Enemy of Rome (8 page)

Before the arrow fell to earth the men of the First had hauled themselves from the drainage ditch and were dashing silently towards the temporary fort. Valerius knew the death of the sentries wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, but he gambled that the suddenness of it would cause a moment of confusion rather than an instant call to arms. His heart stuttered as the ground dropped away beneath his feet. The ditch. Mars’ arse. He prayed Serpentius had been right about the ditch and the palisade. Fear gripped his guts like a closed fist. This was the moment. If the defences delayed them even for a few heartbeats the defenders would line the parapet above and their weighted javelins would lance down into the attackers. Those spears would easily punch through the light cavalry shields and the tight-knit auxiliary ring mail that would stop an edge, but not a point. Octavius and his men would be slaughtered and Valerius would be slaughtered with them.

He gritted his teeth and drove the fear aside; if he was going to die, let the fates decide. He was Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome and the only survivor of the Temple of Claudius, and this was his attack. It was his plan that had brought these men here to this damp, misty field. Pride would haul him up the slope to die beneath the wooden palisade even if courage didn’t. But Serpentius had been certain and he was proved right. The ditch should have been eight feet deep with a shallow slope on the outward side, to draw an attacker in, but a vertical face on the inner, topped by the earthen bank and the palisade. A virtually unscaleable obstacle the height of three men with defenders at the top. But the enemy had been lazy. The ditch was only half the proper depth, and the earth spoil had been heaped in a soft, easily mounted slope. Above him, Valerius could see gaps in the wooden palisade and already men had climbed to the top of the earthen bank and started to tear at the stakes and rip them free from the loose soil.

The first shouts of alarm rang out and he knew the men of the First Hispanorum Aravacorum would already be carrying their swords into the camp. From somewhere in the distance a trumpet sounded and a torch flared on the far side of the river. Valerius kicked at a four-foot post and squeezed through the gap, knowing Serpentius wouldn’t be far from his side. Already hundreds of men were spilling down the rear of the earthen bank towards the neat rows of eight-man tents. He stepped over a dead man, noting the arrows that pierced his chest and throat. When he saw the dull glimmer of the man’s armour he realized how fortunate he’d been. The sentries were all auxiliaries wearing chain link vests. If they’d been a regular legionary unit wearing the more protective plate, some would certainly have survived to raise the alarm. But they hadn’t and now the killing could begin.

‘Now,’ he roared. ‘Let the bastards hear you.’ The Germans responded with the blood-curling wolf’s howl that was their battle cry and threw themselves at the men spilling from the tents, attempting to fix straps and pull armour over their heads. The Vitellians were unprepared, and men who go into battle unprepared are ripe for the slaughter.

A bearded soldier wearing only a brown tunic appeared from the darkness to Valerius’s left and tried to skewer him with a spear. Valerius swayed to allow the point to slip past his right shoulder and rammed forward with his sword, feeling it pierce soft flesh and solid muscle before the iron jarred against the soldier’s spine. A sharp twist should have torn it from the dying body, but he’d struck too deep. Instead, he had to put his foot on his victim’s chest to lever the blade free, thanking the gods no one was around to kill him for his stupidity.

He tried to gauge the course of the fight from the sounds around him. What he could hear was the noise of a rout. The sound of men exulting in the joy of battle in a guttural, formless tongue; the howls of the eviscerated and the shrieks of the dying; cries for mercy that would go unheard. It all seemed perfect, but something in the background made him uneasy. A headless torso lay nearby, the corpse wearing a set of
lorica segmentata
plate armour that told Valerius he wasn’t facing only auxiliaries. Not that it made any difference to the German cavalrymen who whooped and laughed as they chased unarmed, half-clothed enemies through the tents. Valerius attempted to restore some order, roaring for Octavius to form a reserve, but the Flavians were driven beyond control by the taste of blood and the ease of the killing. Serpentius appeared at his side like a wraith from the Otherworld, a bloodied sword in his hand.

‘The bastards had better enjoy it while they can,’ the Spaniard said ominously.

‘What?’ Valerius struggled to hear him above the clamour of battle.

‘To the west,’ the former gladiator pointed with his sword. ‘Some of them aren’t running around like headless chickens, and if you don’t do something about it we’ll be the ones with our cocks on the butcher’s block.’

Valerius ran in the direction of the river, cursing his stupidity for getting involved in the fight when he should have been directing it. He’d hoped the surprise attack would panic the Vitellians into either surrendering or retreating. Instead, somewhere among the rows of tents an officer had rallied his men and very soon the hunters would become the hunted.

‘Stay here and try to round up as many Thracians as you can,’ he called as he passed Serpentius. ‘Tell them to conserve their arrows.’

Octavius was trying to form his men into some sort of line using the flat of his sword. ‘I have a feeling that very soon this is going to be no place for a cavalryman,’ the German shouted.

‘Just get them formed up and follow me. Tell them we outnumber the bastards two to one and this is their chance to kill some Romans.’

The other man grinned and waved a reassuring hand.

On the west side of the camp, Valerius found a cleared space where the tents had been flattened and discarded equipment lay scattered all around. Here were the bloodied remnants of what had been the right flank of his attack on the camp. Six hundred strong and a mixture of Germans and Spaniards, they had lost all cohesion and stood shouting insults at the men on the other side of the open ground. The Roman stumbled to a halt, breathing hard, and a chill ran through him at the sight of an unbroken line of shields a few dozen paces in front of the bridge. The bridge was a temporary structure, made up of requisitioned boats and wooden planking, hastily roped together by men in a hurry to create a holding on the east side of the river.

As he felt the first rays of the rising sun on his neck Valerius realized his mistake had been not to take into account that the diverging ditches gave the attackers on this side of the camp a longer charge to reach the palisade. It meant the centurion commanding the legionary cohort had two or three seconds more to prepare, and that was enough. Unlike the auxiliaries who shared and had been responsible for building the temporary fort, he’d kept a full century on the alert in case of an emergency. Attacked from both flanks, they’d managed to hold off the assault and win time for their comrades to equip and arm themselves. Now something like four hundred battle-hardened legionaries formed two lines behind the big, brightly painted
scuta
, the shields’ surfaces showing the golden lion symbol of the First Germanica.

But there was still hope. ‘Form line!’ Valerius roared the order as Octavius ran to his side followed by a few dozen of his troopers. The German and Spanish cavalrymen still outnumbered the depleted legionary cohort, and if they could hold firm long enough for the outer wings of their line to envelop the enemy they had a chance. But whatever the outcome, the centre of the line would be a horror of slaughtered auxiliaries. The centre of the line was where men would die, the outer flanks where men would win.

Valerius sheathed his sword long enough to pick up an abandoned legionary
scutum
and fix it to his wooden fist. He marched along the front of the ragged line of grim-faced auxiliaries. For all their training the dismounted cavalrymen Octavius led were little better than the barbarians the men opposite had spent years slaughtering in their thousands. But they were all he had. ‘You fight here and win or you die here,’ Valerius snarled. He didn’t know whether they understood him, but he could hear Octavius shouting and hoped the German was translating his words. ‘There is no going back. If you break, they will hunt you down like rats. So you will hold, and you will win.’

He forced his way into the centre of the line and a rumbling growl of defiance ran through the ranks. By now the enemy at the far end of the bridge should be thinking about reinforcing their comrades on the eastern bank, but he could see no threat. Where was Serpentius? It seemed unnatural not to have the Spaniard by his side, but even the thought of the feral, snarling features gave him comfort. He felt a fire ignite low in his guts, rise to fill his chest and surge into his brain, bringing with it an elixir that made the rest of the world seem slow and the men facing him nothing but victims: sacrifices for the long cavalry
spatha
he carried. In a fight he was the equal of any man – the equal of the gods. It didn’t matter that he knew the reaction was illusory – a soldier’s way of escaping the reality of battle – all that mattered was that it existed. He nodded to the man next to him and hefted his
scutum
to shoulder height. ‘Keep your shield together with mine and hold. Any danger will come from your left. Aim for the eyes and the throat.’ The soldier replied something Valerius didn’t understand, but his reassuring grin was enough.

A barked order sent a thrill of dread and anticipation through him. The line of legionary shields opposite came up and the disciplined ranks moved towards him with the legionary’s unhurried, seemingly unstoppable measured pace.

‘Forward!’ Valerius echoed the enemy order to advance and his cavalrymen, wishing more than anything they had their horses beneath them, took the first tentative steps towards the bobbing line of legionary shields opposite. They were less than fifty paces away now, and the Roman could hear the centurion in command barking at his men to keep their formation, to keep their shields up, to remember that a handspan of iron was enough to kill any man. Across the human detritus of the battleground the man met his gaze, his attention drawn by the legionary shield that marked Valerius out from the auxiliaries around him. Valerius raised his sword in salute, and the centurion grinned. It seemed madness that within the next thirty paces they would be trying to kill each other, especially now that Valerius could see his gamble had failed. For the survivors of the Vitellian auxiliary cohort had found a way to re-join their legionary comrades. Even as he watched, they took up station on the flanks, lengthening the line and ensuring there would be no envelopment and no victory. With a grunt of weary resignation Valerius hunched his shoulders and prepared for his last fight.

The sound, when it came, was almost lost in the clatter of armour and the thump of marching feet, but Valerius heard the faint slap and saw one of the men on the left of the legionary line fall backwards, creating a gap in the shield wall. In the next few moments more of the legionaries went down and now came the clatter of iron-tipped arrows hitting shield and armour. With his casualties mounting the enemy centurion had no option but to call a halt, ordering his men to shelter behind the big
scuta
. The archers’ intervention had been as much of a surprise to Valerius as his opponent until he remembered his instruction to Serpentius to round up the scattered Thracians. He was tempted to order an all-out charge that might break the enemy line, but he knew the movement would only shield them from the arrows that were keeping them honest. Instead, he shouted at his men to hold their positions and wait. A growl of dissent went up from the ranks around him, and he stepped from the ranks to scream the order into their faces until the line stumbled to halt.

But the arrow storm was erratic, like a summer shower that came, and went, then came again, with no apparent rhythm. Experience told him there were not enough of the archers to keep the legionaries occupied indefinitely. Soon, he would have to throw his dismounted cavalrymen at the veterans across the way after all. Because, at last, he detected movement at the far side of the bridge. If he didn’t push the two Vitellian lines backwards on to the wooden decked pontoons, the force facing them would be reinforced by another full cohort.

The arrow shower ceased and he opened his mouth to give the order to charge.

‘Wait.’

Valerius froze at the harsh voice in his ear. ‘Where—’

‘Just wait.’ Serpentius nodded towards the legionary line. Valerius watched with growing unease as the two ranks resumed their steady approach untroubled by the occasional arrow that thudded into their shields.

It had to be now. He tensed to give the order, but the Spaniard placed a hand on his arm. A heartbeat later he heard a hissing flutter of disturbed air followed by a sound like hail rattling on a tile roof. Hundreds of arrows arched into the legionary ranks from both flanks, seeking out throat and eye and groin and any gaps in armour. Valerius saw the centurion stagger, an arrow through his calf, but the man retained the presence of mind to give the order to form
testudo
. Harassed by three hundred Thracian archers Valerius had thought to hold in reserve, the survivors formed a carapace of shields and retreated steadily towards the bridge, leaving their dead lying in crumpled heaps.

With a last glare at his enemy, the wounded centurion shook his head in weary frustration and joined the
testudo
as it edged backwards. Valerius watched, relieved to see them go, then tensed as the formation halted.

‘What are those bastards up to?’

Still flayed by the arrow storm, the
testudo
had stopped a few paces on to the makeshift bridge. Moments later they heard the sound of axes.

‘Making sure we can’t follow them.’ Serpentius sounded almost admiring.

With a convulsive lurch the ropes holding the bridge parted and the entire structure swung downstream as if on a hinge, drawn round and bucking like a maddened horse in the strong current. Valerius heard a cry of terror as a legionary was pitched from the wooden boards to disappear with a splash into the dark waters, doomed by the armour that had saved his life moments earlier. Others were flung into the river when the bridge smashed against the far bank, dislodging boards along its length. Some of the men escaped to stumble into the shallows, but far fewer than had mounted the fragile structure. A half-hearted cheer went up from the German auxiliaries but most only stared. A man could kill another man on the battlefield and take satisfaction in his death; watching a brave man drown was different. Valerius prayed the enemy centurion still lived. Staring death in the face all he’d wanted to do was kill and kill again, but standing here with a gore-stained sword and a mouth so dry it hurt to swallow he felt all the emotion drain from him. These were Romans they were killing, brave Roman soldiers. The only difference was the men behind the First Germanica’s shields chose to fight for an Emperor not worthy of the purple. He shook his head. Was that really true? Aulus Vitellius had a deserved reputation for sloth and greed, but Valerius remembered a mind as sharp as any philosopher’s, a conscience he tried to keep hidden, and a heart as big as his gargantuan belly. Vespasian might be a fine general and the father of his friend Titus, but he’d cheerfully climbed the social ladder over the bodies of former friends – would he be any better? Yet Vitellius had tried to have Valerius killed, and after the defeat at Bedriacum and the horrors that followed there’d been no option but to join Vespasian. Only Vespasian’s forces could carry him to Rome. And to Domitia Longina Corbulo.