Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 15

The Far North

The Harzhorn Mountains,

the Ides of July, AD235

On the third morning Maximinus climbed the tall tribunal in front of the camp, and the trumpets rang out as they had on the previous two days. He ran his eyes over the close-packed ranks of his soldiers. Practice had made the manoeuvre quicker. All the units were in place, the last few wagons with the bolt-throwers being manhandled into line. Only an hour after sunrise. It had taken twice as long on the first day.

The Emperor looked out at the enemy position a little under four hundred paces distant. The pass was perfectly flat. The Germans had dug a shallow ditch across its entire frontage of some three hundred paces. Behind was an earth bank, four or five feet high and topped with a wooden palisade. In front of these defences were two bands of obstacles. First, an attacker would have to clamber over a tangle of felled trees, their branches cut into jagged points. Then he would have to avoid putting a boot into the numerous half-concealed pits containing sharpened stakes. The soldiers called them stags and lilies. They would have to get through them under a murderous hail of missiles before even attempting to storm the wall. The Germans had created a fine killing ground.

The bluffs thrust up on either side. The eastern crest, off to the left, was higher, and further away. On the right the climb was shorter, but steeper, although landslips had left three natural ramps. There was timber on the heights, but no defences. Only isolated stands of trees here and there on the approaches. Most likely, every winter the run-off from torrential rains carried away topsoil and saplings.

The enemy camp was on a line of hills several hundred paces beyond the palisade. In that blue distance wagons, tents and shelters, hazed by the smoke of cooking fires, sprawled without discernible order. The barbarian numbers were unknowable, but without doubt huge. The chiefs of the Alamanni, Cherusci and their allies had ordered, cajoled or forced every warrior they could to gather in this remote place. Their summons had emptied the forests of Germania. They had brought their women and children to mark their valour, and to witness the destruction of the Roman army. If the gods were kind, Maximinus thought, they would regret that decision.

Now, in the raking light of early morning, there were few tribesmen to be seen along the palisade or up on the hills. They knew what was coming. And perhaps Maximinus’ ploy was working. Aspines, the a Studiis, had likened it to Alexander before the Hydaspes. The Macedonian had repeatedly led his army out, but not committed it to battle until the vigilance of his enemy had been worn down. Maximinus did not know about Indians, but these Germans lacked discipline. The gods willing, many would be back in their camp, lolling in indolence or drunken slumber.

Maximinus would have liked to continue for several more days, but Timesitheus had warned that supplies were dangerously low. The army had food for just five further days, and, although the Graeculus had had all the blacksmiths working day and night, there were only enough ballista bolts for one final extended barrage. When the battle was won, Maximinus would order the men to scour the ground to recover all the missiles they could find. When the battle was won. The thought tempted fate. Maximinus spat on his chest to avert bad luck.

The spittle ran down the chased steel of his breastplate. Maximinus noticed several of his staff looking. He had had more than enough of most of the imperial amici. They were friends in name only. Their sidelong glances and disparaging airs infuriated him. The march had been long and hard, rations short and comfort a thing of memory. While they had burnt a satisfactory number of villages and captured many head of cattle, it was true they had not killed nearly enough barbarians. But what these effeminate fools in gilded armour failed to grasp, no matter how often they were told, was that the whole campaign had been designed for just this end, to bring the Germans to offer battle in some desolate location of their choosing.

‘All in position, Lord.’

Maximinus did not respond. He needed to review his dispositions one last time before he cast the die.

The army was arrayed in three columns. In the centre Honoratus would lead the first wave, a twenty-deep phalanx of six thousand men drawn from the legions of Moesia Inferior and the two German provinces. Shooting over their heads as they went in would be fifteen hundred Emesene and Parthian archers commanded by Iotapianus. Another six thousand legionaries, from Moesia Superior and the Panonnias, comprised the second assault. Flavius Vopiscus had charge of them. The reserve was stationed around the tribunal: eight thousand Praetorians and, to their right, three thousand cavalry made up of Equites Singulares, Osrhoene horse archers and cataphracts, in roughly equal numbers.

The vanguard of the right wing was fifteen hundred irregular infantry from Britain and from the tribes ruled by the Angles around the distant shores of the Suebian Sea. The former were led by the equestrian Florianus, the latter by one of their own tribal chiefs, Eadwine. Hard on their heels, Julius Capitolinus would charge the slope with four thousand legionaries of 2nd Legion Parthica. A thousand Osrhoene bowmen on foot would provide covering shooting.

The left wing under Catius Clemens was smaller. The initial attack would be the five hundred auxiliaries of 5th Cohort Dalmatarum, the second the two thousand legionaries of 3rd Legion Italica from Raetia. They would be backed by a thousand Armenian and Persian archers.

So many of these men would be dead by sunset. Aspines had told Maximinus a story about a Persian King looking at his army and crying because soon they would all be dead. Maximinus was no Persian. He mastered himself, touched the cold metal of the torque at his throat and the ring on his left thumb. He would let down neither his old Emperor nor his wife. Trust and good faith, they were worth the fight.

Maximinus turned slowly to take in the rear echelons. The camp was entrenched in old-fashioned Roman style. It was guarded by the 1st Cohort of Thracians and the Ostensionales, the dead Emperor Alexander’s favourite parade unit. The latter were good for pomp and little else, and Maximinus was half minded to disband them when they returned to the empire.

The woods ringed the encampment at a distance varying between fifty and a couple of hundred paces. It was all too easy to imagine a horde of screaming barbarians emerging from their gloom. Next to no army will stand if taken by surprise from the flanks or rear. Maximinus had detailed a light armed force to move out through the trees on either side. He could spare only one auxiliary cohort and a troop of five hundred Moorish horsemen for each. It was against all tactical doctrine to commit cavalry into woodlands, but the Moors fought in no set formation. If the Germans were waiting, the Roman numbers would be inadequate, but those who survived would give a warning. If the woods were empty, Maximinus had told the commanders to try to find a way around the enemy positions. He wondered if he had chosen the right men for the task. Marius Perpetuus and Pontius Pontianus were the sons of two commanders from his youth on the northern frontier. Yet neither was the man his father had been. They were soft, pampered Senators, no better than all the others. Still, if these two wanted the Consulship that he had held out to them, they would have to earn it on the battlefield like their ancestors.

‘Lord, it is time.’ It was unlikely any other but Anullinus would interrupt, let alone dare to sound as if he might be chiding Maximinus. Perhaps the Praetorian Prefect was getting above himself. Rapid promotion after having killed an Emperor might encourage dangerous notions of self-worth in anyone. And there was something feral in Anullinus’ eyes.

‘Load the artillery!’

Maximinus’ order was relayed through the ranks. The metallic click, click of the engines winding sounded sharp over the low rattle of men and the shifting of horses. Fifty light bolt-shooters mounted on carts were spread across the front of the army. Most were in the centre, but there were more on the right wing than the left. Maximinus hoped that if the enemy had noticed, they would not have drawn the correct conclusion.

‘Loose.’

Back from all along the line came the distinctive click-slide-thump of torsion weapons. Fifty steel-tipped projectiles sped away with inhuman force. Some punched into the palisade; others vanished over its top. The latter should spread terror among those sheltering behind the defences from this man-made storm. A few, with inexcusable bad aim on this third morning, embedded themselves in the earth bank. Even before they hit, the air was again filled with the clicking of the ratchets as the machines were wound back.

From behind the tribunal came a deeper noise, a resounding impact. Maximinus forced himself neither to duck nor look over his shoulder. Several of the imperial staff lacked his self-possession.

‘Baby on the way!’ The traditional shout went up, and after a moment Maximinus saw the stone, its great size reduced to next to nothing by the distance, hurtling down beyond the defences. The big stone-thrower was shooting over their heads from the camp, operating at the very limit of its range. Transporting the thing all the way from the Rhine had caused grave difficulties. Even disassembled, it had needed three large wagons. From the start, Timesitheus had argued it should be rendered unserviceable and left behind. Of course, he had wanted to get rid of the smaller carts as well. Maximinus wondered if the Graeculus was watching from the camp and admitting to himself that he had been wrong. Most probably not. More likely he was fuming because the Camp Prefect Domitius had been entrusted with holding the base. The two equestrians had hated each other for years, at least since the days when, in company with Maximinus himself, they had organized the supplies for Alexander’s Persian expedition.

‘Sound the advance!’

Trumpets blared, centurions shouted, and the standards inclined towards the enemy. With a measured tramp, the three phalanxes began to edge forward.

Maximinus checked the columns detailed to go into the woods. Both were slow off the mark. What were Marius Perpetuus and Pontianus doing? Probably having their legs depilated or listening to revolting poetry about interfering with small boys. Typically irresponsible, completely hopeless — you could not rely on a Senator for anything.

Trumpets rang out from the front. The attack columns shuffled and barged to a halt. The central one was about a hundred paces short of the fortifications. The ones on the wings had stopped at the foot of the slopes. The men had their shields up, locked together. Barbarian arrows were arcing down. Were there fewer than on the other days? Considerable numbers of warriors could be seen up there now. It was impossible to tell. The trumpets sounded a different order. After a moment, volleys of Roman arrows hissed away, filling the air like a host of bats. So far everything was the same as on the previous days.

Maximinus turned. Two of his entourage were talking, young Pupienus Africanus and another Senator. They fell silent under his gaze. He turned back. He knew he was scowling. Paulina was right: these Senators despised him. But in return he had nothing but contempt for them. During the long march, the soldiers had complained. Soldiers always did; it had no significance. The real defeatism, bordering on cowardice, had come from the upper-class officers. They had lurked in their tents, quoting gloomy lines of verse, which Aspines told him were from Virgil. How they wished they were back safe in Rome or their villas in Campania. The ramifications of Magnus’ conspiracy had shown the disloyalty of the Senators. In its aftermath they had rushed to denounce each other. Many equestrians also had turned informer. Only the soldiers could be trusted. The sons of peasants, the sons of soldier fathers — only among these did any spark of antique virtue remain. The words of his mentor, Septimius Severus, were often in his mind: Enrich the soldiers, ignore everyone else.

‘Sound the attack!’

The trumpeter on the tribunal blew and the call was picked up by every musician in the army. The legionaries from the Rhine and Danube surged forward. Honoratus had them well in hand. On the left the auxiliaries of 5th Cohort Dalmatarum raced up the incline. There were far fewer of them, operating in greater space, and they spread out. Maximinus checked the right. No movement there. That was good. No movement in the woods beyond. That was good too.

Honoratus’ men in the centre were clambering over the stags, hacking at the projecting branches. Arrows were slicing through their ranks. Men were falling but, slow and steady, they were advancing. A loud cheer made Maximinus look to the left. A great boulder was rolling down the slope, gathering pace. At the crest the barbarians roared again as they pushed another off. The first one was moving fast, bouncing up, crashing back down, raising clouds of dust and debris. The Dalmatian auxiliaries scattered in front of it. One was too slow. In a blink of an eye he was gone, just some flattened rags and a smear of blood.

The attack on the left had stalled. The auxiliaries were huddled together in small groups, some in the few stands of trees, more out in the open. At the top the barbarians were about to release another great rock. The Dalmatians could advance no further, but it was not time to recall them. They would have to take the punishment.

The legionaries of Honoratus had now cleared the stags and were picking their way through the lilies. Only a few were going down, but the pits had broken their cohesion. The leading men reached the ditch and palisade in scattered groups, not a close formation. A solid mass of barbarians was waiting for them. This was not going to be an easy victory. But Maximinus had never thought it would be. Nothing in life was easy. It never had been.

Not many arrows were being exchanged on the right. It was as if both sides were watching the play of events in the centre. With luck, the barbarians might think the Romans lacked the will to brave that slope. Maximinus prayed that would not turn out to be true.

‘Sound the recall!’ Honoratus and his men had done enough. Thousands of men shuffled backwards, faces to the enemy, shields out. They had lost all order, but they were not running. Things were different on the left, where the auxiliaries hurled themselves pell-mell down the hill, every man for himself.

When the legionaries of Honoratus reached the eastern bowmen, there was much pushing and shoving as they passed through their ranks. The confusion was much worse as they forced their way through the serried formation of the other body of legionaries waiting with Flavius Vopiscus.

A counter-attack now would cause havoc, perhaps sweep the entire Roman army away. Of course, it was unlikely that a barbarian leader could exercise that degree of control over his warriors. They would be unwilling to leave their fortifications. They would have to cross their own traps, perhaps twice, if they met solid resistance. The odds were against it, but Maximinus thought this moment worth remembering. All too many barbarian chiefs were serving as officers in the Roman army and then returning to their tribes. The gap between the armed might of Rome and barbaricum was narrowing. If Roman discipline was allowed to slide, the gap might close to nothing.

‘Send in the second wave.’

The Panonnian and Moesian legionaries under Vopiscus knew their trade. They had re-formed their ranks and passed through the archers without trouble. Again, the sky darkened as squalls of arrows fell in both directions.

On the left, Maximinus saw Catius Clemens. Mounted on a huge black warhorse, he rode out in front of his two thousand Raetian legionaries. The Senator might always complain of colds and fevers but, unlike the majority of his order, he remembered his ancestral courage. Catius Clemens led them up at a steady walk. No boulders tumbled down to impede their slow, silent progress. The suffering of the Dalmatian auxiliaries had not been for nothing.

Maximinus gazed off to the right, where 2nd Legion Parthica and the Britons and warriors from the Suebian Sea were hunkered down at the foot of the bluff. The Osrhoene archers with them exchanged desultory arrows with the barbarians on the crest. How events went from now on, Maximinus thought, was all about timing.

Vopiscus’ legionaries had cleared the stags, were pushing on through the pits with their vicious spikes. Not yet, the Emperor said to himself. Have the courage to wait.

The Raetians were within javelin cast of the eastern crest. A storm of steel greeted them. Maximinus saw Catius Clemens’ horse go down. The legionaries kept moving. A wedge of barbarians rushed down to meet them. The two sides crashed together. Maximinus ground his teeth. It was still too soon. Just a little longer.

A great noise, like a storm in the mountains, reverberated back across the field. The legionaries of Vopiscus were at the fortification. Steel flashed in the sunlight. A glimpse of red as a legionary was hoisted on to the palisade. He fell back. Another took his place. Further along, a legionary jumped down the other side. Men were fighting the entire length of the barricade. Now. It had to be now.

‘Hoist the black standard!’

Maximinus peered to the right, willing the answering signal to appear. If it did, he missed it. The Britons and Angles were charging up the incline. The 2nd Legion Parthica was following, slower, but more compact. The Osrhoenes were shooting as fast as they could over their heads. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, give us victory. Silently, Maximinus mouthed a brief prayer to the Rider God of his ancestral hills. Had the barbarians taken the bait? Lulled by the inactivity below the western bluff, had they or their chiefs drifted off to face the obvious threat to the centre?

A huge tree trunk, lopped of its branches, rolled down. The Britons in its path leapt aside; some vaulted clean over. It smashed into the legionaries. Their line buckled, until. at the cost of buckled shields and broken bodies, they stopped its momentum. The troops flowed around and over it, re-forming their line.

The northerners were now at the summit. The legionaries piled in behind them. The line moved forward to the edge of the trees. Its progress faltered. It stopped. In one place it bulged backwards. Maximinus caught sight of Julius Capitolinus, riding his horse behind the melee, urging his men on. The fight hung in the balance.

Maximinus unbuckled his cloak. He stepped back and draped the heavy purple cloth around the shoulders of his cousin Rutilus. He put his helmet on the youth’s head. ‘Be Emperor for an hour.’

Rutilus said nothing, his fingers tying the laces beneath his chin.

‘Father, why-’

‘He has my build. You do not.’

‘But-’

Maximinus silenced his son with a fierce glare. The imperial entourage was twittering like a flock of disturbed birds.

‘Anullinus, take command. If Vopiscus’ men fall back, throw in the Praetorians.’

The Prefect saluted.

‘Silence, the rest of you! Stay here. Micca with me.’

Maximinus clattered down the steps of the tribunal, his bodyguard at his back. At the bottom he took the reins of a messenger’s horse. Micca gave him a leg up, then vaulted on to his own animal.

The Praetorians opened ranks to let them pass. They rode along the front of the cavalry, past the Equites Singulares, until they reached where Macedo had his station at the head of the Osrhoene horse archers.

‘Take your men to the left flank. Support Catius Clemens, if he is still alive. If not, take command there. Do not let the barbarians disengage, give them no time to think.’

‘We will do what is ordered …’

Maximinus kicked on across to the right of the lines, to find the commander of the heavy horse.

‘Modestus, follow me. Draw your men up in three groups at the bottom of the ramps. When you see a signal, lead your cataphracts to the top.’

‘What signal?’

Maximinus thought the promotion of Modestus might have been a mistake. ‘Give me your cloak.’

The officer handed it over. It was a showy thing, saffron with fringes and embroidery. Maximinus put it on. ‘When you see me on the crest holding this above my head, bring your troopers.’

‘Lord.’ Modestus grinned, embarrassed, but eager to please. ‘What do we do when we get to the top?’

By the Rider, this Modestus was slow. It was hard to believe he was related to Timesitheus. ‘When you see the signal, the infantry will have forced a gap in the enemy line. You go through it, down the reverse slope, turn to the east — that is your left — and take the barbarian centre in the rear.’

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

‘Repeat your orders.’

‘Follow you, wait at the ramps, see the signal, ride up the slope, through the gap, down the other side, turn left, and charge the enemy.’

‘The enemy centre.’

‘We will do-’

‘Get your men ready. Follow in good order.’

Without waiting, Maximinus gestured to Micca and pushed his horse straight into a gallop. Two streams lay across their path. They jumped the first and splashed through the other in a maelstrom of spray.

By all the gods, let this work. The barbarians would see equal numbers of cavalry going to each flank. With luck, they would still see a big figure wearing the purple on the tribunal, and not realize the Emperor was joining the assault in the west. If they did not send reinforcements, he would turn this right flank, even if he had to cut his way through on his own.

Maximinus ignored the nearest landslip and put his mount at the second, towards the heart of the fight. The ascent was steep, and then he felt the horse go lame. It might have shed one of its hipposandals, but he did not spare it. Leaning forward, right over its neck, he drove it up the slope. The Osrhoene bowmen scattered out of their way. Obscene curses turned to cheers as they recognized him.

Coming up on the rear ranks of legionaries, Maximinus jumped to the ground. Micca was next to him. The horses stood, heads down, blowing hard.

‘With me! With your Emperor!’ Maximinus unsheathed his sword.

‘Io, Imperator!’ The men beamed. Even the wounded pulled themselves up straighter. The news of his arrival rippled through the ranks. ‘Io, Imperator!’

Maximinus picked up a discarded shield and pushed into the tree line towards the front. Micca and others pressed after him. The combatants had pulled a few paces apart, both sides getting their breath, trying to raise the courage to cross that small space of beaten ground, back into mortal danger.

Maximinus took his place in the front rank. He towered over the men around him.

The barbarians were perhaps ten paces away, shaded by the foliage. Round shields, brightly painted, some in the insignia of Roman units. Pale eyes above, blond hair, not many helmets, the glitter of spearheads, a few swords. Maximinus could see only two warriors wearing mail; standing together, a little off to his right. They were chieftains, the leaders, but this was not a hearth troop around them. This was a levy: herdsmen brought from their animals, farmers dragged from the plough. There would be bands of better warriors on this ridge, men used to swordplay, sworn to die if their lord fell. But not here. Jupiter and the Rider God had led him to a weak point in their array. Kill the two leaders, and the rest here would run.

Raising his sword to the heavens, Maximinus bellowed a war cry. The time for subterfuge was past. Let them all know he was here. Let those two chiefs and their peasants from the forests feel fear.

‘Are you ready for war?’ Maximinus’ voice boomed over everything.

‘Ready!’ The legionaries roared back.

Three times, the call and response. The 2nd Legion was in good heart.

At the last shout, Maximinus hurled himself forward, angling towards the men in mail. He did not reach them. A spear jutting down over a shield at him. Not breaking stride, bringing his sword up, he deflected it past his shoulder. Full tilt, turning his shoulder into the impact, he rammed his shield into that of the spearman. The German staggered back. Maximinus stepped into his space in their line. A backhanded cut bit into the skull of the man on his right. Twisting the other way, he sheered away half the jaw of a warrior in the second rank. A sickening pain in his ribs. A spear point gouging through the armour on his exposed right. Doubling over, Maximinus felt a blow to the back of his head. No helmet, blood hot down his neck. If he went down, he was dead.

Maximinus bent his knees, covered himself with his shield. Thrust blind from beneath it. His blade meeting resistance. Someone howling. Steel on steel. Steel on wood, sickeningly into flesh. Men grunting with effort and terror. All momentum gone.

Gathering all his strength, Maximinus drove forwards up behind his shield. Two Germans knocked off balance, floundering. He cut one down. Micca took the other.

A blur of motion, and from nowhere a spear embedded itself in Micca’s back. The bodyguard fell, his armour clattering.

No time to mourn.

‘Kill the men in mail!’ Half aware he was shouting, Maximinus cut the legs out from behind a barbarian warrior all unsuspecting on his right.

The nearer of the enemy chiefs started to turn. Too late; he could not get his shield around to face the unexpected attack from the side. With his weight behind the thrust, the point of Maximinus’ sword snapped through the cunningly wrought rings of metal, through the leather underneath and deep into the flesh they had failed to protect.

‘Kill the other chief!’ Maximinus pushed the corpse away. ‘The other chief!’

‘Emperor.’ A legionary held a severed head by its long hair.

‘Your name?’

‘Javolenus, 2nd Century, 1st Cohort, Imperator.’

‘If we are not in Hades by tonight, I will remember.’

‘Thank you, Emperor.’

The press of men had thinned. Their leaders dead, the enemy were running. Maximinus hunted for an officer. ‘You, Centurion, lead your men to the left. Drive the barbarians from the ridge.’

The man saluted, and was gone. A horse picked its way through the dead and dying. ‘Julius Capitolinus, take men to the right. Keep the gap in their line open.’

The commander wheeled his mount, shouting for soldiers to follow him.

All that remained was to send the cavalry through. Maximinus ran back the way he had come. Emerging from the trees, he sheathed his sword and yanked off the gaudy cloak. Modestus and his men were dismounted at the foot of the slope. The yellow cloak was ripped, stained with blood. He waved it above his head. Down below, troopers pointed. Modestus gazed up, scanning along the ridgeline. Gods below, surely the fool could see his own cloak? A little blood had not changed it out of all recognition. Maximinus watched a trooper take Modestus by the arm, point in the right direction. The officer started shouting, gesturing for the groups at the bottom of the other two ramps of fallen earth to join him. A soldier helped him into the saddle. The men scrambled to horse.

After the cataphracts had thundered past, Maximinus felt the wound on the back of his head. It was nothing too bad. He wiped the blood from his hands on to his breeches. Stepping carefully, to avoid the arrowheads and spears strewn across the ground, he walked through the belt of trees and looked down the other side. Modestus and his men were riding hard to the east. The valley was filled with fleeing Germans. Those in the path of the Roman heavy cavalry were ridden down. Soon the routed warriors would reach the encampment. Amidst the wagons and terrified non-combatants, chaos would reign. The path to safety would be choked, impassable. When the Roman soldiers reached them, all would be slaughtered: the old, women and children. None would be spared, not even babes in arms. Maximinus felt no pity. He had waited all his adult life for revenge on this scale. These were different tribes, but all northern barbarians were the same. Born to deceit and cruelty, they were human only in form.