Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  Castus was glad to be away from Segusio anyway: the town stank of burnt thatch, and for days after the capture dead bodies were still turning up in the blackened ruins around the east gate. The fire had not been Constantine’s intention: the strong wind and a wooden storage shed for animal feed just inside the western gate had seen to that. It was the emperor who had saved the town from the flames. Before the surrender had been formally agreed, he had ordered his troops into the streets to help fight the blaze. Men who moments before had been locked in bloody combat now joined forces, heaving up water from the river and pulling down buildings to make fire-breaks. It would not, Castus supposed, have looked good if the first town liberated in Italy had been destroyed in the process.

  Now evening was coming on, and the shadows outside the open flap of the tent were growing longer. The army had marched eighteen miles east from Segusio, down the valley of the Duria River towards the open plains before Taurinum. Morale was good. The men of the legion were proud that they had been at the forefront of the assault – an honour disputed with their rivals the Divitenses, of course – and Castus felt his command of them to be more secure than ever. But he could not allow himself to get complacent.

  He had seen little of Macer since the attack. The drillmaster had been wounded; he had lost an eye, and spent several days in the camp hospital. Did the man still think Castus had been wrong to press the assault? If he did, he said nothing about it. Perhaps, Castus thought, the drillmaster’s weakness at the foot of the wall had shamed him into silence now.

  ‘Send in the first of the men,’ he called to Modestus.

  The optio shouted, and a soldier marched into the tent with four long strides and stamped to a halt before Castus. He was a short man, but there was still barely enough headroom in the tent for him to stand upright.

  ‘Valerius Felix,’ Castus said. ‘In recognition of your bravery during the storming of Segusio, I am recommending to your centurion Rogatianus that you be advanced to the grade of immunis, with a raise in pay and provisions, and exempted from fatigue labour.’

  The man’s expression did not alter; he stared straight ahead at the rear wall of the tent. Did he remember Castus’s moment of fear and indecision at the top of the ladder? If he did, nothing in his manner showed it. ‘Thank you, dominus,’ he said, tight-lipped.

  There had been a rumour, back in Divodurum, that this man Felix was an escaped slave. It had caused the usual bad feeling: slaves were forbidden to serve, under penalty of death, and even the suggested taint of servitude disgusted soldiers. Castus had ordered the man to swear before the gods that he was freeborn, and the issue had seemed resolved. But his comrades still called him ‘Slops’. He was certainly odd-looking, with his bony face and long jutting jaw, his huge dangling hands. Although, Castus reminded himself, he was hardly in a position to judge on appearance…

  ‘My adiutor tells me you were born in Rome,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, dominus.’

  ‘So how did you end up enlisting in Gaul?’

  Felix sniffed, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘I took a walk one day. Gaul was where I ended up. Dominus.’

  Castus lowered his brows, alert for the hint of insolence. But, no, the man was speaking truthfully. Perhaps he had been a slave after all? In which case, the less Castus knew of it the better.

  ‘Dismissed,’ he said. Felix turned and marched out, and Modestus sent in the next man.

  ‘Sentius Salvianus,’ Castus said. ‘Your centurion Attalus reports that you are a Christian. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, dominus,’ the young man said. He was no older than eighteen, and appeared very nervous. But his voice had an educated tone. ‘I believe it is no longer forbidden, dominus.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Castus growled. ‘Very soon, we will face the enemy in open battle. I ask you now: is there any reason why you should not stand in the ranks with your comrades?’

  ‘No, dominus!’ Salvianus was sweating, but he looked sincere.

  ‘Your… religious feelings will not stop you fighting, killing?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good. As you know, cowardice and dereliction of duty carry the death penalty. If you flinch or fail, everyone around you is endangered by it.’

  The young man nodded quickly. Castus studied him: he had seen men like this in the army before, but very few of them. And not many serving as common soldiers.

  ‘You’re a volunteer, I think,’ he said. ‘Why did you enlist?’

  ‘I… wanted a different life, dominus.’

  Castus gave a tight smile, nodding. Something in the young man’s voice, in his face, told him all he needed to know. Castus had wanted a different life himself when he had run away from home and joined the legions. He doubted that young Salvianus had tried to murder his own father in the process, but maybe it was much the same. Even wealthy men, he guessed, could be tyrants.

  ‘Honour your oath, soldier,’ he said. ‘Do that, and nobody will fault you for it. Dismissed!’

  *

  Outside the tent, Castus stood up straight, stretching his back. The evening light was soft over the camp, turning the smoke of the cooking fires to a glowing haze. Across the tent lines, he could see a line of naked men queuing at the big bathing pavilion, shoving and joking. He would like a bath himself, but he had another duty to attend to first.

  Eumolpius stooped out of the tent, passed Castus his cloak and helmet – a pair of long black feathers now fixed securely above the nasal – and then dropped into step behind him. As they marched down the avenues between the tent lines, Castus heard the sounds of female laughter: the army had already begun to pick up its trail of camp followers. The troops had baggage carts again too now, some of them mounted with the ballistae taken from the walls of Segusio.

  Above the camp to the south-west loomed a last summit, rising like a dog’s tooth, but to the east, for the first time in nearly a month, the horizon was flat. The advancing army was leaving the mountains behind it now, and the expanse of open sky, unconstrained by jutting peaks, was a liberating sight.

  A convoy of camels was coming up the road towards the camp perimeter, bringing up supplies from the surrounding countryside. The sentries at the camp ditches raised their hands in mock salute. ‘Beuuuurk!’ a soldier yelled, and the rest laughed as one of the beasts returned his call with a throaty roar of its own. Behind the camels, at a discreet distance, was a single figure on foot. Castus paid the man no attention at first, assuming he was one of the camp slaves.

  ‘Tribune,’ the man said, pausing.

  Castus squinted, focusing on his face, but already he had recognised the dry, rasping voice. He should have known that he would encounter Julius Nigrinus sooner or later. His expression tightened to a sneer of displeasure.

  ‘I have yet to congratulate you on your promotion!’ the notary said.

  Castus just grunted; he had no desire for this man’s congratulations.

  ‘I hear your men were at the fore during the taking of Segusio too,’ Nigrinus went on, his tone angled and sardonic. ‘I hope the casualties were not too heavy? It appears that the defenders of Segusio were forewarned of our attack plans!’

  ‘You think so?’ Castus said, frowning. He had thought as much himself, but had voiced his suspicions to few people.

  ‘Certainly. Their garrison had clearly been reinforced, and recently, if the prisoners I’ve questioned are telling the truth. Granted, they did not expect the burning of the gate, or the near-incineration of the entire town… The people of Segusio have only the humanity and celerity of our emperor to thank that they are not currently the citizens of a mound of ashes!’

  ‘No doubt somebody’s writing a panegyric about it even now.’

  Nigrinus gave a feigned chuckle, nodding. His words had raised fresh suspicions in Castus’s mind; no doubt that was their purpose. The thought of treachery within the camp, perhaps within the emperor’s own command, felt poisonous. Was Nigrinus spreading these ideas wi
dely? Did he hope that he would be granted further powers of investigation and subterfuge? Castus shrugged off the thought: anything like that just weakened morale. Better to face the enemy square on, rather than worrying about hidden foes.

  ‘But you must be on your way to the commander’s conference,’ Nigrinus said. ‘I shall not detain you further – no doubt our paths will cross again soon!’

  Not if I can help it, Castus thought as he watched the man pacing away towards the camp gates. The sentries at the gates barely noticed him passing; the notary was so unobtrusive as to be almost invisible. A grey-brown shade, insubstantial in daylight.

  *

  Aurelius Evander had set up his headquarters in an abandoned farmhouse next to the road station. Ad Fines, the place was called. The sun was gone by the time Castus arrived, and he joined the group of other officers, tribunes and prefects, waiting in the courtyard. There was a big olive press at the rear, and Evander climbed onto the stone platform to address them.

  ‘Soldiers,’ he said, then coughed and cleared his throat. Thirty officers gazed back at him. ‘As most of you are aware, our cavalrymen have been skirmishing with the enemy scouts since this morning. It seems that the enemy are preparing to make a stand in the hills to the east of us, and contest our advance to Taurinum.’

  All across the courtyard, men straightened slightly, squaring their shoulders. They had been expecting battle for so long – now it was almost upon them.

  ‘Their numbers match our own,’ Evander said, ‘but they also have a large force of clibanarii with them. We lack the strength of horse to attack them effectively from the flank, so our Augustus has devised a strategy to confront them from the centre using our main infantry force, and to destroy them.’

  Castus felt his brow contract in a frown. Few of the men around him had ever encountered the heavily armoured lancers called clibanarii, but he had faced their Persian equivalent many years before, at Oxsa in Armenia. As Evander described what was to be done, Castus could hear the slight intakes of breath around him, the shuffle of feet. This was the emperor’s own plan, so the commander had said – could any man speak out against it?

  ‘Are there any questions?’ Evander called. Even he sounded unconvinced by what he had just told them.

  ‘It seems risky, dominus,’ said Leontius, Prefect of Legion VIII Augusta, raising his flaring sandy eyebrows.

  ‘Opening the line like that…’ another officer added, from the side of Evander’s improvised podium. ‘Has it been done before?’

  ‘It has!’ Evander proclaimed. ‘Scipio Africanus did something very similar, as did the deified Aurelian. We must trust that the military genius of our Sacred Augustus is quite equal to the situation!’

  But his words did little to ease the minds of his officers. They filed out of the courtyard in silence, exchanging troubled glances. In the gathering dusk, they rejoined their orderlies and separated quickly. Castus was just about to follow them when he heard somebody call his name.

  Two men of the Protectores were standing beside a gate in the courtyard wall. He recognised them from his time in the Corps, but did not know them by name.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ he told Eumolpius, then followed the two men through the gate and into the olive orchard behind the house.

  The trees smelled dusty in the darkness, and the ground was dry underfoot. Lights showed through the trees from the encampment in the open ground beyond. The emperor’s own quarters, Castus realised as he saw the mounted guards and the purple draco standard. He surrendered his sword to one of the Protectores, then the other pulled back the flap of the largest tent and ushered him inside.

  Castus had expected an open space within, but instead there was only a panelled antechamber, dark and reeking slightly of incense. More figures stood in the shadows, not armed men this time but slaves or eunuchs, and there were thick mats covering the ground. An inner curtain of gold-embroidered purple hung partly open, and as he stood in the antechamber, the sweat prickling beneath his tunic, Castus could make out a scene in lamplight beyond.

  The emperor was seated, a small round table at his side holding a goblet of wine, a glass jug and a dish. Opposite him sat another man, old and white-haired but vigorous-looking, with dark features stretched with intent. They were speaking together, too quietly to be overheard. As Castus watched, inclining his head slightly to peer through the gap in the curtain, he saw the older man lean forward and touch the emperor on the arm, then on the forehead.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to the Protector, who had followed him into the tent.

  ‘That? One of the Christian priests,’ the man replied. ‘A bishop from somewhere in Spain. Corduba, I think?’

  Someone made a hushing sound from the shadows, and Castus straightened up. Shortly afterwards, a man in a damask robe drew the curtain back and gestured. Castus recognised him: Festus, the emperor’s eunuch, the Superintendent of the Sacred Bedchamber. He had seen him often enough in Treveris.

  ‘Tribune Aurelius Castus,’ the eunuch said in soft and breathy tones. Castus stepped through the parting in the curtain and dropped to kneel upon the matting.

  ‘You may rise,’ said another voice from the far side of the chamber.

  Castus stood, feet braced, careful not to look directly at the figure beside the table. The older man, the Christian priest, appeared to have left by another exit, but Castus was aware of others in the darkness around him: slaves and attendants. The emperor was never truly alone. From the corner of his eye, Castus could make out the figure slumped in the chair. The lean profile and heavy jaw were almost in silhouette against the light of the lamp.

  ‘You were at Oxsa, tribune?’ Constantine said. His voice was rough with fatigue, and his Danubian accent seemed more pronounced.

  ‘Yes, dominus.’ Castus was aware of the quietness around him, no stir of voices or activity, as if the layered walls of the imperial pavilion were made of some padded substance that deadened sound.

  ‘I remember you, I think. Or perhaps I met you later… it doesn’t matter. You faced the Persian cataphracts then. Do you think my troops are strong enough to hold off these clibanarii tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, dominus!’ Castus answered at once. ‘If the gods are with us…’

  He had spoken without thinking, and was aware of the tense pause that followed his words. Under his breath, he cursed. The figure in the chair shifted, reaching for the cup of wine.

  ‘They’re slightly different, these clibanarii, from the Persian armoured cavalry,’ Constantine said, fingering his cup. There was a faint slur to his voice, Castus noticed. Not only fatigue. ‘They’re trained to charge against infantry lines directly, rather than waiting for horse archers to create gaps they can exploit… It’s a…’ He paused again, taking a sip of wine. ‘It’s… They use fear as a weapon, do you understand?’

  ‘I think so, dominus.’

  ‘They terrorise their opponents, break them. Our lines held at Oxsa; they must do the same tomorrow. They must hold, and then destroy the enemy.’ He clenched his right hand into a fist, punching it into his palm. ‘Do the other tribunes, the other officers, understand what must be done? They know the formations and the manoeuvres?’

  ‘They do, dominus.’

  As he spoke, Castus realised that the emperor was not tired, not drunk at all. Constantine was nervous; he was gripped by anxiety. Perhaps – it seemed impious to even consider it – the emperor was afraid. Phobos. Even the thought of that unstoppable armoured cavalry crashing into the ranks of the foot soldiers brought dread and panic. Castus knew now why he had been summoned here.

  ‘All of us are confident, dominus,’ he said in as firm a voice as he could muster. ‘The men too. They’re as strong as any troops I’ve known, and if you ordered them to smash through a wall of stone, they’d do it.’

  Constantine rubbed his brow with his thumb, nodding. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I expect they would.’

  Castus exhaled slowly, and wished he could bel
ieve it himself.

  Chapter IX

  The sun had climbed from the horizon and burned off the thin scrim of cloud, and now the day was getting hot. On the exposed plain the troops stood and sweated in their formations. Just over a quarter-mile away, across open fields of scorched stubble and parched grass, the ground rose to a long low ridge. Up on the ridge, in plain sight, the enemy cavalry sat in a compact mass with the sunlight gleaming from their armour. To the men on the plains below, they appeared like a fortress of glittering metal.

  ‘There’s not too many of them,’ Antoninus said. The massive young standard-bearer stood just behind Castus, at the right of the legion formation. He was bare-headed, and held the eagle standard planted proudly in the ground before him.

  ‘That’s just the tip of their wedge,’ Castus told him. ‘The rest of the army’ll be deployed on the reverse side of the ridge, where we can’t see them.’ Or determine their numbers, he thought. Glancing to the left and right, he scanned the horizon. There was a lot of dust rising from the far side of the ridge. How far did the enemy flanks extend? The Constantinian line was bunched heavily towards the centre to repel the cavalry, the legion detachments in two close formation lines, each eight men deep; if the enemy had strong forces out on their wings, they could swing forward across the ridge and envelop the flanks… Castus told himself not to think about that – to concentrate only on the ground before him, the narrow stretch of baked earth and burnt stubble that would be his battlefield.

  Horseback messengers were galloping back and forth along the lines. Castus spotted Vitalis, and raised his spear in salute. The other tribune waved back, then cantered closer.

  ‘General advance, one hundred paces!’ Vitalis cried, then rode on. A moment later, the trumpets sounded.

  The men of the Second Britannica hefted their shields, lifted spears, and began the slow steady march forward over the dry ground. Dust rose; Castus felt it in his nostrils. All morning he had been remembering that battle at Oxsa many years before; he had been as young then as many of the men in the ranks behind him. But he had been in the reserves that day; he had not had to witness the charge of the Persian cataphracts directly.