With a cheer, the Batavians surged forward into the ditch. The second ladder was there as well, and men began to climb the other one.
‘They’re breaking,’ Brocchus said, his tone almost one of disappointment with a timid enemy. Crispinus had been watching the marines and sailors, who were also close to the wall, and when he looked back saw that the prefect was right. The pirates were running from the rampart in front of the Batavians. Before they went, they hoisted heavy baskets onto the parapet. One Usipi was killed by an arrow as he worked, but the rest kept on and Crispinus could imagine them grunting with effort as they tipped the baskets over and the big rocks showered down on the packed ditch. There was confusion, but the enemy were still fleeing and the first Batavian climbed over the parapet onto the wall. More followed.
Crispinus glanced back at the waiting legionaries, but decided this was too soon to add them to the attack. The marines were at the wall. A few men had fallen to missiles, but the bolt-shooters were more accurate than bows at a longer range and had driven the defenders down behind the parapet. Once the ladders were in place the defenders fled. If they had baskets of stones they did not use them, and the marines rushed up the ladders and leaped onto the wall.
‘You bring up the legionaries,’ Crispinus said to Brocchus. ‘Bring Tertullianus and get him to clear the entrance to the first wall and then be ready to assault the gate in the second.’ Without waiting for an answer, he spurred the horse into a canter straight at the marines and sailors. He wanted to be up on the wall, seeing what was going on so that he could judge what orders to give. In moments he was at the ditch, and jumped off, closer than he wanted, so that his boot slipped and he skidded down the side into the mud. His legs and the pristine white pteruges of his armour were stained dark. Sailors grinned at him and he grinned back, getting up and wading through to the nearest ladder. He patted a man on the shoulder just as he was about to climb, receiving a curse and then a hasty apology from the marine. Crispinus smiled again and pushed the man aside so that he could climb.
The ladder was steep, and the mud on his boots made him slip off one of the rungs, but he clung on somehow, round shield in one hand and sword in the other. More than a dozen men were up on the rampart above each ladder, and there were shouts of triumph and confusion. Crispinus reached the top, and one of the grey-uniformed marines reached out to help him up. The tribune was almost over, one leg on each side of the rough stone parapet, and he could see the last of the defenders running through the open gate.
‘There you go, sir,’ the marine said cheerfully, and then the man’s eyes widened and his mouth moved, but only gasps came from it. He slumped down onto the parapet, and Crispinus saw the shaft of the javelin that had struck him in the back. More missiles came, and he managed to raise his shield and block one before it hit him in the face.
The Romans were spread along a walkway about four feet wide, and above a sheer drop almost as high as the outside wall, for in the past someone had laboured to dig a ditch on the inside of the wall. Crispinus glanced down and saw several ropes down there and guessed that this was how the defenders had escaped. A stone clanged against the helmet of a marine next to him. The man turned, and the tribune saw his eyes flicker before he started to sway forward.
‘Grab him!’ the tribune yelled, and one marine dropped his spear to hold onto his comrade and stop him from falling off the wall.
The defenders were above them, no more than twenty feet away and they had javelins and stones and even a few clubs and axes piled ready and waiting. A stone struck a marine on the foot, breaking bone, and the man staggered so that a javelin came past his shield and drove through the mail shirt into his belly. The centurion of one of the triremes was yelling at his men to keep their shields up, but even when crouching it still left some of the head and legs exposed. Some marines hurled javelins up at the enemy, but the wooden parapet gave them much better cover, and so far no one had scored a hit. In return the missiles kept coming, wounding men, making it harder for them to protect themselves.
‘Come on!’ the centurion yelled, and leaped down from the wall, but he screamed as he landed badly, twisting his ankle, and then a heavy spear came from the inner rampart and its sheer weight let the narrow point punch through the left cheek piece of his helmet and drive deep into his head. The centurion was flung against the wall and collapsed in a heap back into the ditch.
Two of his men went after him, and although one hit the ground awkwardly, both were up, raising their shields protectively over the centurion.
Crispinus wondered whether he should follow, for the gate was still closing, and hoped it was not simply fear that stopped him. One of the marines in the ditch took a spear in the side a moment later, and when he fell he was pounded with rocks until he lay still. The other scrambled up the bank and ran at the gateway. A big stone slammed into his helmet when he was just yards away and the wooden gate closed as if to reinforce the hopelessness of his bravery.
The Romans screamed defiance at the defenders, but there was nothing they could do to stop this torment. The javelins and other missiles kept coming and now and then found a gap. A stunned marine tumbled down into the ditch. Another yelped when a stone clipped the toe of his boot, but the others were too distracted to laugh.
‘Back!’ Crispinus yelled, making up his mind. ‘Back down the ladders.’
They did not want to go. Partly it was because they feared the time it would take for them to climb down, and having to get over the parapet and be vulnerable to missiles, but mainly it was anger and pride. They had taken the wall from a hated enemy and they did not want to give it up.
‘You.’ Crispinus grabbed the closest marine by the arm. ‘Over the wall and back down the ladder. Now!’ The man nodded, then his head jerked to the side as a rock hit his helmet. He sank down.
‘You, lad.’ The tribune pointed at the next man. ‘Over you go.’ A javelin struck the wall near him, but the marine got over and then dropped his shield to make it easier to descend.
‘Go on, all of you.’ Crispinus’ shield rocked in his grip as a javelin struck the wooden boards before falling back. He had decided that he must be the last one down. The marines were moving now, but they seemed slow, so slow. He crouched, sheltering as much of his body behind his shield as he could. He glanced to the side, and now that men were going back he glimpsed the Batavians further along and realised that their attack had stalled in the same way.
Crispinus hoped that Cerialis would have the sense to order a retreat. A stone banged against his shield, and the tribune hoped even more that his life was not about to end here, on an old rampart on an island that seemed to have no name – or at least no name a civilised man would recognise. Up on the higher wall a great chorus of whistles blew and there were mocking shouts.
XXVII
THE BOAT ROSE over a wave, a spray of cold water drenching the rowers and passengers alike, and Ferox sat in the stern, trying to remember what it was like to be young. As he stared at the taut faces of the warriors, it was their lack of years that he saw more than anything else. They had something of Brigita’s confident assurance, and he could remember that it was so much easier to believe yourself invulnerable and invincible before the world had knocked such nonsense out of you.
They were not soldiers. You could take twenty tirones, looking nervous and lost as they paraded in ill-fitting uniforms and uncomfortable armour, and over time you could teach them their trade. One or two would never be any good, and it was better for all concerned if they deserted or were found some job in the camp that would keep them out of the way. Most would shape up well enough, looking and acting like soldiers and more or less reliable. A few turned into the real fighters, the men who would go first, who had the knack not simply of staying alive but of killing. Anyone who had served in the army for a while and trained recruits would know this, just as they would know that it was not always obvious which of the raw lads would fall into each category. He had heard that it was much the same with gladiators. Even when they had no choice about fighting, some of the most promising looking ones were never any good.