by Peter Tonkin
‘This one will,’ said Artemidorus. ‘And she will help you to a great victory. Put her to the test.’
Gretorex turned away in apparent disgust, pulling his horse’s head to the right with his left hand. While his right hand reached across his belly in one smooth movement to pull his long spada double-edged cavalry sword out of its sheath. And throw it at Puella.
Who caught it in mid flight with her left hand while drawing her gladius with her right. At the same time urging her mount forward using knees and heels alone. The horse obediently charged into Gretorex’ mount’s shoulder to shoulder. The grip of her iron-muscled thighs kept her safe. Thighs that only a few hours ago had been clasped almost as fiercely round Artemidorus’ hips. Gretorex was taken by surprise, even though he had started the test himself. An instant later, the Gaulish commander was on his back in the mud. A heartbeat after that, Puella was kneeling astride his chest with the spada buried in the earth a finger-width from his right ear and the gladius a finger-width from his left.
‘By Camulos, god of war,’ he boomed. ‘I thought for a moment this woman was going to cut my hair!’ He gave a great bellow of laughter – echoed by his men. He thrust his hand out and Puella grasped it as she stood, helping him to his feet. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘She rides with us. But I will not call her Puella – girl. This is not a name of due respect! When she rides with us she is Spiritum Bellatrix Ghost Warrior Woman!’
Artemidorus shivered at the name. For he had fought Ghost Warriors in the dark forests of the north. In Gaul and Germania. Warriors who painted their faces and bodies black and crept from shadow to shadow, silently and invisibly, spreading death and terror. But mostly death.
*
The mission Antony had given Gretorex, Artemidorus and their command was simple. But crucial. It sprang directly from what his secret agent had discovered and what he had done. As the general’s legions formed up on his chosen battlefield during the last of the darkness before the dawn of the fourteenth day of Aprilis, waiting to face Consul and General Pansa’s much larger army at sunrise, the cavalry unit rode silently and secretly into a hiding place behind the village of Forum Gallorum.
The men and women who lived in the tiny hamlet had no cause to love Decimus Albinus and his men in Mutina. Who had stolen all the food the village possessed in order to feed their starving garrison. The villagers were only still alive because Antony had given orders that his well-supplied legions should share their food. It was easy enough, therefore, for several hundred horsemen – and one black-faced Ghost Warrior woman – to hide themselves there. Those that could not be accommodated in stables and barns thronged the streets and hid behind the village houses. Gretorex and Artemidorus climbed to the top of the highest building, a modest temple to Apollo. From this vantage point, the pair of them had an excellent view of the battlefield, the road beyond it and the south-east quadrant of Mutina’s walls. Including both the little postern gate Artemidorus came and went through in his disguise – and the huge main gate leading out onto the via which had withstood even the largest of Antony’s siege rams for week after week.
The sun rose through a low mist, glinting off the armour and weaponry of Antony’s army. And off those of the seemingly endless snake of Pansa’s men as they came up the via from Arminium and Bolonia marching ten abreast to the beat of military drums and the howling of signal trumpets. Consul and General Pansa himself rode in the lead, with his senior commanders grouped around him.
‘No sign of Caesar,’ said Artemidorus, scanning the generals’ standards as well as the legions’ eagles.
‘Could he be bringing up more troops?’ wondered Gretorex.
‘My spy says he’s still too ill to fight,’ answered Artemidorus.
The solid target offered by Pansa and his immediate lieutenants suddenly split and scattered. As Antony’s slingers went to work. Followed almost immediately by his archers. It was impossible to see where the slingers were stationed. But the archers were in a solid group three rows back, with the triarii men looking after them. Men like Quintus. Antony’s army was experienced, battle-hardened and ready. By the look of things, most of Pansa’s troops were little short of being raw recruits. Quantity rather than quality. With the exception, a couple of legions back, of a thousand or so who marched with a confident swagger and looked disturbingly familiar as they approached. The legion called Martia.
Although Pansa himself had served with Divus Julius in Gaul, he was by no means an experienced general. And he did not control his men with anything like Antony’s steady grip. Pansa’s troops leaped over the roadside ditch and formed up opposite Antony’s army. Sinking to their ankles in the marshy soil. They left dead and wounded on the road and in the ditch as testimony to the effectiveness of Antony’s slingers and archers. But not in anything like sufficient numbers to make a difference. The aquilifers put their eagles at the front of their legions. The signifers put their banners in front of their cohorts. The officers took their places. Everything moved into place as though this were a parade ground. And stopped, like troops awaiting the general’s inspection. The pause became a hesitation. Even though Antony’s arrows clouded the sky and his invisible slingshots took their toll.
‘They’re wondering where Decimus Albinus is,’ said Artemidorus. ‘It’s dawn and he’s not where they expected him to be.’
But the hesitation lasted only a few moments. The cornicens sounded. Their trumpeting lost in a huge bellow. The Martia broke ranks, hurling forward and driving the raw recruits before them. The armies clashed together like a storm swell hitting a cliff. And the battle began.
iii
As the sun rose inexorably up the bright, frost-clear sky behind them, heading for noon, Artemidorus and Gretorex watched the slaughter. Wave after wave of Pansa’s inexperienced troops dashed themselves hopelessly against the iron wall of Antony’s Vth Alaude Larks and IInd Sabine legions. Pushed forward by the impatience of the uncontrolled Martia legion immediately behind them.
Antony held his own cavalry back until the crucial moment. As he was doing with Gretorex’ wing. The moment when, inexperienced though they were, Pansa’s troops finally chopped and stabbed their way to the third rank. Sheer weight of numbers threatening to overcome everything standing against them. And the Martia finally broke through to confront soldiers who were, at last, their equals. At that moment, just as the raw recruits found themselves trapped between the iron jaws of two great legions, finding out the hard way what real soldiers could do to them, Antony led several hundred heavily armed horsemen into the right flank of Pansa’s army. Many of the raw recruits had never experienced a cavalry charge before. And the impact of the horses, the sheer weight of them with their armoured breastplates, not to mention the sharp-edged, slicing spadas that the cavalrymen wielded, came as a massive shock to the beleaguered lines of inexperienced soldiers.
Which wavered. Almost broke there and then. But managed to hang on, steadied by the Martia men. Hoping increasingly desperately, Artemidorus’ intuition told him, for support from Decimus Albinus and his troops in Mutina.
But that support did not arrive until noon, when it was more or less too late.
The great gate of the city opened on cue and Decimus Albinus’ troops stormed out. There was no cavalry. They had eaten all the horses long ago. But they came bravely, like Pansa’s men, ten abreast and following the via. His cavalry running as fast as they could – charging on foot instead of in the saddle. A great bellow of relief came up from Pansa’s legions. Who saw in that flood of soldiers streaming towards the rear of Antony’s army, the prospect of immediate relief. And eventual victory.
But this was the moment Artemidorus and Gretorex had been waiting for. Even as the main gate creaked open, they were mounting their horses. And as Decimus Albinus’ men charged out of the city, they leaped into their saddles and began their countercharge.
Nearly five hundred heavily armed Gaulish cavalrymen followed that ridge of firmer ground on the south bank of the
river which led round the northern edge of the battlefield towards Mutina’s main gate. And so they were able to hit Albinus’ legions side-on just at the moment they were about to attack Antony’s rearmost cohorts. From the IInd Sabine legion. Who, prewarned, turned and offered cold steel instead of confusion and surprise. The surprise and confusion swept through the betrayed legions under Decimus Albinus’ and Pontius Aquila’s command, therefore. Gretorex led the charge, as was his right. He insisted Ghost Warrior ride close behind him. Not so that he could protect her, but so that she could watch his back, he said. Artemidorus and Ferrata rode either side of her. Both coming close to being awed by the ease and dexterity with which she visited death and destruction upon their enemies. With a spada in one hand and a gladius in the other.
What had started out as a concerted charge by Decimus Albinus’ men, to surprise Antony’s army and support their comrades in arms, turned into a rout that not only failed to help but also shattered their morale. Pansa’s army began to retreat in confusion. Not even the Martia men could steady them now. And they, too, began to fall back. While Antony’s legions moved forward relentlessly like the Friendly Ones. As Gretorex’ cavalry rode straight through the column of shocked and all but helpless legionaries from the city. Artemidorus swept through and through the melee looking for Albinus or Aquila, keen to take a head for Antony. But he found no one of note. He began to wonder whether Decimus Albinus and Pontius Aquila had actually led the charge in person. Or whether, like Caesar Octavius, they had preferred to stay in bed and direct the battle from there.
Puella and Ferrata rode straight on, however. Exhaustively trained with weapons but less so with horses. Unable, once their steeds were galloping in the full charge, to stop them. Or even to turn them from their course. And so the pair of them careered almost helplessly southwards as Gretorex, Artemidorus and the rest of the cavalry unit began to pursue the broken legionaries back towards Mutina. All too well aware that, behind them, Antony’s legions were creating mayhem among Pansa’s shattered command.
But then everything turned again. As though on a cast of the dice or the flip of a coin.
Ghost Warrior and Ferrata suddenly came back, riding north into the carnage Gretorex’ men were creating, hardly able to control their horses. Or their tongues. Puella found Artemidorus. Her mount crashed against his almost as forcefully as it had against Gretorex’.
‘There’s another army,’ she gasped as he rocked in the saddle.
‘What?’ he was almost as stunned as he had been to hear that she was willing to sleep with Mercury to keep him faithful to their contubernium. ‘Another army?’
‘It’s huge. I don’t know how many legions. And it’s marching north. I’ve no idea where it’s come from. Rome maybe. But it’s coming straight at us.’
‘When will it be here? Could you tell?’
‘I don’t know exactly. But soon!’
‘Right. You and Ferrata come with me. Guard my back. I need to get to Antony!’ He dragged his horse’s head viciously to the left and galloped off towards the main battlefield. Feeling as he did so, Puella and Ferrata falling behind each of his shoulders.
So far today, until the wild charge at noon, he had seen the battle only at a distance. But now they were galloping right into the heart of it. Artemidorus, holding himself as tall in the saddle as he could, looking for the draconarius standard that would give him an idea of where Antony was. In the middle of the mayhem if he was any judge.
It was only the sure-footedness of his well-trained war horse that allowed him to proceed as swiftly as he did. Right into the heart of the battle, where Antony’s battle flag waved cheek by jowl with Pansa’s own. He was not concerned with attacking or killing the men he rode by – or rode over. He trusted his greaves to keep his legs safe from those few enemy soldiers who remained erect after the armoured breast of his charger smashed through them. And remained quick thinking enough to consider retaliation. In the heartbeats before Puella or Ferrata, hard on his heels, slaughtered them.
He found Antony in the middle of the battlefield. Still on his horse. Covered head to foot in other people’s blood and almost drunk with bloodlust. Surrounded by senior officers including Enobarbus. Hacking to left and right with a cavalry spada. ‘Have you seen Pansa?’ Antony bellowed over the deafening din of battle. ‘I’m pretty sure I wounded him. But he’s gone now…’
‘General,’ shouted Artemidorus. ‘General, there’s another army. Coming north. It will hit us very soon. It must be Consul Hirtius bringing Pansa’s reinforcements.’
‘Hirtius!’ spat Antony. ‘He’s a much more experienced leader! He was Divus Julius’ legate. Dined with him on the night he crossed the Rubicon.’
‘If he has fresh troops then this could be serious, General!’ shouted Enobarbus.
‘Puella and Ferrata say he has several legions,’ yelled Artemidorus.
‘And they’ll be fresh and battle-ready. Not like our poor men who have been hard at it all day. Excrementum! We’d better pull back to our lines.’ Antony sat tall in his saddle looking around the massive field of battle. ‘It breaks my heart but we’ll have to tell the men to just drop their eagles and leave their standards. And just get the hades out of here. I’d rather lose all our eagles than any of our men. Because there’ll be an even tougher battle once they get organised in a day or two!’ He turned to the command group who surrounded him at all times. Not so much to protect him as to allow him to communicate with the army he was leading. ‘Buicinator,’ he bellowed to the nearest bugler. ‘Sound the retreat!’
iv
Consul and General Aulus Hirtius arrived with his legions as the last of Antony’s men were leaving the field. These were mostly diehards who had gone back for their standards and their eagles. All of which fell into Hirtius’ possession while he announced a great victory; bucilators and cornicens blasting the air with their triumphant trumpet calls.
‘Just like Pompey,’ said Antony wearily as he surveyed the scene from the relative safety of his own fortified lines. ‘Arriving when all the hard work is done and claiming victory for himself!’
‘I remember Pompey doing that when Crassus had all but defeated Spartacus and his gladiators,’ nodded Artemidorus. ‘Crassus never really forgave him.’
Antony nodded. Turned. ‘Check on your contubernium and report to Gretorex as he was technically your commanding officer in the battle, Septem. He’ll report to me. They all will. I need to know how many men we’ve lost and how many I can count on when Hirtius, Pansa and that bloody boy come after us again. After you’ve done that I want you to take a flag of truce into their camp and see if you can negotiate the recovery of our wounded. Make it fast before too many of them start dying. And I hardly need to tell you to keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Enobarbus, you stay here. I want a good intelligence officer to do the negotiation but I can’t afford to risk you both. Report back as soon as you can, Septem. After I get the briefing from my legates and tribunes I’ll be with the wounded in the field hospitium. Report to Enobarbus if you can’t find me.’
‘Yes General. I’ll take two of my contubernium with me if I may. But what will my proof of authority be?’
Antony paused for an instant, then pulled a badge off the front of his breastplate. ‘I got it when I was first hailed Imperator,’ he said. ‘I won’t be needing it for a day or two. But bring it back. Or it’s your head…’ And his tone said very clearly that he wasn’t joking. ‘Unless you’re already dead of course.’
*
Hirtius had set up his camp fewer than two military miles from Mutina astride the Via Aemilia. It was plain that he was an effective leader simply from the speed and efficiency with which his legions had constructed and manned their fortified encampments. And that he was not afraid of Antony – for the complex of encampments was within sight both of Mutina and Antony’s lines. Which also suggested Hirtius was an able strategist. Simply by setting up camp where he had, he promised almost immediate relief to D
ecimus Albinus and his beleaguered garrison. And threatened Antony’s men with almost inevitable annihilation. Artemidorus, Quintus and Ferrata were met at the gate of a palisade every bit as solid as the one surrounding Antony’s much smaller camp and taken to the command tent under armed guard.
Hirtius was a tall, lean, eagle-faced man. As Artemidorus waited in the vestibulum of the command tent, surrounded by the guards who had conducted him and his associates here, he was able to glimpse the general through in the atrium. And, equally tall and gaunt, beside him stood Caesar Octavius’ relative, Quintus Pedius, whose daughter had been murdered by Balbus’ messenger Flaccus. But there was no sign of either Caesar Octavius or Pansa. Maybe both Mercury and Antony were right – Caesar was sick and Pansa was wounded. He strained his ears to hear what they were saying. Snatches of conversation came and went.
‘…held the Fourth back…’ Hirtius was saying, ‘…but the Martia ran out of control…’
‘…lucky Caesar held the Fourth at least,’ Quintus Pedius answered. ‘They might have been slaughtered like the inexperienced men Pansa sent up first…’
‘…but the Fourth might have made all the difference. Made victory more assured. And remember, he is now officially hostis, enemy of the state by the ruling of the Senate. That has to be a potent motivator…’
‘…What does it matter?’ Added a new voice. ‘We won. We’ll catch him soon enough…’
‘Won? Barely! In spite of all the eagles and standards we took. Antony must have had warning of our arrival. Retreated in good order. But yes. As you say. We won. Though I think you’ll find him harder to catch than you suppose…’
‘… at what cost?’ Demanded Quintus Pedius. ‘Won at what cost?’
‘High. We’ll need to regroup…’ said Hirtius.
But then the leader of the guards broke into their conference. And the subject turned to Artemidorus himself. ‘A messenger?’ asked Hirtius.