by R. W. Peake
Somehow, the men gathered themselves after the initial onslaught and seemed to be figuring out how to fight the falx effectively. Stepping underneath the overhand swing, holding their shield almost parallel to the ground above their head and giving an underhand thrust appeared to be the best way to defeat a Bastarnae. With the shield strapped to the Bastarnae’s arm, the target area for such a thrust was dramatically smaller, but because that exposed area was in the region held most dear by men everywhere, the results were devastating, at least if you were a Bastarnae warrior. Most of the enemy warriors were being struck in the groin, eliciting the most horrific shrieks of pain and terror and scaring the horses, including Ocelus. As would be expected, the fighting was fiercest just in front of the command group, with the Bastarnae seeking to overwhelm our defenses at that point to either capture or kill Marcus Crassus. He was no longer quite so placid, having drawn his sword, exhorting the men to fight with everything they had. The men listened, the whistles sounding up and down the line for the relief, with the Legions beginning to fight the way they had been trained. This was my first real action where I did not actually participate in commanding a Legion or do any fighting, which allowed me to observe things in a way that I had not before. On an impulse, I signaled to Scribonius and Balbus, then without asking permission, went trotting farther down the line to watch each Legion in action. The 8th had been placed as the last Legion on the left, at the far end of the line and well before we drew even with them we could see that they were being pressed hard, yet were holding the line well. Macrinus had placed the men of the third line, the last three Cohorts, at a right angle to the left flank of the 8th, because the Bastarnae had attempted to move around it. Silva and his troopers were gathered in a clearing about 200 paces away, the cavalry commander having clearly seen that this was a danger spot, and they were watching the 8th pushing the Bastarnae back. The second line had not been committed yet, but we could see that the men of the first line, having gone through several shifts already, were tiring rapidly. The Tribune Claudius had been sent over here, ostensibly to command the Legion, but almost every Tribune knew that when the fighting started the most good they could do was keep their mouths shut, let the Centurions do their jobs, then take the credit afterward. However, Claudius gave every appearance of not being content to do that, and he trotted off to address Silva. When he reached the cavalry commander, he pointed in the general direction farther off our left flank, then we saw Silva shake his head.
“What do you think that idiot is doing?” Balbus muttered, but I was as mystified as he, and we sat watching an obviously heated exchange taking place between the two men.
Claudius shouted something, but we could not make out what he was saying, whereupon Silva gave a very stiff salute, snapped a command to his bucinator, then before the notes had died away they were trotting off in the direction that Claudius had indicated.
“You better do something about this,” Scribonius told me and I stifled a groan, but kicked Ocelus forward to intercept Silva.
Calling his name several times before he heard me over the din, he halted his men readily enough, saluting as I rode up.
“What did he tell you to do?” I demanded.
“The Tribune has ordered us to move out on the left flank, and launch an attack on the Bastarnae right.”
At first, I was not sure I had heard correctly. If Claudius had ordered Silva to engage with the Bastarnae cavalry, which was skulking about roughly in the rear of the center part of the enemy formation, that would have actually made sense.
“He didn’t say the cavalry?”
Even with my low opinion of Claudius, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but Silva was emphatic.
“No, Prefect, he was very specific. He thinks something should be done to relieve the pressure on the 8th. He’s sure they're about to crack.”
“Pluto’s cock, he would have gotten you slaughtered! Stand fast,” I ordered Silva, who looked relieved at the reprieve.
Claudius had given an order that would essentially annihilate Silva and his men. By ordering them to attack the Bastarnae infantry, they would have had their backs turned to the real threat on the field at that moment, the Bastarnae cavalry. No matter how much of a dullard the Bastarnae cavalry commander may have been, there would be no way he could pass up the opportunity to slam into Silva’s rear once they engaged with the Bastarnae foot. Claudius, seeing that I had intervened, came galloping up, his face contorted with rage.
I believe that his fury overrode his sense of caution, because he shouted at me, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“My job in protecting this army,” I replied, forcing myself to keep my tone calm, which seemed to drive him to new heights of anger.
“Well, you’ve just ensured the destruction of this entire army! Don’t you see that the 8th is on the verge of collapse? I tried to prevent it, but you’ve brought disaster down on our heads, and don’t think that Caesar won’t know it! I will ruin you!”
Instead of answering, I merely pointed back over his shoulder, since his back was turned to where the second line of the 8th had moved forward and was even now pushing the Bastarnae back. They had thrown their best at us, we had weathered the storm, and now it was the Bastarnae who were taking those steps backward. Claudius turned to watch the men of the middle Cohorts, including Gaius, wade into the Bastarnae, picking up where the first line had left off. Bastarnae were now falling in two’s and three’s, cut down screaming and clutching their groins. Moving Ocelus closer to Claudius so that Silva and his troopers could not hear, I looked him in the eye.
“If you ever show that kind of disrespect to a superior officer again, I'll gut you like a fish,” I told him calmly. “I don’t care who your family is, boy. I don’t care who you know. Out here, all that matters is competence and you're anything but. Cross me again and you'll suffer the consequences. Do you understand me?”
Claudius stared at the 8th wading into the Bastarnae, refusing to meet my gaze or answer. Since he had genuinely aroused my ire, I was not willing to let it go.
“I believe that when a senior officer asks you a question, an answer is expected, Tribune.”
Slowly, he turned his head towards me, his gaze as malevolent as it is possible to be, but he answered.
“Yes, Prefect,” he replied tonelessly. “I understand you very well.”
“Good.” I turned to go, but he was not through.
“Know this, Prefect. By Dis, I swear you will rue the day you speak to me as if you're my superior. You are a lowborn, insolent brute and why Caesar deemed you fit to hold such a high rank, I will never understand. But you've made an enemy for life, know that.”
“Sonny,” I could not hide my amusement, “the last person to call me a lowborn insolent brute was Cleopatra. And we both know what happened to her. She’s in her tomb now.”
Without waiting for a reply, I trotted Ocelus over to where Scribonius and Balbus were waiting for me.
“That looked like it went well,” was Balbus’ only comment.
“You know Titus, making friends wherever he goes,” Scribonius could not resist adding.
I ignored them, and we trotted back to the command group.
When we reached Crassus, I reported to him that the 8th was carrying their part of the battle. In response, he pointed to our front.
“So is the 13th,” he commented.
We watched the Bastarnae on our right continuing to fight, but their energy and enthusiasm was clearly flagging. Suddenly, Crassus pointed to a group of horsemen on the opposite side, where one mounted man, richly dressed and armored, was waving his sword in exhortation to his troops. Unlike the men on foot, he did not carry a falx, armed instead with a sword that looked very similar to our spatha. He was surrounded by men dressed in armor, all carrying weapons of only marginally lesser quality than his, and they were watching the fighting in front of them intensely.
“He must be their king,” Crassus said suddenl
y. “Keep your eye on him. If we get the chance, we’re going to go after him and I intend to kill that bastard.”
What happened to not wanting me to fight, I thought, though I kept it to myself. Crassus began trotting his horse closer to the rear ranks of our line, shouting at the men, urging them to make one last effort. They responded, fighting even harder and as we watched, the Bastarnae crumbled. Like I had seen so many times before, it did not seem to take longer than it takes to blink; one moment men are fighting, then most or all of them immediately turn to run for their lives, on some unseen and unheard signal. Our men were ready, plunging blades into men’s backs the instant they tried to turn and run. What saved even more Bastarnae from dying when they suddenly fled was the moment it took for the Legionaries to clamber over the makeshift breastworks. Despite it being little more than piled brush and fallen logs, it was enough to give the Bastarnae two or three steps. An additional obstacle was the Bastarnae bodies that were piled up at the foot of the breastworks, many of them still moving. The Centurions led their men over the breastworks, the men giving a great shout as they went off in pursuit. With the Bastarnae left giving way, it was just a matter of a few moments more before the Bastarnae center, now outflanked, had to decide whether to fight or run like their comrades. I was pleased to see that Natalis used his third line to swing down onto the Bastarnae center, essentially making their decision for them. What had been a hard-fought, bitter battle was now a rout, and the Bastarnae leader and his bodyguard quickly saw that all was lost. Rather than turn about in an attempt to outrun his men, the rear ranks of whom had already reached the spot where they were standing, they instead turned to begin galloping parallel to the two lines. Crassus understood their intent immediately; before they could flee they had to disentangle themselves from their own men, and that small delay in making their escape gave Crassus the opportunity he was looking for.
“Evocati, follow me!” He pointed his sword in the direction of the fleeing horsemen, then without looking back to see if we were following, kicked his horse into motion.
“We better go with him,” Balbus said to me as he rode by, already at a canter.
“You should stay here,” came from Scribonius, close behind Balbus.
The rest of the Evocati thundered by while I sat, trying to decide what to do. I had a legitimate reason not to become involved in any fighting; my hand was still practically useless, and I noticed that my side ached a great deal, which would make it awkward holding my cavalry shield. On the other hand, I thought, there’s nothing wrong with my right arm, and I don’t have to actually do any fighting. I gave Ocelus a hard slap on his rump, galloping after Crassus and the Evocati.
Ocelus closed the gap in a few powerful strides; as I pulled even with Scribonius, he looked over at me and rolled his eyes.
“I knew you wouldn’t stay behind,” he shouted while we went thundering after Crassus, who had opened his horse into a full gallop.
I saw one of the rearmost bodyguards turn; seeing Crassus and the rest of us in hot pursuit, he shouted a warning to the others. Without hesitation, they immediately began whipping their mounts, who responded with a burst of speed. Now that the Bastarnae were at a full gallop, I no longer had to hold Ocelus back, letting the slack out of the reins and giving him his head. Stretching his neck out, Ocelus’ long legs ate up the ground while I clung to his back, laying my head down along his mane, gritting my teeth from the jarring impact that threatened to open my wounds. Crassus was still ahead of us, but Ocelus began closing the gap quickly. For a moment, I forgot what we were racing for and was just caught up in the thrill of seeing my horse outrun everything around it. Crassus’ mount was a magnificent animal in its own right, a black stallion, and I could see his eyes rolling backward as we came into his vision.
The Bastarnae were in full flight, taking us away from the battlefield, and I had a fleeting thought about pulling up to go back to ensure that Claudius did not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by doing something stupid. Deciding that not even a dolt like Claudius could ruin this triumph, I continued following Crassus, though we were almost even now. Turning his head briefly when he sensed the presence of another rider, our eyes met briefly, his eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. He gave me a wide grin before turning back to our pursuit, and we slowly but surely closed the gap. The rearmost bodyguards were now no more than five or six lengths away, their faces desperate as they kept glancing backward at us. Approaching a stretch of rough and rocky ground, the Bastarnae tried to veer away to choose a course that kept them away from the hazards, but the momentum of the leading riders, the nobleman among them, was too great. Going no more than a dozen strides over this ground, the nobleman’s horse either tripped over a rock or stepped into an animal hole, because it came to an abrupt halt, and even from where we were we could hear one of its legs snap. The nobleman was thrown over the horse’s head, flying through the air. Nevertheless, he made an extremely good recovery, tucking a shoulder then rolling several times before coming to a stop. The bodyguards reacted immediately, but our own impetus was such that we were on them before they could fully prepare themselves. Marcus Crassus held his spatha straight out and slightly to the side, catching one of the bodyguards just beneath the armpit when he was turning. It was at that very moment, as I continued sweeping past on Ocelus, heading for another bodyguard, that I realized I had not drawn my own spatha. Consequently, I was closing with a Bastarnae cavalryman unarmed, and it was little more than the span of a few heartbeats before I was on him. The man I had headed for was a well-built man a few years younger than me, with a tough, competent look about him. Fortunately, he looked as surprised to see me closing with him empty-handed as I felt, meaning that for the briefest shadow of a moment, he hesitated as if unsure what to do. That hesitation saved my life, and it was by pure impulse that I reached out with my right hand to grab the edge of the rider’s shield before he could bring his sword up to stop me. Passing by with no more than a hand’s breadth between our legs, Ocelus was still at the gallop and I squeezed my thighs together with all of my strength, grabbing onto the front of the saddle with my left hand at the same time. The impact was terrific; despite being unable to jerk the shield from his grasp because it was looped on his arm, I almost unseated him before my momentum forced me to release the shield or come off the back of Ocelus myself. The shock of pain that shot through my left hand when the stump of my little finger jarred against the edge of the saddle took my breath away. However, it did give me the chance to unsheathe my own spatha while I jerked Ocelus to a skidding stop, wheeling him quickly about to face my adversary. Since the Evocati outnumbered the Bastarnae bodyguard by almost three to one, men worked in teams to cut down one of the enemy cavalrymen. We were a good distance away from the battle now, the woods where we had been hidden just a green line, the pursuit and slaughter of the Bastarnae infantry obscured by dust. Jabbing Ocelus with my heels, he leapt towards my chosen enemy with a great snort, except this time I was prepared to face him. All thoughts of my injuries were suddenly gone from my mind; in fact I do not remember feeling them at all in that instant, despite just moments before being worried that they would open again. Just as eager to meet me, the Bastarnae came pounding across the ground for me, both of us with our arms straight out, meaning to stab each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur of movement, coming from the opposite side of the Bastarnae, heading directly for him. He obviously sensed the same thing, so he brought his shield up tightly against his body to absorb the impact, which kept him from being able to swing it about to use it against me. All I had to do was dodge his own thrust, which I did easily, the impact of the point of my spatha punching into the man’s chest and jarring me all the way to the shoulder. Twisting the blade free, as I rode past, I saw him reeling in the saddle, but somehow he managed to stay upright, and I saw frothy blood on his lips. Now able to see who had come to my aid I was a bit surprised that it was not Scribonius nor Balbus, but Novatus, now fully healed. T
he Bastarnae, with his strength rapidly waning, was parrying Novatus’ repeated thrusts, until he could no longer hold his sword up. Even then, he used his shield effectively, thwarting Novatus’ attempts to land a killing blow. I admired the man’s courage and skill a great deal, so I could not bring myself to kill him myself with a thrust from behind. If he had been able to act offensively, using his sword, I would not have hesitated, but it had slipped from his grasp to fall to the ground. Finally, the Bastarnae was unable even to lift his shield, the blood streaming down his chin and bubbling from the wound in his chest, and Novatus gave him a final thrust. The man toppled from the saddle at last, while Novatus and I looked about for any other threat. Seeing that the rest of the Evocatus either had subdued the other bodyguards or they were in the process of doing so, we trotted our horses toward each other. Novatus gave me a huge grin.