Enemy of Rome (16 page)

A galloping horse will take less than a minute to cover half a mile. Already the bulk of Varus’s men were bearing down on the sanctuary of the Flavian cavalry line. Most had maintained their discipline; a few, like their commander, were consumed by panic. The one thing they had in common was a determination to survive. Behind and among them rode the great mass of enemy cavalry who had chased them from the field. Savage thrusts of their spear points pierced chain armour, rib and spine to the accompaniment of the shrill death cries of their victims. Their blood was up and they barely noticed the static line of mounted men ahead.

Valerius had seen it before. Panic is like the disease that spreads through a camp on swampy airs, carrying rashes and lung rot and showing no mercy or discrimination for rank or quality. A wave breaking on a beach inundating every shell and grain of sand until its energy is spent. Now it leapt from the Thracian riders to those they had elected their saviours.

‘Stay together!’ Valerius roared the order at Simplex. ‘Whatever happens aim for the gap and stay together.’

Three hundred paces. Ahead, the long line of cavalry seemed to ripple as they realized what was approaching. They could see the enemy’s standards mixed with their own in the confused mass rushing towards them, and beyond, the solid formations of the trailing Vitellian cohorts. They’d been told to expect an orderly retreat and disciplined columns who would take advantage of the gap in their centre. Instead, they faced a tidal wave of terrified men and horses that would break their carefully prepared defence lines and wreak havoc with sword and spear. When the first man turned his horse his decurion tried to push him back into line. By then it was too late. He was followed by first one then another of his comrades, and within a dozen heartbeats the whole line began to disintegrate.

Valerius watched it happen with a sinking heart, but his course never deviated from the gap in the line where the officers still exerted some semblance of discipline. Stern, determined faces flashed past to right and left and he was through and safe. The men Tiberius Simplex had gathered remained with him and he knew their first instinct would be to lower their guard, but he couldn’t allow that to happen. He roared above the thunder of hooves, ‘Stay together. Stay in formation.’

Serpentius had never left his side and he heard the Spaniard curse. ‘Mars’ sacred arse, what a fucking shambles.’

Valerius looked about him and was reminded of the mountain avalanche that had almost killed him the previous year. It had roared down the slope absorbing everything in its path, be it rock or snow, or tree – or man. The Flavian defensive line had absorbed the fleeing cavalry and taken on its momentum, careering blindly back towards Bedriacum. Thousands of men and horses thundering east in a confused rabble without form or discipline: a commander’s worst nightmare.

Marcus Antonius Primus had overseen the formation of his legions and was returning to join his cavalry when he saw the disorganized horde sweeping down the Via Postumia. For an instant the same panic that drove them threatened to overwhelm him. Yet the fear he felt was nothing to the realization of the humiliation he would suffer if he was defeated. Better to die on this field than see his name a laughing stock.

Twenty paces ahead a narrow stream with steep banks cut across the line of the road, spanned by a wooden bridge. He turned to the prefect in charge of his personal guard. ‘Tear it down and form a line on this side of the stream. This is where we make our stand. Not one step backwards.’

The men set to work and as more officers arrived from Bedriacum he ordered them to extend the holding line along the eastern bank of the stream. ‘Kill the leaders if you must,’ he instructed, ‘but stop the rout at all costs. They will be slowed by the gully. Stop them and turn them round to face the enemy.’

Then he waited.

The first fugitives were those who had fled fastest, their horses foaming and close to spent, but they ignored their general’s entreaties to stop and fight and galloped on. In desperation, Primus seized a spear from the closest of his escorts. The next man to cross the stream and top the bank was a standard-bearer, still clutching the red banner with his unit’s symbol of a rearing horse. His eyes were glazed with fear and he didn’t even hear his commander’s order to halt. Primus thrust forward and the impact almost broke his wrists as the spear took the man square in the breast and pitched him out of the saddle. An aide swiftly stepped forward to pick up the banner and set it on the bank of the stream.

Primus dismounted to heave the spear free from the dead man’s still twitching flesh. A shadow loomed threateningly over him, a tall, mounted figure silhouetted against the sun, and he turned with the point ready.

‘Well,’ he said savagely. ‘Will you fight or do I have to kill you too?’

Gaius Valerius Verrens rapped his wooden fist against his chest in salute. ‘One tribune and a hundred and fifty men at your service and ready to fight, general.’

‘This is not a defeat.’ Marcus Antonius Primus spat the word as if it was poison on his tongue. ‘It is a setback, and a setback that we will turn into a victory. Do you understand? There will be no turning back. We will fight here and we will die here, if necessary.’

‘Your orders?’ Valerius asked.

For a moment Primus looked slightly bemused, as if, despite his fiery words, he hadn’t expected to be able to do anything tangible to stem the tide. He shook his head to clear it and the orders flowed as a plan took shape. ‘Form your men into five squadrons and place them to the south of the road about a hundred paces out. That will be the centre of our line and this stream and the men behind it will be our only defence. Spread your junior officers on either flank to help gather everyone who can fight and order them to kill anyone who refuses. They will collect them into squadrons and add them to the line.’

‘And the road?’

‘I will hold the road. You must hold the rest.’

It felt like the end of something, but it was only the beginning.

The makeshift line of cavalry behind the gully firmed up thanks to Valerius’s decurions and
optiones
and their willingness to use a blade when required. Their efforts slowed the flow of fleeing men and created a dam of Thracians on the far bank of the stream. Those on the fringes of the cowering mob suffered terribly from the swords and spears of the pursuing Vitellians, but as Primus said: ‘If they hadn’t run they wouldn’t be dying now.’

Eventually, the flow of friendly troops slowed to a trickle of wounded and shocked survivors and the leading enemy formations became visible, strong and unbloodied. If they’d followed up their advantage they might have broken through, but their horses were winded and the men felt they’d already won a victory. That was enough for now. Besides, in the far distance towards Bedriacum, they could see the banners of Primus’s legions marching to reinforce the battered and demoralized cavalry units. The sound of trumpets echoed across the flat, churned-up fields and Valerius watched as they wheeled about and trotted unhurriedly back to Cremona.

When the Vitellian units had vanished into the distant haze, Primus rode along the line of the stream calling encouragement and taking stock of his exhausted cavalry. They were still nervous, but the fact that they had fought off the Vitellians, however belatedly, had raised their spirits. Valerius was glad their commander showed enough wisdom not to reverse that situation.

‘We will have words about this,’ Primus promised his officers. ‘But at the right time. When the legions come up we will camp on this side of the stream and maintain strict vigilance until morning. For now, we will rest.’

But there was to be no rest.

‘My men refuse to take up defensive positions.’ The look on Vedius Aquila’s lined features reflected an anxiety that seemed to exceed the news he imparted. ‘Their blood is up and they demand to continue on to Cremona. They believe the withdrawal of the enemy shows a lack of fight.’

‘Then have the dissenters whipped in front of their comrades,’ Marcus Antonius Primus said dismissively. ‘And have them sleep outside the perimeter,’ he added with a grim smile. ‘The enemy is welcome to a few mavericks who do not obey orders.’

‘
All
of my men,’ Aquila persisted. ‘Every last century and cohort.’

The smile froze on Primus’s face.

‘The Eighth also has disciplinary problems,’ Numisius Lupus admitted gloomily. ‘They can see the smoke of Cremona’s cooking fires while they dine on rough porridge. They mutter that we promised them they would be feasting on the city’s food stores and they are but an hour’s march away.’

Primus turned his attention to the campaign map for a few moments, but Valerius knew by the set of his shoulders that he was attempting to control his rage. They’d gathered in the commander’s headquarters pavilion at the place where an hour earlier Primus had turned the tide of Vitellian cavalry by sheer force of will. Now he faced an even greater challenge: mutiny in his own army. Everything won might be lost in the next few moments if he made the wrong decision. The general might be impetuous, and he understood that any decision was better than no decision at all, but that didn’t mean he was ready to blunder headlong into a battle. Eventually, he addressed the respected commander of the Seventh Claudia. ‘And you, Messalla?’

‘The bastards will do what I tell them,’ the veteran tribune said. ‘But they want to fight. They know only two legions defend Cremona and that it’s there for the taking.’ He shrugged and Valerius saw he agreed with his soldiers. ‘Our supplies are low. We can’t afford to get involved in a protracted siege. Why delay when they could have another five or six legions here tomorrow?’

‘But our heavy weapons won’t be here for another two days,’ Primus pointed out. ‘And a night action?’ His expression said it was absurd.

‘If we move now it could be all over by nightfall.’ Messalla kept his tone respectful, but failed to hide an edge of impatience. ‘If not, we’ve fought night battles before. Cohesion is the key. Make sure every man knows the watchword, keep your formations tight and kill everything that gets in your way.’

Valerius’s dismay grew with every word he heard. The discussion reminded him of the conference before Otho’s army marched down this very road. Then, it had been clear the Emperor had lost the faith of his generals and the result was a disaster that cost forty thousand lives. Primus still had his commanders’ respect, but they had lost control of their soldiers. That was the problem when fighting a civil war. Every man had a stake in the result. He wasn’t just fighting for victory and plunder, he was fighting for the future of his family and the Empire. And he was a Roman citizen, with a Roman citizen’s rights and privileges, and sometimes he believed that gave him licence to dispute a commander’s decision. A lull in the conversation broke his train of thought. He realized that Primus had asked him a question.

‘I said you and Aquila have fought over this ground. He has given his opinion. What is yours?’

Valerius took time to gather his thoughts. ‘To carry on risks being caught in a battle you can’t control, against an enemy whose numbers you can only guess. Setting up camp here allows us to rest and consolidate our forces, with only a short march to Cremona at dawn and the opportunity to choose our own ground. Yes,’ he cut off Aquila’s interruption, ‘it also risks allowing the legions from Hostilia time to reach Cremona, but that risk exists in any case. I say do not be caught in the trap that ensnared Otho. Fight the battle you choose, not the one the enemy wants you to fight.’

Primus nodded thoughtfully and made his decision. ‘I will talk to the legions,’ he said. The moon face twisted into a sarcastic smile and the slightest hint of contempt edged his voice as he surveyed his commanders. ‘Are there any other complaints I must deal with for you?’

‘The Thirteenth blames the city of Cremona for what happened at Bedriacum,’ Aquila said carefully. ‘Its people supported Vitellius from the start and gave shelter and supplies to his legions. My soldiers believe it should be made to pay.’

‘And mine,’ Lupus reinforced the point.

Primus frowned. ‘It is Vespasian’s policy that civilians should not suffer for the mistakes of their political leaders. I cannot be seen to allow such behaviour, nor to condone it.’ He met the eyes of each legate in turn to ensure every man understood exactly what his words meant. ‘However … in war who knows what happens when a general’s attention is drawn elsewhere?’

Valerius felt the unnatural silence that followed as the occupants of the tent digested the reality of what they had just been told – or not told.

With a verbal shrug of the shoulders Cremona’s fate was sealed.

‘The centurions are running things now,’ Serpentius confirmed dolefully. They were returning to their tent past a
valetudinarium
where the army’s surgeons were working on the day’s wounded. A terrible scream rent the air and the Spaniard visibly paled at the rasping sound of a bone saw on an arm or a leg. Valerius felt a twinge in his right hand, but he smiled at the thought of Serpentius being squeamish about a doctor’s work. The Spaniard swallowed and spat before he continued his theme. ‘The centurions smell loot and when a centurion smells loot you’d best not get in his way. Their men are ready to follow them.’

He was right, Valerius knew. The sixty veterans who led a legion’s centuries were a hundred times more respected and feared than the tribunes who had nominal command. Experienced, often avaricious men, they used their seniority to milk their soldiers of bribes for allocations of leave or to be given light duties. A man’s centurion could make his existence a living nightmare Primus did as he’d promised and spoke to the men of his five legions. Valerius listened as the general stood at the centre of the massed square formed by Eighth Augusta. He reasserted his right to command and highlighted the perils that would face them if they continued: the lack of supplies and artillery, the strength of the enemy position, the possibility of ambushes. But they wouldn’t be swayed. They had the scent of plunder in their nostrils and his reputation for audacity told against him. When he spoke of caution, they heard something entirely different. He’d spent the last week telling them of the need to strike quickly. What had changed? In the end he had no choice but to resume the order of march.