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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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We Stand
Robert Mitchell
Patronicus stood on the crude stone wall, his cloak wrapped tightly about his body. He faced into the northern wind with trepidation, left arm strapped to his enameled shield, his right hand holding a long spear upon which he leaned.
He gazed out over the darkened moor, devoid of any foliage over six inches in height. He had made sure during the day that the area he patrolled had no concealment for the barbarians, because his life depended upon it.
At this section the wall was barely four feet high, though the merlons at various points gave a height of over six feet. He took shelter behind one. The chances that a barbarian arrow could reach across the hundred yards that separated the wall from the nearest concealment were small. Still, he had no intention of tempting providence.
Every night it seemed the Picts sent infiltrators across the moor, eager to slit the throat of unwary Romans. Just last week someone had gotten to poor old Falco, as a guard found him dead cold when the morning watch had changed.
Now, in the wee hours of the morning, a light fog was rising. The intermittent torches almost did more to conceal anyone approaching as to reveal them. Patronicus would not be caught unawares, his body buried in Britannia, instead of the family crypt far away in southern Italia.
Patronicus heard a subtle rustle. Sometimes wild animals crept through the moors at night. One must be sure that the sound from the darkness was an intruder, and not a hare sampling the new sprouts of grass. There it was again, he thought. Patronicus hunkered lower against the stone, his eyes peering over the landscape, seeking out a moving shadow that would portray the real danger of his guard duty this night.
For several minutes all was silence, not even a breeze to stir the few blades of grass that spread out before his vantage point. Then, he discerned a black shape moving against a slightly darker background, and something splintered against the rock a foot from his bronze helmet.
Patronicus screamed, “Alarm, alarm!” He saw other shapes moving in the dark expanse before him. “Sound the alarm! Light the fires!” Indeed, Patronicus stumbled ten yards down the wall, grabbed a burning torch, and lit the nearest fire. The oils rags burst into flames, and then the wood underneath caught almost immediately, casting a yellow light across the moor, revealing blades of grass, and hideously painted men who ran silently towards the wall by the dozens.
Other men were now shouting, fires being lit. Someone sounded the warning horn. The men of the local Centura were scrambling from their bunks in the wood huts. But, it would take time for them to arrive. Patronicus must buy some of that time.
He saw a dark shadow directly ahead. In the dim light it was a far cast for a spear, but he sent it flying anyway. He heard a scream and saw the figure crumple and move no more. By some luck he must have made his mark.
Patronicus ran to the closest stock, grabbed another spear, saw a shape, aimed and cast. The running man didn’t stop. He cast another, and then another. He heard many screams of pain around him now, other guards casting their spears into the darkness at the oncoming bodies.
“Archers! We need archers!” shouted Patronicus. Some were arriving, but he feared they would be too late. The Picts might breach the wall, and it would be hand-to-hand combat.
Then, he heard the hideous cries from the moor. The barbarians realized their attack was discovered, and hoped that fear would now replace the advantage of subterfuge and stealth. Perhaps it might in the common soldier, but Patronicus and the others in his tent group were Roman trained soldiers. There were no finer in the world.
Soon Patronicus proved that as a figure loomed in front of a crenal, a sword swinging towards his face. He raised his shield and fended off the blow, then drove his spear into the throat of his opponent. The man toppled backward, blood adding to the paint that already covered his body in odious patterns. Another Pict replaced him in moments, and he was again engaged in combat. This one was an excellent fighter, and knew well how to handle a sword.
But, Patronicus held him back, and as he engaged him, another guard came to assist, and reaching over the wall, thrust his shaft into the man’s side. The Guard drew out the spear, red in the flickering light. The barbarian lay crumpled at the base of the wall.
“Thanks,” said Patronicus, but the man was gone, down the line to help another.
The Centura had closed ranks, and were engaging the Picts at the wall. The barbarians screamed and died, sometimes literally throwing themselves onto their spear points and blades. And, then, it was over. No more attempted to cross the wall. A few figures scurried back across the moor to the woods beyond and disappeared into the darkness.
Patronicus leaned against the wall, panting, with bloody spear still grasped tightly in one hand. Rome had held, he thought. Hadrian’s wall had held. And, as long as Roman will remained, Britannia would not fall to the barbarians of the night.
