Tribune of Rome

CHAPTER XXI

Magnus had been less than pleased with his role, but, grumbling, had taken the carts to their position in the river. As the mules struggled to keep their heads above the flow one of teams panicked. The animals broke their harnesses, and they, the load and their driver had been swept away in the freezing torrent, almost taking one of the ropes with them. The rest, perhaps chastened by the fate of their fellows, resigned themselves to their task and held their positions.

Vespasian sat on his horse to the rear of the second century of his cohort, at the centre of the Roman line; next to him waited the cohort’s cornicen. Each century stood four men deep and twenty men across. Caepio’s four turmae of Gauls covered their left flank and the Thessalian light cavalry their right. Spread out in skirmish order in front of them was the fifty-strong unit of light archers.

Behind him Corbulo and Gallus marshalled the second cohort in front of the two upstream ropes and the pack-mules by the two downstream. The crossing began. The men, eager to have the river between them and the enemy, ignored the freezing temperature of the water and, with shields slung across their backs, began to haul themselves across, one hand holding on to the ropes, a foot above the surface, the other clutching their pack-poles and pila.

The first two centuries crossed without mishap and were forming up, sodden, on the far bank, when from up the slope in front of Vespasian, audible even over the rush of the water, came a great shout. The Thracian war band appeared over the crest of the hill and stood silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky. They gave another huge roar, clashed their javelins against their oval shields, and then started to jog steadily down the slope.

A wave of fear rippled through the cohort of new legionaries.

‘Steady, lads,’ Faustus called from his position in the front rank next to the signifer, ‘remember your training. Hold the line, listen for the cornu signals, release your pila when ordered and then shields together, weight on your left legs and stab through the gaps. You’ll break their mothers’ hearts.’

A nervous cheer went up from the ranks.

‘That’s not a cheer,’ Faustus roared. ‘That sounded to me like the squealing of a gaggle of Mesopotamian bum-boys getting it up the arse for the first time. Now give me a cheer worthy of the Fourth Scythica.’

Their confidence boosted by the redoubtable Faustus, the legionaries raised a mighty cheer and began to bang their shields rhythmically with their pila. The noise was deafening, but still the Thracians came on.

Vespasian looked back to the river; the pace of the crossing had quickened with the now-visible threat of the Thracians only a half a mile away. Four centuries were over and the last two were in the water. They would be able to start withdrawing his cohort soon, but not without first engaging the enemy. It would be, as Corbulo had said, a fighting withdrawal; he hoped that his men would have the discipline for such a manoeuvre.

Then disaster struck. The mule team nearest the far bank, unable to take the noise and the rushing water any more, bolted for dry land. Caught unawares by the sudden lurch their driver was hauled off his seat on the cart and swept downstream, the reins still around his wrists. The power of the current caused the reins to yank the terrified beasts to their right, toppling them and their wagon. The whole lot swept into the first line of legionaries, plucking eight from the rope as it crashed through them and on into the second line. The men on the second rope had time to see it coming. They dropped their packs and pila in order to hold on with both hands. The cart, the thrashing mules and their comrades cascaded into the legionaries, entangling them in a mesh of limbs, reins and wheel spokes. They held on for dear life and for a moment the whole avalanche slowed, straining the rope. The men to the front of the mess scrambled as fast as they could for the safety of the bank, whilst those behind shouted at their comrades to let go, but to no avail. With a sickening inevitability the weight on the rope wrenched the tree to which it was tied on the far bank from the ground, its roots already loosened by years of erosion. The rope with its cargo of men and debris arced out into the current towards the last of the pack-mules on the third rope. The unfortunate creatures were knocked off balance and away downstream taking those from the fourth rope with them, their handlers saving themselves by dropping their leads and clinging with both hands to the still secure ropes.

Vespasian watched as Corbulo and Gallus raced around trying to restore order to the crossing, but his attention was soon drawn away by the mounting noise of his men and their opponents. The Thracians were only two hundred paces away. With Corbulo busy down at the crossing it would now be down to him to issue the signals. He knew the theory from his lessons with Sabinus, all those months ago. He had seen them work in training on the march from Italia, but he had never seen them given for real. He knew that the timing was everything.

The archers to their front let off three quick long-range volleys bringing down nearly eighty of the tightly packed war band, but doing nothing to halt their advance.

‘Open ranks!’ he shouted at the cornicen. The low notes of the G-shaped instrument rumbled over the field, its deep tone audible to all over the din of battle cries. Immediately every other man of each century stepped behind his comrade to the right, creating passages for the now retreating archers to run through.

‘Close ranks!’ The cornicen sounded a different call and the manoeuvre was reversed.

Unencumbered by body armour the Thracians increased their speed steadily. They were a hundred paces out. Vespasian knew it would come soon.

‘Shields up!’ Again the cornu sounded. The rear three ranks raised their semi-cylindrical rectangular shields and stepped forward to hold them over the heads of the men in front of them. They created a patchwork roof that, if firmly supported, would keep those beneath safe from javelin, arrow or slingshot.

At forty paces from the Roman line the Thracians let out a huge roar and hurled their javelins. Hundreds of the iron-tipped missiles soared into the air and then arced down towards the three centuries and the cavalry to their flanks. With a thunderous clatter, like hail on an ox-hide drum, they rained down on to the waiting shields of the legionaries, thumping into the leather-covered two-inch-thick wood. The temporary roof held firm, with only the occasional scream indicating the inexperience of some rookie who had fatally let down his comrade to the front. The few gaps were immediately closed.

‘Shields down!’ Another blast from the cornu and the men lowered their shields, snapping off any javelins still embedded in them.

‘Pila ready!’ Shields and left legs went forward; right arms flew back with hands gripping the smooth wooden shafts of the lead-weighted pila.

On either side the cavalry commanders had both timed their charges to perfection. Giving the order on the release of the javelin volley they charged underneath it. They had smashed through and cut off the disordered flanks of the Thracians, who had not had the time to rearm themselves with their most fearsome weapon, the rhomphaia: a sleek three-foot-long iron blade, razor sharp and slightly curved back at the tip, attached to a two-foot, ash-wood handle.

With both flanks now isolated and fighting their own private cavalry-infantry battles, the main body came on, throwing down their shields; they would be of no use to them now for what they had in mind. Each man reached behind his head and with a sweeping movement unsheathed his rhomphaia, The Thracians broke into a reckless sprint wielding these terrifying weapons with both hands above their heads. Maddened by battle lust they screamed as they charged, bearded faces contorted with rage. Long cloaks billowed out behind them; heavy calf-length leather boots pounded down the grass.

Trying to remain calm Vespasian watched the approaching surge of hatred, counting to himself. This was the most crucial order and it had to be timed to perfection.

With twenty paces to impact he bellowed, ‘Release pila!’

The cornu sounded. The Thracians had travelled another five paces by the time the legionaries responded to the signal. As one, the three centuries hurled their heavy weapons at a low trajectory towards incoming wall of unprotected flesh. At the moment of release each man drew his gladius from the sheath on his right side and then put his weight on to his left leg and crouched behind his shield. Those in the rear ranks pressed their shields on to the backs of their comrades in front. They braced for impact.

Ten paces from the Roman line more than two hundred pila slammed into the howling stampede. Men were thrown backwards as if yanked from behind by an invisible rope. The barbed points of pila passed clean through their ribs, hearts and lungs, bursting out through their backs in sprays of hot crimson blood. Faces disintegrated as the lead balls at the base of the shafts punched holes through heads, exploding grey matter over the already blood-spattered bodies of those following behind.

But still they came on, leaping over their dead or wounded comrades, heedless of their own safety. Screaming their defiance at their iron-clad adversaries, they hurtled towards the rigid wall of shields, bringing the blades of their rhomphaiai hissing down through the air, trying to slice through the helmets of the men behind.

At the point of impact the Roman front rank pushed their shields forward and up. The bronze-reinforced rims took the impact of the rhomphaiai, snapping handles and notching blades with clouds of sparks. Iron shield bosses thumped into the chests of the warriors as they crashed into the solid Roman line, winding some and throwing others off balance.

The line held.

Then the short pointed swords, designed to stab and gut, thrust out from between the shields at groin height and commenced their lethal work. The bellows of rage turned into shrieks of pain and anguish as the iron blades pushed up through the vitals of the now stationary Thracian front line. Bellies split open, spilling their steaming contents over the feet of both attacker and defender alike. Genitals were severed, arteries opened and blood flowed freely.

The press of their rear ranks prevented the Thracians from using their rhomphaiai to full effect. They were used to more open combat, typical of their inter-tribal battles, where there was room to swing the weapon, lopping off the heads and arms of their opponents, or sweeping the legs from under them. Here they were of little account.

The battle turned into a scrum of pushing and stabbing. A couple of the inexperienced legionaries stabbed too far and felt an icy flash of pain. They quickly withdrew their arms to find only a blood-spurting stump, and went down screaming. The men behind trampled over them knowing that to leave a gap would be fatal for them all.

And still the line held.

Unable to make headway the Thracians started to spill around the unguarded flanks of the two outermost centuries; legionaries began to fall, heads and limbs missing. From his vantage point Vespasian was aware of the danger.

‘Fourth and sixth centuries advance!’ he yelled.

The cornu blared and the two centuries on the flanks of the second line moved forward at a jog, increasing their speed as they closed with the enemy. Their centurions ordered their charge. In the wake of a volley of pila they hit the side of the encircling Thracians, punching those still standing off their feet with their shields and then despatching them on the ground with firm thrusts of their swords.

The Thracians started to fall back; the encircling manoeuvre having failed, they had, for the time being, lost heart. As they disengaged the severity of their casualties became apparent. More than four hundred of their dead and dying littered the bloody ground in front of the legionaries and the hillside beyond.

A massive cheer rose from the newly blooded recruits as they watched their opponents retreat. A few of the more hot-headed made to follow them only to be bawled back into line by their centurions, who knew only too well the folly of an undisciplined pursuit.

Corbulo arrived at Vespasian’s side.

‘We’ve beaten them, sir,’ Vespasian said with some pride, although fully aware that his gladius remained in pristine condition in its sheath.

‘You’ve beaten them off more like, but they’ll come again. Savages like these have more bravado than sense. It’s time we got out of here. Cornicen, sound “Withdraw facing enemy”.’

Corbulo then turned to the centurion of the unused fifth century. ‘Send out a party of men to bring in our wounded and finish off those who won’t make it. We will leave none of our men behind to amuse those barbarians.’

Steadied by the shouts of the centurions in the front rank and the optiones in the rear, the centuries began to pull back, step by step, in time to the beat measured out by low blasts from the cornicen.

The cavalry disengaged from their private battles and galloped back to cover the infantry retreat. They saw off the sorties of small groups of impetuous Thracians who attempted to disrupt the retrieval of the Roman wounded with javelin volleys.

Slowly the Roman line fell back the hundred paces to the river. In front of them the Thracian warriors had retrieved their discarded shields and rearmed with javelins. Again they began to work themselves up into a frenzy.

‘It won’t be long before they pluck up the courage to have another go,’ Corbulo said. ‘Vespasian, get the rear three centuries and the wounded on to the ropes.’

The last of the archers was crossing as Vespasian ordered the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries on to the three remaining ropes. The men, having retrieved their packs, didn’t need to be told the urgency of the situation and leapt into the water. Behind them the three remaining centuries formed a convex wall, shielding the ropes from the enemy.

As the last men of the rear centuries clambered into the water another great roar went up. Vespasian spun his horse round; six hundred paces away up the hill the Thracians started to move forward slowly.

Magnus appeared at his side. ‘Now we’re for it.’

‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the baggagecarts?’

‘Since when was I baggage?’

‘Since Corbulo put you in charge of it.’

‘As you said, I’m not under military discipline and I ain’t going across until you do.’

Corbulo came striding up to them. ‘We won’t have time to get all the men over before they’re on us. Tribune, get the third century across on all three ropes. I’ve sent the cavalry to try and delay the attack. And you,’ he said, looking at Magnus, ‘tell the baggage to get out of the river, then find yourself a shield and helmet. I imagine you’ll disobey me if I tell you to cross with it.’

‘Sir!’ Magnus hastened off as Vespasian dismounted.

The first and second centuries stood grimly watching their cavalry’s efforts to slow the advancing Thracians. Beaten off by volleys of javelins from the tightly packed horde, they turned and fled, back to the river.

‘Caepio, get your men across,’ Corbulo screamed. ‘There’s nothing more that you can do here.’

The thankful Gauls and Thessalians plunged their already tired horses into the river and began to wade to the far bank; a harder task now that the temporary barricade of wagons was no longer stemming the flow. The men of the third century were also struggling and the crossing had slowed to a snail’s pace. Their comrades, formed up on the far bank, called out encouragement but the quicker pace of the river took its toll. As Vespasian turned to join Corbulo with the remaining men he saw two legionaries being swept away, their heavy armour dragging them under. He knew it would take a miracle for them all to cross now.

The Thracians were less than three hundred paces off and had broken into a jog, gathering momentum for the final charge.

‘Well, tribune, let’s make sure that not all these men’s first action is their last,’ Corbulo said, turning to Vespasian. ‘We’ll take the impact of the charge and hold them; once we’re steady the rear rank can peel off to the ropes.’

‘What about the rest, sir?’

‘They’ll need to fight like lions. We have to make the enemy disengage, and then we run for the ropes. When the last men are on we cut the ropes and pray that we can hold on as the river swings us across.’

Magnus came puffing up the bank towards the two officers with a shield and helmet. He had a mule cart in tow.

‘Looks like we need to beat them pretty decisively to stand any chance here, hopefully these will help.’

‘What have you got there? I told you to get all the baggage across,’ Corbulo shouted, furious that his orders had not been obeyed to the full.

‘Pila, sir.’ Magnus pulled the leather cover off the cart.

A spark of hope kindled in Corbulo’s eyes. ‘What are you waiting for, man? Get them distributed.’

Quickly they ordered the men of the rear rank to grab four pila each and pass them up the files. The men’s morale was lifted by the weight of a pilum in their hands, and they started to beat them against their shields. From behind them their comrades on the far bank did the same. The noise made the Thracians pause. They had reached the long heap of mangled bodies that denoted the line of the last engagement, and were close enough now to see the new pila in their foes’ hands. They had already experienced at first hand that day the destructive power of the weapon, and even at odds of nearly ten to one they needed to boost their confidence. They started another round of jeering and cheering, working themselves up into battle fever.

‘We should go now, sir, whilst they’ve stopped. We could make it, surely?’

‘No, they’ll pick us off in the river with javelins; we need them to fire that volley at us whilst we’re shielded. Come, tribune, it’s the front rank for us. No doubt your insubordinate freedman will wish to join us?’

‘That is a very kind invitation, sir,’ Magnus said politely. ‘I’ll be a lot more use there than skulking around in the rear.’

Corbulo grunted and pushed his way between two files to the front.

Vespasian stood between Magnus and Corbulo at the centre of the Roman line, watching the Thracians getting their bloodlust up. They had found a wounded Thessalian who had been too far away for the retrieval parties to bring in. The hapless prisoner had a ropes tied around his wrists and was being stretched upright in the crucifix position by two men pulling on each arm. Around him danced a swarm of howling warriors brandishing their rhomphaiai.

‘Do not look away, lads,’ Corbulo bellowed. ‘Watch this and remember what they do to prisoners.’

The dancing stopped and the Thracians broke into a low chant that began to rise in volume until it drowned the screamed pleas of the prisoner. Two men took up positions behind him. The chant reached a crescendo and then suddenly stopped. Two rhomphaiai scythed through the air. The Thessalian’s legs dropped to the ground, but the man remained upright, screaming, stretched by the ropes, like ghastly washing on a line. Blood poured from his wounds in a pathetic imitation of the limbs he had just lost. With another sweep of flashing iron his arms were severed; they flew through the air on the end of the ropes spraying blood in macabre arcs. His limbless trunk crashed to the floor onto his severed legs. Two more warriors approached the tormented man and lifted the blood-spurting hulk in the air. Still alive but limbless, the Thessalian stared in catatonic shock at his erstwhile comrades, just a hundred paces away. Another flash and his head fell to the floor.

The Thracians charged.

‘Shields up!’ bellowed Corbulo.

Vespasian felt the shield of the man behind him push over his head and connect at a right angle with the top of his own, leaving a small curved viewing slit. Inside the wooden box men’s breath became laboured as they fought back the rising panic induced by close confinement in stressful circumstances. The smell of sweat, fear and urine filled Vespasian’s nostrils as they flared, sucking in lungful after lungful of hot air. Time seemed to slow as, in his mind, he recounted the training moves that Sabinus had put him through against the practice post at home, so far away. Calm washed through him. He was ready to fight. He was not going to die. Whatever fate awaited him it was not a death at the hands of a pack of savages. He gripped hard on his pilum. The first javelin punched into his shield. The muscles in his left forearm bulged with the strain of holding the shield firm. All around him sharp cracks filled the air as javelin after javelin thumped down on the Roman line. Men grunted through gritted teeth with the strain of supporting their shields against the barrage. Here and there a scream. Then it was over.

‘Shields down!’

Vespasian quickly leant forward and broke off the four-foot-long projectile still embedded in his shield. He became aware of hissing shafts passing overhead; their archers had opened fire from the other bank.

‘Pila ready!’

He gripped his pilum at the top of the shaft just behind the lead ball, and extended his arm back, putting his weight on his right foot.

‘Release pila!’

Vespasian threw his right arm forward with all his strength, hurling the heavy weapon at the mass of bodies charging towards him. He had no time to look at his handiwork. He reached immediately for his gladius and swept it from its sheath. He felt the shield behind him press into his back. He braced for impact. The screams of the Thracian wounded filled the air. Men went down, tripping others behind them, who were in turn trampled in the stampede to reach the Roman line.

Crouching behind the shield wall he was aware of a blur of metal bearing down on him. He pushed his shield up and forward. The blade of a rhomphaia ricocheted off the rim and an instant later its wielder smashed into the boss, cracking ribs and punching the air from his lungs. Vespasian’s left arm jarred with the impact, but held. With most of his weight on his left leg he thrust his blade through the gap between his and Magnus’ shields. He felt it penetrate soft flesh. He rolled his wrist sharply right then left, shredding the bowels of his screaming opponent, then he withdrew the blade and stabbed again as another took his place.

Next to him Magnus was punching his sword back and forth, ducking under murderous swipes of hissing iron, yelling his defiance with every swear word at his command as the bodies piled up in front of him.

To the right and left the Thracians tried to get round the flanks of the centuries but were brought down in droves by the fifty archers on the north bank.

The line was holding.

‘Rear rank to the ropes!’ yelled Corbulo as he felt the pressure ease on the shield wall.

Vespasian felt the weight pushing against his back lessen as the rear man of his file made his bid for safety.

‘Now push, you sons of whores,’ Corbulo roared. ‘Push those bastards back to hell.’

With a monumental effort the legionaries shoved their shields forward and heaved the enemy back. They stepped over the first of the bodies in front of them, the second-rank men stabbing the fallen again. Many a soldier had lost his life to a wounded opponent plunging a knife up into his groin as he straddled him. As the Roman line moved forward the Thracians compacted, their rear ranks still pushing forward whilst their front ranks were pushed back. The result was chaos as the Roman blades stabbed into the tightly compressed unarmoured flesh. Some of the dead remained upright, their heads lolling bizarrely as they were pinioned between shield bosses and their comrades behind; others slipped to the ground exposing new targets for blood-covered legionary swords.

Afterwards Vespasian would remember little of the following short period of time; his mind had switched off and his instincts and body took control. He heard no distinct sounds, just a constant roaring that his brain soon blocked out as one more distraction. All he would recall was the exhilaration he felt at the mechanical thrusting, grinding and retrieving of his sword as the Roman line, which he was an intrinsic part of, pushed forward, destroying all before it. He killed again and again with ease; he killed so that he and his comrades could remain alive.

Suddenly a shock wave swept through the Thracian line from right to left. Another threat had slammed into it from the east.

‘Mauricius!’ Corbulo shouted. ‘The gods be praised.’

With the unlooked-for arrival of their Gallic auxiliaries the legionaries’ hearts soared. These young men who had woken up in the morning as unblooded rookies now had the confidence of a unit of hardened killers. They set about their work with renewed vigour, blades flashing, shields punching, slaying everything in their path, pushing their opponents slowly back up the hill, whilst their Gallic allies rolled up the left flank, slashing down on their enemies with their long cavalry swords.

From behind them a massive cheer erupted from the second cohort. They pointed to the sky. Above, the ominous flock of rooks that had so disconcerted them that morning was heading back east, pursued by the two eagles. For a moment everyone paused and looked up as the chasing birds swooped down on their prey, plucking two out of the air with their claws. They rose back up, shrieking as they went, and released their victims in a flurry of feathers on to the melee below.

The Thracians turned and fled. The cavalry started to pursue them.

‘Hold!’ Corbulo cried. ‘Let them run. Mauricius, cover our withdrawal. And don’t ever turn up late again!’ Corbulo smiled with relief at the cavalry prefect, who grinned in return and then started to marshal his eighty or so remaining troopers; they too had had a hard day of it.

Vespasian sucked in a deep breath and then bellowed a victory cheer with his comrades.

‘That was more of a fight than we used to get in the Urban Cohort,’ Magnus puffed at his side.

‘That was the sort of fight that I could get to enjoy,’ Vespasian replied. His round face was flushed with excitement and blood. ‘If that is how a newly trained cohort fights then we may well have the gods on our side.’

‘The gods be buggered, it was-’

Corbulo’s shouting cut Magnus off.

‘Second century’s to cross next. First century’s to form up to their front.’

The light was starting to fade as the men of the second century waded out into the river with Corbulo and their centurion and optio all bellowing at them to get a move on.

A grim-faced Faustus reported to Vespasian, who stood with Magnus looking up the hill. Beyond the heaps of bodies in the pale light the Thracians were still there and had again started their pre-charge ritual.

‘That’s all the wounded taken care of, sir, twelve in total plus seven dead outright.’

‘Thank you, centurion. Have the men collect their packs.’

‘Sir!’

‘First century to the ropes; Vespasian, Faustus, take a rope each,’ Corbulo ordered as the last of the second century struck out into the river. ‘And, Mauricius, start crossing upstream of us, it will help ease the current.’

As the cavalry splashed in past the legionaries, a roar went up from the Thracians. For the third time in the day they started to tear back down the hill.

Panic spread through the legionaries; to have achieved so much in the past few hours only to be caught so close to safety seemed to be against the will of the gods. They started to push and shove to try to get on to a rope.

‘Easy lads, easy!’ Faustus roared at the downstream station, cuffing a few round the ears. ‘Don’t lose your discipline now.’

Vespasian looked behind; the Thracians were halfway to them, and there were still at least fifteen men to get on each rope.

‘When I give the order, cut the ropes,’ Corbulo shouted.

The men pulled themselves out into the river; arrows flew over their heads from the archer support on the north bank. With the Thracians fifty paces away it was apparent that they would not all make it.

‘Cut the ropes!’

Vespasian realised that Corbulo was right; it was more important to deny the Thracians the means of crossing than to save the last ten or so men, including himself. So much for fate; it was to be a death at the hands of these savages after all. He knew his duty was to the greater good and not to himself. He slashed down with his sword on the hemp rope; it parted, swinging its passengers out into the current. He then turned to face the enemy. They had stopped ten paces from them.

‘To me, to me,’ Corbulo shouted from the middle station, where he stood next to two terrified-looking young legionaries. Vespasian ran to his side with Magnus and the two men that had been left at his station. Faustus and three others joined them.

‘Right, lads,’ Corbulo said grimly, ‘we’ll sell our lives dearly.’ He charged. The others followed. They swept into the Thracians slashing and stabbing, but received no counter-strikes, just blows from the wooden handles of rhomphaiai. As he went down and blackness enveloped him Vespasian realised that this time the Thracians had not come to kill. That would come later.