Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  Gazing up at the mass of cavalry sitting immobile on the ridge, he tried to estimate the distance, and guess how long it would take them to reach the infantry front line. Less than the time it would take him to count sixty heartbeats, if they rode at the gallop. They would come slower, though, at least at first, keeping their formation. A horse would not charge directly against formed infantry: that was the maxim that every foot soldier held dear. But could any infantry line hold firm in the face of that terrible advance? These clibanarii wore such heavy armour, horse and rider encased in metal, that even at a walk, even a standstill, they could face the bristling spears and locked shields and force their way through by weight and invulnerable strength alone…

  Don’t think, he told himself. Already he could feel the tension in his chest, the kick of his heart. Beneath his hauberk of bronze scales his body was flowing with sweat, and his scalp itched under his helmet. He gripped the shaft of his spear more tightly, and felt the moisture of his palms.

  The trumpets sounded again, and the marching men came to a halt. In the eddying dust the centurions moved along the ranks, straightening the lines. Castus looked to his left, along the front rank of his assembled men. One hundred and twenty shields, each with the bold red sun-wheel on golden yellow. Every man wore a pair of grey feathers above the brow of his helmet. Beyond them were the auxilia troops of the Batavi, and on the far side the red shields of the Divitenses stretching away into the haze. To Castus’s right, across the narrow lane between the units, were the warriors of the Bucinobantes, and beyond them the legionaries of I Minervia, their shields a solid-looking wall of black. Every unit had their standards at the front, the eagles glinting, the long tails of the draco banners streaming in the dusty breeze.

  Already the men of the Germanic auxilia were raising their war cries, the weird reverberating shouts booming across the plain towards the distant enemy. Between the waves of noise Castus could make out other sounds: the dry tapping of a man’s teeth; somebody else muttering under his breath, either prayers or curses. Then, from along the lines to the left, a burst of cheering.

  Every man strained forward, peering between the ranks of their comrades as the emperor came galloping along the front line. Constantine rode hard, not turning his head but only raising his hand to acknowledge the acclamation of his troops. Behind him came his staff officers and orderlies, and the rider carrying the long purple imperial standard.

  ‘Constantine! Constantine!’ the men cried, a massed roar of voices barrelling from the ranks of the infantry. A tumult followed, thousands of spears drumming against shields, the surge of noise rolling down the battle line and echoing away across the plain.

  But the emperor did not pause to address his men; there would be no rousing speech from Constantine. Already Castus could see him riding to the fore of his right-flank cavalry, the standards dipping as he approached.

  Calm settled back over the army, breathless and tense. The ground ahead was misty with airborne dust now, shot through with sun. The riders up on the ridge had still not moved: impossible to make out their numbers, or even distinguish them clearly. The legionaries were passing waterskins along their lines, each men tipping his head to drink. Castus swilled water, swallowed a little and then spat the rest in a dark starburst at his feet. He could smell sweat through the dust, hot metal and leather, the rank scent of fresh urine.

  Plumes of brown dust were rising in the distance now, and as Castus turned his head he could hear the shouts, the dry rattle of spears. His blood quickened as he realised that the flanks of the army had already moved forward, up on the ridge to attack the enemy wings. The battle had begun.

  Breathing slowly, one eye on the massed cavalry waiting on the ridge, he paced down along the front rank of his men. Soldiers called out to him as he passed – dominus… dominus… – the centurions raising their spears in salute. He saw Rogatianus among them, his face and arms pitted with dark burn-scars from the flaming embers thrown down on him from the walls of Segusio. He greeted all of his officers by name. All looked fierce, steady.

  Castus reached the extreme left-hand end of the line, where Macer stood. The drillmaster nodded to him as he drew closer. His mouth was set firm, and the bandage over his eye showed beneath his helmet rim.

  ‘Ready?’ Castus said quietly, and the old man nodded again. ‘Remember, we’re closing from the right,’ he went on. ‘Keep your men locked here, don’t let the lines drift.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me my business, lad,’ Macer said.

  Castus felt his shoulders tighten under the heavy hug of his scale armour. But he caught the glint in Macer’s single eye: the old man had meant no disrespect. He twitched a smile, jutting his jaw, then turned and paced back along the lines.

  He saw the faces of the men. Some of them expressionless, blankly determined. Others, in the second and third lines especially, looked pale and drawn. Many would not meet his eye. Fear was stalking through them. Castus kept his own face set hard. The mask of command.

  At the centre of the line he paused and took two steps outwards. It was an effort to turn his back on the enemy, to lose sight of that forbidding mass of horsemen even for a moment, but he faced his men and raised his spear above his head. The ranks rippled, every man straightening, the low hiss of whispered words falling into silence.

  Castus felt the sun pressing down on him. Sweat broke beneath his helmet rim and itched at his eyes.

  ‘Fellow soldiers!’ he yelled, the words catching at the dust in his throat. ‘Very soon, that bunch of shiny bastards up there are going to come down on you with everything they’ve got!’

  He swung his spear to point up at the ridge behind him. A stir of drawn breaths, feet shuffling in dust, clink of metal.

  ‘They’re going to swing a punch at you and try to make you flinch!’ His voice snarled, hoarse. ‘When they charge, they’ll make the ground shake!’

  Castus clenched his jaw for a moment, trying to moisten his mouth.

  ‘Don’t worry about feeling afraid,’ he cried. ‘Everyone feels it – you’re supposed to feel afraid! But remember this… you are stronger than them! Stand your ground. Keep your shields up and your spears level, and don’t flinch. Trust to your brothers, the men beside you and behind you… Hold your positions, listen for the trumpets and only move when you hear the order.’

  He paused, watching the lines shift and blur before him. He blinked the sweat from his eyes.

  ‘When they come down at you’ – his voice rose again – ‘remember this: those riders have never faced an enemy in battle! All they’ve done is trot around the drill field at Mediolanum. They’re more scared of you than you are of them! They think they can break us… but we’re going to show them different!’

  He could see the smiles now, the nervous grins. From somewhere in the rear ranks came the sound of a spear tapping against a shield rim.

  ‘Here’s to victory!’ Castus roared, punching his spear above his head. ‘Here’s to Constantine! Britannica! Britannica!’

  And the shout came echoing back, the drumming of spears gathering to a rhythmic crash. Through it, another chant: ‘Knucklehead! Knucklehead! Knucklehead!’

  Castus stared at Rogatianus, and saw the centurion grinning back at him. For a moment he felt a hot flush of anger – how had his old army nickname followed him yet again? – then he threw back his head and laughed.

  Then a roar swept along the front line, a clattering of shields, and the cry went up from the right wing: ‘They’re coming!’

  Castus jogged back to his position next to the standard-bearer. When he turned, his breath caught: the whole gleaming mass of cavalry had begun rolling down the ridge towards them, dust boiling up from beneath the hooves of the horses. Horns wailed from both sides, the rival signals blending to a high brassy scream. Staring through the haze, Castus saw the numbers of the clibanarii double, and then treble, more of the horsemen crossing the ridge and falling into one massive blunt-headed wedge.

 
‘Gods,’ somebody gasped from behind him. ‘Gods, there are thousands of them…’

  Already the ranks of the legion were shuddering, men backing up a step, then two steps, pressing towards the men behind them. Castus could hear the centurions yelling, trying to straighten the lines.

  The noise of the oncoming cavalry reached them now, the rolling thunder of hooves on dry baked earth, the ringing of metal. The blunt head of the wedge was already down the ridge and onto the flat ground, coming on at a fast trot. Their formation was tight, every horseman appeared knee-to-knee with the rider beside him, and their long lances wavered in the haze above them.

  Castus ground his boots into the dirt, as if he could take a firmer grip on the ground. Behind him he could hear Antoninus spitting words through his teeth, ‘Come on, you bastards. Come on, you fuckers…’

  A gust of wind swept the field, parting the dust, and suddenly the huge wedge of cavalry appeared very close, their armour clear and bright, every rider distinct. Castus felt his throat tighten. The sight was fearsome, awe-inspiring. The riders looked huge, and godlike in their casing of gleaming mail and scale. Every man wore a polished mask of gilded metal, moulded into the form of a perfect and expressionless face: they appeared inhuman, like automatons. Even their armoured horses were masked, blinkered in filigree bronze. They looked utterly unstoppable.

  Castus heard groans of anguish from behind him, and high gasps of terror. The centurions were yelling, but more of the men were shuffling backwards, trying to put another few feet between them and the oncoming cavalry. Castus felt his own chest filling with a dark pressure; his heart was tight against his sternum, and his legs felt weak. Deathly fear was stealing his resolve. Hold! Hold...! Now the ground was shaking, the dust jumping.

  One hundred paces, then fifty. Still the armoured wedge ploughed closer, some of the leading riders beginning to break formation as they urged their horses into a faster gallop.

  ‘Javelins!’ Castus cried, raising his spear. The word seemed to ignite something in his body, in his muscles. Suddenly he felt alive, and everything was happening very fast.

  The lines rippled, every man in the rear four ranks taking a step forward and hurling his javelin over the heads of the men in front, and for a moment the air was dark with flying metal. Arrows were whipping from the archers at the rear.

  ‘Shield wall! Repel cavalry!’ Castus shouted, and heard his words echoed by the centurions along the front line. The rolling dust cloud was almost on top of them as the men of the front rank dropped to one knee, shields grounded and spears angled upwards. The second-rankers stepped up close behind them, raising their own shields to lock with the ones beneath. The noise was enormous, deafening: shield rims slamming together; men yelling as they formed the wall. In a heartbeat, the wavering front line was a solid bulwark bristling with spears.

  Dust reeled, and when he looked forward again Castus saw the first riders break from the haze and swerve at the sight of the obstacle before them. Some had already been felled by the missile storm: horses rolled and kicked in the dirt, their trapped riders crushed beneath them. But as the momentum of the charge died so more horsemen filled the gaps in the enemy line: they were milling now, some riders forcing their mounts on towards the shield wall, others turning, readying their long-reaching lances.

  Now, Castus thought. Now, or we won’t hold them…

  With a sharp stab of panic he realised that he could no longer hear the signal trumpets. All he could distinguish through the cheek guards of his helmet was the screaming of men all around him, the neighing of panicked horses and the clatter of javelins, and Antoninus yelling crazed defiance at the back of his head. Had the signal to change formation already been given?

  From the rear ranks men were still hurling javelins forward, arcing them over the shield wall into the packed mass of cavalry. Castus saw one javelin strike a rider full in the chest; the man just shuddered slightly in the saddle, and the javelin bounced away from him, harmless. Our weapons cannot touch them…

  There were more of the horsemen now, and they were pushing their mounts forward at a walk, angling their lances down in a two-handed overhead grip. Darts and javelins flickered around the scale-armoured flanks of the horses, but Castus could already see the lines of shields beginning to bow inwards, the forest of spears swaying and separating as men bunched together to oppose the advancing riders.

  ‘Hold your positions!’ Castus was yelling, but he could not hear his own voice. The noise around him had merged into a steady rushing scream. There was nothing within striking range of his spear, and he kept his shield up and stared over the rim.

  Then sudden motion from his right. For a moment Castus felt the panic rising in his throat: the solid block of Bucinobantes warriors holding his right flank were breaking apart, throwing down their shields and retreating. He felt a heavy grip on his shoulder, a hand hauling him backwards.

  ‘The signal!’ Antoninus screamed in his ear. Castus remembered that the standard-bearer was not wearing a helmet, and could hear better. He shoved himself backwards against the shield behind him. The fleeing Bucinobantes were streaming in through the gaps in the legion formations to either side of them now, leaving open lanes between each block of legionaries and the next. As they pushed their way though the ranks, the men at the front lines drew in closer, every man taking a shuffling step to his right. Shields meshed tighter, armoured bodies pressed together.

  Castus kept shoving back, forcing himself through the gap between two shields. Men shouldered against him from both sides, and he could feel the shaft of the standard jabbing against his right arm. ‘Back!’ he shouted. ‘Further back – move!’

  But already the enemy cavalry had taken the bait: horses swerved and reared as their riders hauled at the reins, and a solid knot of clibanarii came powering out of the dust cloud, aiming directly for the open lane between the legion’s shields. For a few heartbeats Castus could only stare, convinced that the charging horses would ram straight into him… then they were streaming past him into the gap, scaled bardings flapping, hooves kicking aside the litter of fallen shields. A hot wave of dust engulfed the legionary lines, rank with the stink of horse sweat and metal.

  The riders were surging past so close to him that Castus could almost have touched the flanks of their horses. One turned aside at the corner of the formation, his horse shying back from the spears; he raised his lance overhead and then plunged it down, driving the long steel point through two overlapping shields. Castus roared, lunging forward with his own spear. He felt the tip strike the rider on the thigh, then glance off the iron bands that encased his leg. The horse reared, striking out with its hooves, and the dense mass of legionaries shrank back from it. Tightly pressed together, they could only hold their shields before them as the horse kicked. A sling whirred close to Castus’s ear, and he saw the rider knocked sideways as the lead shot struck his head. He toppled, sliding back off the saddle, and a bellowing cheer went up from the legionaries as the horse spun away from them.

  More of the clibanarii were forcing their way through the gap between the lines, so many that their charge had stalled, men and mounts crushed together. Now, Castus thought, now they see their mistake…

  All along the front line, the shield wall had opened broad lanes between the units. But the men of the reserve legions held steady in their formations, and the armoured horsemen sweeping into the gaps found themselves facing a second line of troops, drawn up in a solid wall and blocking their path. As the leading horses faltered, turning aside, the riders that followed collided with them. In moments the formidable armoured assault had collapsed in a milling crush of men and animals, with the flanks of the legionary blocks pressing in on either side like huge barbed teeth, grinding and crushing the trapped horsemen.

  But the clibanarii were more dangerous at close quarters, and now the packed horsemen were lashing out at the infantry to either side. Castus saw one rider lean from the saddle and stab downwards with his lance, reach
ing over the shields to impale a man deep inside the formation. His horse shuddered – somebody had sliced its exposed leg – and with a whinnying scream collapsed sideways. Horse and rider slammed down onto the shields, crushing the men beneath them. Another horse bucked suddenly, almost throwing its rider from the saddle; the rear hooves kicked out, blasting one man’s shield to splinters, bursting the helmet of another.

  ‘Bludgeons!’ Castus shouted over his shoulder. ‘Bludgeons to the front now!’

  Already he could see the centurions shoving their men forward, funnelling them though the close-packed ranks. Some pushed between the shields, others dropped to crawl between the legs of their comrades. All of the men had thrown down their own shields and spears, and armed themselves with blunt weapons: long-handled cavalry maces, or simple wooden clubs encrusted with iron hobnails. A few carried pickaxes and entrenching mattocks.

  While their comrades held the milling cavalry at bay, the clubmen scrambled in between the horses. Castus saw two men with maces strike an armoured rider; the iron mace-heads rang off the man’s cuirass, but the clibanarius dropped his lance and slumped from the saddle. A soldier grabbed at a horseman’s arm and dragged him downwards, another man aiming two swinging blows of a studded club at the rider’s head.

  The lane between the legion flanks was a violent chaos now, the dust choking. More of the clubmen were streaming in from either side, battering at horses and men alike. One of the horses went down, staggering under a blow to the legs, then another toppled beside it. A kicking hoof caught a clubman in the head and killed him instantly. The flank of shields bowed suddenly inwards as a third horse fell, the armoured rider spilling from the saddle to sprawl on his back in the dust. Immobilised by the weight of his armour, he had no defence: for a moment Castus stared at him in dazed fascination. Then a foot soldier swung a mattock over his head and brought it smashing down onto the fallen man’s head. The brilliant golden mask crunched inward under the blow, and blood sprayed from the eyes and mouth.