Swords Around the Throne (9 page)

Without the tree cover the morning sun was hot and bright. Stripped to his waist, sweat tiding down his back and dripping into his eyes, Castus worked with the rest of his men, swinging an axe at the mesh of timber. Most of the others had also shed their tunics; each man was surrounded by a flickering nimbus of insects, drawn to the sweat and the hot blood. The noise of the axes and picks was constant, metal biting wood, chopping and clawing. As each axe-scarred length of trunk was cut free other men wrestled it up between them, carrying it and hurling it off the path. The rest of the army was drawn up along the trail behind them in close defensive formation, alert for ambush from either flank.

‘This is labour for slaves!' Flaccus cried, wiping a hairy forearm across his brow. ‘Why don't they get them to do this?' The standard-bearer and his boat's company had reappeared early on the morning of the river crossing, to much mocking comment, after a night wandering lost in the forest.

‘Army slaves got it easy,' said Speratus. His broken nose gave him a brutally wicked squint. ‘They just have to clean our boots and cook our dinners – not toil like this!'

‘Shut up and get cutting,' Castus told them. He heaved the axe back, and then swung it down into a shower of wood splinters. They had been an hour at this work already, and the barricade was only halfway cleared. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw Jovianus the tribune standing with a group of other officers, calmly surveying the work. He clenched a curse between his teeth.

One of the men further up the pile let out a cry and tumbled backwards. Castus paused for a moment – it looked as if the man had missed his footing and fallen, but he was writhing as he lay, plucking at something in his side. A snipping sound in the air and a thud; then Castus saw the arrow shaft jutting from the timber.

‘Shields!' he yelled, throwing down his axe. ‘Arrow attack! Get behind your shields!'

The shields, armour and weapons had been stacked a few paces back on the trail – now most of the men made a rapid dash to retrieve them. Some stood paralysed, gripping their axes, and others leaped down among the fallen trees, trying to shelter.

‘Where are the piquets?' Modestus cried. ‘Where are the fucking auxilia?'

Another man screamed and fell, spinning on his heels and toppling from the barricade with an arrow in his chest. More arrows were arcing down into the stacked shields, driving the men back as they scrambled for them.

Castus crouched low, dragging his shield towards him and lifting it. He scanned the wooded slopes to either side – a movement caught his eye, and he spotted the archer stepping out of cover to shoot. His reaching fingers found the shaft of a javelin, but by the time he had raised it the man was gone.

Sounds of fighting from the slopes: the auxilia on guard duty up the trail had finally noticed the attack and doubled back to drive off the archers. From the arrow-struck barricade the men of the Sixth saw running figures on the higher slopes, and heard the distant yell and cry of combat. But it was clear that most of the attackers had fled.

‘Centurion!' Aelianus called. Castus jogged over to where the man was kneeling. Speratus lay beside him, an arrow in his thigh. Not a mortal wound, unless it had cut an artery, but Speratus was twisted with pain, delirious, his face swelling and turning dark red. As Castus – and the others who had gathered around – watched, Speratus's body convulsed; his mouth champed and frothed. Aelianus had been holding the wounded man, but now he released him and backed away in horror.

‘Poison,' somebody said quietly.

Before long, Speratus lay silent, blue-lipped, his body still twisted and racked. Castus eased down his shoulders, and a long-held shudder ran through him.

‘Four of you, bury him and the others, as deep as you can,' he said. ‘The rest, get back to work.'

There were more barricades further along the valley, but rather than try and cut through them the troops made long slow detours, scaling up the valley sides through the trees, dragging the protesting mules behind them. The column split apart, spreading into three ragged single files, snaking up and down the slopes, scrambling along narrow rocky dirt paths. It was late afternoon before they closed around the next village.

‘We're flanking,' Castus told his men, as they gathered around him on the slope in the dapple of light. Some eased themselves down to squat in the bracken, braced on their propped spears. ‘That means we move as quick and quiet as we can down this hillside and across the stream in the valley down there. That bit of yellow you can see beyond the stream is a field of barley – we follow the ditch around the rear of the field and wait there until we hear the trumpets of the main column attacking from over there. Then we go in, through the field and into the town.'

It was all they needed to know. It was all Castus knew himself; the orders had been passed down from Jovianus, and beyond him from the army commanders. There were other small units moving up on similar duties around the perimeter of the settlement; this time, the enemy would not be allowed to run.

The soldiers drank water, then began the descent. The slope was steep, and they felt their way down with reaching spears, clasping at the trees to either side. Already the sun was low in the sky, the long summer day slipping towards evening. From the lower slopes, the men could see the huts and fences below them, the orderly patchwork of fields, the animal pens and the cattle byres. Smoke rose slowly from several of the huts. Smoke of cooking fires and hearths. Soon, Castus thought, there would be far more smoke than that.

Scrambling down the last descent, the century formed a double column and splashed across the stream. Crouched low, they followed the shallow ditch up the rear of the barley field. Once Castus drew level with the largest house at the edge of the settlement he motioned his men to halt. They dropped down gladly, settling themselves along the trench where the wall of barley would screen them from any sentinels in the village.

Castus sat on the baked lip of the ditch, his heels in muddy water. He took a chunk of spiced sausage from his haversack and pared off a slice, then chewed patiently. It could take a while for the main column to move up along the valley. The sun was still hot, and he took off his helmet to cool his sweating head.

‘Centurion,' said Diogenes, dropping down to sit beside him, ‘may I ask you something?'

Castus just looked at him and grunted, still chewing. The sausage was very tough.

‘Do you ever experience fear, before going into combat?'

Castus chewed a bit more, then swallowed hard. The chunk of sausage jerked its way down his throat. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘Only madmen and liars say otherwise.'

‘Then you are afraid of death?' Diogenes asked, as if this were some novel philosophical concept. They were both speaking quietly, barely above a mumble.

‘Never said that,' Castus replied. ‘What's death? The ground opens up and down you go, and you know nothing about it afterwards.' Although, he thought, he would not care to die as Speratus had earlier that day, frothing and writhing.

‘But you say you're afraid? Of what, if not death?'

Castus thought for a moment. It was something he had never properly considered. ‘Wounding,' he said at last. ‘Being crippled. When it comes to swords and spears, there's plenty of sharp iron all around you. Anyone can get a hamstring cut, or lose a hand or an eye. Even a simple wound can fester, then you lose a limb. And then what?'

‘And then... what?'

‘If you've served your sixteen years you can get an honourable discharge with pay, land and tax exemptions, otherwise you're out of the army with the bare minimum.' He failed to suppress a twitch of superstitious dread. His father had ended his army career like that – fifteen years in the legion, then he lost half his left hand in a skirmish on the Danube frontier and could no longer grip a shield. The army had no use for cripples. The bitterness of that had poisoned his father's mind, and he had passed that poison on to Castus himself, in kicks and blows and savage words.

Diogenes sat silently for a while, digesting. From the village a rooster crowed, loud and raucous. Birds were wheeling about the sky.

‘I was afraid during the fight on the riverbank,' Castus said quietly. He wanted nobody else to hear. ‘During it, not before. I thought I'd led the men into something that was going to get them all killed.'

‘Fear of shame, then?'

‘I suppose so,' Castus said. Shame, he thought, was the worst punishment of all.

The sound of the trumpets was sudden and clear, riding across from the direction of the valley. Immediately afterwards came the echo of a massed war cry as the legions stormed into the western end of the settlement. Castus was already up on his feet, lacing his helmet straps beneath his chin, the rest of the men quickly rising behind him as he swung his shield to the front and strode into the swaying wall of barley.

They moved with a steady crackling step, breasting through the barley with their shields, trampling loose stalks beneath their boots as the pollen dust rose around them. Every man had spear or javelin readied, eyes fixed on the edge of the village. There was a brief noise of clacking chickens from behind the huts, but the only other sound was the rush and swish of the massed stalks parting before the advancing troops. Off on their right flank Castus could see other units also moving, scrambling along culverts and across meadows, closing around the village from all directions. He was braced for the first cries from between the huts, the first arrows or javelins slicing down from the clear sky.

‘After me!' he shouted as he neared the edge of the field, and broke into a run, kicking through the last of the crop. Behind him his men sprang forward, erupting into a broken roar.

There was another ditch at the field edge, then an earth bank up to a fence of close-woven wattles. Castus leaped across the ditch in a stride, his boots grinding the loose soil from the bank; then he slammed his sword into the wattles of the fence. The dry weave of sticks burst apart, and he heaved his shield against the breach until it was wide enough to pass through.

Inside the broken fence, the smell hit him first; then he felt his boots slide beneath him and managed to catch himself clumsily before he fell sprawling. Wet puddled manure underfoot, and a great muddy sow staring at him from the corner of the sty. Two more men crashed through the fence behind him, then gasped in disgust.

‘Through here,' Castus yelled over his shoulder. He crossed the pigsty, stamping through liquid shit, and kicked at the gate. The flimsy boards shattered, and he charged through the gap.

Silence. The village was as placid as it had appeared from the hillside. A few chickens still squabbled in panic around the open hut doors. But there was no sign of the inhabitants. Castus glanced up, and saw the smoke still rising peacefully from the hut roof. He looked to his left, and saw the vanguard troops of the main column moving between the huts, kicking doors, finding nobody. Behind him his men were piling through the gate of the sty, several streaked and spattered with filth – they had slipped and fallen as they had broken through the fence.

Fearing ambush, Castus moved around the wall of the hut, motioning for his men to follow. His ears were primed for the sound of a bow, his senses for the thwack of an arrow into a mud wall, or into flesh. His breath came in bursts. He raised his right forearm to wipe his face, and the mail grated against his brow – he had forgotten he was wearing armour.

The hut was a forge. As he reached the wide front doors, Castus glanced in at the straw and the big iron anvil, the tools still laid out ready for use. He edged inside, into the dim familiar stink of metal, charcoal and soot. Memories of his youth rose in him for a moment. The forge fire was still hot, the embers glowing orange in their nest of grey-white ash.

‘They've even left their dinner here,' Aelianus said. On a low table just inside the hut door there were chunks of black bread and hard white cheese, with a platter of honey cakes. Aelianus picked up a cake, smiled and raised it to his mouth.

Castus swatted it out of his hand, and it dropped into the dust.

‘Remember Speratus?' he said savagely. Aelianus's face paled, and his throat rose and fell as he swallowed back bile.

As he left the hut there were already troops moving in columns though the central cleared space in the village. The sky was smudged with smoke, and the smell of burning thatch soured the air. A sudden cheer went up from the soldiers, and they turned to face back down the road. Castus moved up to join them, still wary. From the direction of the main valley road a mounted cavalcade was cantering between the enclosure fences and into the village. At the head, the unmistakeable figure in the gleaming gilded cuirass and purple cape. Castus stiffened to attention, then threw up his arm in salute as the emperor and his retinue rode past. Constantine's face was set hard, reddened and furious. And then they were gone, and dust fogged the air in their wake.

It was only moments later that the men gathered around the huts heard the shouting from the far village boundary. Castus glanced around, and saw Erudianus with his head raised, scenting the air.

‘Trouble,' the tracker said.

‘Lead me,' Castus ordered, then waved for the rest to follow as Erudianus set off at a jog.

The air was still full of fine dust, but as he ran Castus could hear the sounds of fighting: a yell, a ring of iron and a thud of blade against shield. He doubled the fence between two huts, and saw the knot of men gathered along the far boundary of the compound. Bodies sprawled in the dirt: enemy warriors. Whatever skirmish had just erupted seemed over already. He slowed to a stride. A dog was barking and whining.

‘They were hiding in the ditch!' a soldier exclaimed. A man from another legion; Castus did not recognise him. ‘Tried to burst out and get to the emperor and his people!' The man's mouth was grinning slackly, stupidly. ‘But our men got them! Yes, we did – and only that one centurion down!'