Rome’s Fallen Eagle

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘That doesn’t look to be more than thirty to forty paces across,’ Paetus said confidently. ‘That won’t delay us for too long.’ He raised his arm in the air and turned in the saddle to order his men on; his face fell. ‘Shit!’

  Vespasian spun round to see a dark shadow emerging from the forest; horsemen, scores of them, at least a hundred, he estimated.

  ‘This is not going to be fun,’ Paetus muttered almost to himself before throwing his arm forward and urging his horse as fast as possible into a gallop. The column followed immediately.

  One mile behind them so did the Chatti.

  Vespasian leant forward in the saddle pushing his horse on downhill, his cloak flapping noisily behind him as all around him the Batavians kicked their mounts into greater speed, yelling over the thunder of hoofbeats. Very quickly they covered half the distance, gaining on the patrol ahead; Vespasian looked over his shoulder to see the first of the Chatti breasting the hill and, with a quick mental calculation, he accepted the inevitable and shouted at Paetus: ‘They’ll pick us off whilst we’re in the river. We need to turn and face them; we must outnumber them by at least fifty.’

  ‘My lads are fast swimmers, sir,’ Paetus yelled back over the deep rumble of the gallop. ‘We’ll lose fewer in the river than we would in a fight; it’s our best chance to make it home again.’

  Vespasian could see the logic: the more men they lost now the more vulnerable they would be when and if they got to the Teutoburg Forest. He looked up towards the river, it was just over half a mile away; the patrol was just arriving. He glanced back; the Chatti were not gaining on them, perhaps there was still a chance. As he steeled himself with this faint new hope, one of the patrol’s horses stumbled, falling to the ground and trapping its rider beneath it. Within an instant two more riders were punched from their saddles; the fourth turned his horse and began to bolt back up the hill. Behind him, on the far bank, there was movement; within moments the river was lined with a hundred and more warriors.

  They were trapped.

  ‘Halt!’ Paetus screamed, raising an arm into the air, ‘And about face.’ Most of the Batavians had seen the new threat to the north of the river and did not need to be told twice; with prodigious skill they pulled up their frothing, wild-eyed mounts and turned, forming up two deep in their turmae. As they did, the Chatti slowed, coming to a trot, and formed an arrowheaded wedge, advancing steadily; one man was to their front with the rest of the warriors echeloned back at an angle on both sides.

  Paetus took one look at the enemy formation and turned to Ansigar next to him. ‘The two outer turmae form up in column to our rear, we’ll release javelins then do a split before contact.’

  The decurion nodded and barked a couple of orders that were echoed by his five other colleagues. The turmae on the extreme left and right retreated behind the central four in a precise, brisk manoeuvre and formed into columns, two abreast.

  ‘Batavians! Prepare to advance!’ Paetus called, his voice rising an octave on the last word.

  Throughout the turmae the troopers grabbed javelins from the leather carry-cases attached to their saddles and slipped their forefingers through the thongs knotted around the centre of the shaft. Their horses stamped and snorted, heads tossing, their powerful chests expanding and contracting as they breathed deeply.

  ‘We’re going to try a rather tricky manoeuvre,’ Paetus informed the brothers, ‘it would be best if you and your two chaps get behind Ansigar and me and follow our lead.’

  Sabinus bristled, not liking being told to fight in the rear rank, but Vespasian reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve seen how he manoeuvres his cavalry; I think it’s probably best to do as he suggests.’

  ‘I ain’t ever fought mounted before,’ Magnus grumbled as they took their places behind Ansigar’s turma in the centre of the line, ‘it ain’t natural.’

  ‘What about in Cyrenaica, against Ziri’s people?’ Vespasian asked, adjusting the arm strap on his shield.

  ‘I just tagged along behind you in the charge and then got to my feet as soon as possible.’

  ‘Then do the same this time; you and Ziri cover mine and Sabinus’ backs.’

  ‘I will; and I’ll also keep an eye on you, making sure you don’t get too carried away, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian grunted but knew his friend was right: he had often endangered himself in the past by losing control and fighting in a frenzy, heedless to what was going on around him. He would not allow himself to do that today.

  A quarter of a mile in front of them the Chatti leader raised his right arm in the air; the hand was missing. The Chatti halted but their leader walked his horse on until he was just fifty paces away; he paused and stroked his blond beard that bushed out from between his cheek-guards whilst he surveyed the Batavians.

  The Batavians watched him in silence.

  Vespasian looked over his shoulder; the warriors remained on the far bank. He called to Paetus: ‘We’ll hear what he has to say, prefect.’

  ‘Romans and Batavians in the pay of Rome,’ the Chatti leader shouted in surprisingly good Latin. ‘You outnumber us but we have the advantage of charging downhill. Perhaps you could kill us all but not before you’d lose so many of your number that the survivors wouldn’t stand a chance of getting back to the Empire alive.’ He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his bald head with the stump of his right arm.

  Vespasian had a jolt of recognition and turned to Sabinus but the man carried on before he could say anything.

  ‘I offer you this, Batavians: hand over your Roman officers and your weapons and we will escort you back to the Rhenus; you will then be free to go.’

  Ansigar spat. ‘Surrender our swords to Chatti! And so few of them? Never!’

  All along the Batavian line there was much spitting and growling in agreement.

  Ansigar turned to Vespasian. ‘The Chatti fight mainly on foot, these aren’t cavalry, they’re just mounted infantry; they’re no match for us.’

  Vespasian nodded. ‘Thank you, decurion. I think we’ve heard enough, prefect, let’s get this over with.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, sir.’ Paetus waved a hand dismissively at the Chatti leader. ‘Get back to your men, the parley is over.’

  ‘So be it.’ He replaced his helmet and rode quickly back to the wedge of cavalry. A rider met him and gave him a shield that he slipped on his maimed right arm and then drew his sword with his left.

  ‘Decurions, watch for my signal to release, then split,’ Paetus shouted. ‘Batavians, at a trot, advance!’

  With a jingling of harnesses and a stamping of hooves the six turmae moved forward. From up the hill came a roar and the Chatti began to descend towards them.

  ‘Canter!’ Paetus yelled when the two forces were four hundred paces apart.

  The effect was instantaneous and Vespasian found himself lagging behind as he failed to respond to the order with the alacrity of Paetus’ well-trained men.

  With the hill in their favour, the Chatti were now hell-forleather, keeping roughly to their wedge shape, screaming their war cries through spittle-flecked beards whilst brandishing spears or javelins or swords over their heads.

  ‘Batavians, charge!’ Paetus screamed at two hundred paces and the troopers surged forward; a wall of horseflesh, shields and chain mail.

  Vespasian felt the thrill of the charge as he let his horse extend itself into a full gallop; his mouth had dried and blood pumped fiercely around his body, heightening his senses, as the pounding of hundreds of hooves and the cries of man and beast filled his ears. Two ranks ahead of him, Paetus raised his sword over his head, his red horsehair plume streaming from his burnished iron helmet, as the gap narrowed inexorably with terrifying speed. The four front rank decurions followed their prefect’s lead and raised their weapons; their men pulled their right arms back, keeping a firm grip on their javelins. At fifty paces to impact Paetus’ sword flashed down, immediately followed by those of his
subordinates. As the Chatti released their throwing weapons one hundred and twenty javelins hurtled into the air towards the oncoming wedge. The two sets of missiles flashed by each other in midair as, without a shouted command, Ansigar’s turma veered to the right at forty-five degrees taking the turma outside it with it, sweeping their swords from their scabbards as they went. Vespasian pulled his horse to follow; the two turmae to his left swerved away in the opposite direction splitting the formation down the middle.

  The first of the missile-hail landed amongst the Batavians, felling two troopers in front of him in a screaming flurry of animal and human limbs; unbidden by him, Vespasian’s mount leapt the thrashing obstacle as the screeches of the wounded cut through the thunder of the charge. Landing with a spine-jarring jolt, Vespasian looked up; the one-handed man at the apex of the arrowhead was now level with him but had no one to face as he ploughed through the thirty-foot gap. Although now disorganised by felled horses within it, the momentum of the warriors behind him drove the wedge forward as Ansigar’s turma sped on at their angle directly at the rear third of the Chatti formation. In the time it took Vespasian to blink the dust from his eyes the two sides’ mounts shied as they closed, unwilling to charge home into fellow beasts; however, the momentum carried them on to a shattering impact of metal upon metal, beast upon screeching beast in a maelstrom of terror, battle-joy and blood-lust. The shock of impact, mirrored on the far side of the wedge, split it in two; as the back third was brought to a bone-breaking halt the rest flew through the gap. Vespasian chanced a quick look round, worried that they might turn and fall on the Batavians’ rear. His concern was groundless; the troopers in the rear two turmae had turned at ninety degrees from a column into two lines and had charged; Vespasian turned back to the melee before him as they simultaneously hit either flank of the wedge’s severed head.

  The troopers in front of him lost cohesion as the two formations melded into a chaotic hand-to-hand struggle; iron clashed on iron, shields resounded to mighty blows, horses screeched, men screamed and gobbets of blood slopped through the air. A flashing blur of motion to his left caused Vespasian to raise his shield above his head; he blocked the downward swipe of a razor-sharp sword, jolting it to a halt, embedded in his shield boss. His left arm juddered at the impact but he forced it up as he twisted his torso round to bring his sword punching into the exposed, naked chest of his adversary. The man’s eyes, already wide with the thrill of carnage, bulged in agony and he shrieked a blood-misted cry as Vespasian twisted his blade, grinding ribs and forcing it further through the lung to jolt to a halt on the spinal column, pushing the dying man back. With a monumental effort and gripping his mount fiercely with his thighs, Vespasian ripped his sword clear, to avoid being dragged to the ground, as the dead man’s horse sank its bared teeth into the rump of his own; it reared up in pain, thrashing its forelegs. Vespasian lurched forward, pushing his head into the beast’s mane and wrapping his shield arm around its neck to steady himself. Behind him, Magnus thrust the point of his sword into the eye of his mount’s tormentor and on into its brain.

  ‘It ain’t fucking natural!’ Magnus bellowed as horse blood sprayed up his arm. His victim dropped its head, unbalancing Magnus, then all four legs buckled simultaneously; it collapsed, hauling Magnus with it.

  Vespasian’s mount, released from the searing pain of ripping flesh, crashed back down, cracking a hoof on the mucusstreaming nose of a Chatti horse as it did so; Vespasian managed to cling onto its neck as it regained its balance. Out of the corner of his eye, to his right, he saw a mounted warrior had pushed Sabinus, next to him, back and was hammering blows down on his shield. He exploded up, flinging his right arm round to swipe the honed edge of his sword across the shoulder blades of his brother’s opponent. The man arched back as the blade tore sinew and split bone and Vespasian turned quickly back to his left, leaving Sabinus to fend for himself, just in time to see Magnus get to his feet, unarmed, in the path of a warrior forcing his spear, underarm, towards him. Vespasian punched his shield out, deflecting the thrust; Magnus reached forward grabbing the shaft and yanked it brutally, hauling the man out of his saddle.

  ‘Come down here, you hairy cunt!’ Magnus roared as the warrior toppled towards him. He ripped the spear free and slammed it down onto the back of the unhorsed man’s head as he hit the ground; he did not get up. Ziri jumped from his horse to stand at his master’s side, deflecting a slashing downward stroke with his shield from the left. Magnus spun the spear and jabbed forward into the chest of an oncoming horse as Vespasian flicked his concentration back ahead of him.

  Paetus’ red plume could be seen deep in the chaos with Batavians to either side; their swords, streaked with crimson, flashed around him as they carved their way forward through the tangle of Chatti now so compact that all they could do was fight where their horses stood. An instant later a mighty crash ripped through the screams and clash of weapons: the two outermost turmae had rounded the wedge’s flanks and charged its unprotected rear. The Batavians, sensing victory, roared in triumph and worked their blades harder, pressing forward onto an enemy that had no place to go but down. And down they went beneath the hissing edges of the auxiliaries’ swords, pushed from all sides, as the remnants of the wedge’s severed head were forced back by the two rear turmae. The Chatti were penned in.

  Vespasian’s heart pounded as he felt a surge of joy well up inside him and knew he had to control himself. He desired nothing more than to kill; and kill he did but not in a mad frenzy but with measured determination. For how long the killing lasted, he did not know; it felt like an age as time was slowed by his heightened senses but in reality it was no more than the length of a chariot race, seven rounds of the track.

  And then suddenly it was over.

  The brutal cacophony of combat had given way to a dissonant mixture of pitiful cries and whimpers of wounded men and beasts; the Batavians found themselves without opponents. Not all had died, however; more than a score of the warriors from the tip of the wedge had broken out and were now fleeing towards the river. Here and there around the hillside, either singly or in pairs, a few others, who had been as fortunate, rode to join them but most now lay beneath the hooves of the Batavian’s mounts; almost thirty Batavians lay with them. Magnus, Ziri and a couple of unhorsed troopers stalked around, finishing off the Chatti wounded and those Batavians too cut up to ride.

  Vespasian surveyed the carnage, gasping for breath and then looked down at his blood-splattered arms and legs in sheer wonder that they were still there. Having satisfied himself that he was indeed in one piece a sense of urgency came over him. ‘Magnus, keep a couple alive and that one-handed bastard if you find him.’ He dismounted and began looking at the Chatti dead.

  Sabinus rode over; blood oozed from a cut on his forehead. ‘Thanks for your help, brother; I just managed the bastard in the end, but just is good enough.’

  ‘You can thank me by helping to look for that one-handed man.’

  ‘What was it about him?’ Sabinus asked, swinging off his horse. ‘You were about to tell me something.’

  Vespasian turned a corpse over with his foot. ‘I recognised him from Rome.’

  ‘Where’ve you seen him?’

  ‘On the day of Caligula’s assassination, Uncle Gaius and I were in the theatre as you know. We managed to get out and then slipped down an alley to get away from the crush. We passed a dead German Bodyguard, and then at the end of the alley there was another one, leaning up against the wall, wounded; he was bald with a blond beard and you had just cut off his right hand.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. I came out of the alley and saw a man in a cloak limping away with a wounded right thigh; that was you, wasn’t it?’

  Sabinus thought for a moment and then nodded his head. ‘Yes, I suppose it was; two of the surviving Bodyguards followed me from the palace. I know that I killed one but whatever I did to the other I don’t know because he wounded me at the same time; but he went down screaming
and I stayed standing and managed to escape. So you think that this is all about vengeance for me depriving him of his drinking hand?’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. If we assume that Magnus is right and only Claudius’ freedmen know where we’re going then it has to be one of them who is trying to stop us. It was Pallas’ idea, so why would he try and sabotage it? It also doesn’t make sense, as you said, for Narcissus to spare you and then try and kill you here. So that leaves Callistus; I’m sure that he’s behind it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s something that Pallas said when he told me how he knew that you were wounded and therefore must be still in the city. He said that Callistus had questioned the wounded Bodyguard.’

  Sabinus wiped a drop of blood from his eye and looked thoughtfully at it. ‘Fair enough; that connects the one-handed bastard with Callistus but it doesn’t explain what Callistus has to gain by stopping us from finding the Eagle. He needs Claudius to gain favour with the army as much as Pallas and Narcissus do.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s also in a power struggle with them. Pallas told me that Narcissus is the most powerful of the three and he and Callistus are secondary. I watched them leave the dais on the night that the Senate went to see Claudius outside the Praetorian camp. Narcissus had the place of honour, helping Claudius down; then Pallas and Callistus both tried to patronise one another by offering the other the second place. Neither would accept the other’s condescension and they ended up going down together. Now if Pallas’ idea works and we come back with the Eagle then Claudius will favour him greatly and Callistus will feel that he’s relegated to third place.’

  ‘But if we fail then Pallas will take the blame.’

  ‘Exactly, Sabinus; and Callistus will feel he’s won this round.’

  ‘Even though he’s jeopardised the grander strategy of gaining Claudius a victory in Britannia?’