Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (28 page)

F
ORTY

Snowcapped Mount Soracte loomed dark and lonely above the plain, its serrated mass blued by distance, the gray chain of mountains beyond billowing along the horizon. The clouds hid the sun. The battle that day would be fought under bleak skies.

As Marcus prepared to inspect his troops, he wished he could recall each hoplite as could Furius Camillus. The general knew the battles in which his soldiers had fought and how they’d received their scars. It was a knack of his to recognize each warrior, inspiring their loyalty. Marcus remembered the first time he’d been acknowledged in such a way, firing him to pledge allegiance to both the Furian and to Rome.

Riding along the lines, Marcus took care to ask the names of the men he didn’t know. It was the least he could do before urging them into an onslaught that might see them dead by the end of the day. Wind-burned veterans in the rear and middle rows of the phalanxes grunted approval as they saluted. Marcus called to one. “How many times have you shown courage?”

The infantryman thrust out his chest. “Only my foes can tell you that, sir.”

He smiled. “Then I must watch you today, given I can’t hear the words of those you slay.” His response provoked a grin from the ranks.

The younger soldiers in the front lines also saluted. Marcus felt sad these inexperienced youths may never fight another battle. They would be the least likely to survive. One young hoplite’s face was white, unable to hide the tremor in his spear hand.

“Your first fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus remembered waiting for his initial encounter with a foe. How hard it had been not to vomit out his fear. How he’d prayed his bowels would not turn to water. He leaned down toward the soldier. “Believe me, nerves will give birth to courage.”

The youth’s eyes met his, back straightening. He saluted again. “Yes sir!”

His review of the phalanxes ended, Marcus directed his bay to inspect the companies of leves. These light infantrymen could not afford the panoply of a hoplite but were just as brave. Armed with only four javelins and their shields, they would be the first to engage the foe together with the slingers and axemen. He murmured encouragement to all the skirmishers. They showed surprise, then smiled at gaining the attention of a military tribune for one brief moment.

Marcus raised his lance to the assembled battalion, bellowing, “Today you are Rome. You fight for our State, not for personal glory. Every man must hold his ground to help each other. We will be outnumbered, but while there is breath in our bodies we may yet drive back the multitude!”

The troops roared in response. No ragged shouts. No feeble yells. Pride swelled within Marcus, feeling Furius Camillus would be proud of him as well.

Early morning birdsong was drowned by the clash and scrape of metal as a thousand hoplites took their position. Buckles on corselet straps were tightened, swords adjusted in their scabbards, boots laced fast.

Marcus waited on a rise at the head of the brigade of two turmae he would lead. Behind him, Aemilius viewed the entire battlefield, the standard-bearer beside him holding aloft the wolf insignia. The general would remain at the rear, but his troops did not doubt his daring or resolve. He would make the decisions that day as to whether to advance or retreat, regroup, and advance again. For the first time Marcus could remember, Aemilius had embraced him. The moment of affection was both startling and upsetting.

Twelve men across and eight men deep, the ten phalanxes of the regiment stood in one long battlefront. Their heavy armor declared their wealth and status. Each warrior’s shield overlapped, protecting the man to the left with wood, leather, and bronze. Marcus noticed how the emblems emblazoned on the shields identified each soldier. The varied decorations formed a motley pattern but the weapons were uniform in one respect. Round and heavy and curved outward, they covered the hoplite from chest to groin.

Each company was a bristling beast, a death machine. Long javelins in their right hands, the first three ranks held theirs horizontal, the spear points poking through the gaps in the rows in front. The next two lines held their lances at a slant, ready to be brought down to take the place of fallen comrades. The veterans at the rear stood with their javelins upright, the last line of attack. Together, these serried hoplites were the backbone of the army, and its awesome blade.

As Marcus faced the enemy, he tried to blot out all around him, listening only to his heartbeat and his breathing. He inhaled and exhaled evenly, remembering his advice to the young hoplite. Nerves give birth to courage. Great Mars, let it also be true for him today.

He concentrated on the Etruscan armies opposite. Their phalanxes also stood with spears leveled. Compared to the conical, leather helmets of the Romans, the enemy’s bronze headwear boasted crests of horsehair or feathers.

He counted the depth of their ranks. Ten phalanxes were lined up to match the Romans, but instead of standing eight deep there were twenty rows of hoplites in each company. And behind each phalanx was another phalanx. And another. A seemingly inexhaustible reserve of men.

Marcus checked their standards. He could see the bull insignia of the Veientane king and the badges of Falerii and Nepete. There were also standards of three northern Etruscan armies. Marcus frowned, expecting to count more. Those of the far northern League cities were missing. The Roman army would not meet the titan it expected.

Marcus waited with his brigade on one side of the regiment, Sempronius’s knights on the other. The tribune felt reassured that Tatius’s squadron flanked him, confident of its prowess.

The horses were skittish, pawing the line, impatient to engage
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He studied the opposing cavalry. The manes of the Etruscans’s long-legged steeds were plaited, their collars and body armor studded with terra-cotta medallions. The cured bull hide pectorals on the Roman horses were plain in comparison. Again he assessed the numbers. The contingents of enemy knights were in the hundreds, and protected the weak left flank of their phalanxes. He swallowed hard at the thought of the charge. Given the depth of the opposing force, it would be a long, frightening ride. Any hope that his brigade might reach the rear to force a rout seemed impossible.

The war horns sounded. Blasting and strident. Mastarna was impatient.

Marcus’s horse snorted and tossed its head. The tribune steadied it as he called to his knights above the baying of the war hounds. “Wait for my command.”

The din of war erupted. Thousands of men on either side thumped their spears against the front of their shields or banged the clappers on the bosses. The bombardment of sound was as much a weapon of terror as any sword or spear.

The Aemilian braced himself for the Etruscan war cry. The last time he’d heard it was at the Battle of Blood and Hail. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the shrieking ululation bore into his brain. Around him, the horses whinnied and shifted at the screeching. The Roman regiment roared a response, but there was wavering morale in their reply.

Javelins sailed through the air. The Etruscans had begun their attack. Marcus signaled the leves and skirmishers forward to fill the space between the opposing phalanxes. A salvo of spears and slingshot exploded, the air thick with wood and stone. The dogs bounded into the fray, bringing down prey and savaging them, yelping in pain when they were stabbed.

Hurling their slings twice around their heads, the slingers let loose shot that stove in skulls and sent bone splinters and brains flying. Then a volley of arrows blackened the sky. Marcus grimaced, regretful Rome disdained using bowmen. The Etruscans did not consider it beneath them to employ any means to soften up their foe. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the foe to run out of ammunition.

Above the tumult, an Etruscan tuba blasted a series of short, sharp notes. Suddenly the fusillade ended. All the skirmishers and leves retreated, taking their places at the sides of the field. Bodies of axemen, spearmen, and slingers littered the ground, the wounded groaning. Marcus winced to think those who could not crawl out of the way were destined to be trampled.

He scanned the line of Roman phalanxes. Only a few young hoplites had been killed, their bodies dragged to the side, and the men behind them taking their place. The smell of shit wafted on the breeze, a combination of fear and waiting in formation.

The Etruscan trumpet call ascended in pitch. To Marcus’s surprise, the cavalrymen opposing his brigade wheeled their horses around and rode to the far side to join the knights facing Sempronius. The vulnerable left side of the Etruscan phalanxes at the edge of the battlefront was now exposed to attack. Marcus scanned the companies immediately in front of him. The standard of the Veientane bull was prominent. His battalion would face Vel Mastarna’s troops. The king’s taunt was clear. He did not fear the puny attempts of Marcus’s cavalry would make an impact.

Tatius shouted to the tribune, “What are your orders, sir? Do we help Sempronius?”

“No, there would only be confusion if we tried to change our formation. Concentrate on attacking their hoplites from the side, or head to the rear. Kill any who are separated from their companies. Cut down those who are fleeing. Tell your men not to stop until I order them. No man must fail to steep his spear in blood.”

Roman trumpets sounded. General Aemilius had signaled to advance. Marcus barked at Tatius to return to his turma, then rode to the head of the battle line to encourage his hoplites. He shouted, “Death to Mastarna! Death to Mastarna!” His troops took up the war chant. He returned to the rise to view the battle, buoyed by the barrage of Roman voices.

With a slow, steady pace, the enemy phalanxes advanced toward each other: a clanking, thudding march of two monsters. The stomping pace quickened. The foes drew closer and closer.

The collision of the line of opposing metal-clad beasts was monumental. Marcus steadied his stallion at the booming clash. And then there was only fury and effort and gore. Each hoplite aimed his spear at his rival, stabbing through the gaps in the wall of shields to pierce gullet or neck, armpit or groin. No room to duck behind shields. Only a small chance to move the head to the side. Men fell and were flattened, the man behind stepping up, then the third. The two sides pressed forward, a scrum of enormous power, as each vied to push the other back and break the pack.

Marcus watched the nearest phalanx. The Romans strained to resist the force of the Etruscans’ extra ranks. Some young hoplites were suffocating, caught between the pressure of the enemy’s weight and the force of their own veterans shoving them forward. Chests were pressed against their own spears and shields, backs crushed by the shields of those behind. Trapped by their own momentum, there was not enough space for the dead to fall, their comrades holding the corpses upright. A ghastly host of living and dead were now locked in combat.

The impetus of the Etruscans was too great. With a roar, the enemy gained the advantage. Those on the vulnerable left side of the Roman phalanx, which was already drifting backward, floundered. Marcus could see the heads of the hoplites turning in bewilderment and alarm. The phalanx collapsed. Isolated groups merged and then parted.

The men of the splintered companies now faced hand-to-hand combat as personal duels ensued. Marcus watched as, down the length of the battlefield, he saw other phalanxes also break apart.

The time had come to charge.

Armed with fresh lances, his contingent of leves stood ready to attack. The cavalry and light infantry might yet be able to forge channels through the foe’s lines and harry the Etruscan hoplites: the swift against the slow, the light against the unwieldy.

The warhorses tossed their heads, shifting and rearing, champing at the bit. The knights shortened the reins, controlling the equine warriors by heel and hand.

Marcus held his lance aloft, kicking his stallion’s sides to gee him. His throat tore as he screamed a fresh war cry, his yell spurring the cavalry and leves as they rushed forward into battle.

Time and distance expanded. Marcus felt like his horse pounded for miles toward the foe, each hoofbeat competing with the thumping of his heart.