The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome

by Harry Sidebottom

  The northerners halted out of the effective range of a javelin.

  ‘What now?’ Thorgrim said.

  Before Ballista could answer, a groan came from the rear of the column. Rising on his toes, peering over the helmets of the men behind, Ballista saw its cause. The frumentarii had returned. Now there were about the same number of them as there were northerners. They spread out, in two rough ranks across the road. The way back was blocked. A blank wall on one side, high buildings with bolted doors on the other. The Germans were trapped.

  ‘This is not getting better,’ Maximus said.

  Ballista looked at the sky. The sun was behind the buildings, but obviously getting low. Not more than an hour until sunset. The last hour of the day had begun.

  ‘A thing of no consequence,’ Thorgrim said. ‘One charge will scatter the frumentarii. As for the others – the bucketmen aren’t real soldiers. They will not be in a hurry to fight.’ The Heathobard exuded confidence.

  The same centurion of the frumentarii walked out from their line. He had no shield, and his sword was still in its scabbard. The officer had almost the assurance of Thorgrim the Heathobard.

  ‘You are surrounded, outnumbered three to one.’ Long years on parade grounds and battlefields had given the centurion a voice that carried. A man without experience did not end up as a centurion in the frumentarii. ‘Lay down your arms, and hand over the wanted man.’

  Ballista turned to a warrior whose arms were bright with gold torques. ‘Now it is us that need to keep him talking.’

  ‘Talking a waste of breath,’ Thorgrim said. ‘A thing for these southerners. Better we give them the song our swords sing.’

  ‘The fighting will come.’ Ballista spoke again to the warrior with the heavy gold bands encircling his arms. ‘Tell him you will hand me over, if you can keep your weapons. Tell him you have sworn an oath never to be parted from your blades. Make up anything, just keep him busy for a few moments.’

  The warrior walked out to the centurion.

  Ballista turned back to Thorgrim. ‘All you say is true, but then the City Watch will be between us and the emperor. Time is running out. I must get to Gallienus before he leaves the imperial box. Have enough men to hold the frumentarii from our backs. The rest form a swine’s snout, and punch a hole through these bucketmen.’

  The Heathobard grinned. ‘You Himlings are leaders of men, deep thinkers. Not for nothing do the peoples of the Suebian Sea bend the knee to your dynasty.’

  ‘How could it be otherwise, with the Heathobards as our allies.’ Ballista tugged off the rent linen robe. ‘I need some clothes. It might be difficult for a barbarian in a loin cloth to gain admittance to the imperial presence.’

  The big Heathobard gestured another warrior to help him off with his armour. ‘You take my mailcoat.’

  ‘I will move faster, draw less attention, unarmoured.’

  ‘You want my britches as well?’

  ‘Just the tunic.’

  ‘I am happy to fight these little firemen naked.’

  ‘The tunic will do.’

  By the time Ballista had pulled the tunic over his head, and someone had pressed a sword into his hand, the negotiations had ended.

  ‘A very rude man, that centurion,’ the returned warrior said in mock wonder. ‘Told me to fuck myself. Said if I did not have my hairy-arsed tribesmen give you up, I would find myself eaten by a lion, or some such horrible beast.’

  A few quietly spoken words from Thorgrim, and the northerners fell into place. Twenty shoulder to shoulder facing back towards the frumentarii, the other thirty or so in a compact wedge pointed at the City Watch.

  ‘Much killing again,’ Tarchon said with an unnerving glee. ‘Suanians like me, having the great fondness for killing.’

  Thorgrim had put his mail back on. Without a tunic under the armour as padding, it would be far from comfortable; dangerous too, if a blow snapped the rings, and drove them into his flesh. Notwithstanding, he had taken the position of honour at the tip of the swine’s snout. Ballista tucked in behind him – Maximus on his left shoulder, Tarchon the right. Ballista was unarmoured. It would have insulted the honour of the other Germans if he had stood in the front rank.

  A movement above made Ballista look up. The wall to the left was the outer wall of the camp of the City Watch. There were no battlements. No threat could come from there. But there were apartments on the right. The inhabitants of the upper floors had opened their windows, and were looking down. Those that had balconies were coming out for a better view. For a moment Ballista was worried that they might intervene. A tile or pot dropped from a height by an old woman or a child could kill as certainly as a sword cut from the strongest warrior. Then he remembered that the citizens of Rome feared and hated the frumentarii as much, if not more, than they did northern barbarians. The locals had no intention of becoming involved. For them this was like an impromptu gladiatorial contest. This was pure entertainment. They did not care who won. They loathed both sides. The more dead the better.

  Swallows dived and hunted high above the roofs. It was a presage of good weather tomorrow, at least for those alive to enjoy it.

  The voice of the centurion rang down the street. ‘Are you ready for war?’

  ‘Ready!’ The frumentarii yelled back.

  Three times the traditional call and response, then the soldiers charged.

  They crashed into the Germans to the rear. The noise was deafening, like a mighty oak falling in a forest. The thin northern line gave a pace or two. Here and there a warrior went down. The frumentarii were real soldiers, men who had stared into the face of battle. But the tribesmen were also accustomed to stand close to the steel. Where their kinsmen had fallen, others stepped across into the space. The line held. Numbers would tell, and soon, but perhaps the Germans would buy Ballista enough time.

  A low rumble came from Thorgrim the Heathobard. The rest of the warriors in the wedge facing the City Watch took it up. They held their shields over their mouths. The barritus, the war cry of the North, swelled like thunder.

  Ballista was desperate for them to set off. They had to break through the men opposite before the frumentarii were on them, hacking at their undefended backs. Yet he knew that northern warriors needed to work themselves up into blood fury. For them the volume and confidence of the barritus foretold the outcome of a battle. Ballista realised that he was roaring with the others.

  At last Thorgrim took the first step.

  ‘Shields!’ An officer of the City Watch was shouting. His voice was high, tinged with fear.

  The northerners walked slowly forward in a wedge, shields locked, like one great armoured beast.

  ‘Hold the line!’ The Roman officer sounded as if he were pleading.

  Twenty paces out, the shield wall opened a fraction, and the warriors from the North broke into a run. Boots pounding, armour and weapons jingling and rattling, the awful war cry on their lips, they swept down on the City Watch.

  Over Thorgrim’s shoulder, Ballista saw some of the firemen flinch, try and edge away from the impact. Gaps appeared in the centre of their line. But they did not run.

  Like a wave into a headland, the northerners smashed into the City Watch. There was no noise like it on earth. The thud of shield into shield, the clatter and scrape of steel on steel, gasps and grunts of effort and pain.

  The Roman front line staggered back. But the depth of their ranks slowed the momentum of the warriors. All too soon, they ground to a halt. The long swords of the northerner’s slashed down at shoulders and heads. The City Watch crouched under their shields, occasionally thrusting underarm around the side. Such blows were the easiest to parry, but they exposed the least of the attacker. These firemen did not want to die. But they were brave. They were not running.

  ‘Forward!’ Thorgrim bellowed. Putting his shoulder to his shield, the Heathobard heaved the man facing him backwards. The watchman went barrelling into the next rank. Thorgrim moved into the space where he had
stood. Knees bent, straining, the wedge of northerners shuffled after, deeper into the Roman formation.

  An eddy in the scrum, and Ballista found himself in the front. One pace between him and a watchman. The flicker of a blade thrusting at his unprotected thighs. With no shield, Ballista blocked with his sword, forcing the man’s blade wide. Recovering, Ballista aimed a backhanded chop down towards the fireman’s right arm. The shield came up. Splinters of wood flew. Next a forehand cut to the left shoulder. Still high, the shield came across. Ballista pulled the blow, dropped to one knee, and lunged. His sword slid under the wooden boards, bit deep into flesh. The man screamed, and reeled away, clutching his crotch.

  Just one rank to go. So nearly through. All Ballista could see of this final man were white eyes between the rim of his shield and the brim of his helmet. Ballista launched a series of attacks; low backhand cut, overhead slash, thrust to the face. The man was quick and agile. Every time the sword chopped into the leather and wood of the shield. Again Ballista tried the feint and underarm thrust. This time his enemy was equal to the stratagem. The man offered no offence, but there seemed no way through his dogged defence.

  A terrible sound from behind. Ballista could not take his eyes off his opponent’s blade. There was no need. It was cheering. It could only mean one thing. The frumentarii had finally broken through the rear-guard. Now they would be running towards the wedge of Germans fighting the City Watch. In a moment Ballista and those with him would be surrounded.

  It could not end like this. Ballista had to get clear, had to reach the emperor. A desperate position demanded a desperate remedy.

  He swung a mighty two handed blow down at the crown of the man’s helmet. Sure enough, the shield snapped up. Ballista dropped his sword, and leapt. He landed half on the shield, his fingers like claws hooked around its edges. Using his weight, he drove them both to the ground. He landed on top of man and shield. Still gripping the shield, he scrabbled to one knee. The man started to rise. Wrenching the shield free, Ballista hit him in the face with the rim. The man slumped back, then began to lever himself up again. Three, four times, Ballista brought the rim of the shield down with all his force. Face a bloody mess, the man moaned, but did not move.

  Some sense of danger warned Ballista. He rolled sideways, trying to haul the shield over him. Too late, and too slow. The blade was arcing down. The shield would not stop it. Ballista watched its descent, saw the bright decorations on the chest of the young officer wielding it. There was another flash of steel, even quicker.

  The officer stared uncomprehending at his elbow. The blood was pumping from the stump. It splashed hot and repellent down onto Ballista.

  ‘No good looking for arm,’ Tarchon said. ‘All gone, like you.’

  There was a sickening sound, like breaking the carcass of a chicken, as Tarchon’s blade sliced off the young man’s helmet, and removed the top of his skull.

  A man reached down. Maximus pulled Ballista to his feet.

  The three stood alone, bizarrely overlooked in the chaos.

  Behind them, the gap Ballista had forced had closed again. The northerners were ringed with steel. There were no more than a dozen on their feet. Thorgrim was one of them, but barely. He fought one handed. With the other he leant on his shield. His left leg was open, the white bone showing through the red of his lifeblood. As if he knew he was watched, the Heathobard looked at Ballista.

  ‘Time to go, Dernhelm. Get to the emperor. I will see you in the Hall of the Allfather.’

  Ballista scooped up a sword. There was nothing to say. He turned, and flanked by Maximus and Tarchon, he ran away down the street.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Colosseum

  S

  ENATOR SEMPRONIUS SAW the fear in the eyes of the gladiator. The gladiator was a myrmillo, helmet tucked under his arm, shield propped against his legs. He stood next to his opponent, a retiarius. They were on the sand in front of the imperial box, saluting the emperor. There was hatred as well as fear in the eyes of the myrmillo. Sempronius found himself quickly looking down to check the soldiers and the safety net. The rollers and the spikes on top would make it hard to climb. There would be ample time for the archers to shoot the myrmillo long before he made it over.

  ‘That myrmillo has lost his nerve,’ Cecropius said. ‘I will wager you a thousand sesterces on the net fighter.’

  Sempronius stared at Cecropius. How could the man appear so calm? These were veteran gladiators, one of the last pairs to fight. The clouds above were already marbled with the purple of sunset. No more than half an hour, and the games would be over. Half an hour, and the emperor would leave his seat. Gallienus would make his way out into the corridor. And then . . .

  Of course Cecropius was calm. In half an hour, out in the corridor, it would not be Cecropius who would have to strike the first blow. Cecropius could stand back, anonymous in the entourage, and perhaps do nothing. Cecropius could watch Sempronius risk everything for freedom.

  ‘Take the bet.’ Cecropius had leant close, was whispering in Sempronius’ ear. ‘Everything must appear normal.’

  Cecropius’s breath reeked of garlic. A tyrant like Gallienus could take a goat-boy like Cecropius and give him high command, shower him with undeserved wealth, but he would still smell of his origins, still stink of the animal pens.

  ‘A thousand on the myrmillo.’ Perhaps Sempronius had spoken too loudly. One or two heads turned in his direction. ‘Give me old-fashioned Roman sword and shield any day. Courage close to the steel, that is true virtue, not tridents and nets, feints and subterfuge.’ The peasant was looking back from his seat behind the emperor. Sempronius stopped talking.

  The musicians started to play. Thank the gods, further conversation was unnecessary.

  The gladiators made their way to the centre of the arena. The music swirled around the stands; the high piping of flutes and the blare of trumpets, underneath the deep notes of the water organ rolling like thunder.

  The gladiators were not alone. Each had their trainer standing a little behind him. Further off was a figure clad all in black, carrying a hammer. His face was obscured by a mask. Horns sprouted from his headgear. Charon the ferryman was ready to take the dead across the Styx to Hades. The hammer was to make sure they were dead.

  The music stopped. Suddenly it was very quiet, as if fifty thousand spectators were holding their breath. Far above, Sempronius heard the snap of a loose awning. From somewhere deep below the arena came the muffled roar of a lion.

  A lone trumpet blew one clear note.

  The myrmillo rushed forward. The lighter net fighter gave ground, circling away.

  Now the crowd came alive – a solid wall of sound made of tens of thousands of cheers, shouts and imprecations.

  The myrmillo gathered himself, then launched into another ungainly charge. Again, the retiarius avoided the rush with ease.

  Sempronius had done his military service as a junior officer in a legion before entering the senate. Later, as a magistrate, he had commanded another legion. Both had been on the Danube, but in both postings the frontier had been quiet; in neither had he seen action. After his time as consul, he had governed the unarmed province of Asia. Yet, although he had never fought himself, he was an habitué of the arena. He knew what was happening out on the sand. The furious attacks of the myrmillo were a sign of fear, not confidence. The gladiator just wanted to get it over with, one way or another.

  Soon enough it was as good as finished. The myrmillo made another hectic onslaught. His opponent sidestepped. As the heavier fighter blundered past, the retiarius entangled his sword arm with his weighted net. A savage jerk of the net, and the sword was yanked out of the grip of the myrmillo.

  The heavier fighter still had his shield. Its metal boss could be punched into the face of an enemy. The myrmillo did nothing of the sort. He backed away.

  The crowd began to boo and whistle.

  The retiarius had recovered his net. He advanced cautiously, brandishin
g the trident in his other hand. Obviously he suspected a trap. Was his opponent not a veteran of more than twenty fights? There was no trap. It was as Cecropius had said – twenty fights or not – the myrmillo had lost his nerve.

  A swirl of the net, a sudden wrench, and the myrmillo had lost his shield. He turned and ran.

  Here and there the myrmillo dashed around the elliptical expanse of sand. His pursuer was leaner, unburdened by an enclosing, weighty helmet. There could be only one outcome. Occasionally the myrmillo tried to dart back to where his sword lay. The retiarius headed him off, turning him like a greyhound working a hare.

  Now the crowd was stamping its feet, screaming. Coward! Kill him! Finish the coward! Cushions and coins were being hurled down at the fleeing gladiator.

  A graceful flourish, and the net encompassed the myrmillo. He went crashing to the sand. For a few futile moments, he struggled to free himself. When the retiarius loomed over him, he stopped, and tugged off his helmet. He gazed up at the imperial box, and pushed a hand through the net, first finger extended. His mouth was moving, but amid the din, no one could hear what he was shouting.

  Jugula! Jugula! The crowd was baying for blood.

  All eyes were on the imperial box. Gallienus got to his feet, a little unsteadily.

  Jugula! Jugula! The sound rose to a crescendo.

  Gallienus extended his arm, fist closed, thumb horizontal.

  Jugula! Jugula!

  The emperor made the gesture of death.

  Sempronius closed his eyes. A thousand sesterces lost. Much worse, a bad omen.