Legionary

by Doherty, Gordon

  ‘Your bishop, here?’ Balamber’s face wrinkled. ‘He’s signalling us?’

  Wulfric stared at the Hun leader, sharing his confusion. Then his heart thundered as he pieced it all together. ‘Noble Balamber, we must turn the army around!’

  Chapter 76

  The Hun detachment lay broken, still and silent in the grass. The Gothic spearmen had finally stopped cheering, and let Amalric down from their shoulders. The Gothic prince had then roared the warriors into the Roman line – now formed in a wide crescent, six hundred men wide. Auxiliary archers hovered in front of them and the equites circled on the flanks, eager for the push over the ridge. Eight thousand they now numbered with these reinforcements.

  Pavo stood with Sura on the front line, quickly gulping at cool water and tearing at their bread rations. No matter how much water he swigged, his mouth remained dry as sand, and he jigged on the balls of his feet as his bladder seemed to have filled up again.

  ‘Ha - the old soldier’s curse!’ Vitus grinned down at him.

  ‘It’s becoming all too familiar, sir,’ Pavo cocked an eyebrow.

  The standards rippled across the line, lifted by a growing wind which seemed to be scudding dark storm clouds across the afternoon sky.

  Vitus raised his arm to indicate to the I Italica Legion; the men of the XII Fulminata were ready. Only a murmur of voices and ripple of armour being adjusted could be heard, until Vitus grabbed the legionary standard and pumped it into the air.

  ‘Soldiers, advance!’

  Pavo felt his blood race at the roar of the army. As one, they thundered forward. The ridge hovered ever closer.

  Destiny lay on the other side.

  Chapter 77

  The wind whipped and howled in the valley and the sky was now a foreboding grey. Outside the Hun command tent, Balamber remonstrated with his nobles, who scrambled around the rear of their army, roaring, desperately trying to control the horde. He threw a pewter cup against the hearth as the swarm continued to push on at the fort, blinded to the orders by their bloodlust.

  ‘Turning round when we’re on the cusp of victory? You’d better be right about this, Wulfric, or there’ll be a price to pay for making me look foolish.’

  ‘I think we have confirmation, Noble Balamber,’ Wulfric barked, pointing to the ridge again.

  There, like an iron sunrise, two shimmering eagle standards sparkled even in the gloomy grey. As true as day follows night, a thick blanket of armed men rose beneath the standards, pouring over the lip of the ridge, dressed in white tunics, scale armour and intercisa helmets. The bishop was unceremoniously swallowed by the march.

  A fine whipped rain descended and Balamber’s eyes widened, his hands wringing at his sword pommel.

  ‘Bring my horse,’ he snarled at his bodyguard. ‘I want a thousand left to finish the stragglers in the fort. The rest – they must prove their worth to me now. Muster the garrison in Chersonesos – the Romans will die under our hail.’ With that, he leapt onto his horse and spurred her into a gallop, roaring above all of his nobles, whacking his sword flat into the backs of those bringing up the rear of the horde. Like a forest fire, the horde turned, gradually at first, then in a fluid motion. Their cries filled the air and they began to spill back down the hillside, Balamber marshalling them like a war-god.

  Wulfric thundered towards the I Dacia ranks. Having recognised the coming attack far sooner, they were already formed up on the right flank of the Huns, facing into the base of the valley. ‘Refuse the flank!’ Wulfric boomed at his men and they dropped back to present a diagonal front to the Roman advance. With their numerical advantage, they could anchor one flank and let the Huns do the dirty work of fighting forward and encircling the Romans. As they settled into position, the massive Hun horde formed by their side.

  As the Roman relief force thundered down the hill, now less than a stadia away, the assembled dark riders waited on their leader’s word.

  ‘Forward!’ Balamber cried, barging through to the front line, sword raised high.

  The valley trembled as the two massive forces careered down the opposing sides. The sky roared with thunder as the gods gathered to watch.

  ‘What in Hades was our bishop doing trying to signal the enemy?’ Vitus growled over the whipping wind, blinking rain from his eyes as he trotted forward.

  Pavo panted as he jogged to keep pace with the tribunus. ‘He bribed the foederati, he bribed the I Dacia, and he’s in league with the Huns!’

  ‘Let’s give him his reward then, Pavo. Eternal damnation for him and his gold-loving dogs!’

  Vitus threw a guttural roar forward, Pavo and Sura echoed him and the noise erupted along the Roman line, augmented by a chorus of buccinas. The Hun lines raised their horns and threw a terrible wail in return. The stretch of land between the two sides vanished with every stride and Pavo focused on the front ranks of the opposing line; the I Dacia.

  ‘Looks like it’s time to settle some scores, Sura,’ he trilled as the earth shook.

  ‘I’m with you!’ Sura roared.

  ‘Stop!’ Vitus bellowed as they closed to within twenty paces. The command was echoed along the Roman line and like a single organism, the Roman army halted. ‘Plumbatae, loose!’

  The Roman army bristled with the first of their standard three darts poised. Then Pavo hoisted his into the sky with a grunt. Together with thousands more, they arced and then dipped, crashing down on the Hun front line. The I Dacia sent their reply, along with the first sky-darkening volley of Hun arrows. Blood leapt from the ranks of both sides and bodies fell in their hundreds. Then the Hun cavalry wheeled to the left, churning out volley after volley of arrows, pinning in the Roman flank and effectively halting the Roman advance. Hundreds more legionaries fell under this hail, impotent to reply under the relentless bombardment.

  ‘Ballistae!’ Vitus roared, his voice rasping. From the ridge top behind the roman lines, fifty metal shafts were powered forward from the trailing line of ballistae. The bolts soared over the Roman lines, then dipped and hammered into the Hun horsemen just as they turned their backs – wreaking fissures of crimson with every hit. The Roman lines rose to loose their remaining plumbatae and The Hun infantry and the I Dacia lines stuttered at the onslaught.

  ‘That’s it – fire at will!’ Vitus roared as the twang and thud of the ballista hail continued. ‘Now, on my mark, engage them!’

  The Hun cavalry, wheeling in disarray, had formed into an oval; bent back behind their infantry lines as the sky turned black and the rain came in torrents.

  ‘Cease fire!’ Vitus cried to the ballista crew. ‘Legionaries – advance!’

  A moment of silence hung in the spray, and then the sky let loose another clap of thunder and the Roman line poured forward in a clatter of iron and a chorus of legionary roars. The Huns bristled back into formation, rallied by their leader, and washed forward to meet the Roman charge.

  ‘Gods be with you!’ Sura yelled to Pavo, his voice drowned by the argentine crash of the two armies colliding. Men skidded over the shield lines from the momentum of the clash. Mud and blood arced high in the rainstorm and horses reared up in panic as lightning streaked the sky.

  ‘Pin them in – surround them!’ Vitus barked from his horse, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. He circled his hands as if throttling an invisible foe, urging the units of the legion to the flanks of the Hun cavalry. ‘Don’t let them loose again!’

  Pavo staggered forward, drowning in a sea of blood and iron, soldiers crushing past him, a riot of snapping bones, ripping flesh and screaming all around him. A curious numbness filled his mind as the grimacing faces of the I Dacia merged with those of his own men as he was battered backwards and forwards, both armies losing the integrity of their front lines, but so tightly packed they were barely able to lift their swords. He saw Vitus plough through the throng, stabbing down into the masses, kicking attackers away from his mount. Focus, Pavo, he screamed inside. He imagined Father beside him, and Brutus on his
other flank. Nobody would be taking him down lightly. Another spatha shuddered against his shield. He blinked rainwater from his eyes and peered at the snarling I Dacia legionary over the rim of his shield. Then with an iron cool, he butted forward and rammed his sword into the soldier’s guts. As soon as the soldier fell, his place was taken by the next – fresh and ready for a kill. He ducked under the sword jab at his face and swiped at the soldier’s shins. He only felt the vibration of his foe’s screams as the man toppled and was swallowed up by the march of the I Dacia. Pavo glanced to both sides – something wasn’t right; the allies were losing ground and the swell of battle was turning on them.

  ‘They’ve got reinforcements,’ Sura gasped, grappling his shoulder from a rank back, ‘from Chersonesos. We’re being outmuscled!’

  Stepping backwards, butting away the flurry of sword blows, Pavo looked down – he was tramping through the grey and red mush of another legionary’s split head. His stomach lurched as he tried to jump back from it, but instead he fell backwards into the gore-bath.

  Booted feet of the backtracking legionary line stamped past him, showering his eyes with crimson slime, then a team of six I Dacia legionaries leapt on him at once. Pavo whipped his shield over himself, sheltering him through the first few sword blows. Sura fought to clear the waves of attackers but they were relentless and then Pavo felt his shield being torn from his grasp. He held on so he was lifted from the ground with the shield, letting go and swiping his sword round at the legs of the group who surrounded him. One fell and Pavo seized on the heartbeat of respite to scramble to his feet. His skin prickled as realisation dawned; Sura and he were in an ethereal mire of death, behind the main enemy lines. Then, loose pockets of I Dacia trailing behind turned to them. The sky filled with the roar of thunder again and five I Dacia surrounded them, grinning with malicious glee as they hefted their swords for an easy kill.

  Sura braced behind him. ‘We’re on our own.’

  ‘Stop!’ A gruff voice barked. Through the throng, a stocky silhouetted figure barged into the circle. Lightning tore at the heavens and lit up the man’s sneering features. Festus. ‘Time to open you up, Pavo!’ Two of the I Dacia disarmed Sura and pinned him in the filth underfoot.

  Pavo lifted his spatha, his arms numb, but his heart thumping with the rush of battle. ‘I’ll die in battle, gladly. But for my empire, Festus, and not at the end of your sword.’

  The five surrounding them roared with laughter.

  ‘Look around you, you bloody fool. Your relief army is crushed already, just like your precious XI Claudia. They’re all dead men.’ Festus snarled and then braced. ‘And it’s time for you to join them!’ The giant legionary darted in with a flurry of sword strokes.

  Pavo leapt back, parrying. Festus was eager. Too eager. He thought of Brutus’ words on the training ground. Another barrage of blows came and Pavo focussed on defending, and waiting. He fired a glance to the battle; Vitus was roaring and rallying, but the numbers were telling. The precious few extra thousand Hun troops had streamed from Chersonesos and were managing to repel the Roman attempts to surround them, and were in turn surrounding the Roman lines. But Vitus was signalling – but what at? He yelped at the smash of Festus’ sword flat into his wrist, and dropped his spatha.

  ‘Don’t let him break away,’ Festus grinned to the five I Dacia, who spread into a circle around them. ‘You’re finished now,’ he growled, stalking forward.

  Pavo whipped his dagger from his belt. ‘You always were a fool, Festus, just too stupid to realise it!’

  Festus’ face reddened and his eyes narrowed. The bull of a man leapt forward, his spatha tip battered Pavo’s dagger from his hand. Defenceless, Pavo ducked and dodged Festus’ wild hacks. The big man was tiring, but so, too, was Pavo. The next swipe of the spatha presented Festus’ ribcage to Pavo as he crouched under the blow. Hammering his fist up, he winced at the crack of his fingers on Festus’ mail shirt, but Festus bawled in agony and crumpled to the dirt, dropping his spatha.

  Pavo dived to grasp the sword from the mud.

  ‘You’re dead…’ Festus roared, but his words choked to a halt as he swivelled round to face his own spatha point, held to his throat by Pavo.

  ‘Get him!’ Festus roared to the I Dacia who surrounded them. They raced forward, swords drawn, while Festus scrambled clear. Pavo spun to face each of them in turn, but they were too fast and he was exhausted.

  He roared in defiance, spinning the spatha around in a desperate hope of taking one or two of them with him as he went down. Then hot blood sprayed up and over his face. No pain, no blackness. He opened his eyes. Festus swayed, his eyes dilated in shock, mouth wide as if to shout, and a plumbata quivering in his throat. All around him, the five I Dacia crumpled, lanced by darts. Sura stood, equally bemused.

  ‘That was some nice sword work!’ A voice yelled. A broad and stocky silhouetted figure stood before them with a man on either flank.

  ‘Spurius?’ He spluttered, staggering backwards.

  Spurius raced in to barge one lingering I Dacia soldier to the ground, despatching him with a clean slice below the armpit. Then he strode over to the stilled body of Festus, and grappled the plumbata shaft lodged in his gaping mouth. ‘All those coins the Blues promised you…well you can take your cut in Hades…whoreson!’ He grunted, ripping the plumbata from Festus’ throat, spitting on his stunned expression. He glanced up at Pavo and Sura, both fixated on the sight of Festus’ corpse. ‘Get alongside me, or we’re dead meat!’ He roared, pointing behind them.

  ‘Oh, bugger!’ Pavo spat, as the rain thrashed across them. The Hun lines had turned, hundreds of spearmen were almost wrapped around them, and the three stood like twigs against an oncoming tidal wave. They backed onto each other as the Huns surrounded them. Their heels pushed into the dirt but with nowhere left to run. ‘Last stand, lads – let’s make it a good one?’

  The clutch of stranded Romans roared in defiance as the circle around them raised their spears to strike, but suddenly, their twisted sneers opened up into panic. All at once, they simply turned and ran – back into the Hun ranks.

  ‘Reinforcements!’ Sura cried.

  Pavo spun to the south. There, pouring into the valley in an arc toward the Hun right flank was the towering wave of fresh Gothic spearmen, closely followed Valens’ contingent of candidati. The tide was turning; the Hun army was surrounded, backed in on all sides. Vitus had pulled off another masterstroke – sending a detachment around the valley side unnoticed. Giddy at the sudden liberation, he roared out at the onrushing reinforcements, ducking to grab his shield and readying himself to join the push into the Hun rear. He caught sight of the grin on Sura’s face and the determined grimace on Spurius’. His heart hammered and he felt his bronze phalera judder on his chest with every beat.

  ‘Time to finish this!’ He barked.

  As they poured against the Hun ranks, Pavo felt a gutsy smile creep across his face at last.

  ‘For the empire!’ He cried.

  In the tumult of the raging storm, Balamber rampaged between the collapsing wings of his army, hacking at the foot soldiers who dared to flee. His cavalry remained loyal, but they were being pummelled and beaten back from both sides.

  The I Dacia ranks were all but obliterated. Only a peppering of legionaries scurried around Wulfric, who roared at them, eyes bulging, smashing his sword hilt into their backs as they collapsed together. Nobody noticed the small figure of Menes as he drifted in behind Wulfric, tilted up on his toes and reached round across the Goth’s neck to draw a fang-like dagger across the skin. Blood erupted like a geyser, and Wulfric’s face rippled in confusion as he raised his fingers to the gaping wound. His face greying and his legs wobbling, he turned to Menes.

  ‘My master’s orders are complete,’ Menes spoke gently, before closing his eyes and clasping the golden cross hanging from a chain around his neck.

  The legionaries surrounding Wulfric stumbled back in horror as their leader slumped onto his knees a
nd then toppled forward like felled timber. Their faces twisted from fear to rage; impotent to stop the crush of the allied army, they fell on Menes like a pack of dogs. In a flurry of sword blows, the little Egyptian was reduced to a butchered heap of bone and torn flesh.

  Balamber hared past the scene, his mount rearing up as he spotted Wulfric’s body. Fury and satisfaction curdled in his guts at the sight, and then he looked to the crimson streaked twenty who remained of the I Dacia – a sorry straggle who would only hold him back now. He turned to his nobles and bared his teeth. ‘Destroy them!’

  He turned away from their screams as a volley of arrows hammered into them at point blank range, and guided his mount up to the crest of a small rise. Everywhere he looked, the Roman relief force hemmed them in. He smashed his fist into his palm; the balance of numbers had been tipped with a deft outflanking manoeuvre.