The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  The enemy’s left flank was made up of thousands of Cappadocians, fierce bearded tribesmen in pointed fabric hats, long-sleeved tunics and trousers, and carrying hexagonal shields. They bore longswords similar to that which Brennus had owned, as well as javelins or spears.

  On their own, none of these variety of troops would have caused a Roman legion much difficulty. The trouble was, thought Romulus, there were just too many of the whoresons. Even with the rest of the army, any victory would be hard won. The fate of the Twenty-Eighth was sealed, but afterwards how could even Caesar prevail?

  Petronius laughed, startling him. ‘We’ve got two things to be grateful for,’ he said.

  Romulus strained to read his mind. ‘They’re sweating their guts out to reach us, while we just stand here waiting?’

  ‘And our pila will be far more effective thrown downhill.’

  The enemy officers were thinking the same thing. While they had to hit the Twenty-Eighth before the remainder of the legions emerged, there was little point throwing winded soldiers at a rested foe. They halted their men a hundred paces away, well outside pilum range. All the legionaries could do was mutter prayers and try to ignore the terrible sounds from the rear as their comrades battled to hold back the Pontic heavy cavalry. The more inventive officers there were ordering their men to stab their pila at the enemy riders as had been done at Pharsalus, but the ploy was only partially working. Holes were being punched in the Roman ranks, which threatened to split the Twenty-Eighth apart. If that happened, Romulus thought, they’d all be dead even sooner than he’d imagined.

  Acid-tipped claws of tension were now gnawing away at his belly. Thankfully, he would have no time to brood. The approaching peltasts and thureophoroi would reach them soon. Despite the agonising effort of climbing the hill, the enemy infantry regained their wind fast. Perhaps twenty heartbeats went by before they charged forward at the Romans like hunting dogs. There was no tight shield wall like the legions used, just a heaving mass of screaming men and weapons. The eager Cappadocians were a few steps ahead of the rest of the Pontic troops, but it would only be moments until battle was joined all along the front. A few fools threw their spears as they ran; they barely flew more than fifteen paces before skidding on to the rough ground, harming no one. Obviously following orders, most held back until they were much closer.

  The centurions had no such compunction. With the steep slope affording their pila extra distance, they had to cause the maximum number of casualties before the Pontic infantry hit. ‘Ready javelins!’ came the order when the enemy was about fifty paces away. ‘Aim long!’

  Closing his left eye, Romulus focused on a bearded peltast who was slightly ahead of his companions. Carrying an oval shield which had been painted white, he bore a larger than normal rhomphaia, and looked well able to wield it. Remembering the man he had fought in Alexandria, Romulus could imagine the injuries the warrior might cause. Gripping his pilum hard, he drew back his right arm and waited for the command.

  Every man was doing the same.

  ‘RELEASE!’ bellowed the centurions in a loud chorus.

  Up went the javelins in a dark shower of metal and wood. With the steep drop of the slope offering only blue sky behind them, they looked quite beautiful flying through the air. The Pontic infantry did not look up, though. Determined to close with the legionaries, they broke into a sprint.

  Romulus studied the peltast he had aimed at, wondering if his aim had been true. An instant later, the man went down with a pilum through the chest, and he cheered. There was no way of knowing, but Romulus had a strong feeling that it was his hit. Packed as dense as a shoal of fish, the enemy were running without their shields raised, which meant that every javelin struck down or injured a warrior. They were so numerous, though, that a couple of hundred fewer made little difference. Even when a second volley of pila had landed, there were few discernible gaps in their lines. This made Romulus feel incredulous, and fearful. Now it was down to the gladii that he and his comrades all carried. That, and their Roman courage.

  He began to beat his sword off the side of his scutum.

  Grinning, Petronius did the same. Others emulated them, drumming their iron blades faster and faster to create a terrifying din for the Pontic troops to approach.

  ‘Come on, you bastards!’ Romulus screamed, desperate to come to blows with their foes. There had been enough waiting. It was time to fight.

  Every centurion who wasn’t facing the enemy cavalry was in the front rank. Twenty steps from Romulus and Petronius, so too was the aquilifer. Atop the wooden staff he bore was the silver eagle, the legion’s most important possession, and a symbol which encapsulated the unit’s courage and pride. With both arms holding up his standard, the aquilifer could not defend himself, which meant that the legionaries on each side had to fight twice as hard. Yet their positions were highly sought after. To lose the eagle in battle was the greatest disgrace any legion could suffer, and men would perform heroic acts to prevent it. For the legate to place it in such a position showed how desperate the struggle would be. Although Romulus had been forced to join the Twenty-Eighth, he too would shed every last drop of his blood in its defence.

  ‘Close order!’ roared the officers. ‘Front ranks, shields together! Those behind, shields up!’

  Shuffling together until their shoulders nearly brushed, the legionaries obeyed. They had done this so many times: on training grounds and in war. It was second nature. Clunk, clunk, clunk went their scuta, a metallic, comforting noise. Their bodies were now covered at the front from their heads to their lower calves. All that projected forward from the solid wall were the sharp points of their gladii. The soldiers behind were also protected from enemy missiles by the wall of raised shields.

  The Pontic infantry were almost upon them. It was time for their javelins. Hurled indiscriminately, the enemy missiles filled the air over the two sides for an instant before landing among the legionaries with a familiar whistling noise. Thanks to the strength of their shields’ construction, few men were hurt. Their scuta were peppered with spears, though, which rendered them impossible to use. Frantically, they ripped at the wooden shafts in an attempt to dislodge them. It was too late. With an almighty crash, the two sides met.

  At once Romulus’ vision narrowed to what was directly in front. Everything else was irrelevant. It was just him, Petronius and the legionaries nearby who mattered. A wiry grey-haired peltast carrying a rhomphaia with a notched blade aimed himself at Romulus. Perhaps forty years old, the muscles on his deeply tanned arms and legs were bunched like cords of wood. Baring his teeth, the veteran drove his oval shield forward at Romulus, trying to knock him over. With his left leg braced behind his scutum, Romulus took the impact without difficulty. Stupid move, he thought. I’m heavier than the fool by half his weight at least.

  That wasn’t the peltast’s plan.

  Even as they grappled, pushing their shields against one another, his rhomphaia came hooking overhead. Meeting the top of Romulus’ bronze-bowl helmet, it easily split the metal in two, cutting a deep wound in his scalp. The force of the blow made Romulus see stars. He staggered, his legs buckling beneath him. With a snarl of fury, the peltast tugged on the handle of his rhomphaia to free it from the helmet. Fortunately, the blade stuck for a moment. Half-dazed and in absolute agony, Romulus knew that he had to act at once, or the peltast’s next blow would spread his brains all over the hard ground. Instinct made him drop to his knees, pulling the rhomphaia over the edge of his scutum and away from his opponent, making it more difficult to retain a good grip. A loud curse told him that his tactic had been successful.

  More importantly, though, he could see around the edges of their two shields to the peltast’s unprotected calves. Reaching forward with his gladius, Romulus severed the large tendon on the outside of his enemy’s left knee. It wasn’t a mortal blow, but it didn’t have to be. No man could receive an injury like that and stay standing. With a loud scream, the peltast let go of his rhomph
aia, which had just come free of Romulus’ helmet. He fell awkwardly, landing on his side, but managed to keep his shield in front of him. Pulling a dagger, he lunged at Romulus’ sword arm.

  In slow motion, Romulus leaned out of the way. This was no rookie, he thought dazedly. Blood was now running down his forehead and into his eyes, making it difficult to see. The crippled peltast swept his knife forward again, but did not have the reach to harm Romulus. That was no relief to him. It would only be a heartbeat before another Pontic warrior jumped over to fill the gap. He had to stand up. Dragging in a breath, Romulus got to his feet, lifting his sword and scutum. Desperate now, his enemy made a final attempt to stab him in the leg.

  Summoning all his strength, Romulus stamped down on the peltast’s outstretched arm with his hobnailed sandal. He crushed it to the ground, and there was a dull crack as the bones broke against a protruding rock. With a keening cry of pain, the man released his dagger and his shield, leaving himself defenceless. Romulus took a step forward and stabbed him through the neck, feeling the blade grate off the cartilage of his windpipe as it slid home. The peltast’s screams stopped abruptly, and his body went into a spasm of twitching as he died. Blood sprayed all over the front of Romulus’ scutum as he pulled out his sword.

  He had enough sense remaining to look up at once. Romulus knew that his chances of staying alive in the next few moments were down to pure luck, and the gods’ goodwill. Concussed, he was in no state to fight any skilled opponent. Luckily, the burly peltast who came leaping over his comrade’s corpse was so eager that he tripped, sprawling in a tangle of limbs at Romulus’ feet. It was a simple case of shoving his blade in on the right side of the man’s back, between the lowest ribs. ‘It’s a good way of killing,’ Brennus had told him once. ‘Puts the man out of action at once. It’s a mortal blow too. Cuts the liver, you see. The blood loss from that will kill very fast.’ Romulus had never used the ruse until now. Gratitude filled him yet again for the skills he’d learned from the huge Gaul. Without them, he would never have survived his first months as a gladiator – and Brennus’ advice was still useful.

  Petronius’ voice came through a thick fog. ‘Daydreaming will get you killed, lad.’

  Romulus looked around. ‘Huh?’

  Suddenly seeing the split helmet and the blood covering Romulus’ face, Petronius blanched. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not sure,’ Romulus mumbled. ‘My head hurts like a bastard.’

  Petronius glanced at the enemy. As it sometimes did, the tide of battle had ripped apart the two sides in their part of the line. It was a heavensent moment. Both sets of combatants would use the brief opportunity to rest before throwing themselves at each other once more. ‘Quick,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s get that helmet off. It’s no fucking use to you in two pieces.’

  Gritting his teeth, Romulus let his friend undo the chinstrap and ease the battered metal off his head. He waited nervously as the other probed the gash with none-too-gentle fingers. It was hard not to scream with the pain, but somehow he managed.

  ‘Just a flesh wound,’ Petronius pronounced. Untying a sweat-soaked strip of cloth on his right wrist, he bound it around Romulus’ head twice, tying it in place. ‘That’ll have to do until the surgeon can see to it.’

  Wiping the blood from his eyes, Romulus laughed at the absurdity of it. There were so many thureophoroi and peltasts charging towards them now that the idea of having his injury treated was ridiculous. They were outnumbered by more than ten to one, never mind what was going on behind them. The thunder of horses’ hooves was so loud that the Pontic cavalry must be making another charge into their rear. The Cappadocians were making short shrift of the unfortunate legionaries on the right flank. It would not be long before that section of the line gave way entirely. The end was in sight.

  Petronius caught the meaning of his grim humour. He grinned. ‘We’re screwed.’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Romulus answered. ‘Look, though.’ He pointed.

  Petronius didn’t take it in for a moment. Then he saw. ‘The aquila is still in our hands,’ he roared proudly.

  Men’s heads turned, eager to take in any crumb of hope. Not far to their right, the symbol of the Twenty-Eighth was being jabbed aloft. Grabbing the standard from the dying aquilifer, an ordinary legionary was shouting encouragement to everyone not to give in. Waves of Pontic warriors were trying to reach him, keen to snatch the glory of winning a Roman eagle from their enemies. None succeeded. The soldier’s comrades had sword arms bloody to the elbow from their stout defence of the standard. Thrusting and stabbing like men possessed, they cut down all who came near.

  ‘Can’t give up yet,’ Romulus enjoined. ‘Can we, lads?’

  ‘Mars would never forgive us,’ announced a short legionary with a nasty gash to his right arm. ‘Elysium’s gates only open for those who deserve it.’

  ‘He’s right,’ shouted Petronius. ‘What would any comrades who’ve gone before us say? That we gave up while the aquila was still ours?’

  Romulus watched the sunlight glinting off the eagle’s outstretched wings and the golden thunderbolt gripped in its talons. Memories of Brennus dying on the banks of the River Hydaspes ripped at his heart. He and Tarquinius had fled the field once before when an eagle yet flew. Never again. ‘Charge!’ Romulus bellowed, his skull pulsing with sharp needles of pain. ‘For Rome and for victory!’ Raising his scutum, he ran madly at the enemy, who were advancing once more.

  Petronius was one step behind. ‘Roma Victrix!’ he screamed.

  Their courage fanned white-hot by the pair’s words, the nearby soldiers followed.

  The Pontic warriors were not put off a few crazy Romans committing suicide when defeat was imminent. As anxious to close as the legionaries, they roared hoarse battle cries and increased their own speed.

  Romulus focused on the only man he could make out distinctly with his blurred vision: a giant peltast carrying a bronze-fronted shield with a demon’s face painted on it. The creature’s slanted eyes and grinning mouth seemed to beckon him, promising a swift path to Elysium. Certainly the man bearing it looked unassailable, a monster whom he was in no state to fight. So be it, Romulus thought defiantly. There’ll be no shame when I meet Brennus again. I’m going to die facing the enemy, and defending the eagle with all of my strength.

  Ten steps separated him from death. Then five.

  The huge peltast raised his rhomphaia in expectation.

  Romulus heard a sound that had never been more welcome. It was bucinae, sounding the charge. Over and over they played the notes which all legionaries recognised.

  Caesar had arrived.

  The noise provided enough distraction for the enemy warriors to hesitate, wondering what the Roman reinforcements would do. The giant facing Romulus stared over at their right flank, which had been crumbling before the ferocious Cappadocian assault. His face took on a surprised look, and Romulus risked a glance himself. To his amazement, he saw the Sixth Legion leading the charge to support the collapsing section. Depleted from years of war in Gaul, and most recently the campaign in Egypt, it mustered no more than nine hundred men. Yet here they were, running at the Pontic infantry as if they were ten times that number.

  They were doing it because they believed in Caesar.

  Steely determination filled Romulus once more. He stared at the big peltast, trying to gauge his best option. Injured, lacking a helmet and only two-thirds the size of the other, he needed some weakness to exploit. He could see none. Bile rose in Romulus’ throat as he took the last few steps, scutum raised high and gladius ready. Despite the rest of the army’s arrival, death was going to take him anyway.

  To Romulus’ utter amazement, a fist-sized stone whistled past his ear and struck the peltast between the eyes. Splitting his skull like a ripe piece of fruit, it punched him into the ranks behind as if he were a child’s doll. Grey brain matter splattered out as he went down, covering the men on either side. Their faces registered shock and horror.
The rock had struck so fast that it appeared that Romulus had miraculously slain their huge comrade.

  Then the rest of the volley landed. While the Twenty-Eighth had been fighting for its life, the ballistae had been readied outside the camp ramparts. Taking a great risk that some of his own men would be slain, Caesar had ordered the artillerymen to aim at the front of the enemy’s densely packed lines. It was a risky tactic – which paid off in the richest style. Firing from less than two hundred paces away, the twenty-four catapults’ efforts were lethal. Every stone killed or maimed a man, and many had enough velocity to spin off or ricochet onwards, wounding plenty more. Wails of dismay rose from the stunned Pontic troops.

  Romulus could scarcely believe his luck. He had been convinced that his last moment was upon him, but Caesar’s shock approach had swept that concern away. His energy renewed, Romulus leaped over the body of the peltast, smashing his shield boss into the face of a warrior with a hooked nose. Beneath his fingers there was an audible crunch as the cartilage broke, and the man went down, bawling. Romulus stamped on him for good measure as he stepped over to engage the next enemy.

  On his left, Petronius had killed one of the big peltast’s comrades and was trading blows with another. On Romulus’ other side, a tall legionary with steely blue eyes was hacking with grim determination into a dazed-looking thureophoros.

  His instincts urging him on, Romulus barged further into the mass of confused warriors. A few heartbeats later, the next shower of stones from the ballistae landed. This time, though, they were directed at the middle of the Pontic host. Aware that Roman reinforcements had arrived but unable to do a thing about it, the enemy soldiers were also helpless beneath the rain of death. Panic took them, and they began to look over their shoulders.

  Romulus saw the same emotion appear in the faces of the peltasts and thureophoroi facing him. An instant before, they had been about to annihilate the Twenty-Eighth. Now the tables had turned. It was a moment to seize.