Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  LII

  ‘They’ve broken through in the west.’

  Quintus Naso had to still a surge of panic at the aide’s news as he watched the combined First and Third cohorts fend off the attack on the east gate. A few moments earlier it had all seemed so simple. Too simple. He cursed himself for falling for the same barbarian trick that had led to the butchery of the auxiliary patrol in the valley. A double feint. ‘What about the other walls. Can they hold?’

  ‘There are too many of them.’ The aide’s voice shook. ‘Thousands. Those bastard Usipi fled without a fight. I’ve told the Second and Fourth cohorts to make a fighting retreat to the parade ground.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Naso hoped the praise would calm the boy. He’d done well. The south wall wasn’t under direct attack and another officer might have ordered his men to try to escape by that route. Naso had no doubt the enemy would be waiting for them, and they’d have been cut to pieces as they tried to fight their way through the narrow gateway. The fort that had been their refuge had become a trap. He didn’t even have to consider his options. There was only one thing to do.

  ‘Have the signaller sound “recall”. The legion will form a defensive square on the parade ground, First cohort to man the western flank.’

  It was a complex manoeuvre that depended on the First’s disengaging from the fighting on the east wall without the defences collapsing, and the five double-strength centuries making their way across the parade ground in time to halt the main enemy attack. The remaining cohorts would conform on their comrades in an operation they’d practised many hundred times under the watchful eye of Valerius and himself. He felt a momentary twinge of fear. Was it an ill omen that the commander had been kept away just when the enemy decided to attack?

  Naso dismissed the thought. He still had no concern about the outcome of the fight. Once they were in square he had every confidence in his men’s ability to hold off any number of barbarians until help could arrive. Armourers ran past carrying armloads of pila to stockpile in the centre of the square. The signaller’s trumpet blared and he heard the shouted orders as the First cohort’s centurions began the delicate task of unstitching their soldiers from the eastern defences. ‘Eagle party to me,’ he called, and led his command section and bodyguards to where the spears were piled.

  It was only when Honoratus, the legion’s aquilifer, moved into position beside him with the legion’s eagle standard unveiled that the true immensity of his predicament and that of his legion dawned on Quintus Naso. The man who lost this gleaming, gold-covered piece of brass would be remembered throughout history with dishonour and disdain, his family reviled and their very future placed in jeopardy by his actions.

  Honoratus’s bodyguard took their places around the big eagle-bearer, each man a veteran and armed with a fearsome double-edged axe, but Naso took little comfort from them. If ever they were called upon to wield those axes to protect their charge it was finished. Brave men, they’d ensure the enemy paid dear for the taking, but it would be the Ninth legion’s last stand. He heard a surging roar and the crack of snapping tent poles as a great ball of flame told him that someone had set the praetorium and its stock of lamp oil alight, and he knew the enemy would be on them in moments. Behind him the Third cohort was conducting a fighting retreat to make up the rear wall of the square. To his right and left he heard the shouts of command as centuries from the other cohorts filtered into their positions. Would they be in time?

  ‘Make ready to receive the enemy.’

  Thousands of Celts poured from the wreckage of what had been the perfectly aligned tent lines of the camp only to stumble to a halt at the sight of the wall of Roman shields that blocked their way. Almost two hundred legionaries, the elite of their command, made up the front rank of the defensive line facing them, with two more ranks at their back. Every man was fully armoured and stood behind the three layers of seasoned oak of a brightly painted scutum. The defensive wall bristled with spears and the men who confronted it understood how formidable it could be, though few if any had faced the Romans in battle. They looked to their chiefs for leadership, but they were as perplexed as the men they led.

  Cathal and his bodyguard forced their way through the great mass of warriors until the king could see the Roman square.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he raged at Donacha. In the light of the burning pavilion he could see more and more Roman soldiers running to take their places in the square. ‘They’re still disorganized. Strike them now and make use of their confusion.’

  He raised his great hammer and launched his men at the tight-packed legionary formation. A moment’s hesitation before a great roar went up as the warriors advanced in a rush, the movement mirrored as the Selgovae and Venicones warriors on every side joined the attack. To Cathal, the Roman formation looked as solid and immovable as a rock, but these fighters were his bravest and his best and he believed the rock must crumble under their relentless attack.

  When they were thirty paces from the square a trumpet blared and the walls of shields parted momentarily. A soft hissing filled the air for a few heartbeats to be replaced by the terrible shrieks of men in mortal agony as the first cast of pila scythed down the leading attackers like summer corn. Four feet of ash topped by a shank of iron as long as a man’s forearm, tipped with a pyramid point honed to needle sharpness, the heavy spears, designed to punch through light armour, tore through flesh, muscle and viscera and cracked bone. Cathal winced at the death cries of his sword brethren and the charge stuttered as those behind negotiated the bodies of their fallen champions. A second cast and hundreds more fell, but now the great mass of warriors engulfed the square with a thunderous crash that rippled and bent the wall of shields.

  For a moment it seemed the Romans must break, but somehow the square survived. Celts maddened by the loss of their comrades threw aside their spears and tore at the shields with their bare hands, only to reel back clutching at eyes or throat. Cathal, stalking the outer fringes of the attack with his bodyguard, noted how the second line of legionaries protected the heads of the first with raised shields, and a third rank stabbed at the closest attackers with long spears. Even if a Celtic sword or spear managed to pierce the wall of shields, the upper bodies and heads of the men who held them were protected by glittering iron. Only the most fortunate of strikes drew blood.

  Cathal’s casualties could already be counted in the hundreds, while the few wounded Romans were quickly replaced by the men behind them. He had a momentary vision of halting the attack and using what advantage he had to carry off the Roman supplies. Food for his army was a greater priority even than the broader aims of his plan.

  Yet that plan could still work. By now the reinforcements from the main Roman camp would be marching into the arms of Rurid’s Caledonians and a massacre between mountain and river. Cathal had always known that the numbers he brought to bear on this segment of the enemy force were his greatest asset. Victory must be won with blood. With sacrifice. The awful reality of that truth sickened him, but he must be as strong as the men fighting and dying in front of the shield wall. Sooner or later the Romans would tire. His heroes would burst through the shields and then it would be the long Celtic swords doing the killing.

  His great height gave him a view across the heads of the attackers and the wall of shields. In the dying light of the flames he caught the glitter of gold.

  The eagle of the Ninth.

  Gwlym had told him of the mystical power the Romans invested in their golden baubles and the shock the loss of one would send through the Empire. He had thought to stand back and direct the fighting as the druid had advised, even though the heavy hammer itched in his hand. Now, with victory in the balance, he realized that would not be possible.

  Already the front ranks of warriors had fought themselves to a standstill in places, but they wouldn’t give way to those behind. The pause provided the Roman ranks with a respite Cathal couldn’t afford. Once more he sought out a weakness. Occasionally
a pair of warriors would survive long enough to tear one of the shields from the line causing a moment of confusion and a great cheer as the surrounding Celts butchered the fallen legionary. A man like Cathal might use that confusion to create a decisive breakthrough, but he had to be there to exploit it and that was down to luck. There had to be another way. He moved through the roaring mass of warriors shouting encouragement, but his eyes never left the Roman formation. At last it came to him.

  ‘Find shields for your men,’ he ordered Colm. ‘And follow where I go.’

  If you were breaking up an oak chest to reuse the wood where did you start? Not with the wood itself, but at the joints. The joints that held this Roman square together were the corners. All along the line his warriors faced sections of men who defended those to their left and right as well as themselves. But at the corners of the square the attention of those to the left and right of the pivotal soldier would be divided. Here an attacker would only face one man and those directly behind him in the formation. Kill those men and expose the legionaries on their flank. Kill those and you had an opening that could be used to create panic and confusion. An opening that led to an eagle.

  Pride welled up in Quintus Naso’s heart as he watched his depleted legion fight. After the first shock of the attack he’d never doubted his legionaries could hold the barbarians. How he loved these men. The Ninth contained as many rogues, shirkers and lifetime milites who couldn’t be trusted to hold a hammer or use a saw as any other unit. But they were all ready to fight for each other and die for each other. The men of a legion shared tents, latrines, bad habits and bodily odours. They’d snarl at each other like dogs, beat each other to a pulp in a fair fight and grin bloodily at each other when it was over. A fool would be tolerated for a lifetime of service, but a coward or a thief wouldn’t last a week.

  Now these men stood shoulder to shoulder behind the big curved shields they cursed on the march, gripping the swords and spears that might be moulded to their hands. After an hour of hard fighting their shoulders would be aching, the sweat would be pouring into their eyes, the stink of torn bowels and new-shed blood thick in their nostrils, and the death cries of their enemies in their ears. But Quintus Naso knew they would stand for as long as it took.

  An enemy cheer told him one of his men had fallen and he said a silent prayer to his memory. It was all the epitaph the man would ever get, because a legion on campaign had no time for funeral orations or the carving of grave markers. He could hear the centurions of the reserve centuries growling at their men to have patience and to be still; their turn would come soon enough. But in the interior of the square all was calm and disciplined.

  A shouted order sent men dashing from the reserve ranks to replace the fallen. Headquarters clerks and slaves carried the wounded from the lines to the area set out by the medici, but the injured were mercifully few. It had been proved time and again that in straight combat no barbarian army was a match for a well-fought legion.

  His mind strayed to the east, where help would be on its way. How many would Agricola send? Three cohorts at least, probably more. There would be no fanfare of trumpets when they came, no flaming arrows to warn of their progress. He only hoped whoever commanded them had the sense to cut off the Celts’ escape route. If the reinforcements came over the west wall Naso and their commander would have the enemy between the hammer of the Ninth and the anvil of the Twentieth. Calgacus would be annihilated.

  Would Agricola send Valerius? Of course he must, for all their personal enmity. Who was better equipped to lead a night attack? Not Ursus, who had a reputation as a cautious, even timid commander, or Polio, for all his attributes. Naso allowed himself a grim smile as he imagined their reunion in the midst of the carnage. I return your legion, Valerius. You will find it is a little battered, but still intact.

  A burst of cheering drew his attention to the north-west corner of the square. His heart seemed to stop at an enormous crash that drowned the sound of battle, immediately followed by a second that brought a growl of dismay from the nearby legionaries. Instinct told him this was the crisis he had been waiting for. He turned, looking for someone to lead the counter-attack if one was needed, but his aides were all involved in the fighting. He gestured for a shield to one of his bodyguard and drew his sword. ‘Second and third centuries to me,’ he called.

  ‘Sir …’ Honoratus the standard-bearer stepped forward.

  ‘Hold fast, aquila,’ Naso told him. ‘I will be back in a few moments. Keep your charge safe at all costs.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Naso led the two centuries forward at the trot. The burning pavilion was little more than a distant red glow, but there was enough light from it and the stars to give him a sense of what was happening. As they approached the beleaguered angle the wall of men collapsed inward with soldiers falling back from a massive presence who dominated all around him.

  Calgacus. The name entered Naso’s head unbidden, but he didn’t hesitate. A mixture of fear and exhilaration surged through him, but instinct told him this was his chance. ‘First century,’ he launched himself at the fighting. ‘Kill that big bastard.’

  Men from the outer wall turned to run and he screamed encouragement at them as he ran by. ‘Hold. Hold fast for Rome.’

  ‘For Rome!’ They roared the automatic reply and the words must have steadied them because they turned back with their comrades. A barbarian shield reared into his face and he met it with his own, forcing the owner backwards and stabbing at his eyes with his gladius. The man shrieked and reeled away, to be replaced by another. Naso smashed his scutum into his body, only realizing as he did so that it was a Roman soldier, his iron helmet crushed into his skull and blood pouring down his face. All around him the legionaries of the first century manoeuvred to get a killing thrust at the giant figure in the gloom, exchanging blows with the Celts trying to protect him. A rushing sound was followed by a mixture of ringing metal and wet slap. Liquid splattered into Naso’s face and he tasted blood on his lips. Despite the death of their comrade four or five men were managing to keep the roaring colossus at bay, like men baiting a bear in the arena. At last Naso saw his chance. Calgacus half turned to lash out at a legionary who’d got too close and the camp prefect darted in, gladius poised to plunge into his enemy’s unprotected vitals. As he made to thrust he heard a warning shout and, with astonishing speed, Calgacus reversed his movement. Naso saw nothing, but he had a sensation of flying through the air, which turned out to be more than sensation when he landed on his back with a crash of armour.

  The impact knocked all the air from him. A moment of confusion before he understood there was more to it than that. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t breathe. Men surrounded him and carefully picked him up. Glittering stars raced across the inky night sky as they moved him back into the centre of the camp and laid him gently on the flattened earth of the parade ground. He felt little pain, just a tightness in the chest that restricted his breathing to a hoarse whistle. Someone bent over him. Odd that he should have a wolf’s mask. Of course, Honoratus, the standard-bearer, with his wolfskin cape. A familiar stolid face, the features twisted in emotion.

  ‘What ha …?’ Naso tried to raise his head.

  ‘You did it, sir,’ the aquilifer choked. ‘You saved us. We drove them back. The breach is filled.’

  Naso lay back, aware of a new dampness on his cheeks. The eagle was safe. But where were Valerius and the reinforcements?

  LIII

  Valerius slipped the cowhide socket of his wooden fist over the oiled stump of his wrist.

  ‘Tell me again,’ he said, as Gaius Rufus helped him dress.

  ‘All I know is that the sentries on the west wall saw a pair of fire arrows from the approximate position of the Ninth’s camp.’

  ‘The warning signal?’ Valerius buckled his sword belt with his left hand.

  ‘That’s what it looked like.’

  ‘Naso isn’t one to panic.’

  ‘No, lord,�
� the scout agreed. ‘He must be certain Calgacus means business.’

  ‘And he has fewer than three thousand legionaries, a few renegade Brigantes and a couple of auxiliary cohorts.’ Valerius shook his head in frustration. ‘Agricola should never have divided the command.’

  Rufus shrugged. He left strategy to those who were paid to form it.

  ‘How many men is Agricola sending in the relief column?’

  ‘He didn’t say, lord.’ The little man frowned. Better for Valerius to discover for himself that the governor had merely looked into the western darkness for a few moments before returning to his tent with little sense of urgency.

  Valerius strode out into the camp. Where were the troops for the relief column? They should be assembling on the parade ground, preparing for a forced night march. Yet there was no movement among the tents of the Twentieth legion. No centurions marching along the lines rousing their contubernia. In the torchlight the sentries went about their business as usual. The only troops assembled were Valerius’s bodyguard, who waited, armed and ready, their horses fidgeting nervously in the torchlight outside the praetorium. Shabolz, the former Pannonian auxiliary, held the reins of Valerius’s mount. ‘Lord.’ He nodded a welcome.

  Valerius looked from the men to the curtained doorway of the headquarters tent, where two guards stood watching impassively.

  ‘Have you had your orders?’ he asked Cornelius Felix.

  ‘No, lord.’ Felix shifted uneasily in the saddle. ‘We’re still waiting.’

  Valerius marched to where the guards stood. ‘Valerius Verrens, legate Ninth legion, to see the governor.’

  To his surprise the men moved aside without protest. ‘We were told to expect you, sir. The governor is at his desk.’

  Agricola, dressed in a simple woollen tunic and wrapped in a cloak against the chill night air, sat reading a scroll held to his portable campaign desk by four metal weights. He looked up as Valerius entered.