Still dazed, Valerius looked up to find himself the focus of a grinning shadow creature that turned out to be Atilius. The aquilifer’s grin faded as he inspected his eagle, which had one wing bent back at an angle to the body from the impact on the enemy’s jaw.
‘Don’t worry, Atilius,’ Valerius assured the crestfallen soldier with a shaky smile. ‘I won’t take it out of your pay.’
They barely had time to draw breath before a new rush of intruders threatened to overwhelm them. The eagle’s guard, now reduced to five, fought like demons to protect the sacred symbol, but for all their valour Valerius sensed they were weakening. Not in spirit, which was unvanquished, but in strength, their sword arms numbed by what seemed hours of fighting. As they fought, the numbers facing them grew with every passing second. The perimeter was long gone and he cursed himself for losing control of the cohort. No possibility of retreat now, if there ever had been. A great mass brawl surrounded him, with men screaming ‘Tolosa’ and ‘Juva’ to identify themselves to their comrades. Men fought not for victory, but to stay alive for a few more precious seconds. A lean silhouette appeared silently from his right and he turned to meet the new threat. Serpentius placed a hand on his sword arm. ‘Save your strength, because you’re going to need it.’
And he was right. Out of the darkness roared a new stream of enemies and the little group of men around the eagle was almost engulfed. Valerius fought with Serpentius at his right side, the Spaniard’s sword spinning a deadly pattern that kept all but the bravest at bay. He heard a scream to his left, and in the gloom saw Atilius swinging the eagle like a giant axe. A man grabbed for the sacred emblem of the Seventh Galbiana, only for one of the surviving guards to cut his hand off at the wrist. Another ducked below the whirling staff and stabbed upwards, but Atilius stepped forward and kicked him in the face with an iron-shod sandal.
‘Fight for your eagle,’ Valerius roared. ‘Remember your oath.’
Men heard the rallying cry and broke away from individual combats to hack at the men threatening the legion’s cherished standard. The counter-attack won a few moments’ respite – a lull in the almost endless ebb and flow of violence – but Valerius knew it couldn’t last. The next concerted assault would overwhelm them. He stood there fighting for breath, barely able to raise his sword arm, his chest filled with fire.
Serpentius sensed his despair. ‘Did you want to die in your bed?’ he snarled.
Valerius shook his head wearily. ‘What does it matter? We failed. I threw away these men’s lives for nothing.’
The whites of the former gladiator’s eyes shone like ivory in the darkness and trickles of blood – Valerius couldn’t tell whose – turned Serpentius’s already savage features into a nightmare vision from Hades. ‘They’re legionaries,’ he spat, wiping gore from his sword blade with the skirt of his tunic. ‘Dying’s all they’re good for. Every man in the Eighth cohort knew it might end like this, but they followed you anyway, didn’t they? Because they trusted you. And they were right. If you hadn’t checked the bastards here, you’d have lost the whole legion.’
‘Maybe. I—’
‘Tolosa! Vespasian!’ The cry from thousands of throats drowned out every other sound on the battlefield and was followed by an enormous clash of arms from the north. Valerius exchanged a startled glance at the Spaniard and Serpentius cocked his ear like a hunting dog.
‘They’re running. The bastards are running.’
‘Tolosa! Vespasian!’ The men around them took up the cry as their opponents faded away into the deeper darkness. To the north, the battle continued.
‘Eighth cohort?’ Valerius roared. ‘Rally to the eagle. Atilius? Give voice. Let them hear you.’
‘The aquilifer is down, tribune. That last attack …’
‘Someone fetch a torch.’ Valerius rushed to where he’d last seen the standard-bearer. With the click of metal on flint a light flared startlingly bright to illuminate a circle of ground scattered with bodies and parts of bodies. At its centre Atilius Verus knelt, head bowed, his torso supported by the sacred emblem he’d protected with his life, hands still clutching the pole with the battered eagle glittering defiantly above him. Valerius reached forward to touch his shoulder but the aquilifer toppled sideways, forcing him to grab for the falling standard. A dark pool on the ground showed where Atilius’s lifeblood had poured out from a gaping wound in his groin.
Still holding the precious eagle, Valerius surveyed the ring of grief-warped, savage faces in the flickering shadows cast by the torch. They had all seen men die, but some losses leave a void that is impossible to fill. ‘Atilius Verus died a soldier’s death,’ he reminded them. ‘An honourable death and a good death. He defended his eagle to his last breath and fulfilled his oath to the end.’ He paused to let them reflect on a towering comrade with a great heart. ‘Who will replace him? Who will accept this sacred burden?’
After a heartbeat’s hesitation one man stepped forward to a murmur of approval, one of the eagle’s surviving bodyguards, blood-spattered and limping. ‘I, Drusus Rufio, will take on this sacred task,’ he declared, ‘if my commander sees fit to honour me with it.’ Valerius nodded, and with a desolate glance at his predecessor Rufio accepted the staff and lifted his eyes to the eagle.
In an age-old ritual that went back to Gaius Marius, founder of the legions, Rufio recited the sacred oath in a voice shaking with emotion. ‘In the name of Jupiter Optimus Maximus I accept this eagle, this sacred symbol of my Emperor’s faith, into my keeping and that of Legio VII Galbiana, and I pledge on behalf of my comrades that we will defend it to our last spear and our last breath or may the god strike us down. For Rome.’
‘For Rome.’ The survivors of the Eighth cohort echoed his words in a shout that could be heard in the capital.
Valerius closed his eyes as a wave of exhaustion and relief threatened to consume him. He had defended the Seventh Galbiana’s eagle and kept it safe. But even as the thought formed the gods must have been laughing at him. Because from the darkness to the north came the sound of rushing feet and the unmistakable metallic clatter of armoured men approaching at the run.
XXII
The torchbearer dropped his brand and stamped on it, plunging them into darkness.
‘Tolosa!’ Valerius shouted the watchword and held his breath as he waited for the reply. His reeling mind tried to work out the hour, but he had no idea how long the fight had lasted. All he knew was that he was exhausted beyond caring. The surviving centurions silently ushered the men into line and they waited expectantly, their weary arms holding shields shoulder high and swords at the ready. The distant clamour of battle still rang clear, but the sound of men running in armour faded.
‘Tolosa!’ Valerius repeated the call, his body tensed for the storm of javelins that might accompany the reply.
‘Who are you?’ a querulous voice demanded from the gloom.
‘The watchword is Tolosa.’
‘I know that, but by now so does everybody on the battlefield. So answer the fucking question.’
Valerius hesitated.
‘You have to the count of five,’ the voice threatened.
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, acting legate, Seventh Galbiana.’
‘Merda.’
Serpentius laughed as the whispered obscenity reached them. ‘Your reputation goes before you, tribune.’
‘Tolosa!’ The cry began opposite Valerius and was taken up all along the line. A torch flared and a group of shadowy figures marched towards the survivors of the Eighth cohort. The one-handed Roman relaxed as he recognized the grizzled figure in the centre.
‘My apologies, tribune.’ Annius Cluvius Celer, prefect of the Ateste cohort of evocati, removed his helmet and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. The old soldier’s face was as grey as his hair and his hand shook. ‘Even the bravest are apt to become a little nervous when they don’t know who they’re fighting.’
‘Nervous or not, my friend, you have never been more welcome,’ V
alerius assured him. ‘I take it we have you to thank for the withdrawal of the Fifth.’
‘The Fifth?’ Celer’s face mirrored his puzzlement. ‘We’ve taken prisoners from Twenty-first Rapax and Fifteenth Primigenia, but none from the Fifth that I know of. But yes, we beat the buggers. That is, us and the Praetorians. We were in reserve behind the Thirteenth when we had word to reinforce your right flank. General Primus sent a wet-behind-the-ears tribune to take command and a scout who led us blundering about in the dark. Eventually we found some Thracian auxiliaries who pointed us in this direction and when we came across some fighting the tribune decided we might as well join in. Fortunately, it seems we attacked the enemy.’
Valerius suppressed a shiver at the realization that the survival of his legion had been decided by a blind throw of the dice. But that was past now.
‘Can you put out a picket to allow us to regroup and care for our wounded? Our little battle may be over, but there’s still plenty of fighting and I wouldn’t like to be surprised by some cohort that’s got lost and is looking for a fight.’
Celer nodded and issued an order to one of his officers. Valerius had already sent a runner to Claudius Ferox asking for a detailed report on the Seventh’s status, but his instinct told him that they would be able to hold their own now that the pressure had been removed from their flank. He asked Celer for news of what was happening in the centre and on the left, and the old man responded with a cackle of bitter laughter.
‘Only the gods and the owls have the answer to that question. Annius Cluvius Celer cannot see in the dark, and neither can Marcus Antonius Primus. I can give you my impressions, for all they are worth.’ With a shrug he bent and stabbed his bloodied gladius into the earth to clean the blade. ‘Two blindfolded bears meet in the forest. They roar. They push. They test each other’s strength. They back away. Push again. Eventually they must decide whether to wrestle or to run. Only when they properly come to grips will they know who is stronger, and even then greater cunning or Fortuna’s aid may still decide the outcome.’ Celer’s face split into a surprised smile, as if he’d only just realized that he’d survived. ‘As I understand it, our strongest defences are on the right, with two legions to hold them. I know of no crisis before we received our orders, though what the position is now I cannot guess. Primus has confidence in the Thirteenth and they are defending the narrowest of fronts on the causeway itself. It would take Achilles and all his Heroes to shift them. They were faced by the Fifth Alaudae and I’d hazard the flank attack you faced was as much a probe to feel out their width as a genuine attempt to destroy you.’
Serpentius sniffed and spat. ‘I can assure you it seemed genuine enough at the time,’ Valerius said. ‘You mentioned Praetorians?’
‘The ragged fellows we picked up on the road,’ Celer explained. ‘Vitellius butchered their centurions and stripped the rest of their position and their rank. Three cohorts strong and they fight as hard as they hate, which is hard indeed. They charged off into the murk, but I thought it best to obey our original order and reinforce the Seventh.’
‘You did right.’ Valerius gripped the other man’s arm and Celer winced. ‘We’re still hard pressed, and the Eighth cohort is out on its feet and has lost half its strength. Form your men up and we will rejoin the legion.’
The militia veteran smiled wearily. ‘It will—’ A surging rush rent the air to the north, followed almost instantly by an enormous crash that seemed to shake the very ground they stood on. Then the screaming began, a different kind of screaming that made the normal battlefield sounds almost commonplace. The kind of screams men utter when they have been visited by some nameless, faceless horror.
‘What in the name of Mars was that?’ Celer found his tongue.
Valerius exchanged a glance of recognition with Serpentius. They’d heard that sound before and could imagine the results. The screams came from the ranks of the Thirteenth Gemina, the backbone of Primus’s battle formation, packed three centuries wide and twenty deep on the narrow causeway and the ditches beside it. Celer had said that not even Achilles and all his Heroes could shift them.
But they weren’t facing Achilles and all his Heroes. They were facing Cyclops.
The engineers of the Twenty-first Rapax called it Cyclops because it was huge and instead of only one eye it had a single arm. The Vitellian legions who force-marched from Hostilia to meet Marcus Antonius Primus’s attack had left their artillery to make its own plodding way in their wake. But the Twenty-first had been at Cremona for months and their camp east of the city walls was defended by all that centuries of Roman ingenuity in the art of war could provide: palisades, ditches, stake-filled pits, towers – and artillery. Their ‘shield-splitters’ and onagri catapults had been manhandled from their positions and accompanied the bulk of the legions, but their value on the damp ground and in the dark was limited. Cyclops was different. A dozen oxen had taken three hours to haul the great siege catapult the four miles from Cremona. It had cost another two to peg and rope the structure into place so it wouldn’t be hurled into the air by the earth-shaking power that kicked through the wooden frame during a launch. It had an arm as long as three tall men ranged top to toe, and could throw a boulder the weight of a small ox six or seven hundred paces. Valerius went through the calculations in his head. Even now the engineers would be straining at the levers to pull the arm and sling back into place, ready for the next release. Cyclops was designed to destroy walls and buildings; its effect on flesh and blood could be truly awesome. Corbulo had used catapults against the massed ranks of the Parthian host at the battle of the Cepha gap and the giant missiles had broken the King of Kings’ resolve. They were notoriously inaccurate, but that didn’t matter against a target directly ahead and half a mile deep. From somewhere to their right front came the distinctive thump of the great oak beam hitting a barrier of straw-filled leather sacks. A rush of displaced air and the almighty crash as the boulder landed. Valerius winced at the thought of the giant rock, the size of a large cauldron, landing among the close-packed ranks of a century. Men utterly destroyed in an instant, their flesh pulped and their splintered bones turned to deadly shrapnel. The first bounce tearing through rank after rank, to be followed by a second and as many as three or four more. Each bound killing and maiming and spreading terror and despair. A single catapult could cost Marcus Antonius Primus his battle.
‘We have to stop it.’ Valerius knew he had no choice. He called for axes to be brought forward, but Serpentius laid a hand on his arm.
‘Times have changed, Valerius.’ The Spaniard kept his voice low. ‘You have a legion to command. Your job is to lead, not to go crawling around in the dark getting yourself killed.’
Valerius would have shrugged him off, but it was like being gripped by an eagle’s claw. Besides, he knew the former gladiator was right. Almost five thousand men depended on him for direction and leadership. The bulk were less than two hundred paces away, bewildered, hungry, exhausted and still fighting to stay alive in the darkness. They would hold their positions as long as they could wield a sword and keep their shields high. To desert them, even for so vital a mission, would be a betrayal.
He nodded reluctantly. ‘How many men will you need?’
‘Twenty should do it,’ Serpentius said. ‘Enough to take care of the engineers and the guards, form a perimeter and keep two or three of us alive long enough to disable the beast.’
‘All right. The first century is as good as any for this kind of work. Choose your men from the survivors.’
‘With respect, tribune.’ The voice was Celer’s. ‘Your men have been fighting all night, and you said yourself that they’re exhausted. We, on the other hand, are relatively fresh. Do me the honour of allowing me to lead the escort and choose them from amongst my men.’
Valerius hesitated. These were old men – no, not old, not quite, but worn by time and hard service. Yet every one was a veteran, with a lifetime of campaigning behind him. And the Colonia militia had
taught him not to underestimate the value of experience. They might struggle to march twenty miles in a day, but they were fighters. He walked along the line of soldiers. Their eyes glittered in the torchlight and not one flinched when he met their gaze. ‘Very well, prefect. Choose your men. But Serpentius leads. This is the kind of work he was born for.’
A legionary appeared out of the dark and laid a bundle of long-handled iron-headed axes at Valerius’s feet. Serpentius bent to pick one up, weighing it in his hands. ‘Four should be about right.’ He turned to Celer, and Valerius was surprised at the respect in his voice. ‘You’ll know your men best, sir.’
‘Crispinus, Lucco, Julius.’ Three broad-shouldered legionaries stepped forward as the prefect chose his axe men. He rattled out a list of names and sixteen others formed line beside them.
‘You’ll do,’ Serpentius ran a challenging eye over the old soldiers. ‘But if any of you don’t fancy taking orders from a former slave and hired killer, now’s the time to say so.’ He waited, but not one of them spoke out and he grinned. ‘Don’t worry about making a noise, because we’ll all be carrying these.’ He picked up a fallen enemy shield. ‘We’ll be going in as fast as you’re able. Leave me to do the talking if someone challenges us. If you get separated, the enemy watchword is Ajax and the reply Agamemnon. Watch the man in front, because when we get closer that’ll be the time to become slow and silent. Prefect?’ Celer nodded, flinching as a new rushing sound signalled the latest missile arcing towards the Thirteenth’s ranks. ‘Once we pinpoint the catapult you stop and regroup. I’ll be up ahead checking the positions of the guard. We hit them once we know how many and where they stand. With luck they’ll be so busy watching the show they won’t notice us until we’re cutting their throats.’ They smiled at that, but Valerius saw little humour in it, and no wonder. These men would have to traverse the battlefield in the pitch dark, find the catapult, defeat its defenders and destroy it. The enemy weren’t fools. They were as aware of the machine’s importance as Primus. For all Serpentius’s brave words this was a dangerous, possibly suicidal venture, with only a limited chance of success. But it had to be attempted. He felt the Spaniard studying him. ‘No time like the present.’ Serpentius nodded and hefted the shield. Twenty men followed his example. ‘We should be back by first light.’
[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome Page 17