He shook his head, and Marcus understood his frustration. With such restricted visibility such a breach of the cohorts’ defences might go unnoticed long enough to allow a build-up of warriors on the far bank too strong to be contained.
‘There were only thirty of them by my count.’
Marcus turned to face the Votadini leader.
‘You propose to attack them?’
Martos pursed his lips, his gaze steady.
‘In this mist they will not see us until we are almost on top of them.’
‘And if there are more following?’
‘Then we will make a brave stand until your men’s arrows are spent. We cannot stand by while these men breach your defences undetected.’
Marcus nodded.
‘You’re right. Let’s get into them before any more of them climb down the outcrop and pitch up here.’
Martos clapped him on the shoulder.
‘That’s the way. My men will go first, and take down those few, and I suggest your men take our northern flank, get their bows uncased now that the rain has stopped and be ready to shoot. The next few minutes will be exciting for us all.’
The Venico scouts had ghosted noiselessly through the shifting curtains of mist for half a mile down the Red River’s course before they found what they had been sent to look for, a pair of trees at the river’s edge which could, with the right felling, be dropped neatly on to the far bank and so form a makeshift bridge. Sending a man back to call for reinforcement, the warband’s leader ordered his four best axemen to set about the trees’ thick trunks, watching with satisfaction as they hammered deep notches into the wood, their cuts perfectly placed to put the trees’ leafy tops on to the eastern bank as they fell. The river’s far bank was wreathed in mist that was rising from the saturated ground under the sun’s heat as the rain clouds temporarily cleared, and the sound of their axes was muffled by the murk to the degree that he doubted anyone more than a couple of hundred paces away would have any clue as to the threat they would shortly pose to the Roman right flank.
With a creaking tear the first tree fell exactly as required, its leafy branches easily reaching the far bank. The tree’s massive trunk stretched out into the misty air above the swollen river, an immovable bridge into the heart of the Roman defence. A moment later the second tree fell, bouncing off the trunk of its companion and coming to rest tidily alongside it. A man grunted behind him, and the chieftain turned to find one of his men on his knees with a spear protruding from his chest. Even as he took in the scene, a dozen indistinct figures charged out of the mist, mud-coated wraiths wielding long swords and butchering his unsuspecting men. Even as they realised they were under attack the Venico warriors hesitated for fateful seconds at the sight of the men running at them, long haired and clad in clothing identical to their own, and their weapons equally familiar. The Venico leader’s realisation that these were not his own people came to him far too late, as he saw that the mud-smeared man shaping to attack him was not only wielding two swords, one long, one short, but was wearing a Roman centurion’s helmet. The attacker brushed his sword aside with one blade, then punched the other into his chest so quickly that he hardly saw it coming. Even as he gaped at the sudden shocking pain, the mud-coated warrior drove the other sword under his ribs before ripping both blades free and shouldering him aside to fall dying on the muddy ground. As his life slipped away from him he saw a tall and muscular warrior walk up to the Roman, slapping him on the back in congratulation.
‘A good kill, Centurion.’
Marcus nodded, watching the Venico leader’s glassy eyes lose their final spark as the man’s spirit left him.
‘The poor bastard didn’t realise what was going on, not until he felt my iron in his heart.’
He shook himself free from the moment of reverie, calling out to his men, still hidden in the mist.
‘Eighth Century, to me, quickly now!’ His men hurried from their hiding place to join him, clustering round their officer with the air of lost children. Martos smiled around him, recognising the Hamians’ fear of such an unexpected and desperate circumstance.
‘That was our turn to do the killing, little brothers, but yours will come soon enough. Make your hearts hard, as they were at the hill fort, for you will soon be killing your enemies again. This I can promise you.’
The archers stared back at him without comprehension, their eyes wide at the sight of the bodies of the Venico warriors, and Marcus realised with a start that his men, for all the slaughter they had wreaked on Martos’s warband days before, had not yet been face to face with the human debris of battle. He clapped his hands to get their attention.
‘Eighth Century, the time has come for your greatest test. At the end of this day you’ll all be able to hold your heads up among the soldiers of our cohort as warriors. Now, follow me across this makeshift bridge, and once you’re across unpack your bows and get ready to shoot. Nobody looses an arrow without my command, because Martos and his men will be following us across. Martos, bring your men over as quickly as you can, there’ll be more of them along.’
He nodded to the Briton, and then clambered nimbly on to and along the trunk of one of the fallen trees with Morban following closely behind him. Jumping down on to the Red’s western bank, he turned back to wave the 8th Century across. Shapes were forming in the mist in front of him, soldiers drawn by the sound of the tree’s fall advancing to attack with their spears ready, and Marcus threw himself to the ground, pulling the standard-bearer down with him, knowing that the first spears would be thrown at chest height.
‘Roman soldiers! Eighth Century, First Tungrians!’
A soldier loomed out of the mist, his spear held low and ready to thrust, and Marcus called out again, his voice tight with urgency.
‘Roman soldiers!’
The spear’s point stopped an inch from his throat, and the soldier behind it braced the weapon, ready to drive it home.
‘Get up.’
Marcus climbed to his feet, wiping a fresh coating of mud from his face.
‘I’m Corvus, centurion of the Eighth Century, First Cohort. Those men across the river…’
The soldier turned away.
‘Centurion Appius!’
His officer came forward to the riverbank, took one look at Marcus and shouted for his chosen man. He turned back to the Roman with a wry smile.
‘Well now, look at you, Centurion Two Knives. There’s me looking all over for you, and then just when I’m least expecting it the gods drop you out of the sky, or so it seems. We’ll have to…’
Marcus interrupted him with a dismissive shake of his head.
‘No time. We can discuss whatever it is you want from me later, but for now my century is across the river, waiting to cross!’
Appius nodded.
‘We’ll talk later, then. Chosen!’
Appius’s second-in-command got the Hamians moving across the tree trunks, while the two centurions considered the threat to the cohorts’ defences. Marcus pointed into the mist towards the outcrop, hidden in the rolling mist.
‘They sent a runner back to the warband. We killed the rest of them, but he was gone too quickly. As long as it takes to get back to the ford and back again, then we’ll be knee deep in barbarians. Speaking of which, there are friendly locals on the other side too, so you’d better pass the word for your men to hold on to their spears until they hear the command to throw…’
Antenoch dropped from the tree’s curved surface, saluting both officers.
‘Centurion Corvus, there are warriors climbing down the rocks, we can hear them.’
Marcus turned to the other centurion.
‘We’ve got five minutes, no more, and there’ll be hundreds of them fighting us for this piece of riverbank. My archers can hold them off for a time, but we need to destroy these trees.’