Tribune of Rome v-1

by Robert Fabbri

  The battle turned into a scrum of pushing and stabbing. A couple of the inexperienced legionaries stabbed too far and felt an icy flash of pain. They quickly withdrew their arms to find only a blood-spurting stump, and went down screaming. The men behind trampled over them knowing that to leave a gap would be fatal for them all.

  And still the line held.

  Unable to make headway the Thracians started to spill around the unguarded flanks of the two outermost centuries; legionaries began to fall, heads and limbs missing. From his vantage point Vespasian was aware of the danger.

  ‘Fourth and sixth centuries advance!’ he yelled.

  The cornu blared and the two centuries on the flanks of the second line moved forward at a jog, increasing their speed as they closed with the enemy. Their centurions ordered their charge. In the wake of a volley of pila they hit the side of the encircling Thracians, punching those still standing off their feet with their shields and then despatching them on the ground with firm thrusts of their swords.

  The Thracians started to fall back; the encircling manoeuvre having failed, they had, for the time being, lost heart. As they disengaged the severity of their casualties became apparent. More than four hundred of their dead and dying littered the bloody ground in front of the legionaries and the hillside beyond.

  A massive cheer rose from the newly blooded recruits as they watched their opponents retreat. A few of the more hot-headed made to follow them only to be bawled back into line by their centurions, who knew only too well the folly of an undisciplined pursuit.

  Corbulo arrived at Vespasian’s side.

  ‘We’ve beaten them, sir,’ Vespasian said with some pride, although fully aware that his gladius remained in pristine condition in its sheath.

  ‘You’ve beaten them off more like, but they’ll come again. Savages like these have more bravado than sense. It’s time we got out of here. Cornicen, sound “Withdraw facing enemy”.’

  Corbulo then turned to the centurion of the unused fifth century. ‘Send out a party of men to bring in our wounded and finish off those who won’t make it. We will leave none of our men behind to amuse those barbarians.’

  Steadied by the shouts of the centurions in the front rank and the optiones in the rear, the centuries began to pull back, step by step, in time to the beat measured out by low blasts from the cornicen.

  The cavalry disengaged from their private battles and galloped back to cover the infantry retreat. They saw off the sorties of small groups of impetuous Thracians who attempted to disrupt the retrieval of the Roman wounded with javelin volleys.

  Slowly the Roman line fell back the hundred paces to the river. In front of them the Thracian warriors had retrieved their discarded shields and rearmed with javelins. Again they began to work themselves up into a frenzy.

  ‘It won’t be long before they pluck up the courage to have another go,’ Corbulo said. ‘Vespasian, get the rear three centuries and the wounded on to the ropes.’

  The last of the archers was crossing as Vespasian ordered the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries on to the three remaining ropes. The men, having retrieved their packs, didn’t need to be told the urgency of the situation and leapt into the water. Behind them the three remaining centuries formed a convex wall, shielding the ropes from the enemy.

  As the last men of the rear centuries clambered into the water another great roar went up. Vespasian spun his horse round; six hundred paces away up the hill the Thracians started to move forward slowly.

  Magnus appeared at his side. ‘Now we’re for it.’

  ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the baggagecarts?’

  ‘Since when was I baggage?’

  ‘Since Corbulo put you in charge of it.’

  ‘As you said, I’m not under military discipline and I ain’t going across until you do.’

  Corbulo came striding up to them. ‘We won’t have time to get all the men over before they’re on us. Tribune, get the third century across on all three ropes. I’ve sent the cavalry to try and delay the attack. And you,’ he said, looking at Magnus, ‘tell the baggage to get out of the river, then find yourself a shield and helmet. I imagine you’ll disobey me if I tell you to cross with it.’

  ‘Sir!’ Magnus hastened off as Vespasian dismounted.

  The first and second centuries stood grimly watching their cavalry’s efforts to slow the advancing Thracians. Beaten off by volleys of javelins from the tightly packed horde, they turned and fled, back to the river.

  ‘Caepio, get your men across,’ Corbulo screamed. ‘There’s nothing more that you can do here.’

  The thankful Gauls and Thessalians plunged their already tired horses into the river and began to wade to the far bank; a harder task now that the temporary barricade of wagons was no longer stemming the flow. The men of the third century were also struggling and the crossing had slowed to a snail’s pace. Their comrades, formed up on the far bank, called out encouragement but the quicker pace of the river took its toll. As Vespasian turned to join Corbulo with the remaining men he saw two legionaries being swept away, their heavy armour dragging them under. He knew it would take a miracle for them all to cross now.

  The Thracians were less than three hundred paces off and had broken into a jog, gathering momentum for the final charge.

  ‘Well, tribune, let’s make sure that not all these men’s first action is their last,’ Corbulo said, turning to Vespasian. ‘We’ll take the impact of the charge and hold them; once we’re steady the rear rank can peel off to the ropes.’

  ‘What about the rest, sir?’

  ‘They’ll need to fight like lions. We have to make the enemy disengage, and then we run for the ropes. When the last men are on we cut the ropes and pray that we can hold on as the river swings us across.’

  Magnus came puffing up the bank towards the two officers with a shield and helmet. He had a mule cart in tow.

  ‘Looks like we need to beat them pretty decisively to stand any chance here, hopefully these will help.’

  ‘What have you got there? I told you to get all the baggage across,’ Corbulo shouted, furious that his orders had not been obeyed to the full.

  ‘Pila, sir.’ Magnus pulled the leather cover off the cart.

  A spark of hope kindled in Corbulo’s eyes. ‘What are you waiting for, man? Get them distributed.’

  Quickly they ordered the men of the rear rank to grab four pila each and pass them up the files. The men’s morale was lifted by the weight of a pilum in their hands, and they started to beat them against their shields. From behind them their comrades on the far bank did the same. The noise made the Thracians pause. They had reached the long heap of mangled bodies that denoted the line of the last engagement, and were close enough now to see the new pila in their foes’ hands. They had already experienced at first hand that day the destructive power of the weapon, and even at odds of nearly ten to one they needed to boost their confidence. They started another round of jeering and cheering, working themselves up into battle fever.

  ‘We should go now, sir, whilst they’ve stopped. We could make it, surely?’

  ‘No, they’ll pick us off in the river with javelins; we need them to fire that volley at us whilst we’re shielded. Come, tribune, it’s the front rank for us. No doubt your insubordinate freedman will wish to join us?’

  ‘That is a very kind invitation, sir,’ Magnus said politely. ‘I’ll be a lot more use there than skulking around in the rear.’

  Corbulo grunted and pushed his way between two files to the front.

  Vespasian stood between Magnus and Corbulo at the centre of the Roman line, watching the Thracians getting their bloodlust up. They had found a wounded Thessalian who had been too far away for the retrieval parties to bring in. The hapless prisoner had a ropes tied around his wrists and was being stretched upright in the crucifix position by two men pulling on each arm. Around him danced a swarm of howling warriors brandishing their rhomphaiai.

  ‘Do no
t look away, lads,’ Corbulo bellowed. ‘Watch this and remember what they do to prisoners.’

  The dancing stopped and the Thracians broke into a low chant that began to rise in volume until it drowned the screamed pleas of the prisoner. Two men took up positions behind him. The chant reached a crescendo and then suddenly stopped. Two rhomphaiai scythed through the air. The Thessalian’s legs dropped to the ground, but the man remained upright, screaming, stretched by the ropes, like ghastly washing on a line. Blood poured from his wounds in a pathetic imitation of the limbs he had just lost. With another sweep of flashing iron his arms were severed; they flew through the air on the end of the ropes spraying blood in macabre arcs. His limbless trunk crashed to the floor onto his severed legs. Two more warriors approached the tormented man and lifted the blood-spurting hulk in the air. Still alive but limbless, the Thessalian stared in catatonic shock at his erstwhile comrades, just a hundred paces away. Another flash and his head fell to the floor.

  The Thracians charged.

  ‘Shields up!’ bellowed Corbulo.

  Vespasian felt the shield of the man behind him push over his head and connect at a right angle with the top of his own, leaving a small curved viewing slit. Inside the wooden box men’s breath became laboured as they fought back the rising panic induced by close confinement in stressful circumstances. The smell of sweat, fear and urine filled Vespasian’s nostrils as they flared, sucking in lungful after lungful of hot air. Time seemed to slow as, in his mind, he recounted the training moves that Sabinus had put him through against the practice post at home, so far away. Calm washed through him. He was ready to fight. He was not going to die. Whatever fate awaited him it was not a death at the hands of a pack of savages. He gripped hard on his pilum. The first javelin punched into his shield. The muscles in his left forearm bulged with the strain of holding the shield firm. All around him sharp cracks filled the air as javelin after javelin thumped down on the Roman line. Men grunted through gritted teeth with the strain of supporting their shields against the barrage. Here and there a scream. Then it was over.

  ‘Shields down!’

  Vespasian quickly leant forward and broke off the four-foot-long projectile still embedded in his shield. He became aware of hissing shafts passing overhead; their archers had opened fire from the other bank.

  ‘Pila ready!’

  He gripped his pilum at the top of the shaft just behind the lead ball, and extended his arm back, putting his weight on his right foot.

  ‘Release pila!’

  Vespasian threw his right arm forward with all his strength, hurling the heavy weapon at the mass of bodies charging towards him. He had no time to look at his handiwork. He reached immediately for his gladius and swept it from its sheath. He felt the shield behind him press into his back. He braced for impact. The screams of the Thracian wounded filled the air. Men went down, tripping others behind them, who were in turn trampled in the stampede to reach the Roman line.

  Crouching behind the shield wall he was aware of a blur of metal bearing down on him. He pushed his shield up and forward. The blade of a rhomphaia ricocheted off the rim and an instant later its wielder smashed into the boss, cracking ribs and punching the air from his lungs. Vespasian’s left arm jarred with the impact, but held. With most of his weight on his left leg he thrust his blade through the gap between his and Magnus’ shields. He felt it penetrate soft flesh. He rolled his wrist sharply right then left, shredding the bowels of his screaming opponent, then he withdrew the blade and stabbed again as another took his place.

  Next to him Magnus was punching his sword back and forth, ducking under murderous swipes of hissing iron, yelling his defiance with every swear word at his command as the bodies piled up in front of him.

  To the right and left the Thracians tried to get round the flanks of the centuries but were brought down in droves by the fifty archers on the north bank.

  The line was holding.

  ‘Rear rank to the ropes!’ yelled Corbulo as he felt the pressure ease on the shield wall.

  Vespasian felt the weight pushing against his back lessen as the rear man of his file made his bid for safety.

  ‘Now push, you sons of whores,’ Corbulo roared. ‘Push those bastards back to hell.’

  With a monumental effort the legionaries shoved their shields forward and heaved the enemy back. They stepped over the first of the bodies in front of them, the second-rank men stabbing the fallen again. Many a soldier had lost his life to a wounded opponent plunging a knife up into his groin as he straddled him. As the Roman line moved forward the Thracians compacted, their rear ranks still pushing forward whilst their front ranks were pushed back. The result was chaos as the Roman blades stabbed into the tightly compressed unarmoured flesh. Some of the dead remained upright, their heads lolling bizarrely as they were pinioned between shield bosses and their comrades behind; others slipped to the ground exposing new targets for blood-covered legionary swords.

  Afterwards Vespasian would remember little of the following short period of time; his mind had switched off and his instincts and body took control. He heard no distinct sounds, just a constant roaring that his brain soon blocked out as one more distraction. All he would recall was the exhilaration he felt at the mechanical thrusting, grinding and retrieving of his sword as the Roman line, which he was an intrinsic part of, pushed forward, destroying all before it. He killed again and again with ease; he killed so that he and his comrades could remain alive.

  Suddenly a shock wave swept through the Thracian line from right to left. Another threat had slammed into it from the east.

  ‘Mauricius!’ Corbulo shouted. ‘The gods be praised.’

  With the unlooked-for arrival of their Gallic auxiliaries the legionaries’ hearts soared. These young men who had woken up in the morning as unblooded rookies now had the confidence of a unit of hardened killers. They set about their work with renewed vigour, blades flashing, shields punching, slaying everything in their path, pushing their opponents slowly back up the hill, whilst their Gallic allies rolled up the left flank, slashing down on their enemies with their long cavalry swords.

  From behind them a massive cheer erupted from the second cohort. They pointed to the sky. Above, the ominous flock of rooks that had so disconcerted them that morning was heading back east, pursued by the two eagles. For a moment everyone paused and looked up as the chasing birds swooped down on their prey, plucking two out of the air with their claws. They rose back up, shrieking as they went, and released their victims in a flurry of feathers on to the melee below.

  The Thracians turned and fled. The cavalry started to pursue them.

  ‘Hold!’ Corbulo cried. ‘Let them run. Mauricius, cover our withdrawal. And don’t ever turn up late again!’ Corbulo smiled with relief at the cavalry prefect, who grinned in return and then started to marshal his eighty or so remaining troopers; they too had had a hard day of it.

  Vespasian sucked in a deep breath and then bellowed a victory cheer with his comrades.

  ‘That was more of a fight than we used to get in the Urban Cohort,’ Magnus puffed at his side.

  ‘That was the sort of fight that I could get to enjoy,’ Vespasian replied. His round face was flushed with excitement and blood. ‘If that is how a newly trained cohort fights then we may well have the gods on our side.’

  ‘The gods be buggered, it was-’

  Corbulo’s shouting cut Magnus off.

  ‘Second century’s to cross next. First century’s to form up to their front.’

  The light was starting to fade as the men of the second century waded out into the river with Corbulo and their centurion and optio all bellowing at them to get a move on.

  A grim-faced Faustus reported to Vespasian, who stood with Magnus looking up the hill. Beyond the heaps of bodies in the pale light the Thracians were still there and had again started their pre-charge ritual.

  ‘That’s all the wounded taken care of, sir, twelve in total plus seven dead outright.’<
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  ‘Thank you, centurion. Have the men collect their packs.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘First century to the ropes; Vespasian, Faustus, take a rope each,’ Corbulo ordered as the last of the second century struck out into the river. ‘And, Mauricius, start crossing upstream of us, it will help ease the current.’

  As the cavalry splashed in past the legionaries, a roar went up from the Thracians. For the third time in the day they started to tear back down the hill.

  Panic spread through the legionaries; to have achieved so much in the past few hours only to be caught so close to safety seemed to be against the will of the gods. They started to push and shove to try to get on to a rope.

  ‘Easy lads, easy!’ Faustus roared at the downstream station, cuffing a few round the ears. ‘Don’t lose your discipline now.’

  Vespasian looked behind; the Thracians were halfway to them, and there were still at least fifteen men to get on each rope.

  ‘When I give the order, cut the ropes,’ Corbulo shouted.

  The men pulled themselves out into the river; arrows flew over their heads from the archer support on the north bank. With the Thracians fifty paces away it was apparent that they would not all make it.

  ‘Cut the ropes!’

  Vespasian realised that Corbulo was right; it was more important to deny the Thracians the means of crossing than to save the last ten or so men, including himself. So much for fate; it was to be a death at the hands of these savages after all. He knew his duty was to the greater good and not to himself. He slashed down with his sword on the hemp rope; it parted, swinging its passengers out into the current. He then turned to face the enemy. They had stopped ten paces from them.

  ‘To me, to me,’ Corbulo shouted from the middle station, where he stood next to two terrified-looking young legionaries. Vespasian ran to his side with Magnus and the two men that had been left at his station. Faustus and three others joined them.

  ‘Right, lads,’ Corbulo said grimly, ‘we’ll sell our lives dearly.’ He charged. The others followed. They swept into the Thracians slashing and stabbing, but received no counter-strikes, just blows from the wooden handles of rhomphaiai. As he went down and blackness enveloped him Vespasian realised that this time the Thracians had not come to kill. That would come later.