Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Thank the Gods you’re here, sir,’ said the tribune. ‘I thought we were done for.’

  Cato glanced round the other survivors, seven Praetorians, including Centurion Pulcher. Some were badly shaken, but some regarded him with gritty determination as they waited for orders; veterans from the legions then, Cato decided. He turned back to Cristus.

  ‘I wouldn’t count any chickens yet, Tribune.’

  ‘We can’t stay here.’ Cristus jerked his head down as a slingshot splintered the side of the wagon above him, showering him with fragments of wood.

  ‘I’d already worked that out for myself, thank you,’ Cato replied drily and some of the men around them managed a quick grin. ‘At least some of the carts managed to get out. We’ll have saved some of our supplies at least.’

  ‘Supplies?’ Cristus looked astonished. ‘What in Hades does that matter?’

  Cato gestured towards the smashed jars lying around the carts, wine and water puddled around them. Bags of barley lay in the square too, mostly burst, their contents spilled onto the beaten ground. ‘That’s what keeps the men going, Tribune. We’ll save what we can, if we get the chance. Right now, we’re corked up here. If we try and move they’ll hit us with all they’ve got. If we stay put they’ll eventually run out of ammunition and have to take us on hand to hand.’

  ‘Let ’em,’ Metellus growled, patting his scabbard. ‘Then they’ll see what Praetorians are made of.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Cato responded. Then he steeled himself and raised his head just enough to take a quick glimpse round the square. There had to be at least a hundred of the rebels out there. More than enough to overwhelm the small party of Praetorians caught between the carts. Regardless of what Praetorians were actually made of, Cato thought wryly. A dark shape came sailing through the gloomy dusk and he ducked back down just in time to avoid the rock that swept overhead and crashed into an amphora inside the cart behind him.

  ‘Fuck me . . . That was close.’ He laughed, trying to cover up his nerves. ‘What did we ever do to piss this lot off? Whatever it was, it’ll be nothing compared to what they get for ruining my meal.’

  It was bravado, but it was what the men needed to hear, if they were going to have any confidence in their prefect leading them out of the deadly ambush they had walked into.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Macro yelled as the last of his men fell in and hefted their shields and spears, ready for orders. He looked round the area where the cohort had been settling down for the night just moments before. The six centuries had formed up in a rectangle and the enclosed space was littered with those personal effects they had brought with them and the rations they had been about to consume. Most of the campfires had been extinguished, but two still burned and Macro resolved to see to them as soon as there was an opportunity to put them out. The flames provided a lurid glow immediately around them as the last sliver of sunlight burnished the horizon and was gone. Half a mile away the men of the forage party were running for their lives. Behind them dark figures were bursting out from between the trees and racing after the Praetorians, desperate to run them down and butcher them before they could reach the safety of the cohort.

  Macro gauged the distance between himself, the foragers and the enemy and was satisfied that his comrades had sufficient lead to save themselves. He spared a look towards the village where Cato and his men had dismounted and were just about to enter the gateway. Whatever trouble Cristus and his party had encountered in the village Cato was on hand to sort it out, Macro decided. And once the foragers had reached the rest of the cohort he would give the order for the formation to join the prefect in the village and shelter there for the night. Morning would bring a clear view of the plain, and the scale of the enemy force that had surprised them. Of course the men would have had little sleep and would be hungry, but such were the travails of army life.

  A new sound reached his ears, above the war cries of the rebels chasing the foragers: the rumble of hoofs. Macro turned back to the trees just as a large party of mounted men cantered round the edge of the wood and spurred their horses into a charge. With a sick feeling of certainty Macro realised that the forage party would be cut down before they could make it back to the cohort.

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ he growled as he tightened his grip on his shield handle and ran out in front of his men. ‘First five sections, column of fours! Follow me. Optio Drusus!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Extend the rest of the men to cover the line.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the forty men took their position behind Macro, the centurion drew his sword. ‘Keep it closed up, until I give the order to form a wedge. Do it smartly, lads. Our lives depend on it. Let’s go!’

  Macro broke into a trot and his boots pounded the dry soil and the stalks of grass rustled against his calves as he led his men directly towards the foragers and the horsemen beyond. Now the sun had set, the ruddy glow of the landscape and the long shadows had gone and the plain was bathed in the gloom of dusk. They had run over two hundred paces before the first group of foragers reached them. Without breaking his stride, Macro bellowed at them to keep going, and make for the cohort. Fifty paces further on were the rest of the forage party, running as hard as they could, with some flagging and falling behind. Well to the rear was the last of them, limping, as if he had sprained an ankle.

  The Praetorian heard the drumming of hoofs directly behind him and turned at the last moment. A bare-chested rebel thrust his hunting spear home, catching the Roman squarely in his stomach. The impact made him fling his arms out as he folded over the broad blade of the spear tip, an instant before it burst out of the back of his tunic. The Praetorian fell out of sight into the grass as the rider reined in sharply and wrenched his spear back, stabbing down again to finish his victim off. Then he raised the bloodied tip of his spear and spurred his mount on to find fresh prey.

  Tempted as he was to increase his pace, Macro knew the value of keeping in formation and not reaching his enemy too blown to fight well. Besides, he could see that they would win the desperate race to reach the foragers first. As the gap closed he called out to them.

  ‘Form up to the rear! To the rear!’

  The first men rushed past, either side of Macro’s small force, and then he filled his lungs to give the order. ‘Halt!’

  The forty men at his back stopped, and stood breathing heavily.

  ‘Form wedge!’

  The men fanned out on either side behind Macro, angling their shields towards the enemy and lowering the heads of their spears towards the oncoming rebels. What he had in mind was going to be difficult to pull off, and was unorthodox, but at that moment it was all he could think of to save himself and his men. The last of the forage party stumbled by, some twenty paces ahead of the first of the horsemen, who bent low to the side of his horse’s neck as he readied to make an underhand thrust with his spear. Macro felt a flash of professional disdain at the sight. Only amateurs used that grip. He raised his shield so that the rounded rim covered his throat and chin and drew his sword arm back ready to strike.

  The transverse crest on Macro’s helmet marked him out clearly, as did his position at the very point of the small Roman formation, and the rider pulled his reins and swerved his mount towards the centurion. Macro drew his right foot back and braced himself to absorb the impact. There was a flash of metal and the point of the spear struck high up on the shield, forcing the trim back against the brow guard of Macro’s helmet with a sharp clatter. The blow was too weak to splinter the shield and deflected harmlessly to Macro’s left, leaving plenty of space for him to step inside the man’s spear arm. The sweaty tang of horseflesh filled his nostrils, and the flank of the horse pressed into his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. But Macro’s fighting poise was second to none and he adjusted his stance easily, throwing
his weight behind his sword arm as the blade angled up into the side of the rebel looming above him. He felt the jarring impact, then the give of muscle and bone as the point of his blade ripped into the rebel’s vitals. Macro twisted his wrist, both ways, and tore the blade back. His enemy gave a pained grunt as he pulled hard on his reins to break free of his Roman opponent. The horse whinnied and shook its head in protest before succumbing to the pressure of the bit and swerving aside. The rider swayed in the saddle, caught himself and cantered away, his spear hanging limply at his side.

  Macro recovered into the ready position and glanced to either side. More of the rebel horsemen were approaching the formation, drawn by the desire to close with the enemy, but the bristling lines of spears caused their nerve to fail for the most part. Some did try to charge the formation, flailing at the shafts of the spears, trying to parry them aside and press home their charge, but that only exposed them to the spear thrusts of the Praetorians on either side. One of the horsemen managed to force his protesting horse into the line, and the beast snorted with agony as a spear pierced its neck. It reared up and threw its rider who landed heavily on his back right at the feet of a Praetorian, who kicked him in the head before opening his throat with a savage jab.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed that the foragers were safely within the formation and that the rear of the wedge was closed up.

  ‘Stay in formation, lads! And on my order . . . Withdraw!’

  The Praetorians edged back towards the rest of the cohort, keeping their shields and spears facing the enemy. The horsemen were all around them now, darting forward and thrusting their spears at the Romans, with little effect. Macro was confident that the closed ranks of his soldiers would fend off mounted men easily enough. The real threat was from the rebels on foot who were rapidly closing on the formation. They would be able to engage far more directly, while slowing the pace of the withdrawal.

  The wedge was perhaps a hundred paces from the cohort when the first figures weaved through the horsemen and hurled themselves at the Roman shields. They were wild-looking men with long hair tied back. Many sported beards which added to their savage appearance as they snarled and roared with anger. They rushed forward, wielding spears and axes and some had crooked swords weighted towards the end of the blade that delivered terrible wounds if they connected with force.

  A young man in a patterned tunic, not old enough to be a legionary recruit, burst out between two of the horses and came at Macro with a boar spear clenched in both hands. The leaf-shaped spearhead struck the rim of Macro’s shield and glanced aside. He made to move inside the weapon and strike his attacker down, just like the horseman before him. But with a quick flick of his wrists, the youth lodged the short crosspiece behind the trim of the centurion’s shield and wrenched the shaft of his spear, pulling the shield round and throwing Macro off balance so that he instinctively twisted to stay on his feet. At the same time he fought back with his left arm, wrestling to keep the shield from being ripped from his fingers. For a moment the two of them strained against each other, and then Macro summoned his greater strength and with a roar violently ripped his shield back, pulling the youth round in front of him, before punching the guard of his sword into the side of his opponent’s head.

  The blow would have knocked a normal man out, but the skull of the rebel was thicker than most and he staggered back with a dazed expression, shook his head and came at Macro again, thrusting the spear with his full weight behind it. This time Macro parried the spear down, using the crosspiece to give him purchase, and then slammed his shield into the youth’s chest, knocking him back. He stumbled a few paces away and for an instant Macro’s instinct was to charge home and finish off his enemy. But then he recalled he was in formation, and he was the officer in charge who set the example, and he backed into position as the wedge continued to retreat in the fading light.

  The Praetorians were fighting every step of the way now, weapons hammering on their shields as the Romans traded blows with the rebels. Their armour, discipline and training gave them a distinct advantage over the lightly equipped tribesmen, but they were not invulnerable, and the first of the Praetorians fell to a spear thrust into his thigh. The soldier limped back, gushing blood. As his comrades closed up the gap he transferred his spear to his shield side and pressed a hand to the wound, but the gore coursed round and through his fingers as the blood pumped out of the severed artery. Two of the foragers held him up in the heart of the formation as the wedge crawled across the grassy plain. He had bled out before they had moved another ten paces and the foragers set him down. One took his shield and eased his way into the front line, before his abandoned body was set upon by the rebels who hacked and stabbed at the hated Roman even though he was dead.

  More men were wounded and taken into the centre of the wedge as it closed up on the rest of the cohort, but Macro could see that he and his men would make it now. He stepped back and ordered the Praetorians on either side to close up. It was time to take stock of the situation around him, and be ready to manoeuvre once he was reunited with the rest of the cohort.

  ‘Sir!’ a voice cried out close at hand. ‘Look there! Fire!’

  Macro turned and saw that the nearest ranks of the cohort were darkly outlined by the glow of flames beyond, where the campfires had been lit. Some careless fool had dropped kindling too close to the flames when the alarm had been given, Macro guessed. Or some fluke of the breeze, or spark falling in the grass. It didn’t matter. The blaze was spreading even as he watched and glittering tongues of yellow and red flitted up into the twilight.

  ‘Oh, shit . . . Just what we needed.’

  The wedge reached the cohort and the men, harried all the way by the rebels, dropped into line, as the wounded were taken to the rear, around the edge of the spreading fire. Macro saw Centurion Placinus directing two sections of men as they attempted to beat out the flames, while the rest of their comrades fought off their attackers. Macro trotted over to him.

  ‘What, in Jupiter’s name, is going on?’

  Placinus saluted. ‘One of the piles of cooking fuel went up, sir. When I find the twat responsible he’ll wish he was never born.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Macro responded curtly. He could see the fire spreading steadily through the dry grass and already thick curls of smoke were swirling over the Roman position. ‘We can’t make a stand here, or we’ll burn. In any case, the prefect wanted us to fall back into the village. We’ll try and keep the box formation as we move. Get these men back in the line and be ready to move.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Macro stood alone, a short distance from the edge of the blaze, feeling its heat against his bare skin. Around him the fighting was spreading along the sides of the cohort as the rebels flowed like water around a rock. He took a breath and coughed as he inhaled acrid smoke. He coughed again and fought to clear his lungs and take in untainted air.

  ‘Second Cohort! In box formation, on my order, retire towards the village!’ He gave the men a moment to prepare, then, ‘Move!’

  It was at that moment that the folly of the order occurred to him. There was no way to manoeuvre over the fast-spreading flames. Not without breaking formation. Macro cursed himself and filled his lungs to issue a new order.

  ‘Halt! By centuries . . . ! Retire on the village!’

  The rectangle began to break up as each of the six centuries formed their own defensive formation around their standard. The surviving carts were surrounded by Petillius’ men while the drivers struggled to control their mule teams who were frightened by the noise and the flames. Macro hurried over to the First Century at the side closest to the village. A blazing patch of grass separated them and he had to skirt round it, wincing at the heat stinging his skin. A figure cut in between him and his unit and Macro raised his shield and sword as a heavy-set rebel, his tunic stained with blood, swung a long-handled axe overhead and s
lashed it down at the Roman. Macro just had time to leap to the side as the axe head smashed into the grass and earth, sending divots flying. Before the man could recover, Macro powered forward and threw his full weight behind his shield, crashing into his enemy and driving him back towards the flames. He kept going, even as the flames licked up around his boots, and gave one last thrust as the rebel tumbled into the heart of the blaze with a panicked shriek. Macro back-pedalled swiftly, using his shield to protect himself from the heat until he was well clear. The other man had scrambled to his feet, in the heart of flames that rose twice his height, his hair and tunic already alight, his mouth open in a keening cry. He ran to the end of the flames and off into the mêlée, blazing like a torch.

  Macro ran on, and joined his men, formed up in a square. He gave the command to march. They began to trudge away from the blaze, and all the while the enemy rushed up to make spear thrusts, or a wild exchange of blows, before dashing back beyond the range of the Praetorians’ spears.

  Meanwhile, the flames hungrily spread through the parched grass, as the Romans and the enemy struggled on while trying to keep clear of the fire. Porcino’s century had been forced to halt, their progress blocked by the blaze, while the rebels pressed them back on themselves. Slowly they were being forced towards the flames, harshly illuminated by the glare. Then, as Macro watched, the century broke, men spilling round the flames and fleeing individually or in small groups, doing their best to cover each other’s backs. The largest group clustered around the centurion and the standard as they fought their way through the loose ranks of the enemy.

  To the crackle and roar of the blaze was added the pleas for help and tormented cries of agony from the injured lying in the grass as the flames spread to them and began to cook them alive. But in the desperate struggle taking place in the garish hue of the fire and the choking swirls of smoke there was no chance to save them. Most of Porcino’s men managed to join the other centuries and his expression was ferocious as he led his party inside the lines of Macro’s century.