by Nick Brown
At the sound of a fearful cry then a sickening impact, he turned to see one pursuer and his horse go down in a ruinous tangle just beyond the wall. He could not see the thief.
‘There!’ cried Amarante.
The bald-headed veteran came flying over the wall. His landing was even better than Cassius’s and in moments he was pursuing them once more.
‘Yah!’
Though the black horse responded, Cassius knew instantly that it was either exhausted or hurt. The advancing soldiers were a quarter-mile ahead, still spreading out and manoeuvring.
‘He’s close!’ yelled Amarante.
Cassius turned to see the cavalrymen close behind, bulbous eyes unblinking, the point of his spear only ten feet away. Cassius felt sure he was set to charge them and knew Amarante was vulnerable. Snatching another look over his shoulder, he watched the rider pull back his arm, ready to throw.
Cassius jerked the reins to the right but a second later the horse shrieked with pain. It stumbled once, then again. As it slowed, he knew they had only a moment to avoid going down with it. The immense frame could prove as deadly as their pursuer.
‘Get clear! Jump!’
Letting go of the reins, Cassius pulled his left leg up and was able to get a little purchase. With Amarante holding his shoulder, he pushed off.
The wheat flew up at him.
His feet hit first but he came down on his side, the impetus slamming him into the ground. Only when he rolled over and eventually came to a stop did he realised he’d somehow crushed his left hand under him. His fingers blazed with pain.
Spitting oaths, Cassius got to his knees and found himself alone, surrounded by the high wheat. In his peripheral vision he saw that two of his fingers were hanging down, not aligned with the others. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them.
He heard someone moving through the wheat. The shiny, dark head and protuberant eyes of the thief appeared. Smirking, he drew his sword.
Indavara and Simo were approximately one hundred yards ahead of an advancing army. A minute earlier they had heard a great shout then seen no less than six centuries charge down the hill. To Indavara, half looked like legionaries, half auxiliary archers.
‘Are they all after us?’ yelled Simo.
‘The wall! They want to reach the wall first. Advantage.’
That same obstacle now obscured their view down the slope. Indavara had seen nothing of Cassius and Amarante since he’d rescued Simo.
The black horse was back on its feet and limping away. Cassius could hear the cries of the friendly troops now advancing up the slope but he had more pressing concerns.
He reached for his dagger but it wasn’t there. Realising the sheath must have been torn from the belt, he watched the thief close in.
‘You’re good with a horse,’ said the auxiliary. ‘How about a blade?’
Amarante stood up only a few yards to Cassius’s right. One arm of her tunic had been torn off. The skin was dark with dirt and a little blood.
‘You all right?’
She nodded and hurried to him. Only then did Cassius see that she had the dagger. He took it and pulled it from the sheath.
The pulsing pain from his left hand was getting worse.
The thief nodded at his hand. ‘I bet that hurts.’
He looked past Cassius and Amarante. ‘Think I’ll make this quick.’
He swung hard at Cassius, striking the dagger. Despite the impact, Cassius somehow kept hold of it. He and Amarante retreated, side by side. Another swing. He ducked down and raised the blade. The sword tore it from his grip and sent it flying away.
‘She yours? said the thief, eyes gleaming. ‘I’ll take her.’
‘Take this,’ spat Amarante, flinging a handful of stony soil at his face. The veteran closed his eyes in time and responded with a third swing that sent Cassius lurching backwards. He tumbled into Amarante and they fell in a heap.
The thief closed in and raised his blade. ‘You bastards mocked me but mighty Lero answered my call. Now I will have my revenge.’
‘Hey you.’
As the thief turned, a long blade scythed through the air and through his face, taking blood and flesh with it. The eagle-head sword came back the other way and cut lower. The auxiliary’s blade fell from his grasp; an awful moan came from his throat. With a straight kick into his stomach, Indavara sent the dying man crashing into the wheat. As the thief landed, more blood coloured the air.
Simo appeared from behind the bodyguard and helped Amarante up.
Indavara offered a hand to Cassius. ‘We have to move. Now.’
As the four ran down the slope, no less than eight centuries advanced towards them. Spread across the bottom of the wheat field, the legionaries marched upward, red rectangular shields neatly aligned. Cassius knew they must have seen the quartet fleeing towards them but there was no sign of it, even from the officers at the rear with their high crested helmets.
They were no more than a hundred feet away when one soldier lowered his shield and frantically pointed up the hill. Cassius looked back in time to hear hundreds of bowstrings ping and see a mass of bolts fly skywards.
‘Arrows! Down!’
Cassius flailed at the nearby Amarante and grabbed her arm. Despite their speed, they somehow slowed themselves without falling and crouched down. Indavara matched them with similar agility; he was soon hunched into a neat ball, arms over his head. Cassius heard a metallic clank from below as the defenders raised their shields to protect themselves.
Perhaps because of his size and weight, Simo was less able to respond so quickly. He lost his footing and stumbled past Cassius and Indavara before thumping to the earth and rolling onto his back.
Thud.
The arrows began to land, slicing through the wheat and peppering the soil.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Cassius had copied Indavara and now sat there, protecting his head, his broken fingers momentarily forgotten. He crouched there with his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for an iron arrow-tip to slice into his back.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
One of the bolts passed within inches of his right ear.
When he heard Amarante cry out, he opened his eyes. She was just to his right, sitting with her legs drawn up and her hands wrapped around her knees.
‘Are you hit?’
She just screamed.
Thud. Thud.
Thud.
‘I think that’s it,’ said Indavara, his voice as calm as if they’d been waiting to cross a street.
Simo was still lying on his back on flattened wheat, eyes bright with fear. As he got up, more arrows came down.
One struck the earth close to his right hand, another beside his left foot. The third landed between his legs, no more than six inches from his groin.
That was the last of them.
‘Lucky bastard.’ First onto his feet, Indavara looked back up the hill. ‘Come on! Before the next volley.’
He hauled Amarante to her feet. She was still looking at the arrows. Cassius helped Simo up and the four of them set off again.
They ended up running toward a small gap between two centuries. Cassius noted a few curious expressions but most were looking up the slope at the enemy.
Soon the centuries were marching past them, faces hard with purpose and determination. Cassius tried to speak to a centurion bringing up the rear but the man completely ignored him. He did however see a standard-bearer, which confirmed that this was indeed the Third Italian Legion.
‘Indavara, the sword.’
‘You want it back?’
‘No, just put it in your belt. Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression’
‘Ah. Good point.’
Behind the orderly centuries, things were rather less organized. A catapult crew was being overtaken by a group of auxiliary archers headed for the legion’s right flank. These men were attired in a variety of clothes and colours but appeared no less committed than the legionaries.
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br /> Amarante seemed in shock so Cassius kept hold of her with his good right hand as they negotiated the flood of troops and headed for the bridge. Suddenly, Simo tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at Indavara. The bodyguard had stopped and seemed to be watching a nearby group of auxiliary archers.
‘Who in Hades are you?’
Cassius spun back aground. Standing in front of him was a senior centurion. Upon the officer’s mail-shirt were six phalerae: the silver discs bearing the faces of gods and emperors – rewards for distinguished conduct.
‘Corbulo, Imperial Security. I was on an intelligence mission for Prefect Venator.’
‘Grain man, eh? What can you tell us about the Twenty-Second?’
‘We were ahead of them, not sure … ah, Indavara?’
The bodyguard had by now caught up, though he seemed a little dazed. ‘I passed at least twenty centuries. Probably the same again in auxiliaries.’
‘All right, pass on anything else you know to the tribunes at the bridge.’
‘You have the whole legion here?’ asked Cassius.
‘Yes. Maybe two – if your Prefect Venator arrives in time.’
The senior centurion left them and began bellowing orders at other officers standing nearby.
‘Are we safe? Are we safe now?’ Amarante had let go of Cassius’s hand. She looked first at him then at Indavara.
‘Yes,’ said Cassius. ‘Yes, we are.’
Soldiers were still pouring across the bridge: legionaries lining up behind their compatriots, auxiliaries filing out to the wings. No significant enemy cavalry had been sighted but every other unit of the Twenty-Second seemed to have crowded onto the wheat field. The Third Italian had reached the wall at approximately the same time. Some sections were now firmly in the hands of one side while others were still being fiercely contested. Volleys of arrows were only occasional and the fighting was now hand to hand.
It had seemed to Cassius initially that the failure of the Twenty-Second to stop the Third crossing the Rhone was crucial but the limited space for manoeuvring beside the river seemed to have hampered the aggressors. The Twenty-Second had the high ground and seemed to possess more auxiliary units. He could not see that either side yet held a clear advantage.
Even though the bridge was no more than a quarter-mile from the ground where Romans now hacked away at each other, it felt oddly removed from the battle. Indavara and Amarante leaned against the bridge wall, also unable to tear their eyes away from the scene of combat. Cassius held a flask of un-watered wine which was easing the pain a little. Simo reckoned the two fingers were fractured above the knuckle. He had strapped them firmly to the rest of the hand and assured his master that he could do no more.
Cassius was still waiting for a word with Prefect Gratidius, having introduced himself to a tribune. The command post was situated on grassy area close to the bridge. Gratidius was a small man, clad in a red tunic and cloak and a golden crested helmet. He was standing with his hands clasped behind him, a picture of serenity. A newly-arrived tribune was currently reporting and several others were listening in. The closest man to Gratidius was an attendant sitting at a field table, making constant adjustments to a map.
‘Clear the way!’
An auxiliary unit moved aside to let a rider through. This man reined in only a few yards from the prefect. His path was barred by a burly legionary but once he’d identified himself, the new arrival was allowed to approach the prefect. He saluted and handed over a letter.
Gratidius unfolded the page and read. A moment later, he grinned, clenched his fist and began doling out new orders. Once most of the tribunes had departed, he at last turned and waved Cassius over.
‘So, you’re Venator’s grain man?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I daresay you shall see him before the day’s out. The Second Parthian are coming up from the south on this side of the Rhone. I shall move my cavalry out to the north and trap Clemens and the Twenty-Second between us.’
‘I hope you’re successful, sir.’
‘You needn’t hope, man,’ said the diminutive prefect. ‘Victory is certain.’
XXIV
Cassius was tempted to stay and observe the battle but, now they were safe, any remaining energy seemed to have deserted him. Half a flask of wine had at least reduced the pain of his fingers though they still throbbed. Indavara too seemed strangely preoccupied and they walked past yet more troops in silence.
The Third Italian Legion had commandeered a large vineyard situated just south of the bridge. The main building was only yards from the Rhone and at the rear were hundreds of neat rows of vines. The dark grapes were small, still many weeks from maturity. The legion’s medical officer had already taken over the building but kindly assigned a man to briefly help Simo, knowing he would soon be inundated with casualties. They found a quiet spot on the banks of the river and began to treat and dress Amarante’s ankle.
Indavara took himself down to the sandy shore and stood there, gazing at the river. Cassius washed down his wine with a long drink of water and followed him down.
‘Is that bad?’
‘What?’ replied Indavara without looking at him.
‘Your tunic – you’re bleeding.’
‘He kicked me into a fence. Broke a rib too.’
‘Simo can treat you.’
‘Not now.’
‘You killed him?’
Indavara pushed his thick fringe away from his eyes and nodded.
‘I’m sorry I left you.’
‘Don’t be. It was the right thing to do.’
‘I knew you’d beat him,’ said Cassius, feeling considerable guilt at the lie. He put his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder. ‘I knew you were still … still you.’
Indavara gazed across the swirling water at the far bank. ‘The auxiliaries we passed. Can we find out who they are?’
‘I suppose so. Why?’
‘I know one of them. And from the look on his face, I think he knows me.’
Before long, casualties began to trickle across the Rhone. Some were carried on stretchers or men’s backs but most were walking wounded. With Amarante and Indavara’s injuries attended to, Simo volunteered his help to the medical officer.
Indavara, meanwhile, stationed himself at the bridge, determined to keep an eye out for the familiar auxiliary. For a short time, Cassius sat with Amarante near the shore. Nothing was said but she held his hand and, despite his exhaustion, he felt a wave of relief and happiness wash over him. They were at last across the river and truly safe.
With alarming speed, the trickle of casualties became a flood. Cassius was not surprised when Amarante offered to help and while she limped around, doling out water to grateful soldiers, Cassius felt he should do what he could. But when he saw Simo with slick blood up to his elbows, he almost vomited.
No more than an hour after they reached the vineyard, word came that Venator’s Second Parthian had struck the Twenty-Second and that the battle was turning quickly. Shortly afterward, a supply column arrived and the medical officer put the new arrivals to work. Cassius returned to the bridge and found Indavara still looking on.
‘The Second Parthian are here. Shall we go across? You’ve just as good a chance of seeing him on the other side.’
They passed yet more wounded. The pale stone below was splattered with blood but what struck Cassius was the relative quiet. Though they saw men with terrible cuts upon their heads and hands, few of the injured cried out. One poor man had an arrow embedded in his neck. Though ashen, he walked without assistance, one hand still holding his blade. At the sight of the bolt embedded in his flesh, Cassius shuddered. It could so easily have been one of them.
‘You want your sword back?’ asked Indavara as they neared the western side.
‘Maybe you should keep it. Ah, that’s right – you don’t like the eagle-head.’
‘I don’t. But it did its job well enough.’ Indavara tapped the handle. ‘Long blade. True
.’
Cassius had little interest in ever carrying a sword again. ‘Then it’s all yours.’
While Indavara stationed himself at the bridge, Cassius continued on to the command post. There were, however, only a few soldiers still present and one tribune. All watched the battle and Cassius now saw that the scene had changed utterly.
The entire wheat field was strewn with dead and injured but the fighting was concentrated towards the top. Some of the Twenty-Second’s cavalry were fleeing away to the south but that route of escape was soon cut off by auxiliaries and legionaries of the Third Italian. Prefect Gratidius could be seen on his horse, patrolling up and down behind the centre of his forces. The low pitch of a signalling tuba sounded. Advancing swiftly across the field from the north were the fresh, orderly units of Venator’s Second Parthian. The bulk of the Twenty-Second had suffered the precise fate predicted by Gratidius.
The Third Italian had three catapults at work, each of which was lobbing great stones over the infantry and into the enemy ranks. Cassius cringed as one of these landed in a morass of men with nowhere to go. Perhaps six of the Twenty-Second’s infantry units had retained their shape but they were now mixed in with scattered cavalry and auxiliaries. Three centuries were already moving north to counter Venator’s men but they were surely exhausted and now badly outnumbered.
Cassius was still watching with grim fascination when the tribune spoke.
‘Is that Clemens? Is that the prefect?’
A lone horseman in gleaming armour rode out from the midst of the Twenty-Second across a patch of unoccupied ground. He halted midway between his own units and the position of Prefect Gratidius.
‘It is Clemens,’ added the tribune.
The enemy prefect raised his sword high then threw it to the ground.
A cheer went up from those close enough to see it then spread all the way down the slope to the river.