Enemy of Rome

XV

‘Auxiliary cavalry approaching fast, sir, on the open ground south of the causeway.’

Valerius heard the rushed conversation between the scout and Primus as he urged his horse to the legate’s side.

‘Numbers?’ the general demanded.

‘Only two cohorts visible,’ the man frowned as if he wasn’t certain of his information, ‘but my commander believes their aggression indicates they expect to be reinforced.’

‘You should return to the safety of the camp, general.’

Primus’s square jaw came up at Valerius’s suggestion, but he saw the expressions on the faces of his staff officers and reluctantly conceded. ‘Very well,’ he snapped, ‘but we will withdraw with the bulk of the cavalry and not before.’ He turned to a junior tribune. ‘Order Aquila and Messalla to bring their legions forward in battle formation as we discussed. We will brush these irritants aside and continue the march on Cremona.’ As the officer rode off Primus turned to Valerius. ‘Inform Varus that he is to take a single wing and make a display that will slow the enemy. He is not to engage, but to delay them and follow at his best pace.’

The one-handed Roman saluted and turned to go, but a shout from one of the other aides froze him in place. ‘What’s he doing?’

Valerius looked towards the front of the column. A flurry of movement indicated where Arrius Varus, commander of Primus’s cavalry, had sent his leading squadrons galloping to the left of the road. As he watched, the young prefect formed line with half of his thousand-strong unit and set off directly for the approaching Vitellian cavalry. Valerius waited for the auxiliary prefect to wheel his troopers to right or left and threaten a flank attack, but gradually it became clear this was no demonstration.

‘Verrens,’ the legate’s voice was a full octave higher than normal. ‘My orders to the prefect remain the same, but you will take the rest of his wing to cover his withdrawal if he has not already ordered that. Do you understand?’

‘Sir!’ Valerius was already on his way. He heard another horse close behind him and glanced across his shoulder. ‘Get back, you fool,’ he rasped. ‘A cavalry charge is no place for a gladiator, especially one as old as you.’

Serpentius’s face twisted into a wry grin. ‘You didn’t say that at the Cepha gap when I kept the Parthians from skewering your liver.’ His expression turned sober. ‘Let’s face it. This cavalry charge is no place for any man who likes the fit of his own skin. There are thousands of the bastards out there.’

They galloped along the left flank of the remaining squadrons of auxiliaries until they reached the leading ranks. A confused decurion watched the diminishing backs of his comrades with an expression close to panic. His face changed to relief when he recognized Valerius’s white cloak.

‘I was given no orders, tribune. I …’ He slapped his fist against his chest in salute. ‘Tiberius Simplex at your command.’

Valerius studied the dark line on the horizon that marked the Vitellian cavalry and made his decision. ‘Squadrons to form line three deep south of the road. We will follow your prefect at the canter. Be ready to wheel left at my command.’

‘Sir!’ The officer saluted and rode off shouting his orders.

Serpentius continued to gaze at the five hundred men bearing down on a force four times their number. ‘Is he trying to commit suicide?’

Valerius rode out into the open ground towards the river with the Spaniard at his side. ‘He’s gambling that the commander of those men will think he’s the bait in a trap and hesitate before attacking him.’ The movement of the horse made talking awkward and his words came in bursts driven from his chest. ‘That would give Varus the chance to escape without a fight like the little boy who tweaks a chained bear’s nose and runs away.’

‘So he’ll have the glory without the pain.’ The Spaniard nodded approvingly.

‘But what he doesn’t know,’ Valerius continued, ‘because he was too impulsive to wait for the scout’s information, is that those two cohorts of cavalry are just the vanguard and they’re probably about to be joined by at least the same number again.’

‘And that will make their commander a lot braver.’

Valerius turned in the saddle to check the twelve squadrons of cavalry moving into formation behind him. ‘He won’t be worried about the trap, because he knows reinforcements are on the way, and he’ll be able to gobble up the bait before any trap could close.’

‘Only there’s no trap. Only us.’

‘That’s right. Sound the advance.’ Valerius snapped the order to the young signaller who had just arrived at his side. The familiar blast rang out from the curved lituus the auxiliary carried, and five hundred horses moved to the walk, then the trot. Valerius gentled his mount into a steady, unhurried stride and tried to calculate the distances between the forces. Arrius Varus was already more than five hundred paces ahead, with the Vitellian cavalry something like a mile beyond, advancing at the trot in their familiar open squares. Surely Varus must realize by now that the enemy wasn’t going to stop. But the Flavian commander showed no sign of hesitation. Valerius considered his options as the gap remorselessly closed. A messenger would never reach Varus in time. If it came to a fight their only hope was to reach the point of collision soon enough to support the auxiliaries before they were swamped. On the other hand, Valerius couldn’t afford to push his horses too hard or the enemy would ride them down during the retreat. If they ever got the chance to retreat.

He shouted to the trooper with the lituus. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Julius Felicio.’ The words were just audible above the thunder of hooves on the heavy round. ‘Trumpeter, tenth squadron, Second Thracum Augusta, sir.’

‘Stay close to me, Julius. I don’t want you more than a sword’s length from my side even if we’re in the middle of a fight.’ The advice was accompanied by a savage smile and he saw the boy’s face go pale. ‘And don’t worry about getting killed because you’ll be in good company. If you die, boy, we all die. So stay close.’

Serpentius moved into position on the trumpeter’s right side and Valerius knew that whatever happened he could do no more to protect him. The Spaniard was as deadly in the saddle as on foot. He’d fought on horseback for Nero’s spectacles in the Circus Maximus when whole squadrons of gladiators would clash for the entertainment of the Emperor and his friends. Valerius had seen him in battle against Batavian wolf men and Parthian Invincibles and neither could match his skills with sword or spear, or the little Scythian throwing axes he kept at his belt.

The gap between the two formations grew smaller with every passing second. Turn, you fool. Turn. He felt Felicio’s eyes on him and realized he’d spoken aloud. If Varus turned even now, Valerius could wheel his squadrons left to threaten the Vitellian right flank. It might not hold the enemy in place, but with Fortuna’s aid it would cause enough confusion for the two divisions of the Second Thracum to win free and join up with the main force as it retreated towards Bedriacum.

But it was already too late.

Only four hundred paces separated the two lines now and the bellow of Varus’s trumpeter sounding the charge scraped across the inside of Valerius’s skull like a sword point. Each individual turma in the attacking formation contained forty men, ranged in ranks four deep. Charging shoulder to shoulder the ten men in the front ranks shared an attack frontage of fifteen paces, with five paces separating each turma. But few horses, even trained cavalry mounts, would charge home against an unbroken line. Another short blast of the trumpet and Valerius saw daylight as the individual units obediently changed formation to open order and the line rippled out, increasing its length, but still only two thirds the span of the enemy’s front.

‘Wheel quarter left,’ he shouted.

‘Now we’re for it.’ Valerius barely registered Serpentius’s doom-laden prediction before the two lines struck with a tumultuous clatter of iron, shrieks of mortal agony and the squeals of dying horses. Splintered lances twisted through the air and he saw at least one horse somersault over the heads of the first line and smash into the rear ranks of the enemy.

‘Sound the charge!’ Valerius accompanied the order with a primeval scream that combined anger and fear and frustration at Varus for getting him killed. His long sword was already in his left hand, drawn without its owner’s volition. The urgent repeated trumpet call turned the ranks behind into a wall of roaring, shrieking madmen. The Second Thracum was made up of hard men born to the saddle, the third or fourth generation of their line to serve the Roman cause. They were instinctive warriors, of an ancient lineage that had learned the killing trade on the flatlands where the Danuvius flowed into the Pontus Euxinus. Valerius had calculated that to follow Varus directly into the centre of the Vitellian line would do as much harm as good. Instead, he had carefully angled his attack to come at the outer right fringe of the attacking line. But his orders were to get Varus clear, and the only way to do that was to ride directly into the heart of the carnage.

‘With me, boy. Not a sword’s length away.’ He cut across the signaller and made for the seething mass of men who were hacking and jabbing at each other in the centre. Behind him, the crashing collision between two walls of horse soldiers was repeated, but he only had eyes for the men ahead and finding Varus’s standard.

‘There.’ At his side, Serpentius pointed to a red and yellow banner that weaved and dipped in the midst of the struggling men. ‘Silly bastard’s got himself caught in the middle of it.’

‘Jupiter!’ Valerius roared the watchword, praying the enemy hadn’t chosen the same one. It would be foolish to die on the point of a friend’s spear after escaping the headsman’s sword. A trooper careered across his front, intent on spearing a wounded man on a horse with Thracian trappings. Valerius automatically swung his sword at the unfamiliar helmet and cursed as the cut clattered against metal, jarring his arm to the elbow. The half-stunned enemy cavalryman turned his spear to meet the threat, but Serpentius was already inside the point and the air sprayed scarlet as the former gladiator’s spatha took out his throat. Valerius saw Felicio’s eyes widen in astonishment at the speed of the Spaniard’s attack. ‘With me,’ he urged the boy. ‘Stay with me. Jupiter!’

He focused on the bobbing flash of red and yellow as he forced his way through a bustling herd of mounted men hacking at each other with long swords. In the whirling mass of soldiers and horses the distinction between enemy and friend became blurred. A hand clawed at his leg and he chopped downward, drawing a gurgling scream of agony. Bile rose in his throat as he realized he’d just sliced the lower jaw from a Flavian cavalryman, who fell back with blood spurting from his shattered face. ‘Jupiter. Vespasian. Varus?’

Somehow they reached the Flavian cavalry commander as he exchanged blows with the enemy in an unseeing cloud of rage and battle madness. His signaller was down, felled by a backhand cut across the eyes that left him groping blindly among the flying hooves. A bloodied standard-bearer was screaming at him to disengage, but Arrius Varus was lost in an Otherworld that only soldiers know, his heart soaring on the death cries of his enemies.

‘Varus?’ Valerius pushed his mount between the standard-bearer and his commander, grabbing roughly at the cavalry prefect’s reins and hauling the horse away from the enemy blades. Varus’s sword came round like a striking snake, but the Roman’s spatha flicked out to knock the blade away and the cavalryman froze at the feel of cold iron against his throat. The blood-crazed glow in his eyes faded.

He shook his head. ‘You? How dare-’

‘General’s orders, prefect,’ Valerius said with a formality that seemed out of place amongst the butchery. ‘You’re to withdraw and join the main force.’

‘Are you a fool?’ Varus spat. ‘This is my victory. Look at them. They’re running like rabbits. If Primus reinforces me we can chase them all the way back to Cremona.’

Valerius had been concentrating so hard on finding his quarry that he’d lost sight of what was happening on the rest of the field. Now he looked, and he realized Varus was correct. The enemy had faded away, beaten in the centre and the right, inexplicably followed by the men on the left who had not struck a blow in a fight that had lasted barely three minutes. Varus’s troops jeered at the retreating backs and cut down the few dismounted men attempting to surrender.

‘We should go back,’ Valerius persisted.

Varus shook his head like a man in a fog. ‘My victory.’

‘You’re welcome to it then,’ Serpentius snorted dismissively. He took Valerius’s reins and hauled his horse round. Cursing, Valerius tried to pull them back, but the former gladiator shook him off and nodded to where the defeated Vitellian cavalry had regathered. Valerius felt his heart freeze at the sight that greeted him less than a mile away. Line after line of glittering spear points marked the arrival of the Vitellian reinforcements; a solid, invincible mass of man, metal and horseflesh four or five times the number of the blown and battered survivors of the Flavian charge. ‘Do you want to die with him?’ the Spaniard demanded.

Valerius turned to Felicio, who hadn’t moved a sword’s length from him during the entire battle. ‘Sound the retreat,’ he said wearily.