There, heading up the Roman right, Traianus was dressed in full battle armour, crested with a purple plume, mounted on an equally well-armoured stallion. He was engaged in frantic discussion with Tribunus Profuturus and the other comitatenses tribuni. Traianus seemed to be insisting that they wait, despite the growing heat and despite some of the tribuni calling for the legions to make the first strike.
Pavo heard the nervous grumblings all along the ranks behind him. Standing in full armour in the searing sun was doing little to aid morale, especially when the Goths were in full song, their ululations and guttural chanting echoing across the plain. But he also saw the Gothic advantage in numbers, and that their archers held the high ground. There would be no victory by an early attack or by brute force today. Strategy would be the key. They would have to wait. Pavo noticed the magister militum gazed to the western horizon as his tribuni appealed to him for action. His brow furrowed. Mithras tell me he has a plan!
Then, young Noster spoke out from behind him, his voice hoarse. ‘Sir, permission to down helmets and weapons and take on water?’
Centurion Zosimus twisted round at this, his incredulous expression glistening with sweat. ‘You just keep your hand on your sword hilt and your shield on your arm!’ The big Thracian shouted over the Gothic song.
But then, suddenly, the Gothic chorus stopped dead. All Roman eyes snapped forward. There, beside Fritigern, Ivo held his arms aloft, like a bird readying to soar. All Gothic heads were turned to him. Then, after revelling in the silence for a few heartbeats, the giant warrior took to rallying the Gothic army with a booming anti-Roman tirade. His every exclamation was met with a sharp, raucous cheer that shook the land, amplified by the foothills cupping their ranks and the Haemus mountains behind them. Then the grizzled warrior drew his sword and levelled it across the plain, tip pointing directly at the Roman centre. As one, the Gothic army took to battering their spears and swords on their shields, and threw forth a baritone roar that seemed neverending.
Pavo clutched the phalera through his mail vest and tried to block out the doubt that raced through his heart. But it was no use, morale was already disintegrating. The silence across the Roman lines was painful. He looked across the plain; at the centre of the Gothic line, Fritigern and Ivo were mounted at the fore. ‘Fools!’ He cried over the cacophony of the Gothic chorus, seeing the mounted Draga lurking behind the pair. ‘They don’t even know they’ve been led here, like cattle, to fight the Viper’s war.’
At this, Zosimus scowled at him. More, Gallus also turned, glaring at him. Then a sparkle appeared in the tribunus’ eyes.
With that, Gallus turned to the legion. ‘Aye, as have we,’ he boomed in response. ‘You’ve all heard the rumours about the Viper, the one man who will bring all Gutthiuda crashing down upon the empire? A master of strategy, a shade, a demon . . . I’ve heard it all.’
The men of the front ranks frowned at this.
‘Well that very whoreson stands just over a plumbata’s throw across the grass.’ Gallus’ chest grew as he sucked in a breath and clutched the eagle standard from the aquilifer. ‘He’ll bleed like any man, and if we fight like the lions we are, then he’ll bleed his last today! So are we here today to lie down before his mighty army? Are we?’ Gallus shook his head briskly, a manic sparkle in his eyes. ‘I am not!’
Pavo sensed the mood change at that moment.
Gallus ripped the spatha from his scabbard and held it aloft, the standard held high in the other hand. ‘I have fought these whoresons on the plains, in the forests, in the mire and on the waves for longer than I care to remember. For what? Just to have them devour my corpse on this day, on this land, our land? I don’t think so!’ His words seemed to be piercing the Gothic chant, and the adjacent I Adiutrix and nearby IV Italica had all picked up on the rousing homily. Pavo could see heads being turned in the ranks of the II Armeniaca and II Isauria as well, with expressions of bemusement touched with hope.
Then, Gallus stabbed his spatha into the ground, and pumped the standard towards the sky.
‘Remember we are the XI Claudia Pia Fidelis, men. The name was bestowed upon us for our loyalty and determination to stand firm when all seemed lost. Fight for your brothers by your side, men; fight for your people; fight for your empire!’
At once, the XI Claudia erupted in a roar that swept across the Roman ranks like wildfire, and then out, across the plain like the first wave of intent. The Gothic chant notably hushed at this, albeit briefly. Pavo saw Traianus look up in astonishment, then cock an eyebrow in thanks to Gallus. Then his heart bristled with pride as Gallus in turn looked to him, eyes narrowed, and gave him that ice-cold look and a hint of a nod.
But within moments, the Gothic chant grew again to match the Roman resurgence. At this, Traianus lifted his huge, silver eagle banner, and the front-line comitatenses with him roused the Roman lines into an even louder chorus. Then all the roaring was drowned out by the low wailing of Gothic war horns.
Fritigern and Ivo waved the Gothic centre forward.
In response, the Roman buccinators raised their instruments to their lips, and replied with a near-deafening chorus of higher pitched notes, the age-old song of the empire going to war.
The standards across the Roman line were raised. Zosimus braced, ready to move, then hissed to Pavo. ‘This is it! Let’s keep the lads in formation at all costs.’
Pavo nodded, gritting his teeth. Then he turned to Sura. ‘Ready?’ He roared.
‘Ready!’ Sura grimaced.
As one, the Roman legions marched forward. The sagittarii, funditores and auxiliaries ran out ahead in loose formation. They loosed stones, arrows and javelins first to test range, then to make the first kills of the day as the foremost Goths were punched back from their charge by the hail. Hundreds of the blonde warriors toppled, stones embedded in skulls, arrows tearing out throats and javelins bursting through chests. But within a few heartbeats, the Gothic chosen archers packing the banking of the foothills had found their range with which to retaliate. Arrows darkened the sky and the Roman skirmishers up ahead fell in swathes, screaming, crimson blood jetting from their arrow wounds. Only the armoured sagittarii stood firm, the bulk of the arrows dancing from their mail shirts and glancing from their helmets.
The plain before Pavo jostled as he kept pace with Zosimus, seeing one of the last of the slingers, only a few strides ahead, spin on the spot, an arrow through his eye. Then an auxilliary crumpled beside the slain slinger, three flights quivering in his chest.
‘They’re getting mauled!’ Sura cried, beside him.
‘They need to be pulled back or it’ll be a slaughter!’ Pavo yelled, darting a glance along to the standards and the buccinators.
Mercifully, a buccina cried out. The surviving skirmishers heard the series of notes and gratefully slipped back through the narrow gaps between the legionary cohorts to form up once more, out of range of the chosen archers.
It was now time for the legions to go to work.
‘We’re drawing into archer range!’ Gallus cried back over his shoulder. ‘Front ranks, ready testudo. Rear ranks - ready your bows, aim for the archers on the banking!’
As one, the XI Claudia entered the arrow storm, shields raised overhead and around the edges of each cohort. The three rearmost ranks crouched behind the cover afforded by the ranks before them and readied their bows.
Inside the testudo, the din of the missile hail drumming down on them was deafening. One arrowhead split the wooden layers of Pavo’s shield, coming to rest inches from his nose. All around him, legionaries clutched at arrows that had slipped inside the shield roof, piercing throats or tearing thighs. One young legionary screamed in frustration as he tried in vain to hold up his shield, but the arrow in his bicep forced him to drop it, then one arrow knocked his helmet from his head and a second hammered through his skull. But the testudo held and at last the hail slowed just a fraction.
Gallus pounced on this hiatus. ‘Front ranks, brace!’ He roared.
‘Rear ranks . . . loose!’
Pavo and the front ranks bunched closer together, seeing that the Gothic spearmen were less than a hundred strides away. At the same time, the rear three ranks of each of the limitanei cohorts stood tall and rippled to present a canopy of taut bows, arrows straining at strings. Snatching glances to either side of his shield, Pavo saw the faces of the onrushing Goths drop.
Legionaries did not carry bows. Until now.
With a twang and then a hiss, the Roman arrow hail sailed overhead and hammered down into the chosen archers, stood high on the banking. This presented a window of opportunity for the funditores, sagitarrii and auxiliaries to push up once more. They rushed forward and loosed their missiles from behind the Roman lines, felling swathes of the nearer Gothic spearmen. Pavo issued a silent prayer of thanks to Emperor Valens for his insistence on training the border legions in archery.
As the Roman hail slowed, Gallus seized on the moment. ‘Now, ready plumbatae!’
Zosimus, Quadratus and Felix echoed the order along the cohorts of the XI Claudia, as did the tribuni and centurions of the other legions. As one, the five legionary blocks slowed to a halt within a handful of paces. Pavo unclipped one of his darts from behind his shield, then raised it in unison with those around him. He trained his sights on the snarling wall of Goths, racing for the Roman lines, now barely fifty paces away.
‘Loose!’
The dart hail streaked up from the Roman lines and then plummeted into the densely packed Gothic spearmen, smashing faces, shattering limbs, tearing through red leather cuirasses and splitting ribcages. Like a wave breaking on a craggy beach, the Gothic charge was ripped asunder; men were punched back into those following them, blood and strips of flesh thrown up like a spray.
‘And again, again!’ Gallus roared, glancing to the Gothic chosen archers who were taking aim in retaliation.
Pavo unclipped his second dart from behind his shield and launched it. It shattered the cranium of one helmetless Goth, showering the men behind him in a grey wash. But the enemy charge faltered less this time; the second dart hail had been staggered, less accurate and lacking the punch of the first.
Only a few paces separated the two masses of infantry now. There would be no time for a third volley. He grappled his spear and dipped his brow, waiting on the order.
From the corner of his eye he could see Centurion Zosimus’ face curl into a snarl.
The big Thracian filled his lungs; ‘Brace!’
‘Pull together!’ Pavo cried out. He heard Sura echo the order, seeing his friend pull some of the raw recruits closer. ‘Stay alongside your brothers and they will fight for you!’ He roared, his voice cracking. Snarling, foaming, wild-eyed Goths returned the roar with added venom as they bounded the last few strides separating the two armies. Then he pushed his shoulders into Zosimus on his right and Sura on his left, the three locking shields in a tacit bond of brotherhood. Memories of battles past echoed through his mind as the crimson veil tinged his vision.
‘For the empire!’ Gallus bawled.
‘For the empire!’ The XI Claudia echoed in unison.
The two armies collided, and the plain reverberated with the smash of iron and the guttural cries of men. Blood sprayed up across the collision. Limbs and heads spun through the air. The first rank of Goths leapt into and over the shield wall in bloodlust and due to the sheer momentum of their charge, some landing within the first few ranks of Romans. There they wreaked havoc, spinning, scything their spears and swords around the packed legionaries before being hacked down in a spray of blood. The second rank of Goths smashed against the Roman shieldwall; some hacked down those legionaries before them, others ran straight onto legionary spears, then their bodies were raised and ripped asunder, spilling a crimson fog over the front lines before the cadavers were hurled back into the Gothic swell. But the Gothic numbers were telling, and their charge had been deadly. Legionaries all along the front ranks of the XI Claudia had simply vanished under the impact, their bodies trampled into a paste of crimson speckled with white bone.
Yet the centre of the XI Claudia held good. Pavo butted his shield out at the next Goth who came at him, winding the man and then jabbing his spear down and into the man’s larynx. The Goth’s eyes had not even dimmed before he was trampled by his own kin and the next Gothic warrior barged into the fray. Pavo grimaced as another arrow smacked from his helmet and punched into the eye of the legionary behind him. He ignored the warm eye-matter that soaked his neck and targeted the Gothic warrior to his right who was swinging his longsword down on Zosimus. Pavo dipped his shield momentarily and speared the Goth through the jaw. The Goth’s arms fell limp, the longsword toppling to the ground. Pavo wrenched at his spear, and it finally came loose with a meaty clunk, complete with the Goth’s jaw and tongue. Pavo shook the spear to rid it of the gory mass, but it was stuck fast.
Then Sura’s voice pierced the air by his left side. ‘Pavo, watch your flank!’
Pavo spun to his right; Centurion Zosimus had stumbled and exposed Pavo’s right side. A Goth leapt at the fracture in the shieldwall, hacking down for Pavo’s neck. He raised his spatha, roaring in defiance, knowing he was too late, waiting on the death blow. Instead, he was showered with blood and offal, as a young legionary lunged forward to fill the gap and rip open the oncoming Goth’s belly with a spatha swipe. Pavo didn’t even have time to nod his gratitude, when a spear punched through the lad’s chest, throwing him back and pinning him to the earth.
Pavo roared and smashed his shield forward, hurling his spear at one Goth then ripping his spatha from his scabbard to stab another in the gut. He glanced around for his next foe, then realised he was standing forward of the line. He stepped back, once, twice, three times, but still the left flank was retracting. This felt wrong, Pavo realised; the XI Claudia and the I Adiutrix were being pressed back too fast – beyond the point of refusing a flank. Then a buccina wailed three times, and he heard a Roman voice call out over the tumult.
‘Hold your ground! Refuse the flanks!’
Pavo’s eyes widened; if they were pushed round past a right-angle with the Roman centre, then they were doomed. In between parries and shield butts, he snatched glances up and over the Gothic swell to understand what was happening. Then he saw it: the two Gothic cavalry wings had cantered around the flanks of the battle, readying for a charge on the Roman rear. Readying to dash the legionary line against the anvil of Gothic spearmen.
Mithras, save us! He cursed inwardly and ducked back down under the swipe of a Gothic axe. He glanced to Zosimus. ‘Sir? We’re collapsing in on ourselves.’
All around them, the men of the Claudia and the I Adiutrix stumbled back, lamenting the sight of the Gothic horsemen. In return, the riders grinned like demons as they moved at ease, eyeing their prey.
‘Where is our bloody cavalry?’ The big Thracian growled, snatching glances over his shoulder in between beheading one Goth then braining another. The cataphractii were stationary, some two hundred paces back. And now the Gothic cavalry had rounded on the rear left and rear right of the legions unopposed. They were readying to charge.
‘All is not lost.’ Gallus gasped over the din of battle, hacking at the speartip of one Goth and then ducking from the sword swipe of another, ‘I persuaded the magister militum to prepare for this eventuality.’
‘Sir?’ Pavo panted.
Then a buccina cry split the air. Four clean notes. Pavo looked to Gallus; the tribunus seemed to be whispering some prayer of thanks. From across the plain, a cry of joy broke out from the Roman right flank. At once, the push of Gothic spearmen abated in uncertainty. Pavo looked to Sura, who mirrored his frown. The pair looked across the sea of bloodied and hugely depleted intercisa helmets, broken spears and fluttering eagle standards to see that the flimsy timber fence surrounding Ad Salices had been pushed to the ground. Behind the fence, twelve ballistae and another twelve onagers were aligned, loaded with bolts and boulders and manned by eager crews. More, the ballist
a at one end of the lineup was the hulking four-pronged device. The Gothic cavalry wing closing on the Roman right suddenly halted. They turned in their saddles, eyes bulging as they saw the weapons trained on them, realising their flank was exposed to the artillery.
An absurd silence hung over the field for but a heartbeat. Then, Traianus’ cry from the distant right flank ended it.
‘Loose! Tear them apart!’
With the groaning of timber and thick ropes snapping free of tension, a storm of bolts and rocks hurtled through the air and smashed into the Gothic cavalry by the Roman right. The impact was lethal; horses and riders were crushed like ants under the rocks, their bodies tossed across the plain, and those who avoided the rocks were punched from their mounts by the rapier-like bolts, some skewering three or more riders and knocking many more to the ground.
From the Gothic centre, war horns wailed to rally the riders. But, as some of the shattered wing scrambled back onto their mounts, those still mounted heeled their beasts in panic, trampling over their kin, stumbling over the slain.
Legionary: Viper of the North (Legionary 2) Page 38