Etruscan Blood
Page 63
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Downriver, Faustus had started his operation with the first faint lightening of the sky, well before sunrise, marching towards the Anio with his infantry widely dispersed, hoping to catch every Sabine patrol in their net. "Be obvious," Tarquinius had told him; "I want them to know exactly what you're doing." Faustus' objections - how could this be a surprise attack if everyone knew what he was up to? - had been overruled; and when he'd asked how to make it sufficiently obvious what he was doing, if that was the point, Tarquinius just said "Do what you do normally," with a nasty look on his face.
It had been easy. (So far: Faustus added his habitual reservation.) He had divided his forces into three, sending the left flank far wide to mop up any outlying enemy dispositions; the right contoured a small stream which looked likely to be the effective limit of Sabine concentration, since the land further south of it was rough and broken. Meanwhile he took his own hundred straight down the middle, marching fast forward. They covered the first five miles before dawn. The Sabine scouts would have reported their positions last night; there was no way anyone could have expected an infantry force to make such a rapid advance.
Usually, battle strategy dissolved into random skirmishes as soon as the enemy was sighted; within seconds, the clarity of the plan was smudged and crumpled. Even the unanimous line, the solid shield wall that faced the enemy - and nowhere more solid than in a hundred under Faustus' command - started to waver as some men pushed forwards, others fell behind or simply fell. But today was an exception. As Faustus' men marched forward in their order, they saw the Sabines retreating before them. Apart from the first few patrols caught napping, and quickly despatched, not one enemy unit resisted. Seeing the unbroken line of Rome advancing, the enemy turned and retreated, willingly, though in good order. They must have had orders to regroup beyond the Anio if challenged, Faustus thought. They must have thought they would be safe there.
So there was none of the usual disorder of battle. Everything went smoothly; disappointingly smoothly, to tell the truth. No one said anything - no one would dare - but Faustus could feel his men getting impatient; no battle, no loot, no chance for glory or, perhaps more to the point, promotion. Pushing the enemy back beyond the Anio without killing a few of them wouldn't do much for Rome, either; the Sabines would be back again, and again and again, and Rome would never be safe unless she could dominate them entirely. Or extirpate them totally, Faustus thought; that would be safest. So blood was needed, not just to appease the gods, but to give Rome security.
"Can't be far to the river now, sir." That was one of the younger officers; Gaius or Gnaeus, Faustus thought, he should be able to remember which. This was the kind of slip-up he'd be hot on if one of his men made it.
"We should see it soon. Beyond the next ridge."
"And we just drive the Sabines back?"
"As far as the river, and no further. Those are our orders."
The officer's face didn't move; he was well trained. But Faustus could see his distaste for that order in a slight relaxation of his shoulders, a slight coldness in the eyes.
"The men are hoping for a skirmish at the river. But the Sabines might be too fast; it's almost as if they're drawing us out."
"Yes, it looks as if they've been ordered to withdraw if threatened."
"You don't think they have some other scheme?"
"Like attacking our flanks if we push forward too far?"
"Well, yes, Sir."
"That's why I've sent our wings out so widely. I'm fairly certain they can't have any dispositions we won't have picked up. Nothing to cause us trouble. And our wings are driving them all towards the centre."
"Towards the bridge, in fact."
"Correct. If they run, they're back behind the Anio where they belong." (Though how long they'll stay there, Faustus thought, is anybody's guess.) "And if they don't..."
The officer's mouth twitched very briefly before he brought his expression back to the obedient blankness of the Roman soldier.
"Tell you what," Faustus said, unbending a little in the way he knew all soldiers responded to best; "Why don't we force the pace a bit now we've got them on the run, make them work a bit harder?"
That got a grin from the officer; tight-lipped, but definitely a grin. He suppressed it, but not quite quickly enough for Faustus not to notice it. Good. That would be a popular decision with the men, he could tell.
They upped the speed of the march; tricky to do that and still keep the line, even trickier uphill, on the long upward haul towards the low ridge ahead, but they managed. They were well drilled, Faustus' Romans. They might not have the aristocratic dash of an Etruscan chariot squad, but by the gods, they were efficient. Disciplined and efficient. In front of them, Faustus could see the Sabine retreat falling apart; units dispersed, each man for himself in the scramble to get away.
As the Romans reached the top of the ridge, the view opened up below; the river gleaming like metal as the early sun caught it, the landscape around it blurred as if with mist, and still monochrome, the indistinct shapes of trees and hedges without depth in deeper or lighter grey, the hills sagging behind in sad brown; only far in the distance had the sun caught the snowline of the further mountains. On this side the river, the Sabines were still retreating down the slope, scattered bands of men making for the bend in the river where a slim wooden bridge connected them to their camp. Once past it, they would be safe.
Faustus ordered his men to halt.
"Now, sir?" one said.
Faustus could already see how many others' eyes had slid sidelong to look at that ill-advised soldier. He hardly needed to say anything; that man would have it in the neck from his colleagues for the rest of the campaign, assuming he survived. Still, he couldn't let it pass.
"When I give an order you obey it. Now. When I give it you. Not after you've done a bit of thinking, wondered whether I mean what I say, tried to translate it into Gaulish or Ionian Greek or Persian and back again, and shagged a couple of sheep on the way. Now. Got that?"
"Yessir."
Of course Egerius would have been more succinct and Tarquinius a good deal more sarcastic. But Faustus found his own approach effective enough; he didn't need rhetoric.
"Anyone else wondering what I'm about?" There was silence in the ranks. Good. "Right. The Sabines are on the run and we're not pursuing them. You're too smart to ask me. Well, all of you except our sheep-shagging friend here." That got a laugh, of course. "Then let me tell you. We have a plan. And if you want to see how that plan works out, this is as good a panorama as you'll find anywhere in Rome. Except the Tarpeian Rock perhaps, and we hope you won't end up there." That got a laugh, too; though if any of them had actually seen a traitor pushed off the Tarpeian, they might not have laughed so loudly. "And the plan is... no, I won't spoil the surprise. You'll have to wait to find out. But let me assure you; there'll be blood and guts and trophies and loot enough once the plan's worked out."
They waited as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the mists began to disperse, leaving only streamers of fog adrift in the bottom of the valley. It wasn't till a while later that Faustus realised one wisp of grey hadn't been fog at all; it was smoke, which thickened and darkened, till it rose high and threatening above the plain. The bridge was burning.
And now the patterns below them changed. The Sabines had been flowing downhill like streams gradually converging, each band joining others, towards the bridge. Now, while some continued towards the bridge, obviously hoping they could cross over before it burned completely, others retraced their steps, or fled along the banks of the river looking for a place to ford it. Confusion reigned.
Still Faustus' Romans stood, watching from the high ground. They knew, without asking, that the firing of the bridge had been part of the plan. They knew they were impregnable; the Sabines could not regain the high ground, could not - now their danger was clear - launch a fresh attack. Let the Sabines scatter, that was the plan.