It could not be called a retreat, more an orderly withdrawal.
Valerian marvelled at the discipline the Dacian troops showed. It was unlike anything he had seen from a barbarian horde before: horns and trumpets blared and the men responded, shuffling back in step. Evidently Diurpaneus had underestimated – or had been given bogus information – about the size of the force he faced. The Dacian commander was pulling his men back, probably to a narrower front where the Roman advantage could be negated. If not a student of Alexander, the Dacian king was certainly no tactical novice.
But withdrawal was still dangerous; the morale of fighting men was all important and a retreating army could bleed confidence like a sacrificial bull. If Valerian had been in command he would have ordered the attack at once and seized the initiative. Even as the thought came to mind, he guessed what Fuscus’s feelings on the matter would be. Too risky to attack; too obvious. What if Diurpaneus was planning a ruse – would they rush blindly into it? Better to steady the advance and rely on the skill, discipline and natural aggression of the Roman fighting man once the battle lines had joined.
It was less a chase, more a dance as the Romans, now mercifully clear of the forest, matched the Dacians step for step. As the day wore on, it looked as though Diurpaneus was going to lead them all the way to the rocks of his mountain stronghold. But, some three hours after the sun had passed its noon zenith, the Dacians suddenly drew to a halt. Valerian had almost convinced himself that there would be no battle that day and the sudden turn in events was unsettling.
More so as Diurpaneus was forming his warriors to attack.
For a moment, the Roman army seemed at a loss. The pattern of a whole day spent chasing a foe who was anything but keen to fight had been reversed. Now the Dacians were screaming again, keen as hunting dogs to be unleashed upon their prey. It made no sense at all, but then nothing outside the boundaries of civilised Rome made much sense to Valerian. They must have been drinking on the march, got bored and decided to make a fight of it here.
Now, he was going to have risk his life after all. He sighed and extricated himself from the tri-horned saddle of his mount – it was an officer’s duty to fight on foot. Not the duty of the fortunate fellow he ordered to lead the horse to the rear, a task for which the man looked profoundly grateful.
Skirmishers from both sides slipped through the lines of heavy infantry and began the hostilities. The textbooks said that these men were deployed to disrupt and break up enemy formations, but in Valerian’s experience it seemed that their purpose was the opposite: as the lightly armed troops capered about, it gave the proper soldiers time to dress lines and form up in a correct military fashion for the real killing.
Soon enough, the skirmishers were blown and began backing towards their lines with the customary insults and haranguing.
Unfortunately for the Roman auxiliaries, a force of Dacian cavalry swept out from the flank and hurtled towards them, losing a storm of arrows and javelins, which made for an undignified retreat back to the iron-clad safety of the legionary ranks.
‘Tits,’ said Decimus.
‘That’s mild for you,’ Valerian observed, somewhat surprised that the usually thick-skinned ranker had taken such affront to the retreat of the auxiliaries.
‘Look,’ he pointed with his javelin. ‘Tits. They’ve got tits.’
Valerian gaped. It was true: the cavalry that had so effectively chased off their skirmishers were women. ‘That’s just indecent,’ he shook his head in slow disapproval. True, he had seen women fight in the arena, but that was sport. It was immoral to place them on a battlefield. He glanced at Decimus and shuddered involuntarily, imagining the fate these amazons would receive at the hands of Roman soldiery.
Yet Decimus seemed perturbed. ‘Ain’t right, that,’ he commented.
‘Unnatural. Maybe they’re witches. I’ve heard that their women know all the dark arts…’
‘Shut up,’ Valerian ordered. This time there was no witticism to follow. The sight of the warrior women had unnerved him and, he could tell, the men around him. The amazons gave a trilling, undu-lating cry that seemed to chill the very blood, before wheeling their mounts away.
Even as their cries faded, a fresh roar erupted from the Dacian ranks and to the sound of their weird, dragon-headed trumpets, they advanced.
And it was an advance. Not the usual savage rush that the Romans were used to facing. The typical barbarian ploy was to run screaming into the fight in a win or die attempt to smash the Roman infantry line. If the line broke, the average legionary was no match for a six-foot barbarian in single combat; but the legions had become extremely proficient in dealing with these tactics, and the ‘Germanic rush’ had not really been effective since before the days of the Divine Julius.
To face a foe marching in ordered ranks, albeit ranks that were screaming abuse, was something Valerian had certainly never seen before. He could feel the apprehension all around him and decided that he should say something. ‘Steady, lads!’ he shouted. Not the most Ciceroic of beginnings, but it broke the silence around him. ‘Look at that – barbarians on parade.’ To his express relief, this brought a few wry chuckles and he suddenly felt all the fear and apprehension leave him. It was always the same before a battle – the hours leading up to it were filled with fear and unease, but when the fight was about to begin it was replaced by a strange sense of eagerness. ‘I don’t care that they can march in straight line!’ he went on. ‘They’re barbarians, and we’ll see how long they hold their pretty ranks when they get up close. This scum will be showing us their backs within the hour or less!’ His oratory was greeted with a cheer, echoed up and down the lines as other Tribunes gave similar encouragement.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Centurion Cantius smiled tightly at Valerian indicating that he felt that the Tribune’s work was now done. Cantius was newly promoted to the centurionate and lacked the world-weary affectation that non-commissioned officers always seemed to adopt when dealing with gentlemen. Valerian nodded and took a pace back, allowing Cantius to step forward. His work was indeed done for the moment: a Tribune was there to fight, inspire the men and relay signals from high command. But on the frontline, the centurions were the lords of the battlefield.
Valerian craned his neck over Cantius’s armoured shoulder. The only Dacians he had seen close up were the collaborators and civilians they had encountered on the march and he wondered how different their warrior caste would be. As their lines drew closer he could pick out detail and as expected they were – to a man – huge.
They were Germanic in appearance, all red-bearded and florid from their pre-battle drinking bout. Some wore weird fish-scale armour, but most went bare-chested in the barbarian fashion. Spear and shield were the predominant weapons, though nearly all the warriors he could see had a sword as secondary armament.
The Dacian line suddenly rippled and shifted. From behind the front ranks, a large body of warriors burst forwards, screaming a bone-chilling war cry. Like many of their compatriots they went half naked, but these ones carried huge, curved swords, the like of which Valerian had never seen before. Despite the fact that hundreds of men were charging towards him with the express purposes of ending his existence, he felt an odd sense of relief. Seeing barbarians march in order had been unsettling, despite his wisecracks to the men. The diverse weaponry and organisation of the Dacian host was more frightening than their numbers – these were barbarians that were learning to think, but thankfully they were reverting to type.
As the enemy line drew closer, Valerian gasped in shock.
There were women in their front ranks. The men around him shifted, glancing at each other, they too clearly unnerved by the sight of these harpies. Like the men, some charged in naked from the waist up. It should have been funny – perhaps a darkly comedic bent to the battle. But to see a woman running into the fight was more terrifying than anything Valerian had known. It went against everything he had been taught to believe as a soldier – and a
s a man.
‘We can’t fight them…’ he heard a soldier from behind him say.
‘It ain’t natural.’ This again from Decimus.
The soldiers in the front rank took an involuntary step back, confused and more than a little panicked by the sight.
‘Javelins… ready!’ Cantius shouted. Valerian reckoned that he had obviously been chosen for the centurionate not only for his skill and courage, but also for his bellows-sized lungs. Valerian was relieved at his intervention. Despite the shock of seeing the ‘amazons’ in the Dacian attack, Roman training kicked in. The legionaries around him drew back their arms, ready to hurl the iron-shanked pila into the onrushing mass of Dacians. Above them, arrows arched to and fro as the missile troops exchanged volleys. Valerian could feel the ground vibrate now as the pounding feet of the Dacians drew them ever closer to the Roman line.
‘Javelins… loose!’
The first barrage of pila flew skywards, landing amidst the charging warriors, causing havoc. The legionary pilum was designed to bend if it was caught in a shield, thus rendering the protection useless – and it could not be thrown back when spoiled. But the first wave of Dacian shock troops carried no shields, only their two-handed swords: each javelin that hit a mark downed a man.
Or a woman.
Valerian watched in horror as a pila took one straight through the breast bone. Even above the cacophony being raised by her fellows, her heard her keening wail and it sickened him to the core.
Others heard it too, he was sure.
Carnage erupted as more Dacians fell in showers of their own blood, their bodies tripping still-mobile comrades as they rushed to close with their foe.
‘Javelins… ready!’
Valerian had no pilum to cast, so he loosened his sword in its scabbard and tightened his grip on his shield just to have something to do with his hands. His heart was beating so fast he was sure the men about him could hear it thudding against his ribs.
‘Javelins… loose!’
There was hesitation now and the second volley was ragged as legionaries tried to pick their targets, seemingly unwilling to rain death from afar on the Dacian women.
The hesitation was costly, allowing the Dacians to gain more ground on them. Cantius was shouting commands, a tight edge to his voice. ‘Shields…present! Gladii… ready!’ All down the line, the orders were repeated, seemingly in unison. Valerian could only imagine how demoralising it must be for an enemy to see so vast a host act with such unanimity: it must be as though one was fighting something not quite human – as though the Romans were machines of war. He found himself in a ready stance, sword resting against the right side of his shield – he had responded to the order without thinking. The first-rankers were already in fighting positions, weight on their forward legs ready to take the impact of the enemy charge.
With a sound like the end of the world, the battle lines collided and each man was dragged into the maelstrom of war. What had been merely noise, now became deafening as cries of pain and shouts of triumph mingled with the metallic song of iron meeting iron, creating the obscene cacophony of battle. Valerian had been in battle before, but now, as always he feared his senses would be overwhelmed. The stink of blood and viscera rose in the first moments, followed by the sharp tang of defecation as men’s bowels gave way in death or terror.
The mass of charging warriors had caused the Roman line to bow on impact, but now Valerian could feel it coming straight again as the heavy armour and shields of the infantry took their terrible toll on the first Dacian wave. The first moments of the fight were the most exhausting as both sides spared no effort in the initial rush: Valerian glanced at Cantius to see him lift the whistle he wore round his neck to his lips.
Valerian gritted his teeth. It would be his turn next. Cantius was gauging the strength of his men against that of the foe, choosing the precise moment to rotate the front lines, replacing spent legionaries with fresh bodies for the fight.
Valerian saw a warrior woman hack down a legionary, her sword cleaving his skull, his hot blood spraying her naked torso. He realised that the soldier could – should – have killed her. He had had the chance, but hesitated and paid with his life.
Three sharp blasts on the whistle snapped Valerian’s attention back to his own plight, and he stepped into the fray. At once he was confronted by a snarling Dacian who, like his fellows, was trying to seize the initiative as the ranks changed. Valerian punched the iron boss of his shield into the man’s breastbone, turning his snarl into a shocked gasp of pain. A snake-like thrust out with the gladius and he felt the iron bite into flesh. The Dacian howled and slipped down out of sight, drowning in the press of bodies. His desperate hand gripped the top of Valerian’s shield, not to tear it from his grasp, but to save himself from the awful death by slow trampling and suffocation. It was to no avail: Valerian smacked the edge of his blade down on the man’s fingers, and with a terrified wail he was gone.
Now Valerian faced what he and the others feared the most. A tribeswoman leapt forward, her sword arching down towards Valerian’s head. With a shout that was mixed fear and anger, he raised his shield just in time to deflect the blow. Even so, the impact nearly tore it from his grip, and it was all he could do to flail out with the gladius to keep the woman at bay. The Dacian managed to shift her feet and avoid the weapon, but the man to Valerian’s right lashed out and buried his sword into the amazon’s side. Huge gouts of blood erupted from the wound as the tribeswoman fell. Valerian was sickened at the sight.
The whistle sounded again, and Valerian stepped back, allowing the next man into his place. It seemed he had only been in combat for a few moments, but he was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in short gasps. He glanced over his shoulder as he made his way to the rear rank, and winced as he saw the man who replaced him go down. The great curved Dacian sword – the falx – had smashed the top of his head puncturing the iron helmet with ease. It was a terrifying weapon and it was worrying that their armour provided so little protection against it. From his vantage point, Valerian could now see gaps appearing in the Roman lines as the battle ebbed and flowed, first favouring one side, then another.
The Dacian falxmen and these amazons were clearly the shock troops, but now they were being backed up with heavier infantry.
Diurpaneus was combining his terror weapon with a more resilient support and the impact of fresh warriors was beginning to tell. But the war of attrition was home to the Roman infantry. Inexorably, as the ranks rotated, the ground gained by the barbarians was retaken, step by bloody step.
There was, Valerian knew, a time in every battle when the balance tipped for or against you. That moment was now. He could see the Dacians begin to falter, their furious assault beginning to break down as they backed away from the front lines. Both sides shuddered in exhaustion, but the Roman trumpets sounded, forcing their men on.
Valerian was about to roar in triumph when the man behind him crashed into his back sending him sprawling. Cursing the man furiously, the Tribune scrambled to his feet, but the oaths died on his tongue as he saw the cause of his fall. Thousands of Dacians – horse and foot – had smashed into the back of their lines, a tide of barbarian fury that crashed down upon them without mercy.
‘Rear ranks eight and seven, turn… about face!’ Valerian could not even hear himself shouting the order so loud was the tumult about him. But in moments what had once been a cohesive unit began to break down. Pressed on both sides, panicked by the attack to their rear, the Roman formations began to fall apart. The key to their invincibility was their unity, their organisation. Take that away, and the Romans were at a disadvantage facing the huge tribal warriors.
Panic spread like wildfire through the Roman ranks as order broke down. Individual duels raged all over the field as men sought only to save their own lives, all thoughts of winning now fled.
Valerian was an officer and equites: it was his duty to stay until the bitter end. He was also a realist. Like the rest,
he decided to make a run for it. He would head for the marching camp, the last redoubt. Even as the realisation occurred to him, his guts lurched in shock as he saw the tell-tale smudge of black smoke rising from beyond the forest. The second Dacian army had dealt with their comrades in the marching camp already, ensuring that there would be no place to succour the legions now. Confusion reigned, but an army as vast as the one that Rome had fielded to punish Diurpaneus could not be so easily dispatched. There were simply too many men to kill quickly and, though order had broken down, the men would not just give up their lives. Furious and savage, the battle roiled again – men with no hope would not sell their lives cheaply.
For hours the fight raged on but, like a vice, the Dacians closed in around them, cutting off all avenues of escape. They laughed as they killed, savouring the pain they were inflicting. Valerian saw the Eagle of the Fifth Aludae fall and knew that, with it, Fuscus and Marcus would be either dead or dying. He saw Decimus dragged away by a group of the amazons that had so unnerved him before the battle. His screams of defiance were cut short all too soon as they overwhelmed him.
Valerian fought on, but the knot of Roman soldiers became ever tighter as the unending mass of tribal warriors swarmed around them. He lashed out at a Dacian, smashing the blade of his sword asunder on the man’s helmet. It was easy to find a replacement –
around him, the blood-wet grass was strewn with weapons and corpses. A warrior came at him and Valerian dodged the swinging arc of the falx and rammed his blade into the man’s guts. His entrails, hot and stinking, burst out as the Roman dragged the sword free.
Another warrior leapt to the attack, and Valerian cried out as his falx bit through his shoulder armour, smashing the bone beneath.
Roma Victrix Page 7