Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

It was a harsh order, and the odds against the Macedonian cavalrymen surviving were overwhelming. But it was a necessary sacrifice, and the decurion nodded grimly. ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Then the gods be with you, brother. Go!’

  Spathos turned to his men. ‘Come on, boys! Rome’s been paying us for long enough. Now it’s time to earn all that silver! On me!’

  Orfitus hesitated a moment then turned his horse and galloped after the others. Spathos quickened his pace to a canter, and his men followed him in a ragged column, heading for a fight they could not possibly win. Macro watched them briefly, then hurried back towards the Syrians.

  ‘Pick up the pace, lads! Our comrades’ lives depend on it!’

  He set his horse to advance at a brisk walk, and the auxiliaries lengthened their stride to keep up as they approached the crags. By now, several columns of smoke were rising into the sky, and a dark pall hung over the valley on the far side of the rocky cliffs. As they followed the curve around the base of the crags, they could clearly hear the sounds of the struggle: the strident blasts of horns, choruses of war cries from the rebels, and the crackle and dull roar of flames.

  Ahead, the valley began to open out again, and Macro was presented with a vista of burning wagons closer to, while those further off were as yet undamaged and still in harness. Towards the rear, a gap had opened up where those wagons that had been turned round were making for the fork that led to the river crossing. And teeming around the head of the baggage train were hundreds of men clad in furs and assorted helmets, breastplates and weapons. Spathos’s squadron, Orfitus amongst them, were charging back up either side of the road, still led from the front by the decurion. Macro frowned. There was no sign of the enemy horsemen that Spathos had reported shortly before.

  A rumble and a loud crack followed by a cry of alarm sounded from behind, and Macro turned just as a boulder and a shower of smaller rocks and loose soil smashed down amid the ranks of the leading Syrian cohort crushing two of the auxiliaries. The nearest men stumbled aside in shock and the entire column shuffled to a halt.

  ‘Look out!’ a voice cried out as another, smaller lump of rock tumbled down from the top of the crag, and this time the men had enough warning to scatter from its path as it smashed down onto the road. As more rocks of different sizes fell down the face of the cliff, Macro strained his neck to look up, and saw a figure far above directing men out of sight. Jerking the reins, he steered his horse away from the crags and onto the open ground beside the road. Another boulder caught three men from one of the other centuries who failed to move fast enough as it deflected off an outcrop and swept them away.

  ‘Get off the bloody road!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Off the road, you fools!’

  The order was echoed by the centurions and optios as the auxiliaries ran from the boulders crashing down amongst them. Macro saw at least ten bodies in the eddies of dust that had been thrown up by the impact of the rocks. It was fortunate that no more men had been crushed, but the real damage had been done. The cohort had been stopped, and was now retreating from the road in a disorganised mass.

  He pointed to the standard-bearer. ‘You, get on me and hold that thing as high as you can . . . Fourth Syrian! Re-form! Behind the standard. Quickly, boys!’

  Cajoled and sworn at by their officers, the auxiliaries began to form up in their centuries again, many men watching anxiously as more rocks were hurled down. But they were out of range now, and as soon as the rebel Macro had seen realised that no more damage was being done, he shouted an order to his men and ducked out of sight. Freed from the fear of being crushed by boulders, the auxiliaries took their places, though Macro could see that many of them were shaken by the attack.

  As the last few men fell in, he calmly called out the order to resume the advance, and the column continued forward, making for the blazing wagons at the head of the baggage train. Only a handful of rebels remained close by, looting the bodies of the auxiliaries and drivers, and darting in towards the burning wagons to snatch anything that might be of value. But as soon as they became aware of the approach of the rest of the cohort, they turned and ran to catch up with their comrades attacking the other wagons and using torches to set them alight.

  Macro passed the first of the bodies lying in the long grass either side of the road, rebels and auxiliaries bearing bloody wounds. Many still lived, and while the rebels tried to crawl out of the path of the oncoming cohort, the Syrian wounded begged them for help.

  ‘Leave them!’ Macro shouted as an auxiliary in the First Century broke ranks and made to help one of his comrades. ‘Get back in line!’

  There was no time to stop. The destruction of the baggage train had to be halted. He glanced at the nearest burning wagon and picked out the frame of a catapult amid the hungry orange flames. He felt a leaden despair weigh down his heart at the sight. There would be little, if anything, left of the siege train even if they succeeded in driving the rebels off. And that would mean that Corbulo would no longer be able to smash a breach in the walls of Thapsis for his men to assault. Instead, he would be forced to abandon the siege or spend the coming winter months starving the town into surrender.

  They were drawing closer to the mass of rebels surrounding the surviving wagons, and some of the leaders were trying to arrange their men into a battle line to counter the threat. Macro closed to within a hundred paces of the enemy without any arrows or slingshot being unleashed in his direction. Then he halted the cohort and ordered them to form a line across the road as Spathos, Orfitus and the ten remaining riders charged out from the rebel swarm and galloped over to join the Syrians. Macro could see that their mounts were blown, and ordered them to form up behind the auxiliaries to act as a last reserve. The optios called the time as the centuries alternated turning to the left and right. A gap was left, wide enough to keep clear of the burning wagons. When the last man was in position, Macro took his place with the colour party. He thought of dismounting to fight with the men, but he knew that his place was in the saddle, where he had an overview of proceedings and could keep control of the auxiliaries.

  ‘Fourth Syrian! Draw swords!’

  There was a ragged din of scraping and rasping as the short swords were pulled from their scabbards and held level at waist height, points protruding ahead of the line of oval shields like steel teeth. The nearest of the rebels fell silent at the sight and a hush settled over this part of the battlefield as Macro drew his own sword and raised it high for a beat before sweeping it down to point at the enemy. ‘Advance!’

  The five centuries edged forward with the optios calling the time, holding their staffs out to mark the line. Four deep, it rolled onwards, and the rebel leaders shouted at their followers to make ready, shoving forward those too nervous or stupefied by battle to respond swiftly enough to their orders. Soon a rough formation stood ready to receive the Syrians.

  From the saddle, Macro could see over the enemy. Nearly a mile beyond, the rear third of the baggage train was on the move, covered by the survivors of the Sixth Century and the wagon crews, who had armed themselves with whatever weapons were at hand. In between the two Roman forces, the rebels were looting the abandoned wagons and unhitching the draught animals before driving them towards the nearest trees. Men with torches moved from wagon to wagon setting fire to the contents, and more columns of smoke curled into the air. Macro felt sickened as he watched the siege train being consumed by flames. All that could be saved now was what remained of the supplies.

  The gap between the two lines closed, and he could see the auxiliaries instinctively hunching slightly lower behind their shields as they neared the enemy. One of the rebels gave a loud cry, hefted a throwing spear and hurled it at the Romans. The point glanced off a shield and sliced through the thigh of the adjacent man. He slowed briefly before continuing his advance, blood flowing down his leg. More missiles were thrown, and two of the Syrians went down, their places hurriedly
taken by the men marching behind them. At the last moment, some of the more courageous rebels charged forward with wild cries and hurled themselves at the Roman shield line in a series of thuds and clatters. There was no longer any need to maintain a rigid line, nor was it possible, and the optios dropped back behind their centuries to make sure none of the men tried to retreat as the intensity of the fighting began to unnerve the more anxious amongst them.

  As ever, the wild fervour of irregulars was no match for the training and battle tactics of even an auxiliary unit like the Fourth Syrian, and the short swords began their deadly work in the tight press of bodies along the battle line. The rebels’ assorted spears, long swords and clubs were difficult to wield effectively, and soon the Roman line was moving steadily forward, leaving scores of fallen men in their wake, the wounded finished off by the rear ranks of auxiliaries as they passed over them. Several of the Syrians had also been killed or wounded, and those who could still walk followed on as best they could. The others had to be abandoned where they lay, hoping that their comrades might return for them after the fight was over.

  It did not take long for the enemy’s spirit to crumble as they were relentlessly pushed back and cut down. Macro saw the first rebels creeping away from the rear, then more turned and fell back. One man started to run, and at once others followed suit, and then whole sections of the battle line were breaking away and fleeing from the auxiliaries.

  ‘They’re bolting, lads!’ Macro cried out, brandishing his sword. ‘Keep going! Drive the bastards back!’

  The cohort was pressing forward more quickly, and the very last of the rebels still willing to stand and fight was run through and then stabbed in the side. His body jerked as the blades were wrenched free, and he collapsed to his knees and was kicked onto his back as the Roman line passed over him. They advanced over open ground without any further resistance, passing the first of the wagons that had not yet been set on fire, though the mules had been killed in their traces as there had been no time to drive them off. Further on, Macro could see that some of the wagons were still hitched to surviving animals. He rode along the back of the cohort to the century closest to the road, then reined in and ordered the centurion to assign men to each intact wagon with harnessed animals they passed, and instruct them to turn the wagons round to follow the cohort towards the fork in the road.

  The bulk of the rebel force, still reeling from their rough handling by the auxiliaries, had fallen back to the foot of the slope leading up to the ridge. From the safety of their position they watched the Roman line pass by nearly a quarter of a mile away. The rest were taking what they could from abandoned wagons and carts before the cohort reached them, and further off, more were harassing the remnants of the baggage train still in Roman hands as they rumbled back along the road. Macro saw the rebel leaders riding along the front of the main force, rallying their men for another attack.

  ‘Sir! Behind us!’ Spathos cried out.

  Macro twisted in his saddle and looked back. A large party of mounted men was picking its way down the steep slope beside the crags. The same men who had unleashed the boulders onto the Syrian cohort. There were at least fifty of them, more than enough to present a real threat to the cohort in its current formation, Macro realised. With luck they would not descend quickly enough to join the fight before Macro’s men reached the safety of the defile. The line had served its purpose, and the cohort needed to move more quickly if it was to protect what was left of the baggage train.

  ‘Fourth Syrian! Halt!’ Macro barked. ‘Form column!’

  The officers realised the need to act swiftly, and doubled their men across the open ground as the auxiliaries re-formed behind their standards a short distance from the road. Macro ordered Spathos and the other mounted men to form up behind him, and led the way to the head of the column. As they waited for the change in formation to be completed, Orfitus edged his mount closer to Macro.

  ‘This may go down as one of the shortest tenures of command in the history of Rome.’

  Macro looked at him sharply, but noted the dark humour in the other man’s expression and responded with a wry grin. ‘It’s early days, sir. They haven’t done for us yet. Your lads are doing well.’

  ‘They’re not my lads any more,’ Orfitus conceded. ‘And if they’re acquitting themselves well, that’s down to the training you gave them back at Tarsus.’

  The men were ready to move, and there was no time to continue the exchange. Macro filled his lungs and gave the order to advance at the trot. It would fatigue the men, he knew, but it was vital that they close up on the wagons making for the river crossing. The air filled with the rumble of studded boots pounding across the ground, scabbards slapping at thighs as they went. They soon left behind the last of the burning wagons, and as they passed those still intact and harnessed to teams of oxen or mules, men peeled off to get them moving again. Whips cracked as the auxiliaries urged the ponderous vehicles forward, driving the draught animals on as fast as they could go as they struggled to keep pace with the rest of the cohort.

  A hundred paces from the fork, Macro ordered the men to slow to a walk as they approached Optio Laecinus and what was left of his men, who had formed a thin line across the road. Behind them the supply wagons were turning right onto the road that led to the ford. A short distance from the fork, the thickly forested slopes of the hills on either side closed in. Macro sighed with relief. It would mean that the cohort would be able to cover the rear of the baggage train more easily than over open ground.

  ‘Good man, Laecinus,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well to save as many wagons as you have.’

  The optio had sheathed his sword and was tying a strip of cloth over a wound on his thigh. He completed the knot before he saluted. ‘Have you seen my centurion, sir? Mardonius?’

  Macro shook his head. ‘He’s gone. There were no survivors at the head of the column. You’re in command of the Sixth Century now.’

  ‘Centurion, they’re on the move again,’ said Orfitus.

  The rebels were pacing back towards the road in a loose mass. Their leaders were shouting encouragement and waving their weapons, while horns blared a challenge to the Romans. Now that he had the chance to see the entire enemy force, Macro realised that Spathos’s early estimate was wrong. There were at least fifteen hundred of the rebels, possibly more. They outnumbered the men of the cohort by three to one. He looked around quickly to gauge the situation and knew that the wagons driven by the auxiliaries would not reach the fork before the enemy. The rebels would have to be held off long enough for the train to enter the defile beyond the fork.

  ‘Fourth Syrian! Halt! Left face!’

  The auxiliaries turned towards the rebels as Macro gave his orders to Spathos. ‘Decurion, do what you can to cover the wagons and keep them moving.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Orfitus.

  ‘Your choice, sir. Ride with Spathos, or fight here with your men.’

  ‘Put like that, there is no choice,’ Orfitus replied. He swung his leg over the saddle horns, dropped nimbly to the ground and handed the reins to one of Spathos’s men. Then, seeing a shield close to the body of a rebel nearby, he picked it up and tested its weight.

  ‘It’ll do,’ he muttered, and drew his sword. He exchanged a nod with Macro, then shouldered his way through the men of the First Century and took his place in the centre of the front rank.

  ‘Well, now,’ Macro mused. ‘The lad’s got an iron backbone sure enough.’

  A loud, long blast sounded from one of the rebel horns and the rest joined in. The enemy’s individual war cries swelled into an incoherent roar as the rebels rushed over the open ground towards the Romans.

  ‘You’ve seen those bastards off once already, lads!’ Macro called out. ‘Give ’em another taste of Roman steel to finish the job!’

  The auxiliaries prepared to receive t
he charge: front foot forward, rear foot set at an angle to brace the body as the men crouched a little to improve their balance. Shields swung round and the gaps between them closed up so there was just enough space to advance their short swords, ready to strike at the rebels. Macro nodded with satisfaction. They would never be as good as legionaries, still less his Praetorians, but they were far better than the men he had first met on the training ground at Tarsus.

  The grim silence and stillness in the Roman ranks rarely failed to have an unsettling effect on an enemy, and Macro could see some of the rebels slowing as they allowed their more bloodthirsty comrades to reach the Syrians’ shield wall first. The swiftest of the rebels charged home, slamming shield to shield or striking out with their weapons. Either way, they were quickly dispatched by the auxiliaries either side of the man they had targeted. More and more of them crashed into the cohort until the battle line was continuous and the deadly business of close combat began in earnest.

  Watching from his saddle, Macro felt a hot surge sweep through his veins: the urge to throw himself into the fight. If Cato had been there and in command, he would not have hesitated. But today the responsibility fell on him, and he felt an instant’s empathy for his friend who was so often weighed down by the burden of command. It was one thing to be a line officer; quite another to be a commanding officer with the fate of his men resting in his hands.

  Glancing round, he watched the wagons rattle past behind the cohort. Only the last four had not yet reached the fork. Spathos and his men, their work done, turned and raced towards the left flank, where the rebels were already starting to spill round the end of the Fifth Century. The sight of the frothing mounts ridden by blood-streaked men with long cavalry swords was enough to send the rebels running, and the threat to the exposed flank passed. Once he was sure that his men were holding their own, Macro cupped a hand to his mouth to ensure that he was clearly heard over the cacophony of battle.

  ‘Fourth Syrian! Prepare to fall back on my count!’ Some dust caught in his throat and he coughed, spat to clear his airway and drew a deep breath. ‘One! Two!’