“You must lie down,” said someone.
“Get him to his bed.”
“What about that bitch?”
“Kill her,” said another voice.
“No,” I said faintly. A face loomed above me that I recognised. “Find out how she got the knife—punish them.”
“And the girl?” asked Aquila grimly.
I was sick and dizzy with pain. “Flog her,” I said.
“It’s not enough.”
“My orders,” I said.
It was a burning, hot day and I lay on my stomach and sweated, for the wound was deep and gave great pain. It would be a month before I could use that arm again properly. Out in the sun, the girl, her back lacerated, hung by her wrists from a wooden bar and moaned for water. She was lucky. If it had been a man I would have executed him.
Late that night when I was trying to sleep, Fabianus came and asked how I was.
“I shall live,” I said sourly. “She put it in at the wrong angle. Just like a woman—thank the gods.”
He said awkwardly, “Could we cut the girl down, sir? She’s in a very bad state.”
“So am I.”
“You said she wasn’t to die.”
“She won’t.”
“She might, sir.”
I glared at him. “Not that one. She tried to seduce me one moment and murder me the next. Girls like that don’t die so easily.”
He said quietly, “It was a severe beating. When they salted the wounds afterwards, she screamed and screamed.”
I tried to sit up. “They all do that,” I said. “Did she ask you to speak for her?”
He flushed and shook his head. “No, sir.”
“What did she say?”
He hesitated. He said, “She tried to spit at me and then said that she hoped you were dying.”
I lay down again. “She’ll live,” I said. “Haters like that are tenacious of life.”
The wound was clean and I made a good recovery. So did the girl, though her hurts took longer to heal. It was a long time before she left her bed, and each day the blue haze of smoke from the camp fires on the further bank seemed to grow thicker and more impenetrable.
Word reached me from Marcomir that he was happy, that his wife was a fine woman and that Goar had done as he promised, had left the barbarian camp and was now in the hills to the north. No other news came from across the river; no boat pushed out from the banks, bearing an invitation to a meeting; no embassy arrived, offering terms or insults. Nothing happened and I began to worry at the silence, at the inactivity. Where would they strike and when? It must be soon. They could not delay much longer, surely. In an excess of irritation, I sent suddenly for Quintus. He came, and I was driven to anger by the sight of his impassive face, his rigid salute and his carefully controlled politeness when he asked how my arm was getting on.
I said icily, “If you wanted to know that, you could have come to my hut more often when I was laid up. You want some fighting; well you can have it. Get six hundred of your men across the Rhenus with horses into Marcomir’s territory, and then report to me. We shall need help from Goar, from Marcomir and from Gallus. We shall want Fabianus also. You will be in command, and in the unlikely event of the expedition going wrong I shall hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?”
He flushed. I had spoken to him as I would to a young and inexperienced tribune. “Yes,” he said. “It is understood.” He went out quietly and I was left alone with my bad temper and my thoughts for company. Out in the camp the trumpet blew for the evening meal.
XIII
TEN DAYS LATER the Rhenus Fleet moved into the mouth of the Moenus. It was a little after midnight, and I stood on the poop of Gallus’ flagship, listening to the strong beat of the oars. Behind us, following in our wake, came all the merchant ships and small boats that I had been able to muster. On board them was a mixed cohort of heavy and light infantry, under the command of Fabianus. At the same time, Goar and Marcomir, with five thousand men, stiffened by a cohort of my own, together with the cavalry under Quintus, moved across the plateau towards the north side of the enemy camp. Quintus had crossed the river at Boudobrigo and it had taken a long time to get the horses over, for the boats were small and only held six animals at a time. It was growing light now and I could feel the wind on my cheek and see the faint, smudged line of the hills in the distance. “Now,” I said, and a fireball hurled into the air. It was the signal for the attack. The boats were jostling past us in the half light, loaded with men, arms and equipment, while the catapults of the fleet pitched fireballs and missiles in a steady stream onto the enemy’s fortifications. I could hear the grinding of the keels as the boats struck the beach, and then Fabianus was ashore, his men fanning out to right and left of him. He captured the off-shore island in one swift, bloody assault, and then poured his men onto the mainland. His attack was sudden and determined, and the surprise complete. Keeping his cohort in a tight, controlled battle formation, he struck straight into the camp before any serious attempt could be made to rally the astonished Marcomanni. Tents were fired, baggage destroyed, waggons broken and horses killed or stampeded.
On the far side of the camp, Marcomir and Goar led their men in a rush that took them straight through the palisade and the outer defences. Supported on each flank by Quintus’ cavalry their attack proved difficult to turn. They had strict orders to disengage and withdraw, the moment the enemy rallied and the impetus of their assault began to waver. I wanted no heroes, no fights to the death, no units cut off and making gallant last stands. I wanted only a limited success; and I achieved it. The camp was in an uproar. There was fire and smoke everywhere; horses neighing, women screaming, children crying, and men shouting in rage and terror. There was no order and discipline among the tribes. War chiefs, struggling to summon their men, were cut down while they shrieked defiance; men, groping for weapons, faced the armed legionaries one minute, only to be driven onto the spears of the cavalry behind, the next. Fireballs crashed through the roofs of tents and huts and a thick pall of acrid smoke streamed upwards, like a funeral pyre, into the clouded sky. Quintus’ cavalry broke loose, formed up as one, and swept like a curved scythe through the heart of the camp. The luck that was with us all that summer held. Rando, King of the Alemanni, trying desperately to rally his men and make contact with his brother chiefs, found himself in the line of the ala’s advance. It was Quintus who saw him—Quintus, riding at the head of his men, as though he were that young officer I had known in the old days upon the Wall. Rando snarled and threw his spear. It missed and took a man behind, who fell from his horse with a shriek. He reached for his dagger, saw that he stood alone and then, too late, turned to run. Quintus laughed, caught him with the curved sword that Stilicho had given him, and the Alemanni, with one blow, found themselves headless.
A trumpet blew the retreat and, with the cavalry covering them, Marcomir’s men retreated the way they had come, while Fabianus, surrounded as he should not have been, cut his way out and withdrew back to the boats, as steadily as though he were on parade. The Rhenus fleet kept the enemy in check, but I did not give the order to withdraw until the cohort, in its small boats, was back on the beach at Moguntiacum. Our total losses were under three hundred, and the action lasted for a little under an hour. Three days later Quintus was back in his old tent, very pleased with himself. I was a little envious for I had done nothing except stand on the deck of a ship and give orders.