Wounds of Honour e-1 Read online

  Wounds of Honour

  ( Empire - 1 )

  Anthony Riches

  Wounds of Honour

  Anthony Riches

  Preface

  November, AD 181

  A brisk autumnal breeze stirred the leaves lining the forest floor, the sharp gust lifting a handful of discarded foliage into a brief dancing spiral before leaving it to flutter its way back to the ground. Padding softly over the shadow-dappled ground, a small hunting party advanced slowly out of the forest’s gloom with spears held ready to throw. The men stepped with deliberate care, each foot lifted slowly and placed back on to the leafy carpet with smooth delicacy. Their movements were unconsciously coordinated, each man obviously familiar with his fellows’ actions from long practice. Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae and undisputed ruler of the free northern tribes, was doing what he usually did to relax when he wasn’t roaming the lands north of the Roman wall, pushing forward his preparations for the coming war. Accompanied by his five-man bodyguard, Calgus was hunting wild boar.

  While his rule of the land to the north of the Roman wall that split Britannia into two halves was absolute, by right of both blood and simple domination of the other tribal leaders, the presence of his closest protectors was an obvious necessity. With a brooding imperial presence barely fifty miles to the south, it was prudent to assume the worst even in something as simple as a day’s hunting.

  ‘The pigs seem to have our scent, my lord, either that or something else has put them to fright.’

  The speaker spat his disgust into the leaves. Another man, stepping softly across the leafy ground beyond him, nodded, keeping his eyes fixed to their front.

  ‘Aye. If this carries on we’ll be reduced to roasting hedgehogs.’

  Calgus chuckled softly, hefting his spear as if rediscovering its balance.

  ‘You know the rules, Fael. We eat only what we kill in open hunt. If you want to put meat on the fire this evening then keep your wits about you and your spear ready to throw. You might offer a prayer to Cocidius while you’re at it. Pray for a big stag to wander our way. And you, Caes, for all that the local animal population isn’t jumping on to your pigsticker, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on a fine crisp day like this, now, would you?’

  Caes grimaced, making a stabbing motion with his spear to emphasise his point.

  ‘I’d rather be hunting Romans, my lord.’

  Fael smiled across at Calgus, raising his eyebrows into his ‘here we go again’ face. They were used to the bodyguard’s bloodthirsty hatred of their former overlords. Calgus winked at him before speaking, taking his eyes off the surrounding forest for a moment.

  ‘Yes, Caes, as you never tire of telling us. When we finally get the tribes to go to war with them I’ll free you from this tiresome duty and put you in the front rank of the warband, give you the chance to swing an axe with the other champions and…’

  Caes, turning to reply with a wry smile, lurched backwards with the sudden impact of a hunting arrow which punched its vicious barbed-iron head into his chest with a sound like a spear driven hard into a boar’s ribs. He stared down stupidly at the arrow’s protruding shaft for a moment before dropping first to his knees, then on to all fours. Beyond him, Fael toppled backwards into the leaves with an arrow through his throat, a bright fan of blood spraying across the forest floor.

  Calgus turned back to his front and hefted his spear, aware that he was hugely vulnerable whether he fought or ran. The hidden archers loosed another pair of arrows into the men to his left while the remaining bodyguards were still looking for targets for their own spears. His last companion fell as he bounded forward to defend his king, his spear arcing uselessly into the trees in a last desperate throw as he went down with a pair of arrows in his chest. The king waited for a long moment for his turn to come, bracing for the arrows’ impact, but none came. Thrusting his spear defiantly into the soft earth, he drew his sword, the scrape of metal loud in the sudden silence. He called out into the forest’s deadening gloom, lifting the weapon into a fighting stance.

  ‘Come on, then, let’s get this done. Sword, spear or bow, it makes no difference to me. I can go to meet Cocidius knowing that whoever you are, however far you run, my people will hunt you down and gut you slowly for what you do today.’

  After another moment’s silence, with the only sound his own harsh breathing, figures broke from the cover of the forest’s scrubby bushes. Four men stood, two slinging bows across their backs and drawing swords, two carrying spears ready to throw. The latter advanced to within easy throwing range and halted, keeping him under constant threat, while the other two men followed with more leisure. One of them, his face obscured by a deep hood, spoke out while the other, a black-bearded athlete with a long sword at his belt, stood impassively beside him.

  ‘So, Calgus. It seems that we have you at something of a disadvantage.’

  His Latin was cultured, almost urbane.

  The Briton laughed, disturbingly relaxed in the face of levelled spears.

  ‘So, Roman, you’ve come to talk. And there I was bracing myself for your blade.’

  The hooded figure nodded slowly.

  ‘Oh yes, you’re just as the stories tell. I’ve just slaughtered your bodyguard… well, most of them…’

  He pointed to Caes, still helpless on hands and knees, a thin line of bloody drool trickling from his mouth.

  ‘Finish that one.’

  His companion flashed out his blade and stepped forward, stabbing down into the helpless Briton’s exposed neck, then stepped back with the sword held ready. Calgus stood completely still, watching the act impassively. The hooded man spoke again.

  ‘Better… and yet there you stand, as relaxed as if we were your oldest friends and not foreign assassins with your life at the points of our spears and your brother warriors dead at our hands. Well, Calgus, for all your obviously genuine bravado, whether you live or die is as yet not clear. Not even to me… A word to my rather rough-edged colleague here will have your guts steaming in the leaves, without very much thought and certainly without any remorse at all. You can be a problem removed for Rome in the blink of an eye, or an ally for one particular Roman over the next few months. Choose the former and you’ll end your days here with minimal honour and no dignity. Choose the latter and you’ll stand to win a prize beyond that of any king of this land over the last hundred years.’

  The Briton narrowed his eyes, seeking to discern the truth in his ambusher’s eyes.

  ‘What prize?’

  ‘An eagle, Calgus, an imperial legion’s standard, and quite possibly the head of that legion’s commander to boot. So, king of “free Britannia”, are you minded to discuss a bargain with me, or would you rather negotiate with this barbarian’s blade?’

  ‘You seem to leave me without much of a choice. What token do I have of your sincerity, if this is a deal to be made at the point of your sword? And how do you know I’ll keep it?’

  The hooded man nodded to his companion, who struck at the nearest of the spearmen with unexpected speed and dropped him into the leaves with his throat opened, then reversed his sword and ducked under the other’s spear-thrust. He punched his blade’s point through the man’s ribs with one powerful thrust, then twisted the sword quickly and ripped it free, the open wound spraying blood across his booted feet as the man fell helplessly to the forest floor and started to bleed out.

  ‘You’ll be needing some sign of your victorious struggle with your would-be assassins if your people aren’t to smell a rat. I trust you can spin a colourful yarn to explain how you cheated your killers? And I know you’ll keep the bargain if you make it — the inducements I’m offering are too strong for you to do anything else. Now, m
ake your mind up, Calgus. Shall we be partners in your long-planned war on my people?’

  Calgus spat into the leaves.

  ‘For all the bad taste in my mouth, I will entertain your scheme.’

  ‘Good. Now give me that flashy brooch that’s holding your cloak closed. Don’t worry, you’ll see it again in another place…’

  Calgus unpinned the brooch, an intricately worked gold replica of a shield, decorated with a swirling pattern, a polished piece of amber in place of the shield’s metal boss, dropping it on to the outstretched palm. The hooded man turned away, calling back a parting comment over his shoulder while his companion backed away beside him, sheathing his sword and taking the bow from its place on his shoulder. He nocked an arrow and lifted the bow in readiness to shoot, deterring any thought of pursuit.

  ‘You will see me again, Calgus, but not before you have your people in the field with death in their hearts.’

  The two men merged with the forest’s shaded depths and were lost to the king’s eyes. He stood staring after them for a long moment before turning back to his fallen companions.

  ‘Death in their hearts, Roman? That won’t be hard to arrange.’

  1

  Februarius, AD 182

  One of the front rank spotted them first, a good three dozen men silhouetted against the afternoon’s bright skyline where the road rose to surmount a ridge that crossed their path in its long descent from the Pennines’ eastern shoulder. He shouted a warning in a voice made hoarse by urgency. The small detachment’s commander, a veteran watch officer with a face seamed by experience, stopped in mid-stride and followed the man’s pointing arm, taking a moment to measure the depth of their predicament. When the road had risen to its previous vantage points he’d seen no other troops in front or behind them, just the plodding mule cart they’d passed an hour ago, now far behind them. That many barbarians would make short work of his sixteen men, and the legionaries’ heavy armour ruled out any chance that they could outpace their ambushers back down the road to the south. Dropping his pack on to the verge, he drew his sword and pointed with it towards the distant enemy. Unless he kicked his dithering troops into activity quickly the tiny unit would shatter before the barbarians got within spear-throw.

  ‘Piss buckets and shields! Form a line!’

  He kicked one of the nearest men in the backside to reinforce his point. Hard.

  ‘Fucking move!’

  The legionaries shed their pack yokes at the roadside and fumbled to free shields slung across their backs with fingers turned numb by fear, quickly forming a thin line across the road. Helmets, previously hanging round their necks, were slid over their heads, the cheek-pieces adding a much-needed martial brutality to faces suddenly pale with terror. The watch officer stalked out in front of them, sword still drawn.

  ‘Eyes on me! On me!’

  The legionaries unwillingly dragged their gaze away from the advancing barbarians, now streaming down the shallow slope a few hundred paces away.

  ‘Don’t worry, you lot are so pretty compared to the local girls, this bunch are probably looking for a shag rather than a fight.’

  One or two of them smiled wanly, which was better than nothing.

  ‘And they fucked up by giving us time to get dressed up for the party. So, when I give the order, throw your spears, air your blades and get ready for them to hit your shields. Use your shields to throw them back! Don’t leave the line. They want you to fight alone, outnumbered three to one, or to run so’s they can spear you in the dog blossom. Your best chance…’

  He slapped a man whose eyes had wandered back to the advancing Britons.

  ‘On me! Your only chance is to stay in the line, and keep parrying and thrusting like you’ve done a thousand times in drills. They will give it up once they know we won’t be a pushover. I will be behind you, and I will step in for the first man that falls! Spears… ready!’

  Stalking round to the line’s rear, he looked at the ground, gauging from the number of spreading dark patches in the road’s dust how many of his men had already lost control of their bladders. There was enough piss steaming in the winter’s chill air that their ability even to wait in line for the barbarian charge was hanging in the balance. They would all be dead inside of five minutes, he realised, mentally shrugging his shoulders and getting ready to give a decent account of himself. The men that the detachment was escorting had dismounted from their horses, the stocky veteran and his younger, taller companion something of a mismatched pair. Bloody civilians. At least they had a means of escape.

  ‘If you’re going to ride for help, this would be a good time!’

  The older man, a legion veteran if the watch officer was guessing correctly, simply smiled back, green eyes twinkling out of a weatherbeaten face still ruddy despite the prospect of imminent death. He was evidently in his late forties, and from the quality of his clothing comfortably well off, cloak pulled across his chest and draped across one shoulder in the military style. While the younger civilian had accompanied the detachment since leaving the fortress at Dark Pool, three days’ march to the south, the older man had ridden into the small fort that had sheltered them the previous night, arriving well after the sun’s setting. His apparent lack of concern at the danger of meeting robbers on the road had caused more than a few raised eyebrows among the more experienced troops, despite the chain-mail vest beneath his cloak, the short infantry-pattern sword hanging at his waist and the purposeful way in which he conducted himself.

  ‘I’m Rufius, formerly an officer with the imperial Sixth Legion. I never ran away from a fight in twenty-five years of service, and I won’t break that habit now… Besides, we’ll see this lot off easy enough.’

  The watch officer nodded slowly.

  ‘Fair enough. What about you?’

  The younger man shook his head grimly, too tense for humour, drawing a long-bladed cavalry sword with a glimmer of polished iron. The watch officer wondered just how much use that was going to be, given that its owner seemed to be barely out of his teens. His voice when he spoke was strong enough, though, without any hint of the quaver that might have been expected given the circumstances.

  ‘Marcus… Marcus Valerius Aquila. I won’t be running away either.’

  The veteran soldier alongside him nodded approvingly, unsheathing his sword, and gestured to the legionaries’ line.

  ‘Shall we?’

  The watch officer shrugged, turning back to face the oncoming warband.

  ‘It’s your funeral. Stay with me, you’re now my reserve. When a man goes down, you go into the line in his place. Right, detachment, spears ready to throw… wait for it!’

  The barbarians’ trot had become a run now, closing the remaining distance between them quickly. Half a dozen of them were carrying axes, great tree-cutting blades that would cleave a man down to his waist or lop off a limb, armour or no armour. They were close enough for details to stand out now, lime-washed hair standing stiff from their heads, blue patterns swirling across their faces and jewellery flashing brightly in the afternoon’s pale sun, close enough for their harsh battle cries to raise his neck hairs. This was no chance encounter, but a tribal warband dressed and tooled up for a fight, probably fired up by the local beer too, eyes wide and teeth bared in snarls of eager anticipation. The detachment’s line shivered, more than one man starting to shrink backwards at the prospect of imminent brutal death. Before their collective breaking point was reached the veteran stepped up to their rear, dimpling the skin of the rearmost man’s neck with the point of his sword. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, loudly enough for the detachment to hear him above the growing din of the approaching barbarians.

  ‘Back in line, sonny, or those blue-nosed bastards won’t get the chance to do you.’

  More than one man looked round at him wide eyed, while the legionary in question inched forward again. One or two of the older salts, the men that already knew, and with grim resignation accepted, that their lives were abou
t to become short and interesting whether they fought or ran, smiled in quiet recognition and raised their shields slightly in unconscious reaction to the voice of command. The watch officer nodded his head with respect, keeping his eyes on the charging barbarians and raising his voice to be heard above their harsh cries.

  ‘Wait for it… Spears…’

  As the watch officer opened his mouth to order the spears thrown, in the last seconds before the Britons would career into the flimsy shield wall, a sudden flurry of movement at the forest edge fifty paces to their left caught his eye. He snapped his attention back to the more urgent events happening less than twenty paces from his men’s shields.

  ‘Throw! Throw!’

  The legionaries hurled their spears into the oncoming mass of men, dropping two of them in screaming heaps and dragging down the shields of half a dozen others, then drew their swords and braced to receive the charge. With a clash of metal on steel the barbarians’ rush collided with his men’s defence. Sheer weight of numbers forced the line back half a dozen steps before the desperate legionaries managed to absorb the momentum. Only the slight slope favouring their defence had saved them from being overwhelmed by the impact, the watch officer estimated. He stepped back behind them to keep his position, watching with amazement as armoured men started to emerge from the trees behind their attackers. The initial screaming and shouting of the charge and contact had died away, and both sides fought in almost total silence, broken only by the rasp of laboured breathing and the occasional grunt of exertion or scream of pain.

  To his front a man staggered dying out of the line, a two-stepper if ever he’d seen one, his throat ripped out in a fountain of hot blood whose coppery stink filled his nostrils. The men to either side of the sudden gap in the line inched together, unable to properly fill the dying man’s empty place. As the casualty sprawled full length on the road’s cobbled surface, twitching out his life in a quickly spreading pool of his own blood, Rufius shouldered his younger companion aside, grabbed the fallen shield and stepped into his place. Battering aside a vicious axe blow with the shield, he stepped forward with a speed and grace that belied his grey hair to gut its owner with a swift twisting stab of his short sword as the tribesman struggled to regain his balance. Clutching at his steaming entrails, the barbarian fell to his knees, staring with horror at the horrific wound with a rising wail of distress.