Onslaught_The Centurions II, page 32
‘Keep running! Another two hundred paces and we’ll be on their wall!’
Hramn upped the pace as he bellowed the command, and the tower loomed over them as they overhauled it, running into the shadow of its timbers. The first century climbed in through the open rear and threw themselves at the ladders with the prefect at their head, racing to reach the second storey where the machine’s boarding ramp awaited them. A hinged section of the tower’s frontal surface, it was heavy enough to crush a man and utterly smash his body, and a massive hook protruded from its underside to catch and hold whatever surface it fell on to, needing only a push from several strong men to drop the combination of anchor and ramp onto the fortress wall and provide a six-foot-wide bridge across which the first century would charge into the waiting defenders in numbers too great to repel.
‘It’s stopped moving, so we must be in position! What are we waiting for?’ Grimmaz put his head around the tower’s corner, risking the flights of arrows that were now raking the column of men queued behind the tower, then ducking back into the structure’s protection with a curse. ‘They’ve got some sort of arrangement of beams holding us away from the wall! We’re a dozen feet short!’
The Germans inside the tower were straining with all their might, but the wooden construction’s wheels had stopped turning completely. Back down the cohort’s column of men soldiers were dying under the lash of the Roman archers and the less frequent but terrifyingly powerful impacts of carefully aimed bolts. A man a dozen paces behind Egilhard jerked, then stood for a moment with a heavy missile stuck through his helmet to protrude from the iron bowl’s rear, his eyes rolling up to display only the whites as a thin drool of blood hung from his open mouth, then sank from view onto the cobbles. Alcaeus pushed his way into the tower past the ranks of his men, shouting up into the structure.
‘We’re being slaughtered here! Can you get onto the walls?’
After a moment’s pause Hramn dropped down the ladder from the first level, his face grim.
‘They must have guessed we’d try this, or else they had intelligence of it! We’re stuck too far from the wall to drop the ramp, and too far to jump it! We’ll have to retreat!’
Alcaeus nodded, turning back to the men waiting under the Roman artillery’s unrelenting scourge.
‘Back to the siege works! Run!’
As one man the waiting centuries turned and fled, the bodies of the dead and wounded carried between several men apiece.
‘Run! Those bastards will be showering us with arrows all the way back! Run and keep—’
Grimmaz went down hard, lying prone on the cobbles with the fletched shaft of an arrow protruding from the back of his neck, the missile having flown through the impossibly small gap between his neck guard and the collar of his mail.
‘Pick him up!’
The order came to Egilhard unbidden, but his tent mates leapt to obey with the same alacrity as if it has been issued by the leading man himself, carrying his dead weight away between them with his head lolling down, bouncing with every step they took. A hundred paces from the spot where the siege engine had become stuck, the young soldier stopped to look back, an arrow rebounding from his armoured shoulder with a force that knocked him backwards a pace, but the impact failed to register as anything more than a peripheral event as he stared at the fortress. The southern gates were open, and armoured legionaries were flooding out in force, several centuries strong, stabbing down at the wounded as they swarmed the tower and killed the helpless tribesmen trapped in its bowels. As he watched, more soldiers flooded from the fortress, their armour bright with the flames from the torches they carried.
‘Egilhard! Get moving before you stop a bolt! There’s nothing we can do to stop them burning it!’
Alcaeus was beside him, turning him away from the scene and pushing him forward, both men flinching involuntarily as another bolt flicked into the mass of running men twenty paces back towards the siege lines, taking down one of the men carrying Grimmaz’s body in a spray of blood that decorated his tent mates’ armour with a grotesque pattern of gore.
10
Gelduba, Germania Inferior, November AD 69
‘I’m unconvinced that this is the wisest thing we could be doing, Legatus Augusti!’
Hordeonius Flaccus nodded brusquely as he reached for his intricately decorated helmet, an object of such magnificence that Antonius was reasonably sure its cost would have equipped an entire legion century and still left enough gold for those eighty men to enjoy a substantial night of drinking and whoring. He had returned from Colonia Agrippina the previous day, expressed his thanks to Vocula for his harsh suppression of the First Legion’s revolt and then, in a move that the legatus hadn’t expected given his previous reluctance to remain the army’s commander, bluntly told the legatus that he was issuing a formal order for the legions to swear allegiance to Vespasianus in the light of news received from Italy.
‘You retain responsibility for the conduct of our campaign against Civilis and his allies, of course, but in the matter of such a crucial decision, with ramifications for us that will last for the rest of our lives, I feel entirely justified in issuing this instruction.’
Despite Vocula’s vigorous protests as to the legions’ likely response, Flaccus had proven immovable on the subject, and the men of three legions were gathering as commanded on the makeshift parade ground outside the sprawling camp while their senior officers readied themselves to do what was their duty to the empire, with only two significant dissenters.
‘I’m well aware of your sensitivities on the matter, Legatus, and while I believe them to be genuinely motivated, the option of not declaring our loyalty to the new emperor is one that has been rejected not only by myself but by your fellow legates, their tribunes and indeed their senior centurions to a man.’ Flaccus regarded Vocula and Antonius levelly, evidently impervious to their concerns. ‘The only two men of substance in this entire command who are not in favour of immediately swearing the army to the service of Vespasianus are yourself and your ever loyal first spear. Who doubtless, were he not required by convention to support you to the hilt, would be siding with the rest of us! Wouldn’t you, Antonius? Don’t answer that, man, one should never come between a legatus and his senior centurion and I ought to know better, I suppose! I—’
Vocula shook his head angrily, casting aside any restraint of their relative ranks in the face of the other man’s insouciant disregard for the reality of their situation.
‘Far from it, Legatus Augusti, as you’re happy enough to term yourself once more now that you think your man has his backside on the throne! Antonius here is of a like mind to myself in seeing the enormous risk that you’re intending to take.’ He cast a jaundiced eye around the room at his fellow officers. ‘All of you were born to rich fathers and educated in Rome. You all know Titus Flavius Vespasianus personally or by reputation, and you all have a good opinion of the man. And as a matter of fact I know him too, a little, and what I saw of him was overwhelmingly positive. But the men to whom you plan to administer the oath of allegiance aren’t like you!’
He clenched a fist in frustration.
‘Gods below, how is it that the truth eludes you in this matter? Let me spell it out in the simplest of terms for you! The men you’re going to order to swear allegiance to Vespasianus do not share your connection to the man. Nor do they believe that Vitellius is beaten yet! The captured officers that Vespasianus’s general Primus has sent north to bring us these tidings carry news of a single defeat for Vitellius’s army, not his complete defeat or his death, and for as long as that is the case those men are not going to relinquish him easily, because they still believe that he will make them all rich! He is the proverbial pot of gold, quite literally, to the soldiers of these legions, and they know all too well that Vespasianus isn’t going to owe them any loyalty when they’ve contributed vexillations to the army that tried to stop him taking the throne! If you are foolish enough to force this issue now, rather than allowing them to come to their own conclusions in a few weeks’ time when the news will doubtless arrive that Vitellius has eventually been deposed, then you will be attempting to put a collar on a large and very angry dog.’
Flaccus turned to face him with an expression that spoke volumes as to the degree of self-control he was exercising.
‘While I understand your feelings, Legatus, I cannot allow you to hinder this essential step in what I expect will shortly lead to the conclusion of this civil war and indeed the revolt of our northern neighbours. Once these legions are sworn to obey the new emperor then I have no doubt whatsoever that Civilis will call a halt to his offensive against the Old Camp and present himself for admonishment and forgiveness. But for that to happen we must take this essential step, and so I expect that you will conduct yourself with the utmost professionalism while we conduct what I expect will be a relatively painless ceremony to renew our legionaries’ sacramentum to the new emperor, and keep your views on the matter to yourself. That applies to you too, First Spear Antonius.’
Antonius snapped to attention, his gaze fixed on a point to one side of Flaccus’s head, fighting hard not to express the contempt he was feeling.
‘I’m amazed that you have the gall to say such a thing to a man who is the model of a professional military officer.’ Vocula shook his head grimly. ‘My senior centurion has watched in silent disgust while you and my other colleagues have dissimulated and delayed doing anything to relieve the siege of the Old Camp for fear of what such an action might mean to your careers in the event of a victory for Vespasianus, never once expressing his horror at such self-interest, and now you have the nerve to even hint that you suspect his disloyalty.’
Flaccus turned away, busying himself with the leather tie that secured his helmet.
‘Your comments have been noted, Legatus. Come, gentlemen, let us go and administer the sacramentum to our legionaries and put an end to this damned civil war for good.’
Out on the parade ground Antonius walked out to his place in front of the Twenty-second in silence, but if he was still fuming at Flaccus’s implied slur he soon enough forgot the matter as the legion’s mood became apparent.
‘They’re not happy. And trust me when I tell you that they’re really not happy.’ His deputy relinquished the spot and turned to march back to his own century with a swift shake of his head. ‘If what the rumours are saying is true, and they expect us to swear loyalty to Vespasianus, it might not end well.’
Flaccus spoke up from the tribunal, and for once there was none of the usual coughing and muttering that had accompanied so many of his pronouncements over the preceding months, the men of three legions listening intently to what he had to say.
‘Legionaries of the First Gallica, Sixteenth Germanica and Twenty-second Primigenia! Soldiers of the allied auxiliary cohorts! I bring you news from Italy! These men …’ he raised a hand to indicate the two officers standing close behind him, ‘have ridden from Italy at the behest of Legatus Augusti Antonius Primus …’
He paused, but the silence hanging over the parade ground was profound, every man present hanging on his words.
‘Tribune Varro and Prefect Montanus bear news of a battle that has been fought close to the town of Cremona, the same field where our legions triumphed over Otho’s men in the spring. Soldiers, the sad news is that our army has been defeated, and that the legions that fought on our side have been taken prisoner. Eleven legions and their auxiliary cohorts loyal to the former emperor were defeated by the forces of Titus Flavius Vespasianus, and the army of Vitellius is no more. By the time of this announcement his grip on the throne will have been broken forever. And so …’
The first buzz of muttered comments reached Antonius’s ears, and he turned to find his men staring intently at Flaccus with expressions that did not imply any degree of reconciliation with what they had just heard.
‘And so, it is the decision of your senior officers that we must collectively swear allegiance to the new emperor, an action that will be communicated to his general in Italy, Antonius Primus, by the fastest means possible. There will be none of the usual imperial imagery that is usually present for such a ceremony, but nevertheless we will all now swear the sacramentum to our new emperor.’
He cleared his throat.
‘I swear that I shall faithfully execute all that the senate and the people of Rome require!’
The stunned legionaries repeated the words after him, although to Antonius their declaration of loyalty sounded half-hearted at best.
‘I swear that I will never desert the service of the empire!’
The strength of the legionaries’ assertion of loyalty to the empire was louder than that of their promise to obey its rulers, but Antonius knew only too well what was coming next.
‘And I swear that I will defend, to the last drop of my blood, the rightful emperor Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus!’
At the name Vespasianus the men behind him simply fell silent, muttered something inaudible or even simply spoke the name Vitellius, and all three legions stared back at Flaccus as if daring him to take any action to punish their evident lack of commitment. Looking at Vocula in his place behind the legatus augusti, he saw his senior officer looking up into the sky above them, and found himself nodding agreement with the man’s evident sentiment.
‘I think you’ve got that more or less right, Legatus. That fool’s got himself into this mess, so now he can get himself out of it.’
Batavodurum, Germania Inferior, November AD 69
‘He died quickly?’
Egilhard nodded mutely, unable to speak for the fear that whatever he said would trigger the uncontrollable grief that he knew was waiting just beneath the surface of his apparently imperturbable mask. Alcaeus stepped forward to stand beside the young soldier.
‘He felt no pain. I saw it happen, and I’ve never seen a man taken so cleanly. You can be proud of his service to the tribe, and take comfort from the fact that his death was an easy one.’
‘Thank you, Centurion.’
Grimmaz’s father was stooped, a man in the last few years of his life, and as Egilhard reflected on the injustice of his being required to consign a son to the Underworld before his time, the old man accepted the flaming brand that the wolf-priest handed to him, and put it to the pyre’s kindling with a hand shaking with both age and grief.
‘Farewell, son. You did your duty.’
He turned away with halting, hesitant steps that betrayed his infirmity, the dead soldier’s sword, which had once been his own, in one hand, not showing any sign of reaction as the kindling on which Grimmaz’s tightly wrapped corpse lay took fire with a soft cough of ignition.
‘Few men want to stand and watch a son’s body burn. Whereas we are bound by both duty and love to watch until there’s nothing to be seen of him.’
Egilhard nodded miserably at his officer’s words, marvelling at the man’s composure in the face of such a keenly felt loss. Standing before the pyre, his eyes barely focused on the roaring fire that was engulfing his friend’s body, he realised that his vision was blurring with tears and that no amount of blinking was going to stem their flow.
‘Don’t wipe them away. Let them flow. His family will see how dearly his brothers miss him and there’s not one of us is going to think any less of you for being a leading man who mourns his losses.’
A kind of anger at the priest’s composure flared in the young soldier’s mind.
‘You’re not mourning.’
‘Yes I am.’ Alcaeus’s voice was soft and sad, ignoring the younger man’s failure to address him by his rank. ‘But I have no tears to shed. I never have them when the time comes to burn a comrade. And I burned a good few, on that island of savages and rain across the Oceanus Britannicus ten years ago. We were the Iceni tribe’s nemesis, Rome’s best and bravest, the wild dogs that were sent in first to savage them into submission, but being the bravest means taking losses whichever way you look at it, and they made us pay for that reputation in blood. All the way through that summer we lost men, in ones and twos, and once by the dozen, when the time came to fight them properly. I lost comrades and I lost close friends, but I never found it in me to weep once, no matter what indignities they visited on our dead when they were allowed the time to do so. I wish I could have cried.’
‘Why?’
Turning his head slightly Egilhard saw that his centurion was smiling sadly.
‘Because, Leading Man, it’s my observation that men who do shed tears for their dead brothers tend to get over their loss more quickly than those capable only of brooding. And stop pulling faces every time I mention your rank, will you? It’s starting to irritate me, and when you consider that I take a lot of irritating you’re obviously doing it too often.’
Egilhard shifted his gaze back to the pyre, his mind wandering to the evening of the battle in which Grimmaz had been killed. The mood in the Batavi camp had been sombre, despite the relatively light casualties they had suffered, a mood more to do with the attack’s failure than the losses sustained, although the death of a vigorous and popular leading man had hit the men of the Second Century hard, and a sullen silence hung over their section of the first cohort’s camp. So bound up in his mourning for a man he had come to regard as a close friend that he had stopped listening to the conversations around him, the young soldier had been dragged from his reverie by the sound of his name being called out by an evidently irritated Banon.
