Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Front rank, down spears!’ Cato bellowed. ‘Draw swords!’

  The first line of Praetorians hurriedly passed their spears back to their comrades while keeping their shields to the enemy. Then they snatched out their short swords, a weapon more suited to close combat, and thrust and stabbed with their blades into the tightly packed mass of rebels before them. It was all but impossible to evade the swords and scores more of the enemy went down in front of the Roman shields, even as the momentum of the rebel charge began to force the Praetorians back, inch by inch.

  Cato looked to the right and saw that Macro and Musa were holding firm for now. Just over a hundred paces behind the first wall Petillius and Porcino’s men were still forming a line across the open ground between the cliff and the ravine. Beyond them, Pulcher was doubling his men back to the second wall. Cato knew that the men around him must hold firm in the breach a little longer. If they gave way then the enemy would flood through into the mine and take Macro and Musa from the rear. The men of the Second Century must not give any more ground. They needed something to stiffen their resolve. There was one thing that could be depended on, Cato realised. One way of encouraging the men to dig in. He readied his sword and, leaning the shaft of the standard against his shoulder, pulled it free of the rubble and forced his way forward between the soldiers immediately in front of him so that he stood in the middle of the front rank. At once the nearest of the enemy pressed towards him with eager expressions, determined to win glory by taking the Praetorians’ sacred standard, entrusted to them by the Emperor himself.

  Cato raised his sword and hacked at the head of the nearest rebel, slicing off his ear and cutting deep into his jaw. He snatched the blade back just in time to thrust the point into the throat of another enemy coming at him with an axe. He called out desperately, his voice almost cracking with the strain.

  ‘Praetorians! Defend the standard! On me!’

  The men of the Second Century braced their feet in the rubble and leaned into their battered and blood-spattered shields as they continued to cut the enemy down. Both sides fought with a savagery born of desperation and a thirst for glory as they contested the ground immediately around the Roman standard. Cato, encumbered by the dressing and patch over his eye, kept looking right and left so as not to be caught on a blind side. His sword was in constant motion, darting at any foe who came within reach, sometimes failing to connect, sometimes inflicting a flesh wound, as well as striking disabling blows that dropped a rebel in his tracks, or sent him staggering back amongst his comrades. Then, a large warrior with a long cavalry sword thrust his way through the packed ranks. The man raised the blade overhead as he approached Cato and swung it in a vicious diagonal arc. Cato instinctively raised his own sword to parry the blow, but the weight of the other man’s weapon drove Cato’s sword arm down and he had just enough presence of mind to twist his wrist and deflect the blow. The rebel’s sword scraped loudly down the length of Cato’s blade, striking the hilt and knocking the weapon from the prefect’s hand.

  The man let out a triumphant roar and snatched at the wooden shaft of the standard with his spare hand. No longer armed, Cato desperately held on with both hands. The two men strained for possession of the standard for a moment before Cato dropped his right hand to rip out the dagger from his belt and slash at the rebel’s fingers, lacerating flesh and chipping into bone. Raising the small blade, Cato slammed it deep into his opponent’s forearm. With a howl of pained rage his opponent jerked his arm back, releasing the standard but snatching the dagger from Cato’s grasp. As he recovered his balance the rebel raised his sword to strike again, a cruel glint in his eye at the prospect of striking down the defenceless Roman officer.

  At once Cato took the standard firmly in both hands and swung the bottom up hard into the rebel’s groin. The man’s jaw gaped in a groan and the sword wavered in his grasp. Cato drew the staff back and punched the bottom into the man’s collarbone, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling back against a handful of his comrades who fell beneath him. Before Cato could do anything more, Cristus and one of the Praetorians thrust their way past him and closed ranks to protect their unit’s standard. Cato hoisted it up and waved it from side to side as the Romans stood their ground, defying the enemy. At that moment, by some unspoken consent, there was a slight pause in the fighting as the rebels began to pull back. The combatants on both sides were breathing hard as they caught their breath and watched the enemy warily, waiting for the struggle to continue.

  Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw that Pulcher had reached the second wall and his men were lined up in front of the gate. Closer to, the centuries of Petillius and Porcino were also in position. On the remains of the wall, Macro’s guardsmen were standing firm, but further along Musa had been forced back, with the enemy threatening to spill round his flanks at any moment. It was time to withdraw, Cato decided. Before the men on the wall were overwhelmed and cut to pieces.

  He called over his shoulder to the trumpeter, ‘Sound withdrawal.’

  The soldier raised the gleaming instrument to his lips and blew a feeble note. He tried again with a similar result.

  ‘For Gods’ sake, spit man!’ Cato snapped. ‘Spit!’

  The Praetorian nodded, cleared his throat, spat to one side and tried again. This time the notes blared out clear and true. The trumpeter repeated the signal three times and lowered his instrument. Cato drew a breath and called out above the din of battle, ‘Second Century! Disengage! Fall back on the standard!’

  Along the battle line the Praetorians edged away from the enemy, leaving the heaped bodies of the dead and dying between the two sides. The Romans had withdrawn halfway down the slope before a shout rose from the rebel ranks. The cry was taken up, echoed and swelled into a roar as they climbed over the bodies to continue the struggle, pausing only to finish off several of the Romans who had been too badly wounded to make their way to the rear. There was nothing that could have been done for them, Cato accepted bitterly, as he watched his men die. Nothing, except swear to avenge them if the chance came. What was left of the century, no more than forty men now, reached the bottom of the debris slope and the flanks folded in quickly to form a tight box around the standard, shields facing out on all sides. Further along the line of the wall, Macro and Musa had done the same and merged centuries, along with the other half of Macro’s century who had abandoned the wall to the right of the gatehouse and run to join their comrades. With the officers calling the time the two boxes paced steadily towards the second wall as the rebels swarmed on to the remains of the first, jubilant at their success, cheering themselves, and jeering the Romans, as if they had won a great victory.

  Cato gauged the distance between his men and the larger formation no more than forty paces away. They would have a better chance together than divided, he calculated.

  ‘On my order, break formation and make for the other box.’ Cato looked at the rebels again and there was no sign of any urge to chase down the Romans. No doubt they had been chastened by their losses in winning control of the breaches.

  ‘Break ranks!’

  The Praetorians abruptly turned and ran across the open ground, Cato leaning the standard across his shoulder so that it would not encumber him as he sprinted.

  The enemy reacted at once and greeted the Romans’ sudden movement with a deafening, contemptuous jeering. A handful moved out ahead of their comrades and urged them on. More followed, and then, as if swept forward by some giant invisible hand, the horde lurched forward into a wild charge.

  Ahead, Cato could see that the other box had halted and parted ranks on the nearest side to admit the men racing towards them. Weighed down by heavy armour and their shields, the Praetorians could not move nearly as fast as the rebels sprinting after them, but they had a head start, and the fleetest of the Romans stumbled into the opening left for them as Cato slowed slightly to look over his shoulder. T
here were a handful of men behind him and the first of the enemy not twenty paces away.

  ‘Run, you fools! Run for your lives!’

  Then he was passing through the gap, almost knocking over a man who had stopped too abruptly just ahead of him. Cato regained his balance, raised the standard again and turned to see the last of his men desperately sprinting as fast as he could, teeth gritted. Then his foot landed on a small rock, just large enough to turn his ankle, and the man tumbled to the side in a small shower of grit and dust. Cato instinctively took a pace towards the man, but before he could go any further the Praetorians closed the gap again, barring his way. It was too late to save the man in any case. Three rebels were on him before he could roll onto his knees. The first kicked him back onto his side and then his companions bent over the Roman, hacking at him, one with a short sword, the other with an axe, as blood sprayed over them.

  ‘Sir, are you all right?’ Macro held his shoulder as Cato gasped for breath, and nodded.

  ‘Get the formation moving.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro tilted his head back and shouted, ‘Advance!’

  The men closed up, shield to shield, marching at a slow step with Cato and the survivors of the Second Century keeping pace in the middle of the box. The swiftest of the rebels charged into the rear of the formation, slashing at the shields and trying to cut their way through the ranks of the Praetorians. But the guardsmen held their positions firmly, coolly cutting down the more impetuous of their opponents. More of them flowed along the sides of the box as they caught up and soon the box was surrounded by a shimmering sea of waving blades and edged weapons as the stifling air filled with the clash of weapons and the war cries of the rebels. The Romans were silent. Faces stern and teeth gritted, they kept moving, under the orders and occasional words of encouragement of their officers. Cato, together with the standard bearers of the other centuries, kept the standards raised high. Macro took his place in the centre of the front face of the box, shifting his shield slightly up to keep it in line with the taller men on either side, and sparing a moment to silently curse those who recruited the guardsmen on the basis of their height.

  As before, in the breaches, the equipment and training of the Romans gave them an immediate advantage and they were able to inflict many wounds while taking few in return. Their path was marked by the trail of enemy bodies left in their wake. But, as the numbers surrounding them rapidly increased, so their pace slowed as they were obliged to cut through the men ahead of them. And as the rebels became emboldened, scenting victory if they could break the formation up, or at least pin it down until the weariness of the defenders and the impetus of the rebels ultimately crushed the Romans, so the ranks of the Praetorians were whittled down. Cato saw one of Musa’s men lurch out of formation as two rebels wrenched his shield arm towards them. Before the guardsman could react and rip his shield from their grip an axe swung down and all but severed his arm, leaving it mangled and hanging uselessly. One of the enemy grabbed his harness and hauled him out of line and he disappeared from view as his comrades closed ranks and moved on.

  Just over a hundred paces away Petillius and Porcino’s centuries were also forming a box, the sides of which bristled with spears. Keeping a steady pace, they began to fall back towards Pulcher’s men. Cato was relieved that they had taken the initiative to change to a more defensive formation before the enemy reached them. Every man that survived the disaster of the collapse of the first wall would be desperately needed to hold the second.

  There was no time for further reflection as a surge of enemy troops smashed into the rear of Macro’s formation. Cato heard the shouts of alarm and turned quickly to see the huge warrior who served as Iskerbeles’ lieutenant smash his sword down on the shoulder of Centurion Musa, cleaving through chain mail, and down, deep into his chest as he was driven onto his knees. Kicking the centurion flat, the warrior tore his sword free and slashed at the Roman to his right, hacking into his sword arm, before thrusting him against the next man in line. A gap opened in the box and more rebels were pressing forward, widening it as the first of them rushed through, making directly for Cato.

  ‘Second Century! On me!’ Cato ordered as he braced his boots and lowered the standard to present the point to the enemy. His men fell in on either side. ‘Forward!’

  A rebel charged at Cato. He carried a round shield and was armed with a long-handled axe, which he raised above his head. He drew back his arm to strike as he shouted his war cry. Cato stepped up to meet him, then at the last moment dropped the point of the standard and drove it into the man’s right thigh. Even though the point was decorative rather than functional it proved to be as effective as any spear as the impact twisted the running man round and he fell heavily to the ground. Cato pulled the point out and then stabbed again, this time into the rebel’s ribs. He worked the shaft round viciously as the point tore through his opponent’s lungs and heart, then pulled it out and raised the bloodied standard high once more as he led the Praetorians forward to drive the enemy back and close the gap.

  Their leader saw the danger and called on those closest to him to form on either side. The Romans threw their weight behind their shields as they smashed into the rebels. Only the giant Asturian stood his ground, and then snarled as he shoved the Roman who had the temerity to face him, sending the man sprawling on his back. Cato had no time to avoid the soldier. He caught his boot on the Praetorian’s shoulder and tripped. He thrust out the bottom of the standard and managed to go down on one knee, directly in front of the enemy warrior. With a roar of glee the Asturian tore the standard from Cato’s grasp with his spare hand and held it up and shook it for his followers to see.

  His triumphalism was his downfall as the outraged Praetorians turned on him almost as one, desperate to prevent the dishonour of seeing their standard captured. Four of them set about the Asturian, hacking and stabbing in such a frenzy that he had no chance to defend himself as he retreated two paces towards his followers and sank down, blood spurting from his lips. Even then his killers were merciless, sinking their swords deep into his flesh and driving him onto his knees. Cato stood over him, prised his fingers from the shaft and retrieved the standard. With the loss of their leader the rebels hesitated and before they could react they were swept back and the gap was sealed.

  The box fought its way towards the second wall, where the rest of the cohort stood ready behind a phalanx of spear points. Pulcher’s men had moved onto the rampart and some were already hurling slingshot into the mass of the rebels surrounding Cato and his men. Before they could reach the wall, however, horns sounded from the main gatehouse, now occupied by the enemy. At once the rebels began to pull back and the depleted formation increased its pace as it closed with the unscathed units of the cohort. Porcino’s men were the first to retreat behind the wall, followed by Petillius and his century. The bloodied Praetorians who had defended the breached wall and fought their way back through the enemy horde came last and then the gate was closed and secured behind them. Cato handed the standard to one of the men from the Second Century and, along with Macro and the other officers, made his way up onto the wall.

  The rebels were making no attempt to continue the assault and were quietly resting on their weapons while their wounded were carried away.

  ‘What are they up to now?’ wondered Petillius. ‘Why did they stop?’

  ‘Perhaps they lost their nerve,’ Porcino suggested.

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ Macro responded. ‘Iskerbeles has another surprise for us, I’ll warrant.’

  Cato felt his limbs begin to tremble slightly from exhaustion and the strain of battle. He grasped the wooden rail of the parapet tightly to hide the tremor in his arms as he tried to fathom the intentions of his enemy. As he stared at the enemy lines a rider approached from the gatehouse and the rebels parted before him. Cato recognised Iskerbeles. The enemy leader dismounted and walked a few paces through the
bodies of his men, and those of the Romans. He stopped and knelt down, lifting a man up under the arms and bracing him against his knees. Although they were at least a hundred paces away, Cato was sure that the stricken man was the Asturian giant. A friend of Iskerbeles then, and one for whom he now grieved. Despite the predicament of himself and his men, Cato was moved to a quiet moment of pity for his enemy.

  ‘What’s that coming through the gate?’ Macro shaded his eyes.

  Cato shifted his gaze and saw a train of mules drawing a long, low structure with an angled top. As it drew clear of the gatehouse Cato could see the wheels on each side more clearly and sighed wearily before he responded.

  ‘It’s a mantlet. And there’ll be a ram following along shortly, I imagine.’

  Sure enough a short column of men came in sight, using rope handles to carry the ram suspended between them. There was more. Carts filled with fascines and then at the rear more carts carrying wooden frames.

  ‘They’ve been very busy,’ said Macro. ‘Far busier than we’ve given them credit for.’

  Cato gave a brief, flat laugh. ‘Just when I’d sworn that I’d not underestimate Iskerbeles again. It’s a damn shame that man is our enemy. We could do with a few more like him in the legions.’

  ‘Or a few less like him amongst those we find ourselves up against,’ Macro countered.

  ‘Well yes, quite.’ Cato tilted his neck to crack the tension there. ‘Centurion Petillius.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your men haven’t been committed yet. I want them on the wall. The rest can stand down, for the moment at least. Porcino, have your century get some rocks behind the gate. Pack ’em down nice and firm.’