Enemy of Rome

XIX

‘Mars’ arse, I wish we had some of those shield-splitters that did such a good job at the Cepha gap,’ Serpentius complained. In the gathering gloom, Valerius agreed with him, but kept his counsel in front of Ferox and his other aides. Shield-splitter was the name the men gave the wheeled scorpio artillery that fired five-foot arrows capable of ripping through a scutum as if it were silk. The scorpio was a giant bow mounted on a heavy wooden platform; it took two or three men to turn the ratchet to draw back the string — a twisted leather cord an inch in diameter. Shield-splitters had broken the back of the enemy charges when Corbulo defeated the Parthians at Cepha, a narrow valley north of the Tigris. Seventh Galbiana’s complement of ten scorpiones for every cohort, plus a ballista, had been left behind to speed up the march to Cremona. Valerius’s only consolation was that the Vitellian legions hurrying from Hostilia were likely to be equally unencumbered. Twenty-first Rapax or Fifth Alaudae were the only enemy units close enough to bring up their ballistae and scorpiones.

Primus had stationed the men of the Seventh Galbiana on the southern side of the Via Postumia with the Seventh Claudia, under Messalla, on their left flank. Aquila’s Thirteenth Gemina held the road in a tight column just three centuries wide and twenty deep, a solid backbone through the centre of the Flavian position. On their right stood the veterans of the Eighth Augusta and, holding the far right flank, the bronzed warriors of the Third Gallica in their outlandish Syrian cloaks. The general had stationed his auxiliaries on both wings, knowing they were out-muscled by the Vitellian legions. Valerius prayed the gamble paid off, because if the enemy commander used his auxiliaries to hold the centre and hammered the flanks with his legions there’d be only one outcome. Primus’s sole reserve was the host of three thousand disbanded Praetorians, who made up in enthusiasm and hatred for the enemy what they lacked in organization. Arrius Varus, surprisingly, retained his general’s confidence, scouting ahead with his cavalry to give warning of the enemy’s approach. In battle his squadrons would take up position on either side of the army. From there they could harass the Vitellian flanks, exploit an enemy retreat, or — and all Valerius’s experience told him it was a much more likely event — cover their own.

Valerius studied the western horizon, where the faintest of ochre glows marked the dying of another day. It must be now, or the chance would be lost. He’d borrowed a fine white stallion from one of his aides, the better to be seen as the light faded. Heaving himself into the saddle he rode along the front ranks of the First cohort, which held the position of honour on the right of the legionary line.

He saw Brocchus spit surreptitiously and he had no doubt the primus pilus accompanied it with a muttered curse. Atilius, the legion’s aquilifer, standing to the centurion’s left in his bearskin and gleaming breastplate, met Valerius’s nod with a grin. Behind them the legionaries stood in long silent lines, resting their arms on their heavy curved shields. An army of faceless strangers, their features hidden in the shadow of their helmet brims.

The first time Valerius heard a legionary commander rallying his troops had been on the crest of a gentle slope that would soon be slick with the blood of Boudicca’s rebels. He’d never thought to be in this position. Yet, when it came to it, he found the words flowed easily. Less than six months ago he’d stood on these damp fields with brave men at his side. Then the trampled crops had been new planted, the green shoots struggling through the dark earth into the spring sunshine. Now it was the stubble of the autumn harvest — for these were fields not yet haunted by the ghosts of battle — that prickled the feet of the men in their hobnailed sandals.

‘Do you fear the enemy?’ His voice sounded loud in his own ears, but he knew it wouldn’t carry to five thousand men. To ensure his message was heard every centurion had orders to relay his words strongly enough to carry to the next century.

‘No!’ The shouted reply rippled through the ranks after a short puzzled silence.

‘Do you fear the darkness?’

‘No!’

‘Then you are either liars or fools.’ He paused and after a moment they laughed as he’d hoped they would. ‘For together they may combine to destroy us. Our enemy is confusion. Our friend is discipline. The watchword for tonight is Tolosa.’ The Gallic city was Primus’s birthplace and an unlikely word for the Vitellian commander to choose for that reason alone. ‘Your tesserarius will remind you, but etch it on your soul. Remember it. Trust the men beside you and in front of you, and stay in contact. In the darkness, cohesion is your friend. Division is your enemy. You are a young legion; you have never fought the legions of Vitellius. That is no shame, and no fault of yours. An emperor gave you your eagle, but he was foolish enough to send you away, and paid the price. Another called for your aid, but that call came too late. Now is your chance to show your quality. Atilius?’ The standard-bearer marched forward, led by a soldier with a torch. He held the eagle aloft on its wooden pole and the spread wings glittered in the flickering golden light as if it were a living thing. Valerius could almost feel the legion hold its collective breath at the sight of their sacred charge. He waited until the aquilifer reached his side. ‘I promised a dying man I would save his legion’s eagle or die in the attempt.’ He allowed the image to make its impact. ‘I failed him. I … will … not … lose … another.’ The words emerged as if from a slingshot, hurled by the strength of his emotion, and the legionaries caught his mood and roared their approval.

‘Galbiana! Galbiana! Galbiana!’ A great swelling storm of defiance hung over the battlefield like a banner.

Valerius raised his hand for quiet and waited for the hubbub to cease. ‘That eagle belonged to a young legion too,’ he continued. ‘And I watched that legion charge to glory. I watched it tear the enemy ranks apart. I watched Juva, of the Waverider, optio of the first century of the Fifth cohort, destroy an enemy square and rip an eagle from the dying grasp of its aquilifer. I watched him carry it to his legate and I watched him promoted to centurion and become a Hero of Rome.’ He paused again, his mouth dry with the memory. In the silence he sensed the waves of emotion ripple through the long ranks of armoured men behind the brightly painted scuta. Battle madness, they called it, the madness that would carry a man through a shield wall to the gates of Hades. It was an elusive quality, unreliable, often untrustworthy and rare as a phoenix egg. Yet in the right hands it could be as fearsome a weapon as was ever forged in an armourer’s fire. The night air seemed to throb with its power, and Valerius marvelled that he, and he alone, had called it up. He smiled, and would have been surprised if he could have seen the elemental savagery etched in the lines of his face. ‘I was wrong.’ His voice shook with the passion that welled inside him. ‘You need not fear the enemy, because the enemy is a leaderless rabble and fodder for your swords. You need not fear the night because the spirit of Juva is with you, and Mars and Jupiter watch over you. If you forget the name Tolosa, then let Juva be the unit watchword of the Seventh Galbiana.’ This time it was the big Nubian’s name they roared, and again he raised his hands for silence. ‘We will fight on the defensive, a wall of iron that kills anyone who dares come against us. But if an opportunity arises, we must be ready to exploit it. Be ready for the command and do not hesitate. Now,’ he bowed his head, exhausted by emotions he struggled to keep under control, ‘make your peace with your gods.’

In the hush that followed, Ferox walked his horse forward to Valerius’s side, pride shining in his eyes. ‘The Senate has lost a great politician by your presence here,’ the second in command said quietly. ‘But I for one am glad of it.’

Valerius felt as drained as if he’d already fought the battle, but he shrugged off the feeling and clapped his deputy on the shoulder. ‘Who would have thought it, Claudius? An orator. Cicero reborn.’ He lowered his head, so no other man heard. ‘Can I count on you?’

The tribune raised his chin. ‘To the death.’

‘I never doubted it. Make sure our best men are with the eagle. Take no argument from Brocchus if you have to put his placemen back in the ranks.’

Ferox nodded and rode off, to be replaced by Serpentius. ‘When you were telling them about Juva’s heroics you forgot to mention watching him being chopped into little pieces along with the rest of First Adiutrix.’

‘Sometimes a speech is as much about what you leave out as what you put in.’ The Spaniard heard the smile in Valerius’s voice before the tone changed. ‘If they attack in the night it’s going to be bloody and confused. Noise and distraction on every side, pila coming out of the darkness and no way of knowing whose hand threw them. If the Seventh stays together we’ll be safe enough, but if they break … At the start, I want you to stay by me and listen.’

‘Listen?’

Valerius nodded. ‘This fight will be won by the man who understands what is going on around him. You will be my eyes and ears. Listen for the enemy’s watchword.’ He felt Serpentius stiffen with interest. ‘When we’re certain we have it, put together a reserve from my personal bodyguard to deal with any breakthrough’ — a thought struck him — ‘and collect the enemy shields.’ The Spaniard produced a leopard growl of a laugh as he guessed Valerius’s purpose. ‘It will probably be a wasted effort, but who knows? They might come in useful.’

On the far side of the raised causeway, the mounts of Marcus Antonius Primus’s aides skittered nervously at the muffled roar from the legion on their right.

‘Stop flapping around like a flock of headless capons,’ Primus barked. ‘Don’t you fools know the difference between a legion that’s in a fight and a legion that’s spoiling for one? Is there any more news from Varus?’ The answer was negative, the situation the same as before. Legionary-sized formations were on the march from Cremona, but they could be anywhere between one and three miles away. The general didn’t know the exact numbers, and with full dark imminent he wasn’t going to. Worse, their dispositions and intentions were hidden from him. Even now they could be flanking him, readying for an attack that would roll up his line. He shuddered at the thought and fought the snake of panic that squirmed in his belly. His horse sensed his mood, dancing nervously on its hooves, and he hauled at the reins to curb it, muttering: ‘Stay still, you brainless bastard.’

He must keep his faith in Varus and his cavalry out there prowling the darkness. Still, he cursed the weakness that had made him concede to those bastard mutineers who demanded to be led straight to battle. Caesar would have butchered one in every ten, and, if that hadn’t convinced them, butchered one in every ten more. Instead he had given in, and now he was going to have to fight in the pitch dark. It would be like orchestrating his funeral from his own tomb. Would they attack? He had to assume so. Otherwise why leave a perfectly good defensive position at Cremona, with supplies of food and weapons close to hand and the support of heavy weapons from the walls?

He turned his thoughts momentarily from the enemy to his own position. His defences ran from south to north across the gravel of the Via Postumia. The stream or ditch Valerius Verrens had identified defined the line in the south, while the northern sector was marked by the slightly raised country track that dissected the main road. Naturally, his legions had protected themselves with all the ingenuity of their years of service. Pits and hidden stakes, a ditch such as could be thrown up in the time available. Not enough, but it would have to suffice. Third Gallica and Eighth Augusta defended the northern flank. Thirteenth Gemina stood like a compact bulwark three centuries wide and twenty deep in the centre, eager to avenge the humiliation of their defeat at Bedriacum. A new roar from the south interrupted his thoughts and he smiled. He was glad he’d allowed logic to triumph over emotion and handed command of Seventh Galbiana to the man who had been his enemy. Gaius Valerius Verrens might be an irritating combination of equestrian disdain for the pursuit of power and wealth and a man of boringly predictable honesty, but he was a soldier to his very bones. And Primus needed a soldier in charge of Galbiana today. The legion held the most exposed position in the line, in front of the raised roadway but unprotected by the stream which ran almost due east before taking a propitious dogleg across the neighbouring Seventh Claudia’s front. As the sky darkened tiny pinpoints of light begin to appear, not bright enough to lighten his mood. He hunched in the saddle, neck sunk into his shoulders as if the weight of his predicament was physical.

‘Sir!’

‘Look.’ A shout from one of his aides alerted Valerius as he talked with Vipstanus Messalla, who had ridden across from the Seventh Claudia to discuss tactics. First one, then two, then a dozen bright streaks split the sky to his front as fire arrows released by Varus’s scouts announced the imminent arrival of the Vitellians.

Messalla’s face set in a tight smile. ‘So.’

‘May Fortuna favour you, tribune.’

‘And you, boy. I’ve placed a cavalry wing between your left flank and my right and they should alert us to any infiltration, but …’ He shrugged. Both men understood what would happen if the enemy broke through. ‘Death or glory.’

Messalla rode off and Valerius took a deep breath to steady the nerves that no man could entirely escape. ‘Cornicen? Sound: prepare to receive enemy.’

The strident call rang out along the Flavian line, followed by the distinctive metallic ripple as thousands of men checked their equipment one last time. Valerius tugged at the straps on his helmet, making certain they were secure, but he resisted the urge to draw his sword. He was the legion’s legate, not a common solider. His job was not to fight, but to command and to lead. But how did you lead men you couldn’t see against an all but invisible enemy?

‘I will not lose another eagle.’

He didn’t realize he’d turned the thought into words until Serpentius’s rasping voice echoed them.

‘Neither will I.’