The Art of War

Chapter 61

Rome, 19 December AD 69

Geminus

The desperate frustration of being stuck in the palace while men were dying in battle in the city was ameliorated only by the constant stream of reports that came to us through the morning.

They detailed, first, the battle between Juvens and Petilius Cerialis, and then what came after it. I can’t vouch for their accuracy, but they seemed plausible to me. I will tell you what we heard.

‘Push on! Kill the horses and push on!’

Juvens stood on the wall of a kitchen garden. On one side, winter beds stood empty, carefully weeded, cleared for the cleansing frost. On the other was mayhem: men fighting hand to hand, horses rearing, striking, kicking, falling, dying.

This was what he lived for, not the craven surrender of Narnia. Here, he could expunge the shame of that.

He swept off his helmet, ran his fingers through his hair and shouted again, ‘Vinius! Go left. Left, man! Left! Curve round behind!’

His voice was hoarse, had lost all its music. His hand described great arcs and at last Vinius, never the brightest of his centurions, understood and led his half-century out down the street to his left, which curved round and came out again on the main thoroughfare, the Barracks Road. This brought him in at Cerialis’ diminishing force from the rear.

With that manoeuvre complete, Juvens had him trapped. The rebels were few now, and fewer with every killing stroke.

Half of Cerialis’ men had been ours less than a month before and had defected at the battle’s start, while Juvens’ own men were solid, true and fired with the blood lust of battle. All they needed was an officer to direct them and Juvens was the right man in the right place.

‘Sextus! Right!’

Juvens leapt from the wall. His blade was wet with blood, the grip sweat-roiled and unsafe in his hand. He drove it hard into the throat of the man who had just threatened Sextus’ unshielded right side, grabbed his enemy’s weapon arm at the elbow, smashed it back into the wall and again and again until he felt the bones shatter.

‘He’s dead. Juvens, he’s dead.’

He dropped the still-warm body. Sextus, alive, was fighting forward. It was Gaius Publius, one of the junior centurions, who had Juvens’ shoulder, and was pulling him away.

‘They’re retreating. Cerialis has gone. Should we follow him?’

‘No. It might be a trap. Sound the gather. Hold the men where they are.’

There was time for a dozen more deaths before the horns sounded and both sides briskly disengaged. There are advantages to fighting men who have served in your own army: everyone understands the signals.

Here and now, Petilius and his handful of men glanced at each other in grateful amazement, and ran.

Vinius came back, grumbling. ‘We could have won.’

‘You did win,’ Juvens said. ‘And now we have bigger fish to catch.’

He jumped back up on the wall and raised his hands, bringing the men closer. He was a natural orator; his fine intelligence was brought to bear on his playboy wildness and the result was an intoxicating mix of leadership and showmanship.

‘Is there any man who thinks this was not an attempt to liberate Sabinus?’

‘No!’

‘Is there anybody here who wants Sabinus to remain safe on his hilltop for another day?’

‘No!’

‘Will anybody come with me to “liberate” him into death?’

‘ Yes! ’

The shout became a great, grating roar, a clashing of swords on helmets, on the walls behind.

Juvens stood there, letting the waves of it wash over him. The moment was god-touched, perfect. Just as I had done at the barracks the day before, he had found his destiny and it was not to stand idly by while Rome slipped away from his grasp.

He lifted his voice to carry to the outer fringes of the gathered men.

‘It’s time we hammered the heart out of this rebellion. Sabinus brought this on us and he has no complaint if we take the fight to him. We’re going to the Capitol and we’re going to kick that rebellious bastard down the steps!’