Sword of Rome

XLI

‘They look well.’ Spurinna laughed appreciatively as he looked out from the parapet at the great army massing before the city.

Standing beside him among his aides, Valerius had to agree with the general. They did look fine, marching like a crimson tide across the broad farmland beyond the line of razed buildings, in their tight-ranked centuries and their cohorts, armour twinkling in the early morning sun and the brightly coloured shields identifying their legions. The only thing he didn’t share was the older man’s enthusiasm for the sight.

‘Twenty-first Rapax, sir.’ A sharp-eyed young tribune noted the twin boars on the scarlet and yellow background. His voice echoed his general’s zeal. ‘A full legion, more or less, and every man a veteran. They’ve been keeping the Helvetii honest up at Vindonissa for the last five years.’

A horn blew its familiar hoarse call and the legionaries came to an instant halt, not a man out of line and their standard-bearers placed exactly in front of each individual unit. Spurinna turned to Valerius. ‘They can drill, but can they fight?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ They watched as a second unit and then a third came into sight and took their places to the right and left of the Twenty-first.

‘Twenty-second Primigenia and Fourth Macedonica.’ The aide noted the names down on a wax tablet. ‘They’re a long way from Moguntiacum. Plus about five cohorts of auxiliaries and another three of cavalry.’

A never-ending line of wagons and carts, mules and livestock crawled in after the legions, but Valerius’s eyes were drawn to a tall figure at the centre of a cloud of immaculately dressed officers which halted in front of the assembled troops.

‘If he’s a fool,’ Spurinna commented, ‘he’ll keep them sweating in their ranks while he comes and makes his obligatory offer of terms. If he’s not, he’ll have them make camp while we discuss the pointless niceties. Ah, good. Always better to fight a man who knows what he’s doing.’ As the soldiers dispersed, an individual officer rode out from the group of horsemen. When he was close enough they saw he carried a green branch. ‘Valerius? Young Mettelus? Anyone feel like surrendering? Well then, let’s not keep them waiting.’ They unbuckled their swords and strode out to meet the emissary.

‘My legate wishes to discuss the possibility of a peaceful solution,’ the young man said when they were within hearing distance.

‘Well, get him here, you fool,’ the general snapped. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

The aide raised his branch and waved it above his head. Immediately, four riders broke away from the group and rode towards Placentia. As they approached, Spurinna let out a choking grunt. ‘Mars’ arse, the man’s dressed like a Celtic farmer and … is that a bloody woman with him?’

Caecina’s emissary shot the general a startled glance. ‘I believe it’s his wife, sir,’ Mettelus offered. ‘They say she travels everywhere with him.’

Spurinna studied the slight figure in the centre with undisguised admiration. ‘Yes, well, you would keep her close, I’ll say that. But it’s not proper. Not proper at all.’

He turned his attention to the curious figure in the Celtic breeches and tunic. A less confident man would have stayed in the saddle and looked down on his enemies. Instead, Aulus Caecina Alienus vaulted effortlessly to the ground and threw his mount’s reins to an aide. A broad smile creased his handsome, fine-boned face as if this were a surprise encounter with old friends, but Valerius noticed that the smile didn’t quite reach the over-bright eyes. His hair was dark as a raven’s wing and worn long in the fashion of his barbarian auxiliaries. A fine torc of twisted gold strands graced his neck, and others encircled his wrists. The only thing that distinguished him as a Roman soldier was the sculpted breastplate he wore and the scarlet sash at his waist that identified him as a legionary legate. A barnyard cockerel, strutting and proud, Valerius thought, but, it seemed, not a cockerel looking for a fight.

‘Aulus Caecina Alienus.’ He bowed. ‘Legate of the Fourth Macedonica and commander of the armies of the North. My Emperor regrets this unfortunate misunderstanding. He desires only peace and prosperity throughout this land.’ The voice was soft and persuasive; charming, but, despite all the owner’s efforts, lacking in sincerity. ‘He believes you have been misled by your superiors and he would welcome you into his protection. All you must do is march your men from the gates within the hour. You have my promise that they will not be molested and they may retain their weapons, their standards and their honour.’ He shrugged as though the rest was not his concern. ‘After that, they may join us or go home, as they please.’

Spurinna nodded thoughtfully, as if he were considering the offer. ‘And the people of Placentia?’

Caecina waved a careless hand towards the city walls, but Valerius knew he would be taking in every helmet, spear and artillery position. ‘They are my Emperor’s subjects,’ Vitellius’s general said smoothly. ‘They will be unharmed as long as they are prepared to take the oath to him.’

‘And if not?’

Caecina shrugged. They both knew what would happen if the city fell after a prolonged siege.

The old general drew himself up to his full height and his voice took on a new power, reaching out to the soldiers working on the closest encampment. ‘Marcus Salvius Otho Augustus was proclaimed Emperor in Rome by the Senate and people of Rome. He is the only true Emperor: Imperator, Princeps and Pontifex Maximus.’ Spurinna reeled off the titles one by one. ‘He regrets that the officers and soldiers of his northern armies have been deceived and believes the governor of Germania Inferior has acted rashly. Still, he is prepared to take him as a friend if he will only kneel and take the oath of loyalty. Even now, Aulus Vitellius is considering an offer of gifts and further preferment that would raise him among the highest in the land. In addition, the soldiers of the Rhenus legions will receive a payment equal to half a year’s wages a man in recognition of their previous petitions if they return to their posts today.’

Valerius saw Caecina dart a nervous glance towards his lines. This was not how Emperors dealt with their rivals, or the troops who followed them. The suggestion that Vitellius might be tempted by Otho’s bribes had unsettled him. Spurinna noticed his unease and took his chance to exploit the opening. ‘They know your friend and ally Valens has deserted you. What is the excuse? Sickness? Lack of supplies? We hear mutiny being spoken of. You cannot win alone. Take your soldiers home and you too could be elevated among the highest in the land. You know the true Emperor is marching north. If you do not reduce Placentia in days, you will be caught between the hammer of the Emperor’s legions and the anvil of my walls. He will be on your neck like a ravening wolf. And Placentia will … not … be … reduced.’ The old general’s nostrils flared as he remembered past triumphs and he glared defiance at his enemy. ‘Men with strong hearts and strong arms will stand behind those walls and oppose you until the Mare Nostrum freezes over. Placentia will be the graveyard of your army and your hopes, Aulus Caecina Alienus.’

While the verbal sparring continued, Valerius found himself the undisguised focus of dark, slanting eyes from behind Caecina’s left shoulder. He returned her stare, trying desperately not to smile. Spurinna was right. A true beauty. A long aristocratic nose, with high cheekbones and pouting cherry-red lips. The look she gave him was languid, considering and … he almost choked … heavy with promise. It shouldn’t be possible, but it was true. He could almost hear her purring. But look again and there was something else in those eyes, the kind of gold-flecked shadows you saw in a hungry leopard’s. He decided that he didn’t envy Aulus Caecina Alienus his nights after all. He dragged his eyes away, but not before he saw a knowing smile touch her lips.

‘… and we promise you a warm welcome.’

Caecina sighed. ‘I am a generous man. I will give you two hours to accept my Emperor’s offer. After that, there will be no more talk and no more mercy.’ He leapt athletically into the saddle and dragged his horse’s head round. ‘Two hours,’ he repeated. ‘Two hours and then it begins. Surrender and you will live. If my legions have to take those walls, everyone inside them will die.’

As they marched back towards the gate, Spurinna’s face split in a savage grin.

‘Two hours, my … I know his kind. Aulus Caecina Alienus could sell a wooden leg to a four-legged dog, but at heart he’s a backstabber. He’ll have them on us as soon as he can get spears in their hands.’

By the time he reached the makeshift camp, Caecina was having doubts about the wisdom of his generosity. Spurinna’s talk of ravening wolves had made him nervous, because he knew the old man was right. He had to finish this quickly, not least because that dog’s turd Valens might arrive soon to steal the glory. He exchanged a glance with his wife and she nodded.

‘We will attack immediately,’ he said. ‘Have the leading cohorts ready with their scaling ladders in thirty minutes.’

His military tribune frowned. ‘But, general, we haven’t sited the artillery yet and the heavy ballistae won’t be here until nightfall.’

But the legate wouldn’t be moved. ‘They think they have two hours. We will take them by surprise. One swift charge will take the walls, and I will be drinking from Spurinna’s cup before nightfall.’

Domitia was waiting for Valerius on the battlements where she had watched the negotiations. ‘Was she pretty?’

The question left him groping for an answer that wouldn’t offend and a short-lived thrill of panicked guilt. How could she have known? ‘Does it matter?’ The walnut eyes pinned him in their frank stare and he stumbled on. ‘As it happens, she was very beautiful.’

She nodded as if it was only right and reached down to touch his left hand, running soft fingers over skin calloused to the texture of leather by daily sword practice. ‘If I were to have my life again, I would choose to be a warrior queen riding into battle side by side with my king.’ The fingers fluttered away, but he dared not look at her and his throat felt as if it was filled with pebbles.

‘You should go,’ he said, as gently. ‘It will not be safe here for much longer.’ But when he turned she was already gone.

Valerius tightened the straps of the bronze helmet Serpentius had brought him from Placentia’s armoury and tested the point of his sword. He knew it was keen enough, because he’d sharpened it himself, but it was a warrior’s ritual and rituals were important to a soldier. When Domitia had left him on the battlements he’d felt a curious mixture of loss and elation. He wanted her to be safe, but he missed the warmth of her touch and the strength she gave him. He knew she was in danger, but her presence in Placentia made something inside him soar; a terrible feeling of anger and power and violence, and a sense of invincibility he had never felt before. What better reason to fight and die than to protect the one you … yes, he could admit it to himself now … the one you loved. Today, he would fight at the right hand of the gods. Today he was Mars the Avenger come to earth, and any man who crossed this wall would live only long enough to regret it. His face set in a grim half-smile he could barely control and he knew — knew — that though he had tested the gods’ patience with his unspoken boasts he would live to enjoy this day. Let them come. He felt Serpentius’s eyes on him and he saw that the Spaniard sensed the change in him.

‘A pity we didn’t have time for me to carve you a new hand,’ the gladiator said. ‘A man without a shield on a day like today is only asking to get killed.’

‘Then you’ll have to be my shield.’ It was said half in jest, but Serpentius nodded gravely and for Valerius that was as good as a solemn vow. They would fight as a pair, the arena way, the Spaniard never leaving his right side. A former slave and a part-man, but together they would be worth ten of the enemy.

Who had broken their truce.

At the sound of the massed trumpets, Spurinna came to join them on the parapet for the last time before he would retire to coordinate the defence from his headquarters in the city. Caecina’s forces marched out from their compounds, the clatter of armour and the tramp of feet clear in the still air even at this distance. Valerius had witnessed the sight of his enemies massing in overwhelming numbers before, at Colonia, where he had faced Boudicca, and again at the Cepha gap where Corbulo had fought the Parthian King of Kings to a standstill. But this was different. In some ways, the barbarians had been more frightening to watch; a great swirling mass of hatred, a cacophony of colour and noise designed to instil terror. Yet this was the first time he had faced Roman soldiers in battle. The thought stayed with him and for a moment he felt a curious mix of confusion and sadness that was alien and potentially fatal on a battlefield. These men were Roman citizens, soldiers of the Empire. They should not be his enemies. He savagely thrust the feeling aside, conjuring up Domitia’s face in his head and reminding himself what would happen to her if he failed. If my legions have to take those walls, everyone inside them will die. Well, these walls would stand. Must stand. If the blood of every man out there had to be spilled to ensure it. The massed ranks came on at their familiar, unhurried pace. Here was none of the bluster and posturing of barbarians, only deadly intent. Caecina was using the two part-legions, six thousand veteran troops, as his battering ram. Primigenia’s symbol, a golden Wheel of Fortuna, was clearly visible on the shields to the right front, beside Fourth Macedonica’s white bull to the left, with a horde of anonymous auxiliaries on their flanks. Valerius had a moment of unease as Twenty-first Rapax marched off towards the right flank. Was it possible Caecina would use his crack legion to attack the west wall? No. Five cohorts of auxiliary infantry jogged past them and it seemed the Vitellian commander had decided to keep them in reserve in the shadow of the amphitheatre walls.

‘I thought so,’ the general grunted. ‘The south wall and the gate. He may use those auxiliaries for an attack on the west side, but most likely it will be a feint. We’ll keep a cohort of Praetorians in the angle of the two walls, ready to support whichever is under the most pressure. I was wrong.’ His voice was almost affronted. ‘He is a fool. Unless he has a trick up his sleeve, this throwing his men at stone walls is an affront to military science. He should have allowed an hour or two to flay us with his onagri and scorpiones. At the very least, it would have kept our heads down. You are happy with your dispositions?’

Valerius nodded. He had checked them a dozen times. Men and weapons where they were needed, the legionaries crouched behind the walls for the moment for protection. No point in taking unnecessary casualties. Reserves in position where they could easily reach the places they were needed. Water to hand for extinguishing fires and slaking thirst. Cauldrons of hot oil bubbling on the braziers and glowing irons ready to be slapped on a wound to stop the blood flow. This wall would be defended by the men of the First Adiutrix and he felt an unlikely confidence in the face of the great odds as he noted Juva’s reliable presence a little way to his left. The general saw his look and placed a hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘This is where it will be won or lost, Valerius. Win it for me.’

As the general walked away, Valerius dismissed the surge of foolish pride he had felt at the words. He was aware of the Vitellian auxiliaries deploying in front of the west wall just out of range of the onagri and scorpiones, but he forced himself to concentrate on what was happening to his front. Feint or not, he had to rely on the commander of the western defences to do his job. For the moment, he ignored the great mass of soldiers and studied what was going on around them. The first thing he noticed was the men struggling with what looked from this distance like wooden carts, but he knew were the legion’s mobile light artillery. Oddly, the sight pleased him. It would take time to deploy the machines and, for the moment at least, the defenders wouldn’t be plagued by the giant arrows and rocks. He faced upwards of ten cohorts, which meant they could deploy a dozen onagri and ten times as many scorpiones. He frowned. No, many more than that. Caecina wouldn’t leave the Rapax’s artillery lying idle while Primigenia and Macedonica were doing the dying. The ‘Shield-splitters’ and their ‘Wild Ass’ counterparts, so named for the enormous kick they gave when they were triggered, were nothing like as lethal against a fortified city as they were against a packed mass of men. Still, it was daunting for any man to raise his head when he knew it could be taken off by a ten-pound boulder. Satisfied they were in no danger for the moment, he searched among the baggage carts for the sight he feared, but there was still no sign of the big siege ballistae that the Vitellians were undoubtedly constructing.

Well, he would show them what they were missing.

‘Ranging shot,’ he called down to the messenger stationed at the base of the wall. ‘Five hundred paces beyond the gate on a direct line.’

The big machines were notoriously inaccurate and he had no great hope of causing any damage, but it would give the enemy something to think about. The problem with the ballistae was the exact opposite of that with their smaller cousins. It was all very well firing them at a mile-long wall when you had every chance of hitting the city behind it, but hurling rocks blind and inside the machine’s most effective range was like throwing pebbles over your shoulder into a fishpond and hoping to catch your supper. The theory was confirmed when a few moments later a resounding thud seemed to shake the wall and he instinctively ducked as something split the air above him with a powerful whooshing surge. He searched for the missile and thought he saw a black dot curving far above the assembled legions below him and arcing into the baggage carts packed around the newly built camp. The impact was invisible, but he could imagine the damage and consternation the huge rock would have caused if it hit anything and he consoled himself with the thought that, if nothing else, he would make it difficult for Caecina’s legionaries to sleep that night. If Placentia survived that long.

For they were coming.

A wall of bright iron, proud banners and triple-layered shields of ash and oak. Valerius’s mind assessed the threat without conscious effort. Ten cohorts made up the attack. A front rank of four, each containing six centuries of eighty men, five hundred to a cohort, more or less, so a total of around two thousand men. Behind the front rank came two further ranks of three cohorts, an additional three thousand battle-hardened legionaries. The centuries marched in open order, with a six-foot gap between every man, a formation designed to minimize casualties from Placentia’s death machines. They were close enough now for him to see the hundreds of scaling ladders carried by the men in the front ranks. Part of him hoped the ladders would be too short, which had happened in attacks before, but he guessed Caecina’s engineers would have done their calculations properly. The legionaries would have practised this manoeuvre often, but never against walls of this scale and never without the diversionary support of the artillery. Valerius knew from experience that once they were in the shadow of the walls and safe from the defenders’ ballista bolts and missiles the centuries would close their gaps to a single space and adapt to a denser formation of eight ranks of ten. It made them a more compact target, but it allowed the century to form testudo, the near impenetrable carapace of shields that would protect those within from spears and arrows. From the shelter of the testudo they would raise the siege ladders and begin the long perilous climb to meet their enemies. It was all about numbers. Caecina’s soldiers would not attack along the entire wall. They would choose the most vulnerable points around the gate and between the towers to concentrate their efforts. Three or four ladders converging on the same limited space. If they could get enough men to the top of the ladder to overwhelm the defenders Placentia would fall and the slaughter of innocents would begin.

But Valerius had other ideas.

By now, Caecina’s leading cohorts were entering the killing ground Spurinna’s engineers had marked, four hundred paces out among the dirt mounds that were all that was left of Placentia’s suburbs. The defenders saw it and howled insults and defiance at their attackers.

‘Enough,’ Valerius roared and the centurions reinforced the order with their gnarled vine sticks. The one-handed Roman stared at his enemy, counting their steps and allowing as many as he dared to enter the marked space. He raised his left hand. ‘Now,’ he said, allowing the hand to drop.

Ropes that had been tensed to breaking point thrummed with released energy and the distinctive chopping sound of the onagri and scorpiones echoed all along the wall. ‘That’ll teach the bastards,’ he heard Serpentius mutter.

In the centre of the leading cohort a centurion, recognizable by the scarlet horsehair crest on his helmet, his armour glinting with the phalerae of a dozen campaigns, was whipped backwards by an invisible hand, smashing into the ranks behind and causing momentary chaos. Valerius didn’t see what had caused the casualties, but armour counted for nothing against five-foot bolts and heavy boulders. The centurion had either been gutted or smashed to bloody pulp and the men of the Macedonica had lost a leader and a comrade. All along the line, shields were shattered and gaps appeared in the ranks as the heavy missiles smashed home. Men were left bleeding and broken as their tent mates marched reluctantly over their bodies.

‘Close up! Close the ranks!’ Valerius heard the first shouts of the centurions, decurions and optiones as they struggled to maintain the cohesion of the formations. A discernible growl went up from the legionaries as they came on, leaving a scattering of still figures in their wake like jetsam discarded by a ship. He felt an involuntary flare of triumph as he watched his enemy fall, but he understood that he could not let passion control him. His artillery salvos would hurt them, but would not stop them. The machines were slow to load and their commanders might get five shots away before the angles of fire meant more would be useless. A few dozen casualties, possibly a hundred. Just a pinprick, but Valerius was satisfied.

Something whirred past his helmet.

‘Keep your head down, idiot, unless you want a hole in it.’

Valerius ignored Serpentius’s admonition and concentrated on the battle unfolding before him. From the gaps between the attacking formations, and on their flanks, swarms of auxiliary archers and slingers ran forward to close on the walls. When they were within range, he ordered the bowmen scattered among the defenders to engage them. But the archers were a sideshow; the gustatio before the meat. It would soon be time for the main course.