and then running back. A low swell of noise came from the Picts, a wordless roar and a percussive rattle and clash of spear-butts on shields. The noise rolled across the hollow of the valley in waves.
How many of them now? Castus squinted, trying to count, dividing the horde up into sections and estimating their numbers as he had been taught. Five thousand? Six? Most were on foot, with a few carts heaving through the mass, nobles or chiefs brandishing spears. The details became clearer as they approached: now Castus could make out the high crests of their hair, the scars swirling over their naked limbs. The men beside him were beginning to shuffle, ducking their heads and edging their shields higher.
‘Keep formation,’ he called. ‘Wait for them to come to us.’
There was a slight breeze now, stirring the bright tails of the draco standards. A good omen, Castus thought.
A sharp snapping sound from the rear, and a ballista bolt arced across the Roman lines and darted down into the for shy;ward ranks of the enemy. Ranging shot. A moment later, fifty catapults fired in unison; a volley of snaps and thuds, and the bolts flickered dark against the sky, then arced and fell. The Pictish mass shuddered under the impact, and a great groan went up from them.
Now they charge, Castus said under his breath.
But still the Picts hung back, massing in lines across the width of the valley. More of them came from the defile, pouring like liquid from the neck of a jug. The forward groups shouted and chanted, banging their weapons, taunting the Romans in their own tongue. Another volley of ballista bolts dropped into them, goading them, but still they did not break.
Castus glanced back towards the command position on the hillside, and saw the emperor’s purple draco standard swirling and flapping around its shaft. A shout went up from the cohorts of VIII Augusta, holding the centre of the line: ‘ROME AND VICTORY!’
The shout spread through the flanking cohorts.
‘ROME AND VICTORY!’ Castus cried, and his men took up the shout. Spears drummed off shield rims all along the Roman line. Some of the Picts were climbing up the slopes of the valley to dart javelins, but the archers and slingers on the heights drove them back.
Now the trumpet signal rang out. Valens called out the order, and the forward century began edging backwards, closing up the ranks. Castus swung his arm, and the front three lines of his own men backed up. Slowly, steadily, the gaps between the ranks narrowed. A cheer went up from the Picts. Some of them were already dashing forward, flinging spears, thinking that their enemy was retreating. Those at the rear of the mass began to surge forward, ordered on by their chiefs.
‘Steady,’ Castus called. ‘Hold steady… Back six paces…’
The leading century had already closed ranks, Valens’s men locking their shields together; now, as the Picts began their charge, they found a solid mass of armoured men facing them, a wall of shields and levelled spears. Castus could see Modestus moving along the rear ranks, shoving the men into line with his staff.
‘Ready javelins.’
Behind him he could still hear the thump and crack of the artil shy;lery; the sky overhead was stippled with arrows and ballista bolts.