Sword of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Juva stood on the charnel heap he had helped create and lifted the eagle to the skies. His challenge echoed across the battlefield and Valerius experienced a moment of Elysian stillness on that field where two thousand men had already died. The Fifth cohort echoed their champion’s roar of triumph. All except one.

  ‘Shit. Time we were out of here.’

  Valerius turned at the sound of Serpentius’s shocked whisper. Was the Spaniard mad? He shook his head, wincing at the pain. ‘We need to hold here until the reserves are finished with the front lines. The battle is won, Serpentius. It is only a matter of time.’

  But the battle wasn’t won, and it was only a matter of time before the Fifth cohort was annihilated, because Benignus had betrayed them. The two reserve cohorts hadn’t moved from their position and the gap the Fifth cohort had opened was quickly closing.

  If they didn’t retreat they would be slaughtered.

  XLVIII

  Valerius would remember the remainder of the battle the way a man remembers a night march in a lightning storm; as a series of disjointed, flashlit images that had no connection with his own reality, in a world where time meant nothing.

  Stumbling on someone else’s legs through a fog of confusion and death with Serpentius at one elbow and Juva, still clutching the Twenty-first Rapax’s eagle, at the other. Hacking another human being into bloody ruin until the Spaniard screamed meaningless words into his face and dragged him to safety through the swiftly closing gap moments before an avalanche of fresh Vitellian troops fell on what was left of the Fifth. Juva on one knee presenting a disbelieving Benignus with the eagle that would bring the legate and his legion eternal fame and glory, and in the same instant winning immediate promotion to centurion and the Gold Crown of Valour that would make him a Hero of Rome. A terrible empty feeling as Benignus, with tears on his cheeks, explained that an order had come from Paulinus forbidding him to use his reserves. Standing with Serpentius in the shield line as wave after wave of attacks broke themselves against it until men were so exhausted they could barely lift their swords and the attackers were impeded by heaped piles of their own dead. The oddly detached sense of disbelief as old Marcus threw his surviving gladiators into a break in the line before being swept away to oblivion amid a tide race of flashing swords. The legate lying on the crushed grass with the last of his lifeblood leaking in dying spurts from the sword wound in his neck – ‘Save them, Valerius. Do not let the name Benignus be for ever linked with the loss of an eagle and the loss of a legion’ – and the noble head falling to one side. A desperate rearguard action as the First Adiutrix attempted to extricate itself from a battle already lost and the roars of triumph at the left of the line as Valens threw in his Batavian cavalry.

  And a sudden moment of terrible clarity.

  Claudius Victor had prayed to the old gods that his one-armed quarry was not already dead, and his prayers had been answered. Fifth Alaudae and First Italica had already won their battles among the trees and on the road when two full cavalry wings smashed into the left flank of the First Adiutrix. In a single moment, the Othonian line collapsed like a mud dam in a thunderstorm. This was what horse soldiers had been born for as three thousand surviving foot soldiers fled in terror, their backs inviting the spear points that punched their way through armour into living flesh with the weight of horse and man behind them. Helmets and skulls crushed as the heavy spatha swords hammered down and faces cleaved in two by a perfectly timed back-cut. Chaos and confusion everywhere, apart from the centre where one man had managed to hold two centuries in square and was attempting to screen the legion’s eagle as the aquilifer carried it to safety.

  A man with a missing right hand.

  ‘Form on me,’ Victor screamed, and the auxiliary wing’s decurions took up the cry. Within moments he had four troops of cavalry at his back. Four troops. Less than a hundred and fifty men. Not enough, but the defeated legionaries were already close to breaking point so he would make it enough. ‘Sound the charge.’ The signaller at his right shoulder echoed the command on the lituus, the curved trumpet he carried. His eyes never leaving the man who had killed his brother, Claudius Victor lashed his tired mount into motion and urged his Batavians forward.

  As the battle ebbed and surged around the little square of shields, Valerius watched the compact mass of cavalry surge across the battlefield, running down friend and foe alike. All around him was blood and pain and death as men, or small groups of men, fought their individual battles for survival. With the help of Serpentius and Juva he had somehow gathered the remnants of two centuries around the eagles and the walking wounded. Those too hurt to move received the mercy of a quick end from their comrades. Better that than be left on the battlefield to die by inches, or be tortured for sport by some looter or camp follower. With danger on every side, they backed slowly away through the fighting across the gore-stained earth, stepping on the corpses of friend and enemy, slipping and slithering through the obscene detritus of the human form. Valerius didn’t know where they were going, only that he had promised Benignus he would save his eagle and he would die trying to fulfil that oath. As they edged their way east, more fleeing legionaries sought the disciplined sanctuary of the square, staggering up on spent legs and trying to claw their way into the interior. ‘You’ll get in when you deserve it, you bastards,’ Valerius roared at them, ordering them to form a new outer rank. Yet if the men of the First Adiutrix were exhausted, the enemy was equally so, and that was what kept the eagles safe. They were content to butcher the small knots of legionaries who stood and fought, or take a hack at a fleeing man. But they shied away from Valerius’s square to find easier prey. Still, Valerius knew Fortuna couldn’t protect them for ever. If they were to stay alive, they had to fight their way to safety, wherever safety was. In the distance he heard the strident call of a trumpet and he felt a surge of hope. Somewhere, someone was trying to rally the shattered remnants of the army of Otho. Yet that hope was immediately tempered with doubt, because the horsemen he had seen had only one object in mind and that was the eagle of the First Adiutrix. He blinked to clear vision that was still blurred from his earlier knock on the head and a shudder ran through him as he recognized his enemy. The cavalrymen bearing down on the square wore wolfskin cloaks and at their head rode a tall figure whose features were engraved in ice on his heart.

  ‘Spears.’ The fear in his voice shamed him, even though he knew it was shared by every man in the formation. ‘Prepare to receive cavalry.’

  The square stuttered to a clumsy halt and the front rank of each of the four sides crouched behind the big curved scuta, while those behind locked their shields in place to protect the heads of the front line and form a solid wall almost seven feet high. But it was a fragile wall, close to breaking just at the sight of the charging horses. Men who had suffered more than any man should endure wept and cursed and prayed and Valerius knew he would have lost them but for the massive presence of Juva, snarling at his former shipmates with the eagle of Twenty-first Rapax still held in his great fist. A pitiful few pila poked through between the big shields, held by men who’d had the foresight to scavenge enemy javelins from the battlefield. Being static left the formation more vulnerable to an infantry attack, but the square would have been impossible to defend on the move against cavalry. No ordinary commander would throw his horsemen at a well-formed square, for to do so was to endure certain defeat and heavy casualties. But Valerius understood that the man he faced was no ordinary commander, but one driven mad by a visceral need for vengeance. A man prepared to sacrifice everything in his lust for the blood of his brother’s killer. Even as the thought formed, he saw Claudius Victor drop back from the front rank of the charge, and the first squadron converge into four ranks of eight in front of him. The thunder of hooves seemed to shake the earth and reverberated in the very air around him. A horse will not charge home against formed-up infantry; that was the philosophy that had dictated tactics from Marius down to Otho and Vitellius. Yet the me
n who rode these horses were goaded by Claudius Victor’s screams of encouragement, promises of advancement and threats of painful death. They were so close Valerius could see the individual features beneath the iron helms. Savage, bearded faces, lips drawn back and mouths gaping as they screamed to cow the enemy and disguise their own fear. Faces that had no intention of avoiding the inevitable collision.

  Behind the shield wall, Valerius ran along the line of spearmen calling out his orders. In a normal fight, the pila would form an impenetrable palisade of glittering spear points, but there were not enough of them and these horses were not stopping.

  ‘On my command.’ He swayed as he fought the exhaustion that fogged his brain and tried desperately to gauge the distance between the horses and the square. Too early and the javelins would be wasted. Too late and even if they did strike home the dead and wounded horses would smash the square into so much human wreckage. ‘The front rank only. Only aim for the front rank.’

  Fifty paces.

  He licked his lips and tasted blood. Somewhere in the front rank of the square a man was whimpering.

  ‘You know your orders.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, let us throw.’

  Forty paces.

  One heartbeat.

  Two heartbeats.

  ‘Now!’

  The upper layer of shields dropped for a split second and a ragged volley of javelins sailed towards the charging cavalry. Valerius had positioned himself to witness the effect of the throw. Pray Jupiter he’d got it right. Eight horses all in line, some already shying away from the impact and the others catching their fear. The grey on the left of the Batavian line took a pilum in the neck and swerved sharply, pitching its rider howling from the saddle. Three others, on the right, went down like sacrificial bulls under a pole-axe and the rider of the new right flank horse sprouted four feet of ash from his screaming mouth and was catapulted backwards to be trampled by the second line. Of the remaining horses two were mortally wounded, but their riders continued to urge them on. A third fought in vain to turn away, trapped between its dying stable mates.

  Valerius was moving even before the riderless mount swerved across the front of the line and collided with the charge. He screamed at Juva to get the eagles to safety, but his words were drowned in a splintering crash and the shrieks of crushed men as a mountain of horseflesh scythed into the wall of shields. The second line of cavalry, followed by the third, swerved to avoid the mayhem, knowing there were easier victims to come, but Claudius Victor leapt through the carnage with a squadron at his heels and charged into the centre of the already disintegrating square.

  ‘He’s mine!’ The screamed order was directed at a Batavian trooper who had lined up the square’s one-handed commander with his long spear. The cavalryman swerved away. In the same moment, Valerius heard the shout and turned to find his nemesis bearing down on him. Victor crouched low in the saddle with a smile on his pale features and the leaf-shaped iron blade aimed at his enemy’s lower belly. For once Valerius couldn’t depend on Serpentius to be his strong right hand; the Spaniard was elsewhere, fighting his own deadly battle. He had nowhere to run; his only defence was his sword and his speed. He feinted left, but the spear point went with him. Victor held the shaft close to his steed’s flank, to give his enemy no chance of getting inside the point. Another second and the spear would tear through the iron mail and gut him. The Batavian expected Valerius to break and run in that final heartbeat. Instead the one-armed Roman danced to his right, bringing the sword up in a scything, unwieldy slash that bit into the cavalry horse’s throat. A cloud of scarlet and the animal screamed as it felt the bite of iron and Valerius threw himself to the side as it surged past, already going down on its knees. In the corner of his eye he registered Victor tumbling from the saddle and the snap as the long spear broke, but there was no time to be pleased with himself. For now the exhausted legionaries of Twenty-first Rapax had found new strength and were tearing at the shattered formation like a pack of wolves on a dying deer calf. Suddenly, Victor was no longer Valerius’s greatest threat as he tripped on a body, lost his grip on the gladius and found himself sprawling among the feet of a knot of men hacking at two gladiators who had tried to surrender. Unarmed and wriggling backwards through someone’s entrails, Valerius flinched away as one of the legionaries stepped into position with his sword poised for the killing blow.

  ‘Mine!’ The guttural Germanic roar was punctuated by a butcher’s block slap that registered the moment Victor’s long cavalry spatha took the man’s head off at his shoulders. As the torso collapsed, Valerius’s worst nightmare loomed over him. ‘The remaining hand, I think. We will start with the hand.’

  Victor raised the sword high as Valerius lay helpless. The Roman looked into his killer’s eyes and saw a madness there that told him the hand was only the least of it. He groped frantically for his lost gladius. Instead, his fingers connected with something obscenely soft, with the slimy texture of a fresh-caught eel. He threw the still-warm guts of the anonymous gladiator into Victor’s face and the Batavian reeled back, but recovered when he realized what had struck him. A savage smile wreathed his face as he made the decision to end the games. All around them was chaos and slaughter, the screams of the dying and the victory cries of their killers. From nowhere, a bay horse, out of control with its Pannonian rider dead in the saddle, galloped blind-eyed with panic towards them and Valerius rolled away from the flashing hooves. He heard Victor curse even as he found his escape blocked by the bulk of the auxiliary commander’s dead mount. A kaleidoscope of images: blue sky, blood-soaked earth, a dead man’s staring eyes, a glint of bright metal. The sword flashed down and he twisted desperately to one side, some voice screaming a message at him that his mind struggled to decipher. The sharp slap of metal slicing into muscle, but surprisingly he felt no pain and he realized Victor’s blow must have struck the dead horse. Without conscious thought, his hand wrapped around the shaft of the broken spear embedded in the ground to his left. His arm whipped round and he felt the moment the point tore through cloth into the sucking embrace of flesh, the crunch of iron scraping on bone and then the breakthrough into the softness beyond. An agonized shriek that combined pain, torment and frustration filled his ears and he looked up as Claudius Victor’s shuddering body collapsed on top of him.

  The random, panicked thrust of the spearhead had taken Victor deep in the groin, slicing through the big artery there and into his lower stomach. The Batavian’s body shuddered uncontrollably with each wave of shock and agony. He knew he was dying, but the animal instinct to destroy his foe was overwhelming. Powerful warrior’s hands fought their way to Valerius’s throat and the Batavian’s eyes bulged as he used the last of his strength to throttle the man who had killed his brother. Trapped beneath the armour-clad body, Valerius struggled to free his good hand and somehow prise the iron grip of the fingers from his throat. His vision blurred and he heard the sound of a rook cawing and knew it was the sound of his dying. Claudius Victor’s face was in his, and he felt the other man’s spittle on his cheek and remembered the foul breath of his enemy from their previous terrifying meeting in the woods of Germania. His mind screamed at him. He … would … not … die. His fingers closed on the object at his belt and somehow he forced his left hand upwards between their two bodies. Victor was oblivious of what was happening, his mind lost in the divine, unearthly madness of victory and death. He barely felt the point of the knife that forced its way through the skin beneath his chin. Only in the lightning-flash moment when it entered his brain did he accept defeat.

  Blood surged from the gaping jaws over Valerius’s face and he almost vomited at the foulness of it in his mouth. A moment of relief, darkness and finally despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he took the time to cut the leather strip holding the golden boar amulet that had hung at Claudius Victor’s neck and push it into his tunic. What seemed like much later rough hands dragged him clear of the body and he heard a familiar voice in his ear.
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br />   ‘Can’t lie about here as if you’re already in the Senate, lord,’ Serpentius chided.

  Someone put a sword in his hand as Juva placed a giant arm round his waist and between them the Nubian and the Spaniard half carried him through the fighting and the heaped bodies of the dead and the dying. Somehow they found themselves among a group of gladiators still battling for their lives.

  ‘The First’s eagle?’ Valerius demanded.

  Serpentius shrugged and the Roman knew it was gone. A pain pierced him that was more terrible than anything he’d suffered this day as he remembered his promise to Benignus. But he was their leader. He could not surrender to despair. ‘We fight on. Otho’s reserve will be here soon. While we live, there’s still a chance.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Serpentius’s voice was bleak. The first time Valerius had heard it bereft of hope. Because Aulus Caecina Alienus had thrown in his reserves to finish it.

  A massed wave of charging infantry and cavalry swept across the plain towards them. ‘If I’m to die, I will die like a man.’ Still clutching the eagle of the Twenty-first, Juva of the Waverider, centurion of the first century, Fifth cohort of Legio I Adiutrix, gave a final nod to his two friends and was gone before Valerius could stop him. His last memory of the Nubian was of Juva standing like a colossus at the heart of the full cohort sent to squash the insolent slaves who had tarnished the honour of a legion, before he was consumed by a whirling maelstrom of bright iron.

  As he waited with Serpentius at his side, his strong right hand for one final time, Valerius felt the same mix of pride, loss and anger he had experienced in the final moments of the siege of the Temple of Claudius. There was no glory in defeat, but what did that matter when a man had known warriors like these and had a friend such as this. He planted his feet more firmly in the rich, dark soil and held the gladius at the ready as a squadron of cavalry charged the two defiant figures who stood firm among the dead and the wounded. Valerius managed to sidestep the first spear, but moved too late to avoid the bulk of the galloping horse. He felt something break in his left shoulder and the moment the sword dropped from his nerveless fingers.