Blood and Steel

Chapter 46

Africa

The Plain outside Carthage,

Ten Days after the Ides of March, AD238

Gordianus! Imperator! Gordianus!

It was more than passing brave to ride along the lines and hear thousands chant his name. Any man might feel a little more than mortal. Gordian reined in by every unit, and made a brief speech. Each was addressed not to the officers but the men. Have confidence in your courage, your numbers, your general. Have confidence in the justice of your cause, the favour of the gods. You fight for freedom, for your loved ones, for your city, and for eternal Rome. To hope for safety in flight was folly. In battle it was the greatest cowards who were in the greatest danger. Courage was the one sure and certain hope of protection. Stand up to the initial onslaught, and the enemy would be trapped. Silence in the ranks, listen for the commands of your officers, do not desert your friends, your kinsmen, your tentmates, your brothers. Victory will be ours!

He wished he had had more sleep. At this season the hours of darkness and daylight were balanced. Sabinianus had been right to retire early. Gordian’s head ached from too much wine and too little rest. He wondered if the other senior officers felt equally jaded.

The sun was risen, but the enemy were still no more than a smear of dust over the hills on the horizon. Capelianus was no fool. He would not launch an attack while the sun was still low in the east, slanting into the eyes of his men, dazzling them. Suspecting as much, Gordian had given instructions for food and drink to be brought out from the city. All men fought better on a full stomach, better still with a moderate amount of wine to dispel some of their fears, if not to much sharpen their courage.

Gordian reached his station, and dismounted. The Praetorian Prefect Vocula offered him some bread, a handful of olives, and a flask. He took a long pull of wine, and tried to eat. Death is nothing to us. He had been nothing before, and he would be nothing again. Fear must not cloud his mind.

He walked out a few paces from the line to where the pits were dug, and studied the dispositions. The standards of the 1st Legion, the Gordian, Pious and Faithful, flew over the villa of Sextus. Under the tribune Pedius the four hundred would hold the left secure. From there the main battle line of close order troops stretched towards him. First stood the three thousand or so levies under the other tribune Geminius. From a distance their makeshift shields — skins and osiers stretched over wooden frames — and their rough-and-ready weapons — a miscellany of hunting spears and axes, antique swords from temples, and whatever could be gathered from the amphitheatre or hastily forged — made them look almost like real soldiers. Alongside them were the five hundred auxiliaries of the 1st Flavian Cohort under Iulius Pullus, and next to them Suillius with the same number of legionaries from the 3rd Augusta. Gordian had taken his place in the centre with the Praetorians. As the first supporters of the Gordiani, these five hundred locals from the African youth organizations had most to fear. If the day went against them, as instigators of the revolt, the former Iuvenes could expect no mercy.

Turning to the right, Gordian ran his eyes over the 13th Urban Cohort. Another five hundred professionals, well led by Alfenus, they had an appearance of dependability. Past them was Sabinianus’ command, the other three thousand levies equipped for hand-to-hand combat. On the extremity of this flank was Fuscinus with the 15th Cohort of Emesenes. These five hundred easterners probably were the best troops. That was as it should be, for beyond them, open plain stretched some three hundred paces to the walls and buildings of the complex of fish ponds. Mauricius had the cavalry concealed from view.

Men were walking forward from the ranks to relieve themselves in the pits, in advance of which the two thousand levies with missile weapons clustered in the casual disarray of light infantry in open order. The onshore breeze of dawn had already died, and soon the still air held the familiar pre-battle smell of urine and excrement.

Gordian had been concerned that the nerve of many of the levies would have failed this morning, that they would have decided to cower in their homes or try to lose themselves in the myriad backstreets of Carthage. Certainly there were not as many on the field as the day before. But most had appeared, even if some had needed to be roused out by the professional soldiers sent through the city for that purpose.

Looking out to the west, the enemy now formed a dark stain across the plain. They were still a long way off. Waiting was always difficult. Act as one prepared long since. What is terrible is easy to endure.

A small lizard or skink scuttled onto a flat rock near Gordian’s boot. As he watched it bask in the sun, he heard a horseman ride up from the right. The soldier slid out of the saddle, and saluted.

‘Imperator, the Legate Sabinianus has not reported for duty.’

Gordian was at a loss. Where in Hades was his friend? Perhaps he had continued drinking on his own.

‘Ride into town, go to the quarters of the legate. If he is there, wake him.’

The man remounted, clattered away.

The levies on the right needed a leader. Men fight better under the eyes of senior officers. Gordian waved for another messenger to approach.

‘Go to the villa of Sextus. Tell the tribune Pedius he is to take command of the levies of Sabinianus. The Primus Pilus of the 1st Gordiana will hold the villa.’

What had happened to Sabinianus? Lack of courage had never been an issue. He had volunteered to ride alone into the oasis of Ad Palmam. At Esuba he had been second over the wall. When Gordian was wounded, he had covered him with his shield, had single-handedly saved his life.

The enemy were much closer. Gordian could tell which bodies of troops were mounted. That meant they were within 1,300 paces. But, as individuals could not be distinguished, still more than a thousand distant. The infantry were in the centre, the cavalry on both wings; all conventional enough.

Gordian forced himself to stop straining to make out where the separate units were stationed. Time would tell. His eyes rested on the slowly diminishing empty plain between the armies. It was green with spring grass, tinted lilac with tall flowers. Soon it would be ruined and foul, worse than the excrement-soiled pits. The idyll would be stained red, littered with hacked corpses and discarded weapons. If the gods existed, if they cared, they would not let such things happen.

His father had taken the sacrifice in the Forum, outside the Palace. Thankfully, given the heightened superstitions of men going into battle, he had pronounced them propitious in the second victim. It had been hard saying goodbye to his father. There was so much he had wanted to say, but lacked the words. Somehow he felt there were more things that he did not yet know, things that might forever remain unthought and unexpressed.

He had known his father drew strength from the words of the astrologers. Today there was no danger of either of them meeting death by drowning. If Gordian was to father a son who would be Emperor, he must live through this day. Perhaps his father was right. It would be a comfort. But no, this was not the moment to let go of his Epicurean convictions. He needed a clear head, sharp focus. He took another drink of wine.

Death was nothing. Anyway, he had no intention of dying here. If the worst occurred, there was always the ship commissioned by Sabinianus. Gordian would cut his way back to the city, gather his father, and sail to Rome, or to the East. One defeat did not have to end the war.

Now individuals could be seen clearly among the enemy; the colour of their shields, the pale roundness of their faces, the bright crests of their helmets. They were less than five hundred paces away. The legionaries were massed in the centre, opposite where Gordian stood. As he had hoped, there seemed to be no more than two thousand swords with the 3rd Legion. Judging by the other standards, three Cohorts of auxiliaries marched on either side. If they were up to strength, that was another three thousand. In all five thousand heavy infantry, with a screen of probably another five hundred archers out in front. The numbers of foot favoured Gordian.

Irregular cavalry flanked the enemy infantry. Riding anyhow, without order, their numbers were impossible to judge. More than a thousand, less than three; it mattered little. These Moorish tribesmen on their little ponies would not close with well-ordered infantry, not until the latter were running. They would be as brave as lions if it came to spearing men from behind. Much more important were the cavalry-men who could be seen over the heads of the infantry. Gordian knew that the nearest regular troopers to Lambaesis were the men of the 1st Ala of Pannonians based at Gemellae. Assuming it was them, the unit had a strength on papyrus of five hundred.

Capelianus had force marched to Carthage. Many stragglers would have fallen by the wayside. The men and horses still with the standards would be tired. That was all to the good.

Trumpets rang out across the plain. Some four hundred paces away, the enemy halted. The speed of his arrival before the city showed Capelianus was eager for glory, his alacrity no doubt spurred by his old animosity to Gordian’s father. Yet, as a general, the cuckold appeared cautious as well as unoriginal in his thinking.

More trumpet calls. Despatch riders galloped to and fro. All the cavalry, the reserve of regulars and all the Moorish irregulars were moving to Capelianus’ left. Gordian felt his spirits lift. His open right flank, the gap between the 15th Cohort and the walls and warehouses of the fish ponds had been temptation enough. This battle could be decided in those three hundred paces of open land — just as he intended.

Gordian walked back to the line, and mounted. The Praetorians opened their formation to let him pass through to the rear. A Roman general was not some hairy, savage chieftain inspiring his men with deeds of rash ferocity in the front rank. He needed a position from where he could survey the field, manage the battle. Whatever the barbarian Maximinus believed, in pitched battle an Imperator should only draw his weapon when things were desperate and there was no other choice. If it came to that, often it was best if he turned the blade on himself. Better to die with honour, leave an example for others to follow, than live as an object of scorn. To live as a coward was no life at all.

Reordered, spacings dressed, the enemy again were moving forward. The cavalry walked in line with the heavy infantry. Their archers jogged out in front.

Gordian’s light infantry could not contain themselves. In small groups, no more than half a dozen at a time, they rushed forward, and let fly with slings and bows. All the missiles fell harmlessly. The enemy were still some three hundred paces away, well out of effective range.

The enemy archers ran on, bent forward like men with rain in their faces. As they got closer, one or two went down. Not near enough to make a difference.

Some hundred paces from their opponents, Capelianus’ bowmen came to a stop. Gordian had not heard the order. As one they drew and released. The volley scythed through Gordian’s men. One missile could be dodged, a multitude was an altogether more terrible thing. The recruits broke and ran. Another volley caught them as they tried to negotiate the pits. Many were hit. Pushing and shoving, maddened by their terror, some impaled themselves on the stakes.

‘Open ranks. Let the light troops go through.’

Gordian’s order was repeated down the line. The Praetorians and regulars did as they were bidden. The militiamen dashed down the gaps. At least half continued running, off under the aqueduct, through the tombs, and away towards the gates.

‘Close ranks. Vocula, have some Praetorians rally those that remain. Get the bowmen among them shooting back over our heads.’

The hostile archers pulled up at the pits. Now they were free to play their arrows on the main battle line. Gordian checked the lacing on the strap of his helmet, turned his horse face on to the threat, and brought his shield up to cover himself and the neck of his mount.

‘Form testudo. Lock shields.’

The air thrummed with menace. Arrowheads thumped into the leather and wood of shields, dinked off metal armour. Some got through. Men screamed. The arrows fell thick around Gordian and the standards, as he had known they would. None found the mark.

Outgoing missiles arced overhead. One whistled past Gordian’s head. Gods below, that would be a stupid way to die.

‘Vocula, have them shoot higher. I do not want an arrow up my arse.’

The nearby Praetorians laughed.

A trumpet sounded out on the right.

Capelianus’ cavalry were walking forward. The regulars came on in a column of fives. The irregulars cantered about as each man’s will dictated. They moved to the space between Gordian’s line and the fish ponds, into his cunningly prepared killing ground.

Time slowed. An arrow punched into Gordian’s shield almost unheeded. Come on, you bastards. A little further, not far, just a few more paces.

An arrow hit a standard bearer full in the face. He fell. Another Praetorian took up his burden. Gordian barely noticed.

Come on, come on.

Now! The enemy were deep in the trap. Now Mauricius! Now!

Movement by the fish ponds. The flash of a scarlet standard. Gates opening. The glint of steel. Hannibal had not done better at Trasimene. Gordian had them in his grasp.

A trumpet call cut through the din.

The Moorish irregulars were galloping to get clear.

Horsemen filing out of the gates. The Horse Guards, the levy troopers, the Scouts, Mauricius below a banner at their head. The ambush was sprung to perfection. Mauricius and his men would plough into the flank of the surprised enemy cavalry.

Another trumpet, brassy and clear.

Capelianus’ regular troopers halted, and, without fuss, turned to face the new threat, as if on a parade ground, as if it had been expected.

Mauricius’ men were forming up, getting ready to charge. But instead of crashing into a panicked huddle, they faced an ordered line five riders deep.

How had the enemy known? Had some deserter told them? Gordian felt hollow. His fortune giving way, all his plans turned illusions.

Mauricius’ men were advancing.

Come now, as one prepared long since, courageously stand in the face of fortune. The numbers of heavy cavalry were about even. The close order infantry still stood. The issue yet to be decided.

The arrow storm slackened. The archers on both sides were watching the right.

The cavalry clashed together. In an instant the mounted melee was obscured by the dust kicked up by thousands of pounding hooves.

Gordian’s stratagem had failed. He had hoped to lure Capelianus’ troopers into the gap between the infantry and the fish ponds, catch them unaware, hit them in the flank, scatter them like chaff. As they fled, their panic might have infected their infantry. The whole army of Capelianus could have been swept away in the rout. Even if that had not come about, Mauricius should have been free to lead his men around behind the enemy line. Few troops, not even the best, hold their ranks when surrounded. The plan had failed. The gods had not been kind. The gods did not exist.

The issue would not be decided soon, not in time to affect the main battle. But already Gordian could see the standards of Mauricius’ men giving ground, and the Moors were beginning to lap around their flanks.

As he watched a wedge of horsemen burst through the fight into the sunlight. Even at that distance, he recognized the centurion Faraxen and the twenty or so Scouts. Without slackening pace, Faraxen led them off the battlefield to the south.

Gordian felt a great heaviness. He did not blame Faraxen. Twenty riders could not alter the course of a battle. He hoped they would reach Phillyrio at the frontier. Although if the battle were lost, the gods knew what would become of them. Inconsequentially, he realized that he had never asked Aemilius Severinus why his men called him Phillyrio.

Something caught his eye to the front. Like an audience at a play that no longer held its attention, Capelianus’ infantry returned to its own concerns. The archers retired through the main body.

The shields of legionaries and auxiliaries snapped together. Like an implacable wall of steel, leather and wood, something quite inhuman, they began the final advance.

‘Officers dismount. Turn the horses loose.’

Before he got out of the saddle, Gordian raised his voice to carry through the formation. ‘Fellow-soldiers, your Imperator and your officers will stand and fight shoulder to shoulder with you. Together we will conquer, or share the same fate. Let no man turn his back, desert his brothers.’

The Praetorians around him cheered. Gordian Imperator! Victory and freedom!

Gordian took his place by the standards at the rear. A tall, big man, he could see over most of the helmets ahead.

The enemy broke into a run as they reached the line of pits. The rattle of their equipment proceeded them. The ranks of the legionaries bearing down on Gordian clattered sideways, eddied and bunched, but close packed, some still failed to avoid the pitfalls. They yelled in agony as their legs went from under them and the sharpened, splintered wood pierced them. Their tentmates trampled over them.

‘Stand firm! Hold the line!’

An awful uproar on both flanks

At both ends of the array the levies were running, with not a blow struck. They had given way like a tenement in an earthquake.

Cowards! Traitors! Carthaginian catamites!

‘Silence in the ranks!’ Gordian tried to take in all that was happening. Everything was confusion, going too fast.

The legionaries had not charged home into the two thousand of his regulars who remained. The legionaries stood in a ragged, panting line a few paces away.

Behind Gordian on both wings the mob were throwing down their shields and weapons, the better to run. He could not see what had happened to the 15th Cohort on the far right, but to the left the standards of the 1st Gordiana still flew over the villa. If only he still had the horse. He needed an unobscured view to make sense of the chaos. If the discipline of Capelianus’ auxiliaries broke, and they chased after the routing levies, the issue here in the centre might still be balanced.

Uniformed men off to the left, slashing at the backs of the fleeing plebs. Dozens of them, hundreds. The atavistic urge to slaughter the defenceless had overcome all the auxiliaries’ years of training. It was the same on the right. There was still hope. Two thousand against two thousand here at the heart of the battle.

‘Imperator.’ Vocula was pointing.

The standards of Suillius’ Cohort of the 3rd were dipping.

Maximinus Imperator. The shout was loud. Maximinus Imperator.

They were reversing their swords. The treacherous bastards were going over. They would not fight their fellow legionaries. They would rather serve a barbarian tyrant than Emperors born in Rome. Beyond them the standards of the 1st Flavian Cohort were going down as well.

Who was left? The Praetorians, on their right, the 13th Urban Cohort stood firm. One thousand men.

They would withdraw. Keep their faces to the enemy, fight their way back to the city. The aqueduct and the tombs would break up the formation of their enemies, negate their superior numbers.

But as he looked towards Carthage, hope died. Already the gates were choked with a throng of men. They were stationary, wedged together, fighting among themselves, as Capelianus’ auxiliaries bore down, killing the laggards among the tombs.

Face your fate with courage. Not with the complainings and entreaties of a coward. Death is nothing.

A voice was shouting.

‘Lay down your arms, fellow-soldiers. Your fight is done and over.’

It was Capelianus, sitting a horse behind his men. Just four ranks away. He was still shouting.

‘Your pretend Emperor has fled. Those who led you astray have fled. No mounted officers remain under your standards. Return to your sacramentum. You were misled. The clemency of Maximinus is boundless. I am merciful. There will be no retribution.’

Gordian tugged off his helmet, cast it aside, so he could be seen. ‘I am here. Praetorians, we will stand together to the end.’

He shouldered his way to the front, drawing his sword. ‘The coward Capelianus has put himself at our mercy. Some god has blinded him. Kill the cuckold, and the day is yet ours. With me, brothers.’

He could see the surprise and indecision on the face of Capelianus.

Just four ranks of soldiers. Let me not die without a struggle, inglorious, but do some big thing first, that men to come shall know of it.

‘With me!’ Vocula was beside him. ‘Are you ready for war?’

Ready! All the men around him were bellowing, caught up in the intoxication of the sanguinary drama.

‘Are you ready for war?’

Ready!

On the third response, Gordian charged forward.

At a run, he crashed shield to shield into the legionary opposite. The man staggered back, collided with the man behind. Gordian took a blow from the left on his shield, smashed the boss into a bearded face. He caught a sword thrust from the right on his own blade, rolled his wrist, and punched. His knuckles hit the face guard. He felt them break. But the man reeled away, impeding his fellows.

They were in the midst of their lines.

Gordian dropped to one knee, thrust under his shield into the thigh of the legionary in front. Before the man could fall, Vocula had finished him. Another Praetorian was on his other shoulder.

Three ranks to go. His own men around him. The clamour of the fighting stunned the senses.

Gordian hacked and thrust. No room or time for thought. He chopped down a man to his right with a backhand slash. Felt his shoulder-guard buckle as a blade caught him. Ignoring it, he cut down the next man in his way. His shield was splintered, jagged. His right hand throbbed.

Two ranks. He could see Capelianus turning the head of his horse. If he rode off, the morale of his men would collapse. If he stayed, Gordian would kill him.

Too fast to react, Gordian was hit on the side of the head. For a moment, his vision blurred. He struck out blindly. The point of his sword glanced off metal. Blood was running hot down his neck. He thrust again, met resistance.

Now there was only one legionary between him and Capelianus. But out of the corner of his eye he saw Vocula fall. There was no one else with him. He was alone. Steel all around him.

Something jabbed between his shoulder blades. The armour broke. A surge of pain, the breath driven out of him. A legionary aimed a swing at his head. He went to bring his shield up, but he was slow. The sword cut into his jaw, snapped his head sideways.

He brought up his sword. But it was heavy, so very heavy. The iron taste of blood filling his mouth, flooding down his throat.

He was on his knees. Men were shouting, but they were far away, as if he were at the bottom of a well.

A blow to the back of his head knocked him forward on all fours. All ways of dying are hateful to us poor mortals. No, that was wrong. Death was nothing.

He felt the next blow, but not the ones after that.

Death was nothing.