by C K Ruppelt
“Release!” All arrows flew, several hitting the same few cavalry men that were closest. The first ten riders toppled, reining some of their horses to a stop in the process. The following riders now had to turn wide around the riderless animals. The Cretans dropped their bows and moved their small shields to their wrists before drawing their long and recurved swords. They moved forward with a throaty shout to meet the Transcudani. Nico ended up close to the riderless horses, with the first enemy coming at him from his right side, opposite to his small buckler-style shield. For a moment that seemed to stretch out forever, all he could do was parry the man’s frantic slashes at him. But then his adrenaline overcame his fear and nervousness. By the gods, I will not sell my life cheaply.
He twisted to his right in his saddle, now able to catch the incoming blade on his buckler, leaving his right arm free to slash downwards, his blade biting deep into the enemy’s upper leg close to the groin. When he pulled his kopis back, the leg’s artery started pulsing blood, spraying both him and the horse’s rider. Nico kicked his own mount left, trying to get some distance from the fatally wounded man drooping in his saddle, the additional pull on the reins making the enemy’s horse rear before it turned right, away from Nico. His focus snapped back to the next rider pushing into the opening. The woman wielded a solid iron spear, pointed right at his face. Nico had trained countless hours for situations like this and stopped thinking. He let the spear come very close until the Transcudani tried pushing it forward by stretching out her arms, expecting to end the Cretan. Instead of waiting for the point to hit him, Nico twisted forward and to the left, letting the spear’s tip glance off the right side of his chainmail. He caught the spear shaft with his left shield arm, pushing it down and away from his leg and his horse’s side. He twisted back, stretching out his right arm on the back swing. His kopis connected with the woman’s face, cutting clear across the nose and eliciting a loud scream. The woman’s following hesitation was enough to let Nico add a slash to her right thigh, cutting deeply. The woman let go of her bridle and dropped to the ground, to be trampled by the horses of her eager fellow warriors. Another rider moved in, ignoring Nico to attack the Cretan next to him instead. A glance over made him realize that their line had changed. The other two turmae had come to their support, and his new friend Elatos had pushed in without Nico realizing. Elatos was already engaged with a Transcudani to his left side and was wide open for the enemy newcomer. With a start, Nico pushed forward, trying to shove between them. Just when Elatos looked to his right, the Transcudani warrior stabbed him hard with her spear, the tip going through the chainmail into the sternum. Elatos was thrown backwards out of his saddle, ripping the spear out of the warrior’s hands. While the woman fumbled to draw her knife, Nico slashed hard into her exposed shoulder, cutting deeper on the back draw. She screamed and dropped her knife in her attempt to stem the flood of blood rushing out of the severed artery. With that Transcudani out of the picture, and now several riderless or downed horses between himself and the closest enemy, Nico had a moment to look around. He spotted Elatos, crawling away from the fight. He tried to wipe some of the blood from his face and realized how vast the sea of enemy riders in front of him was, all eager to get to him and his fellow Cretans. It seemed impossible to withstand this flood, and he felt paralyzed for a moment. I will die here in these mountains, far away from the civilized world. At least I will see Timon again soon.
Just maybe he could give the two cohorts and Elatos a few extra moments to live. He spurred his mount forward, rushing towards the next enemy.
***
“Are we going to get there soon?” the man in front of Publius Ventidius Bassus asked loudly. They were on their way delivering the supplies needed for the new fort at the southern pass into the mountains. Bassus figured the legionaries already there and digging would be ready for them when they finally arrived. He didn’t mind their slow pace. He was content walking his mule while musing about the past and the future. How lucky he had been to meet old Albanius during his time as a homeless and hungry orphan boy, and that the man had allowed him to walk the roads with him. The deep friendship with the old muleteer had saved him and set him on his current path. Albanius, old enough to be the boy’s great-grandfather, had procured a second mule within a couple of months, to let Bassus help him with bigger deliveries. I’ve been happy with my lot in life ever since.
When Albanius had died many years later from old age, his sons inherited both mules. With little savings to his own name, Bassus had signed up as a muleteer for the legions. He never rued his decision since he loved working with the animals, it was as simple as that.
His current assignment was the load for a tent group of the fourth cohort of the Ninth legion. He walked next to his beautiful tall mule, heavily loaded with the poles and leather hides of the eight-men tent, as well as the sleeping cots and bread oven, several packs of spare clothes and tools, plus six of the heavy palisade stakes needed for the fort walls. He had long since stopped being amazed at what mules could carry for long distances. Forty of their almost three hundred animals were loaded even heavier, carrying the centuries’ scorpios and half of the First cohort’s artillery plus various ammunition options for each. Forty of the animals in front of him carried huge stacks of palisade logs, frequently waxed or oiled. With dry weather, they were relatively light, but he had seen mules break down in heavy rains, unable to continue under a water-logged load. At the rear of the single file, mules drove twenty of the camp prefect’s many wagons, heavily loaded with the staples of legionary food, wheat and chickpeas, and several weeks fodder for the many animals.
He shook his head at the legionaries of the seventh cohort marching to their side, feeling superior to him and his comrades and making fun of the muleteer’s question. “As if he has anywhere important to be,” one of the men wisecracked. The four hundred and eighty legionaries stretched out in one single file, with five squads marching wide at the front, leading the entire baggage train, and another five doing the same as rearguard. The one hundred sixty artillery men marched between the single file and the rearguard, keeping an eye on the mules loaded with the parts for their war machines.
Bassus looked up when he heard a commotion up front. The men and mules ahead broke into a fast trot. He followed, and as he neared the tree cover at the foot of the tall mountains, he could hear the muted but unmistakable sounds of distant battle. He urged his mule out of the trees and pulled to the side. He forgot to breath when he saw the desperate action of the third and fourth cohorts in the distance. These men need help, and it can’t come soon enough. Help me Jupiter.
Without thinking, he started stripping his mule’s load, and shouted at the other muleteers to do the same. He received a few blank looks, but most seemed to understand, feverishly emulating him. Muleteers usually played catch-up with marching legionaries in enemy territory, and they were encouraged to carry long knives, spears or even a cavalry sword for self-defense. The muleteers had plenty of opportunities to train with the legionaries, and every muleteer worth his salt knew how to ride. There was no doubt in his mind about what he needed to do to help his fellow men. With the bridle in his left hand, he jumped up onto his animal. Once seated on the strapping, usually used to secure the load, he pulled his long sword out of its sheath, and looked around. About a hundred and fifty of the mules were in various stages of unloading or mounting. Word must have traveled back into the woods, resulting in obvious haste. The last of the artillery men and legionaries trotted by, starting a long run uphill towards the struggle. Blandius counted the number of mule drivers already mounted and figured they were up to nearly a hundred. The muleteers were looking at him for guidance. You want me to lead you? Really? So be it, if that’s what it takes.
He wasted no time. “You all see that desperate struggle up there, right? The closer ones have got to be the Cretans, trying to cover the cohorts’ rear,” he shouted as loud as he could to be heard over the noise of the unloading. “They can’t
hold out long enough, certainly not until our legionaries can get to them.” Nobody else spoke, but many kept looking between him and the raging battle up the mountainside. “So, let’s give them a hand, shall we?” he shouted, and with a roar, he kicked his mule into its ribs, launching it forward. He moved at a sharp trot, the others following.
After a quarter mile he passed the first of the jogging legionaries. The men had stripped off their extra gear and bundles, falling into a steady uphill jog. Bassus admired the men’s stamina. Still carrying over twenty pounds of armor and weapons, yet they ran at a steady speed up a steep incline. Few people outside the legions could match feats like this.
He looked up. The uneven struggle between the Cretans and the Transcudani had become desperate. From below, he could barely make out more than a handful of the light beige and red tunics peeking out from their armor stranded in a sea of local earthy browns and greens. “Sweet Perseus, you need to fly like the wind! Faster, faster!” he urged his animal on. Will we get to them quickly enough?
***
Blandius saw the enemy climb over the finished ramparts to move around the ends of the Roman defensive line. He knew the prefects and tribunes had seen the flanking maneuvers since the call for “agmen formate” was blown soon after, meant for the formation of an open square. He saw the men at both ends of the line step back behind the man next to them. They kept perfect form, exactly as drilled every week. The front line slowly shrunk, extending the sides farther and farther back. Even wounded and in pain, he was amazed to see how well the ceaseless and tireless drilling translated to battlefield action. This was the one advantage keeping the two cohorts alive, at least staving off certain disaster for now. Blandius pushed himself upwards, feeling faint. If I can’t reach the men around the cohort’s standards, I’ll be outside the square and as good as dead.
He shuffled over, sparing a glance at his feet. He could see fresh blood running down to the ground with each step. He was weak and barely coherent, and just as he thought he was going to make it he tripped. He fell to the ground, with no energy left to get back up and closed his eyes. This is it then.
Soon after, Blandius felt his torso lift off the ground, though he was unable to move until he dropped back to the ground. He felt the hand grab him again under his shoulder trying to lift him. This time, he came alive and tried to get up.
“Quickly, man, on the double. We need to hurry!” he heard a somebody urgently shout in his ear. Moving as fast as he could, he turned to look at who helped him. He was surprised to see Tribune Marcus Licinius Crassus.
They made it to the line just ahead of the first Transcudani and Crassus ducked under the first warrior’s swing, which nicked Blandius’ cheek instead. The closest legionary moved out of his side-stepping line to stab the attacking warrior’s side, allowing Crassus and the wounded Blandius to hurry past.
“We made it. Let’s go to the medicus and his helpers.” Crassus told him, keeping up his support until they were within a few feet of their target. Blandius stared at Crassus, attempting to commit his face with its big forehead and dark blue eyes to memory. Why is helping me? I am just a legionary, a nothing to the likes of him.
“Ah, good, the fellow with the cut foot,” the medicus said. “You there, let’s get his leg up, he clearly can’t afford to lose any more blood,” the man called to one of his helpers and got to work. Blandius looked past him at a few enemy warriors that had made it past the moving line and now harassed the legionaries rear. He couldn’t believe what he saw next—the cohort prefects, both tribunes, all their aids and servants, and even the horn blowers all drew their gladii and ran to engage the enemy, making short work of them. The legionaries could now move quickly without the added pressure, and the square closed. For now, that should be enough. Though he realized that the officer’s focus now changed to the valiant Cretans. He heard some prayers to Mars, god of war, for victory despite the circumstances. But he also heard many more praying to the spirits of their ancestors in preparation for the upcoming reunion. His lids turned too heavy to keep open. He closed them as the noise and prayers seemed to fade into the distance.
***
Nico felt the impact of the sword on his right shoulder and the sharp pain made him drop his kopis. He had no time to check if or how far the enemy sword had penetrated his mail. In panic, all he could do was to keep moving his shield to stop the wild slashes from reconnecting with his body. Another Transcudani horseman shoved his own attacker’s horse to the side, and Nico took the short opportunity to slide off his horse’s far side. He remained upright thanks to his left hand’s tight grip on the bridle, though hitting the ground shot pain like a lightning bolt into his shoulder, making him waver on his feet and howl. His blade glinted a few feet away and Nico moved to pick it up. Jostled by the horses around him, he settled on a closer spear instead. Gritting his teeth Nico pushed to get to the enemy he had fought against a few moments earlier. Holding the far end of the spear he stabbed at the man’s chest from several feet distance. The warrior turned, the spear tip glancing off hardened leather armor and penetrating the man’s left arm instead. Nico pulled the spear out, rapidly hitting a second time into the man’s side, pushing him off his horse. He glanced behind to see only a handful of surviving fellow Cretans close by, surrounded on three sides, with the fourth side covered by the end of the finished section of rampart. Riderless horses crowded them, thankfully making it hard for multiple enemies to engage simultaneously. Or we would all be dead already.
Just as he wondered how to get back on a horse, he saw an opening appear to the south side of the melee where some of the Transcudani turned away from the remaining Cretans. Why? I can’t see anything.
He ran towards the opening and engaged the next enemy warrior, allowing a fellow Cretan on the other side of the man to dish out a lethal hit. They both had a moment of breathing room before moving to support the rest of their swiftly shrinking unit.
***
Bassus saw some of the enemy peel off from the struggle ahead, moving to face him and his fellow muleteers. A brief glance back showed him a long line of mounted mules reaching back all the way to the woods. He figured there were now at least two hundred galloping behind him up the incline. He kept riding towards the sixty or so Transcudani bearing down on him before swerving sideways for the last fifty feet. This made the entire line of enemy riders spread out. Some tried to cut him off, some were slowing, and the remainder kept on downhill towards the other muleteers. He was glad to notice that his colleagues behind had followed his swerve. With his sword out, he rode by the first Transcudani to hit the man’s shield with a glancing blow. The man turned to follow him uphill.
He kept riding for another thirty feet. As he had hoped, close to forty of the muleteers had been able to avoid getting engaged and had followed him. Now only fifteen of the Transcudani were close behind his small team. He reigned in, and quickly turned his mule. With satisfaction, he saw the surprised face of the warriors that had followed them. He moved in to engage.
***
Nico could not believe his eyes. The muleteers crashed into the Transcudani riders right in front of him. He let out a wild laugh, eerily matching his exhaustion and pain. His helmet had been pushed off his head by a spear, and he had received a gashing wound on top of his scalp. Reinvigorated by the sight of the mule drivers, the few remaining Cretans around him went mad with anger and grief, hacking into the enemy in a raging frenzy, finally taking down enough of them to be able to join forces with the muleteers. Nico ran out from between the horses and sighted twenty Transcudani fleeing from a big group of muleteers chasing uphill. He cheered and pumped his spear into the air despite his pain. Then he spotted the long line of the running legionaries of the Seventh cohort a half mile away.
He turned to look at the other two cohorts. He saw the open square they had formed, keeping at bay what seemed to be at least two thirds of the original foot warriors and a few hundred cavalry men that had made it around the Cretan
s. The enemy there was entirely engaged with the square, which might just give them a chance to turn things around here.
Some of the twenty fleeing enemy were heavily wounded and rode right by their fellows fighting against the Cretans to head back along the western rampart of the camp.
Nico couldn’t believe what happened next. These few men are turning the tide in our favor by turning Transcudani heads to spot the oncoming muleteers and the seventh cohort.
With some of the stragglers of the mule drivers still barely out of the woods there was no way the enemy could know how numerous the Roman reinforcements were. More and more of their cavalry disengaged to ride back around the earthen ramparts to join the group at the upper part of the camp. Their foot soldiers still tried to break the Roman square, but what was meant the be a regrouping started an unintentional flood, many misunderstanding it for general flight. Despite their still tremendous numerical advantage, the Transcudani warriors started to disengage everywhere to flee up the mountain. Nico cheered, soon joined by all Roman survivors.
A few minutes later he walked around, pushing horses aside in his search for fellow Cretans on the ground. He had already found many dead bodies, including his turma’s decurion, Klearistos. Andrippos, their first decurion, was still alive, though barely. He had received deep lacerations and had been run through with a spear. Nico knew that the man’s chances depended on what had been hit internally. Not much hope there.
Nico had continued his search in an ever-widening circle and he was close to the rampart now where he finally found Elatos. His friend had crawled a hundred feet up before succumbing to his pierced lungs. Nico gently wiped the bloody foam from Elatos’ lips and broke down, sobbing. Why did I survive, why? Why could you feckless gods not take me instead to leave Elatos alive in my stead?