Vespasian felt the cold air scrape down his throat as he pushed himself forward the last few paces. His shield was raised so that he could just see over the rim. Next to him, on his left, Pomponius was wheezing with the exertion of the charge, and, for a brief moment, he wondered how a man of Pomponius’ bulk could still find it within himself to fight in the front rank. That thought was pounded out of his mind by the shock of impact that shuddered through his body as the two sides collided. Though less numerous, the heavier and more densely packed Roman line punched the Thracians back, knocking their leading warriors off their feet, pushing on a couple of paces before coming to a grinding halt, their rigid wall of shields still intact.
Then the close-quarters killing began. The lethal stabbing blades of the Roman war machine began their mechanical work, flashing out from between the rectangular shields, blazoned with the crossed lightning bolts and goat’s head insignia of the IIII Scythica. Vespasian’s first sword thrust was a firm jab to the throat of a stunned Thracian at his feet, opening it in with a surge of blood that sprayed up his legs. He quickly turned his attention to the screaming horde in the darkness in front of him. Rhomphaia blades hissed through the night air, spear points thrust out of the gloom; it was almost impossible to know whom you were fighting. He held his shield firmly in line with those on either side and stabbed again and again, sometimes feeling the jolting rigidity of a wooden shield, sometimes the soft give of pierced flesh and sometimes no contact at all. A close-by scream to his right suddenly distracted him: the legionary next in line collapsed, almost knocking Vespasian off balance; blood from a deep rhomphaia wound to the man’s neck sprayed over his sword arm and the side of his face. Vespasian just had the presence of mind to crouch low behind his shield and aim a wild stab into the belly of a Thracian pushing into the resulting gap. The man doubled up; his head was immediately punched back by the shield boss of a second-rank legionary, stepping over his fallen comrade to plug the breach in the line. Vespasian felt the replacement’s shoulder close to his and continued stabbing forward.
He kept at it as the Roman line inched forward, aware of nothing more than the need to survive. He parried blows coming out of the darkness with his shield, thrusting and grinding his sword, his whole being given over to the exhilarating terror of hand-to-hand conflict. Rain poured down, mixing with the blood on his face, clouding his eyes; he blinked incessantly as he worked his blade. Gradually he began to make fewer and fewer contacts; the Thracians were pulling back.
Pomponius took the opportunity to order ‘Relieve the line’. Every other file stepped to the right, integrating with the file next to it, creating gaps through which charged the relieving second-rank centuries of each cohort. Once they were clear of their tired comrades the fresh centuries formed up into another solid line of shields. The cornu boomed a new attack. They surged forward towards the retreating enemy, releasing their pila at the charge, ten paces from the disordered mob. Another hail of seven hundred and more lead-weighted iron spikes pummelled down on to the Thracians. It was too much for them. Those that could turned to flee; the rest lay sprawled on the gore-soaked mud of the field, pierced and bleeding. Those with any life still left within them moaned pitifully as it ebbed away into the earth of their homeland, whose freedom, like their lives, was now lost for ever.
Vespasian wiped the blood from his face and sucked in the cold wet air, steadying himself after the elation and fear of battle. Pomponius had ordered the halt of the second charge and had recalled Paetus’ cavalry before it became isolated. He had also brought the tenth cohort, whose length of wall had been cleared of enemy, around, through the gap in the wall, to join them. He was now issuing orders to his centurions and Paetus for the final decisive blow.
‘Primus Pilus Faustus, take the first, second and tenth cohorts and advance steadily. Push the enemy back towards Poppaeus’ men at the gates. Kill all their wounded as you go. As each section of wall is cleared order the defending cohort to double round to join you. I shall take Paetus’ cavalry and cut off any retreat back up to the fortress. Any questions, centurion?’
‘No, sir.’ Faustus saluted and disappeared off into the wet night, issuing a string of orders to his subordinate centurions.
‘Paetus, get a couple of spare mounts for the tribune and me; let’s get at them again before they regroup.’
‘My pleasure, sir.’ The cavalry prefect grinned, flashing his white teeth in the gloom.
By the time they were mounted and had swapped their infantry shields for oval cavalry ones, Faustus’ three cohorts, rearmed with pila brought up from the camp in mule carts by teams of slaves, had begun to press forward. They sang the victory anthem of the IIII Scythica and beat their newly acquired weapons on their shields in time to the pace of their advance. Audible over the driving rain, and occasionally visible in the bursts of sheet lightning, they drove the Thracians back until they were pressed up against their comrades, who were being pushed from the other direction by Poppaeus’ men.
Vespasian stuck close to Pomponius and Paetus as the auxiliary cavalry shadowed the infantry’s advance, blocking any endeavour to outflank them, and ready to take any attempted retreat in the flank.
‘They know that there’ll be no mercy if they surrender,’ Vespasian said, ‘so why don’t they just get it over with and attack?’
‘They will,’ Pomponius assured him. ‘Now that they’re grouped together they’ll use a small force to try to hold Poppaeus’ cohorts, whilst they throw as many men as possible at our lads in an effort to break through.’
The mêlée had now reached the burning sections of the wall, which still raged with enough intensity to evaporate the heavy rain into clouds of steam. The light of the fires lit up the still substantial Thracian horde as they formed up for their final, desperate charge. Vespasian guessed that there must still be at least three thousand of them left on this side of the gates; he couldn’t see how the V Macedonica was faring on the other side.
With a huge roar that drowned out the singing and beating of the IIII Scythica, they charged. As Pomponius had predicted, a small portion went at the cohorts coming from the gates, the rest, more than two thousand of them, flung themselves on to the IIII Scythica.
Vespasian watched as the Thracian mass launched an enormous volley of javelins and arrows. They disappeared as they rose above the light of the flames, only to reappear again as they descended on to the Roman line. This time, however, the Romans took the charge standing and were able to raise shields, taking the sting out of the volley. But many gaps still materialised along the ranks as more than a few of the lethal missiles found their mark. The Roman shields came crashing down and, an instant later, a return volley of pila ripped through the air, illuminated all the way to their target owing to their lower trajectory. The volley lashed through the oncoming Thracians, felling many, but deterring none. They fell on the Roman line howling like furies, slashing, stabbing, gouging and hacking, giving and expecting no quarter, in a fight so violent and bestial that, even from a distance of a couple of hundred paces, Vespasian could almost feel every blow.
‘Now we take them in the flank,’ Pomponius shouted. ‘Paetus, order the attack.’
Paetus nodded at the liticen, who raised his five-foot-long bronze lituus with an upturned bell-like end, the cavalry equivalent to the cornu, and put his lips to the ox-horn mouthpiece. The horn sounded a shrill, high-pitched call and the 480 men of the auxiliary ala, in a line four deep, broke into a walk. Another blast after twenty paces and they were at a trot. With fifty paces to the nearest enemy a final blast of the lituus took them to a canter. With a volley of javelins they smashed into the unprotected flank of the Thracian line. Vespasian drove his horse forward through the mass of bodies, riding down everyone in his path, slashing and cutting at those who remained upright, feeling again the exhilaration – bordering on joy – of conflict, until a prolonged, shrill howl came from behind. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see a new force crash into the caval
ry’s rear.
The Thracian women had charged.
Dismissed as bystanders and forgotten since their first appearance on the field, they had left their children in the care of the elderly and advanced unnoticed, down from their position up the hill, through the darkness as the auxiliary ala charged. Armed only with knives, pointed fire-hardened sticks and their bare hands, the women, hundreds of them, fell upon the unsuspecting cavalry. They swept between the files of troopers like ghostly harpies, uncaring of their own safety, intent only on causing as much havoc as possible, hamstringing horses, jabbing at their rumps or bellies to make them rear up and dislodge their riders, and pulling others from their saddles. The grounded men disappeared beneath a wave of teeth, nails and improvised weapons, shrieking in agony from innumerable wounds as they were gouged, clawed, bitten and ripped to death.
Vespasian turned his horse, just in time, as the first of the women reached the front rank. With a swift downward cut he severed a knife-wielding arm aimed at his thigh, then brought his sword quickly forward to pierce the eye of its erstwhile owner. All around him troopers disengaged from the Thracian warriors to their front and spun their mounts around to face the unforeseen danger in their midst, hacking and stabbing at the strange, wild, long-haired foe. But it was too late. The unit had been almost completely infiltrated; outnumbered two or three to one and their cohesion gone, most of the men were fighting off attacks from all directions.
A few paces away to his right, a knot of fifty or so troopers under Paetus’ command still held firm. Vespasian glimpsed Pomponius tumble from his shying horse as he attempted to force his way to the relative safety of the steady unit through a sea of blood-drenched women. Vespasian called to the troopers closest to follow him, and struck out towards his fallen commander. He forced his horse to rear up so that its flailing front hooves cracked the skulls and collar-bones of those in his path, then he urged it forward to trample its victims. Supported by half a dozen men, he hacked a path to where Pomponius now knelt, surrounded by baying women. As Vespasian approached they pounced upon the legate, throwing him to the ground under a hail of thrashing arms and clawing nails. Vespasian leapt from his horse on to the writhing pile of bodies and stabbed indiscriminately and repeatedly into the unprotected backs of his commander’s assailants, puncturing lungs, piercing kidneys and ripping open arteries in a rapid, murderous assault. His men formed a protective cordon around him as he pulled at the pile of limp corpses to reveal Pomponius, shocked but alive.
‘Can you stand, sir?’ Vespasian asked urgently.
‘Yes, I’m fine, tribune,’ Pomponius replied, hauling himself up, gasping for breath. ‘I owe you more than my life, I owe you my honour; to have been killed by women in these circumstances – what shame.’
At that moment Paetus’ men began a concerted drive forward. In close order, knee to knee, they advanced, riding down any women who stood against them. The other small pockets of surviving troopers took heart and fought with a ferocity that outmatched their desperate opponents. Gradually the small groups linked together, forcing the women back, killing as many as possible, until all the survivors of the auxiliary ala had regrouped. Of the original 480 men there remained only 160 still mounted, and a further 90, including Vespasian and Pomponius, on foot. Nearly half their number lay butchered on the rain-sodden ground. They were now to be avenged.
With the main battle still raging behind them, and the flank of the IIII Scythica now secured by the recent arrival of two more cohorts freed up from the wall, the auxiliaries began to corral the women into a tightly packed herd. A few score managed to escape the net and raced back up to their children, but eventually the main body was surrounded. They stood, now silent, as they awaited their fate. Not one fell to her knees to beg for mercy; they knew to expect none after what they had done. They would die as their men were dying, in full view of their children, defiant to the last.
The troopers dismounted and, with sharp grating of metal against metal, drew their weapons. The order came to advance. Vespasian gripped his sword hilt, raised his oval cavalry shield and moved towards the motionless women. Not even as his sword thrust into the throat of the young girl before him did any of the women move or make a sound. They just stood, defenceless, and defied the Romans to kill them in cold blood. And kill them they did, systematically, vengefully, thinking of their fallen mess-mates.
Vespasian butchered his way forward, without pity, killing young, old, beautiful and haggard; it made no difference to him. He was full of hatred and cold fury. This was not the frenzied elation of battle. This was the awakening of the deep desire that men keep within themselves to see people not of their tribe or creed die, knowing that only through their deaths would they, the killers, feel cleansed and secure.
As the last of the women fell beneath the blows of gore-dripping swords the auxiliaries turned away, their thirst for vengeance sated. There was no victory cheer, no embracing of comrades in relief and joy at remaining alive. They just remounted their horses and waited in silence for orders, scarcely able to look each other in the eye. The wound to their pride ran deep.
CHAPTER XXVII
VESPASIAN HAD RETRIEVED his horse and sat next to Pomponius, watching the last stage of the battle below them in the predawn gloom. The main body of the IIII Scythica had fought its way almost to the gates, which were now securely held by the cohorts of Poppaeus’ sortie. The remaining Thracians were being crushed between the two bodies of Roman heavy infantry, their resistance dwindling as more and more fell to the relentless, disciplined swordwork of the legionaries. On the far side of the gates the V Macedonica was playing out the mirror image of the struggle. There was nothing left for the cavalry to do; the Thracian rebellion was finally crushed by the generalship of the man who had been, in part, responsible for its instigation.
‘We should report to Poppaeus,’ Pomponius said quietly, ‘and congratulate him on his victory.’ He raised his arm and ordered the cavalry forward at a trot towards the gates.
‘It should have been your victory, sir,’ Vespasian replied.
‘What do you mean?’ Pomponius asked, kicking his horse forward.
Knowing that Asinius would need a formidable ally in the coming confrontation with Poppaeus, Vespasian told Pomponius of the general’s refusal to obey the Emperor’s and Senate’s order and return to Rome. He told him of his and Sejanus’ treachery and Rhoteces’ and Hasdro’s involvement in it. As they crossed the corpse-strewn field, which now resounded to the clamour and cheers of the victorious legionaries, Pomponius’ anger grew; it was not aimed so much at Poppaeus’ duplicity, but more at the damage done to his personal dignitas. The troops now cheering their victorious general should instead be hailing him. He had been robbed of the glory that was by rights his, and in its place he had had the humiliation of almost being torn to death by a pack of female savages. By the time they reached the gates Pomponius was fuming with indignation. The sight of Poppaeus riding through the throngs of cheering soldiers, helmet raised in the air, accepting their acclaim, was almost too much for him.
‘The treacherous little shit,’ he fumed. ‘Look at him basking in the praise of the men. They wouldn’t be cheering so loud if they knew that he helped to fund this revolt, and that their mates have died solely to further his ambition.’
At the gates a rostrum had been hurriedly set up in front of the smouldering remains of the battering ram. Poppaeus pushed his horse towards it, through the crush of jubilant legionaries. His progress was slow as each man wanted to touch him, or make eye contact, or receive a word of praise from his general. Eventually he reached the rostrum and managed to jump on to it directly from his horse. He raised his arms in the air and, in a dramatic gesture, thrust them forward and apart, to include every man present in his victory. The men of the IIII Scythica and V Macedonica roared their acknowledgement. The noise was deafening. It started as a huge unending wall of sound and then, gradually, it developed into a chant. At first the words were indiscernib
le, coming only from a small section of the crowd, but they quickly grew in volume as more and more of the delirious legionaries took up the chant. Before long it was clear.
‘Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!’
Thousands of men now chanted in unison, punching their swords in the air in time to the beat. Poppaeus stood alone on his raised dais amidst a sea of faces lit by the first rays of the sun. With his head tilted back and his arms open wide he slowly revolved, taking in the praise that was coming at him from all angles.
Pomponius turned to Vespasian and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a brave general,’ he shouted above the din, ‘who allows an army to hail him as “Imperator” in this day and age.’
‘It would be a shame for him if the Emperor found out,’ Vespasian shouted back.
‘A great shame,’ Pomponius mused, noticing a disturbance close to the platform. Four of Asinius’ lictors had pushed their way from the gates, through the mob, to the rostrum and were now helping him on to the platform. Dressed in the purple-bordered toga of a proconsul, he approached Poppaeus and embraced him. From where Vespasian sat he could see that Poppaeus’ face had set into a fixed smile as he was forced to return the embrace of his enemy. Asinius released himself from the embrace and lifted Poppaeus’ right hand. The chanting broke into a mighty cheer. He then stepped forward, his palms facing the crowd in a gesture that demanded silence. The noise died down. He drew himself up to speak.
‘Soldiers of Rome.’ His voice rang out through the cool dawn air. ‘Some of you know me, but for those who don’t, I am Marcus Asinius Agrippa.’ A few ragged cheers greeted him. ‘I come here with a message from your Emperor and Senate for you and your glorious general. A message so important that it was deemed that only a man of consular rank should bear it.’
Vespasian: Tribune of Rome Page 34