Enemy of Rome (21 page)

‘Form square, three ranks,’ he roared.

Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed, boy
. Wise counsel from the camp prefect of Valerius’s first legion more than a decade earlier. So why was he giving an order he knew
couldn’t
be obeyed, at least not to the letter? Because a battle is like a living thing, a pulsating beast whose power surges and wanes, ebbs and flows, where strength can change to weakness, or victory to defeat, in a moment. It was like being at the heart of a nightmare. A thunderous, whirling vortex that blinded your eyes and battered your senses with howls of mortal agony, screams of terror, shouts for aid and cries for an unlikely mercy, all to the accompaniment of metal hammering on wood, metal clashing with metal and the butcher’s block thud of a bladed instrument meeting flesh. All around legionaries fought for their lives, snarling defiance as they wrestled shield to shield with the man in front of them. At the centre of the maelstrom, Valerius imagined the beast in his head, its jaws clamped on the cohort like a wolf tearing at a deer carcass. But the pressure from the wolf’s jaws was not uniform. The beast’s greatest weakness was in the hinge, at the point of the wedge, where the fewest enemy would be in contact. In contrast, the most dangerous threat came from the northern flank. Here, along the length of the wedge, the entire weight of the rear portion of the initial Vitellian attack would be attempting to claw their way forward. Instinct told him opportunity lay to the south, where the enemy centuries must be torn between carrying on the original attack and defending themselves against the shocking assault happening in their rear. This was where confusion would be greatest. By ordering square Valerius had gambled that he could force the southern jaw back, allowing the men of the three rear centuries of the wedge to take their places in the defensive formation that must stand – stand or die. Success depended on his officers’ ability to envisage the situation as he saw it, but he had faith that something like it was possible. Not a square, by any means; a ragged misshapen perimeter, but one that might be held. But for how long?

Because already men were dying.

Not many. Not yet. They were hard to kill because they fought from behind their big shields and their helmets and armour protected all but the eyes and throat, or a carelessly exposed armpit. But they were outnumbered. In the darkness, every man was faced by two, three and more battle-crazed faces, and those attackers were just as well armed and just as capable. If a legionary of the Fifth was brave enough to throw down his sword and tear a shield aside with his hands, he would open the way for his comrades. So Valerius’s men fell where they stood and their bodies lay to hinder the enemy. As the fighting raged around him, he attempted to judge where his precious reinforcements were needed most. Serpentius and Atilius stood at his side, the
aquilifer
bellowing encouragement to his tentmates, reminding them of their oath to the Emperor and to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Pride swelled in Valerius’s chest. He knew these men would stand to the last, eagle or no eagle. His legion … Realization scored the inside of his skull like a knife point. Fool that he was to lose concentration in the middle of a battle. He alone hadn’t picked up a
scutum
. Before he had the chance to act on the thought something hammered into his chest and he was down, staring bewildered at the stars. Claw-like fingers took his wrist and hauled him to his feet. Serpentius shoved a shield at him and Valerius fixed it to the oak fist the Spaniard had personally carved. ‘Spears.’ The gladiator hefted his own
scutum
to protect Valerius’s head. He nodded to the still twitching figure of one of Atilius’s guards on the ground nearby, with the shaft of a
pilum
through his right eye. ‘I wondered when they’d get round to it.’

No time to mourn. Valerius sensed a growing pressure on the centuries of the northern flank where they faced the full weight of the Vitellian attack. Should he reinforce it with every third man from the south? As his mind scrabbled for an answer a hoarse yell of triumph cut through the other sounds of battle like an executioner’s axe. From the corner of his eye he saw men thrown aside as a group of the enemy smashed their way into the square.

‘Hold your ranks and fill the gap,’ Valerius roared. ‘Serpentius.’

The Spaniard threw his shield aside and in four strides was on the closest of the infiltrators. The man had been charged with guarding the backs of his comrades while they attacked the interior ranks of the already crumbling square. Serpentius ignored the darting
gladius
and in a single flowing movement slid into a forward roll that carried him beneath the enemy shield to bring his sword up into the other man’s groin.

‘Close the gap,’ Valerius screamed. ‘Close the gap.’ By now a stream of men were pouring into the square and he launched himself at them, praying that the eagle’s guards were still with him. One of the first attackers hesitated to find his bearings in the confusion. The momentary pause allowed Valerius to smash his shield into the legionary with all his weight behind it. Momentum forced the soldier back into the gap, but he recovered with incredible speed. Valerius reeled as the point of the infiltrator’s
gladius
flicked out to slice the flesh beside his eye. Blinded by the searing pain, he tried desperately to defend himself as his opponent hacked at his shield. Blow after blow smashed the
scutum
from his wooden fist, and only the thick leather of the cow-hide stock saved him from more serious injury. For a fatal instant, the one-handed Roman was defenceless, and his exultant adversary raised his sword for the killer blow. Valerius had all but resigned himself to death when something swooped out of the darkness to smash the man backwards, spitting teeth and spewing gore. An anonymous legionary stepped from the rear rank of the first century and dispatched the fallen man with a
gladius
thrust before wordlessly returning to his position. Blood spurted like liquid obsidian in the darkness.

Still dazed, Valerius looked up to find himself the focus of a grinning shadow creature that turned out to be Atilius. The
aquilifer
’s grin faded as he inspected his eagle, which had one wing bent back at an angle to the body from the impact on the enemy’s jaw.

‘Don’t worry, Atilius,’ Valerius assured the crestfallen soldier with a shaky smile. ‘I won’t take it out of your pay.’

They barely had time to draw breath before a new rush of intruders threatened to overwhelm them. The eagle’s guard, now reduced to five, fought like demons to protect the sacred symbol, but for all their valour Valerius sensed they were weakening. Not in spirit, which was unvanquished, but in strength, their sword arms numbed by what seemed hours of fighting. As they fought, the numbers facing them grew with every passing second. The perimeter was long gone and he cursed himself for losing control of the cohort. No possibility of retreat now, if there ever had been. A great mass brawl surrounded him, with men screaming ‘Tolosa’ and ‘Juva’ to identify themselves to their comrades. Men fought not for victory, but to stay alive for a few more precious seconds. A lean silhouette appeared silently from his right and he turned to meet the new threat. Serpentius placed a hand on his sword arm. ‘Save your strength, because you’re going to need it.’

And he was right. Out of the darkness roared a new stream of enemies and the little group of men around the eagle was almost engulfed. Valerius fought with Serpentius at his right side, the Spaniard’s sword spinning a deadly pattern that kept all but the bravest at bay. He heard a scream to his left, and in the gloom saw Atilius swinging the eagle like a giant axe. A man grabbed for the sacred emblem of the Seventh Galbiana, only for one of the surviving guards to cut his hand off at the wrist. Another ducked below the whirling staff and stabbed upwards, but Atilius stepped forward and kicked him in the face with an iron-shod sandal.

‘Fight for your eagle,’ Valerius roared. ‘Remember your oath.’

Men heard the rallying cry and broke away from individual combats to hack at the men threatening the legion’s cherished standard. The counter-attack won a few moments’ respite – a lull in the almost endless ebb and flow of violence – but Valerius knew it couldn’t last. The next concerted assault would overwhelm them. He stood there fighting for breath, barely able to raise his sword arm, his chest filled with fire.

Serpentius sensed his despair. ‘Did you want to die in your bed?’ he snarled.

Valerius shook his head wearily. ‘What does it matter? We failed. I threw away these men’s lives for nothing.’

The whites of the former gladiator’s eyes shone like ivory in the darkness and trickles of blood – Valerius couldn’t tell whose – turned Serpentius’s already savage features into a nightmare vision from Hades. ‘They’re legionaries,’ he spat, wiping gore from his sword blade with the skirt of his tunic. ‘Dying’s all they’re good for. Every man in the Eighth cohort knew it might end like this, but they followed you anyway, didn’t they? Because they trusted you. And they were right. If you hadn’t checked the bastards here, you’d have lost the whole legion.’

‘Maybe. I—’

‘Tolosa! Vespasian!’ The cry from thousands of throats drowned out every other sound on the battlefield and was followed by an enormous clash of arms from the north. Valerius exchanged a startled glance at the Spaniard and Serpentius cocked his ear like a hunting dog.

‘They’re running. The bastards are running.’

‘Tolosa! Vespasian!’ The men around them took up the cry as their opponents faded away into the deeper darkness. To the north, the battle continued.

‘Eighth cohort?’ Valerius roared. ‘Rally to the eagle. Atilius? Give voice. Let them hear you.’

‘The
aquilifer
is down, tribune. That last attack …’

‘Someone fetch a torch.’ Valerius rushed to where he’d last seen the standard-bearer. With the click of metal on flint a light flared startlingly bright to illuminate a circle of ground scattered with bodies and parts of bodies. At its centre Atilius Verus knelt, head bowed, his torso supported by the sacred emblem he’d protected with his life, hands still clutching the pole with the battered eagle glittering defiantly above him. Valerius reached forward to touch his shoulder but the
aquilifer
toppled sideways, forcing him to grab for the falling standard. A dark pool on the ground showed where Atilius’s lifeblood had poured out from a gaping wound in his groin.

Still holding the precious eagle, Valerius surveyed the ring of grief-warped, savage faces in the flickering shadows cast by the torch. They had all seen men die, but some losses leave a void that is impossible to fill. ‘Atilius Verus died a soldier’s death,’ he reminded them. ‘An honourable death and a good death. He defended his eagle to his last breath and fulfilled his oath to the end.’ He paused to let them reflect on a towering comrade with a great heart. ‘Who will replace him? Who will accept this sacred burden?’

After a heartbeat’s hesitation one man stepped forward to a murmur of approval, one of the eagle’s surviving bodyguards, blood-spattered and limping. ‘I, Drusus Rufio, will take on this sacred task,’ he declared, ‘if my commander sees fit to honour me with it.’ Valerius nodded, and with a desolate glance at his predecessor Rufio accepted the staff and lifted his eyes to the eagle.

In an age-old ritual that went back to Gaius Marius, founder of the legions, Rufio recited the sacred oath in a voice shaking with emotion. ‘In the name of Jupiter Optimus Maximus I accept this eagle, this sacred symbol of my Emperor’s faith, into my keeping and that of Legio VII Galbiana, and I pledge on behalf of my comrades that we will defend it to our last spear and our last breath or may the god strike us down. For Rome.’

‘For Rome.’ The survivors of the Eighth cohort echoed his words in a shout that could be heard in the capital.

Valerius closed his eyes as a wave of exhaustion and relief threatened to consume him. He had defended the Seventh Galbiana’s eagle and kept it safe. But even as the thought formed the gods must have been laughing at him. Because from the darkness to the north came the sound of rushing feet and the unmistakable metallic clatter of armoured men approaching at the run.

The torchbearer dropped his brand and stamped on it, plunging them into darkness.

‘Tolosa!’ Valerius shouted the watchword and held his breath as he waited for the reply. His reeling mind tried to work out the hour, but he had no idea how long the fight had lasted. All he knew was that he was exhausted beyond caring. The surviving centurions silently ushered the men into line and they waited expectantly, their weary arms holding shields shoulder high and swords at the ready. The distant clamour of battle still rang clear, but the sound of men running in armour faded.

‘Tolosa!’ Valerius repeated the call, his body tensed for the storm of javelins that might accompany the reply.

‘Who are you?’ a querulous voice demanded from the gloom.

‘The watchword is Tolosa.’

‘I know that, but by now so does everybody on the battlefield. So answer the fucking question.’

Valerius hesitated.

‘You have to the count of five,’ the voice threatened.

‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, acting legate, Seventh Galbiana.’

‘
Merda
.’

Serpentius laughed as the whispered obscenity reached them. ‘Your reputation goes before you, tribune.’

‘Tolosa!’ The cry began opposite Valerius and was taken up all along the line. A torch flared and a group of shadowy figures marched towards the survivors of the Eighth cohort. The one-handed Roman relaxed as he recognized the grizzled figure in the centre.

‘My apologies, tribune.’ Annius Cluvius Celer, prefect of the Ateste cohort of
evocati
, removed his helmet and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. The old soldier’s face was as grey as his hair and his hand shook. ‘Even the bravest are apt to become a little nervous when they don’t know who they’re fighting.’

‘Nervous or not, my friend, you have never been more welcome,’ Valerius assured him. ‘I take it we have you to thank for the withdrawal of the Fifth.’