‘Messenger coming up!’ the sentry cried. ‘Least, I think it’s a messenger…’
The plain in front of the hillock was still grey with mist, but Castus could see the Picts moving forward, gathering in their warbands. Ahead of them was a rider on a tall horse, with a man behind him carrying the green branch of parley. It was not a Pictish horse. The rider was not a Pict.
Julius Decentius rode closer, leaning forward in the saddle as the ground rose beneath him, the fur cape humped over his shoulders. Even from a distance, Castus could see the familiar cold smile. Worst time for this to happen, he thought, and surely the renegade knew that well.
‘What does he want, do you think?’ Timotheus asked, jog shy;ging up to the wall beside him. More men were crowding the rampart now.
‘Think we can guess. Keep those sentries sharp on the other walls, though. Might be a ruse.’
Fifty paces from the wall the renegade drew to a halt. The stink of the dead was bothering his horse, and he kept a tight grip on the reins. For a long moment there was silence, only the cawing of the crows.
‘Brothers!’ Decentius called. ‘You look tired!’
‘Piss off, traitor!’ a cry came back from the wall. ‘You’re not my brother!’
‘Get back home to your Pictish bitch!’
Castus felt his chest swell and his throat tighten with pride. They had heart yet, even after the long night, the fierce day before. There was still fight in them.
‘Centurion! I can see you there, centurion. Will you answer for your men?’
Castus jumped up on the crest of the wall, feet spaced wide. He hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘What do you want?’
‘What I want…’ the renegade replied, ‘is to save your lives. We’re all Romans, after all!’
‘You don’t look Roman to me.’ Castus felt the press of men at his back, the raised shields, the ready javelins.
‘You think…’ the renegade called, raising his hand to address the gathered soldiers, ‘you think the Picts are savages, but they’re not! I’ve lived among them for over a decade, and see! I’m still alive! You’ve fought well – you’ve fought bravely. The Picts respect that. They respect you. They don’t want to destroy you, but they will if you continue to resist. They’ll kill you all and mutilate your bodies! Do you want that, centurion?’
‘I can’t hear you,’ Castus shouted. ‘Speak up or move closer.’ Forty paces, he thought. Extreme range.
Decentius nudged his horse on up the slope a few steps. ‘If you lay down your arms now, you can surrender with honour!’ he cried, his voice cracking. ‘You can march home with your wounded. Return to your wives. Your families. The Picts will let you go! Or – or you could stay here. Make your homes here. The empire has betrayed you, brothers!’
There was a long pause. A stir through the men along the wall. Whispers.
‘What does he mean?’ Timotheus asked. Castus hissed at him.
‘It’s true – you’ve been sent here to die! Your commanders want a cause for war, and your deaths will give them one!’
Castus glanced to left and right, scanning the men for signs of weakening, of wavering. But the grey faces along the wall were taut and defiant.
‘Ox shit,’ he shouted, and then leaned down to the man beside him. ‘Pass me up a wasp.’
He held his hand behind his back, and at once the shaft of a dart slapped into his palm. It was still sticky with clotting blood. The renegade’s horse blew through its nostrils and shook its mane, and Decentius urged it on up the slope another few paces.
‘Romans! Brothers! Don’t die for emperors who despise you!’ His grin looked painted on his face. ‘Come with me – live among the Picts! You’ll have good lives, long lives here… You’d be treated as heroes, the pick of their women would be yours! Beautiful girls for brave warriors!’
‘We’ve heard enough,’ Castus cried. He held both hands clasped behind him, the dart point downwards. ‘Get back to your friends, or that bit of foliage won’t protect you!’
‘Centurion, think carefully.’ The renegade stretched out his hand, his horse climbed another few paces up the slope. ‘I’m offering life, for you and your men! Lay down your arms now and your honour is secure…’
Castus waited, swaying slightly on his heels. Decentius stared up at him, his grin stretching into a sour grimace.
‘Well? What’s your answer, centurion?’
‘Here’s your answer, take it!’
Castus jumped back off the wall, braced himself on his right leg, and hurled the dart with all his strength. Decentius saw it a moment too late – his face blanched, and he hauled the horse’s head round. Then the iron spike buried itself in his thigh and he screamed like a woman. The horse shied, reared, and he clung to the saddle as it bolted back down the hill.
Cheering all along the wall, spears clashing against shields. ‘VIC-trix! VIC-trix! VIC-trix…!’
‘Nice throw,’ Timotheus said, grinning.
‘No. I was aiming for his head.’
The attack came soon, and it was savage. The soldiers inside the rampart barely had time to eat and to clean their weap shy;ons before the first rush of the enemy surged across the plain and up onto the slopes. They came on slowly now, moving in a mass and pausing every ten or twenty paces to dress their ranks, howl their war cries and rattle their spear-butts against their shields. While the main body of them advanced from the west another band ranged around to the south, streaming up over the ridge through the scattered stones of the old wall.
The soldiers were silent at the defences, too hoarse, too worn with fatigue to shout back. Crouching behind their shields, they readied their javelins and darts, drew back aching arms and threw. Again the front waves of the attackers were felled; again the warriors behind them pressed forward.
Castus ranged across the enclosure, sword in hand, calling encouragement to his men. ‘Mark your targets and aim high – the javelin will drop as it falls. Don’t throw until they’re in range. Keep to the walls – don’t move back. Don’t budge.’ His mind was foggy with despair and fatigue, but his body still burned with sour energy. This is how it is, he thought. We fight to the end, and then die fighting. We are soldiers.
A wild yell and a clatter from the west as the first charge reached the wall. Spears and blades flickered against the dull sky. Castus ran, feeling as though he was swimming through thick fluid. He hurled himself between two of the soldiers, smiting down at once and bursting the skull of a Pict crouching beneath. The roaring noise was all around him. If I feel like this, he thought, how must the others feel? He stabbed out at a shouting face. The attackers had smeared themselves grey with the ashes of their mourning fires. He punched with his shield and knocked a man down into the bloody mess on the far side of the rampart.
The wave crashed and broke, then the attackers ebbed away. Soldiers pelted them with darts as they retreated. Their harsh cheer sounded more like a groan. Now there was fighting to the south as well – running again, Castus reached the wall just as Culchianus and his men threw themselves against the attackers. Shoulders behind shields, they shoved the Picts back and stabbed out with spears and blades, punching holes in the packed mass of bodies. The Picts dropped back, piling together, scrambling to escape. Castus was up on the wall, wheeling his arm, slashing down at the enemy below. His hand, his arm, his chest were bright and wet with blood. He could taste it in his mouth, and feel it in his eyes.
A dull bleat from the Pictish horns and the attackers turned and ran back, scrambling away and leaving their dead in twitch shy;ing piles before the rampart. Castus sagged against his knees, gulp shy;ing breath. For a moment he felt sick, but he swallowed the urge down. He had seen enough of the other men vomiting already.