Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

Julius took command without hesitation as he rode his lathered mount up to Brutus. He handed over the wax tablet signed by the consuls.

“Now we are legitimate. You have given the battle orders?”

“I have,” Brutus replied. He tried to hide the coldness he felt, but Julius was looking away from him, judging the line of approach to the rebel forces.

“The extraordinarii are ready on the flanks,” Brutus said. “I would like to join them there.”

Julius nodded. “I want these mercenaries broken quickly. Take the right and lead them in on my signal. Two short notes from the horns. Listen well for it.”

Brutus saluted and moved away, relinquishing his command without a backward glance. His extraordinarii had taken station in ranks. They let his horse through to the front as they saw him join them, and a few cheerful voices called out a welcome. Brutus frowned at that, hoping they were not too confident. As with Octavian, there was a difference between smashing target shields to pieces and sending spears into living men.

“Hold your line,” Brutus bellowed over their heads, glaring at them.

They quieted then, though the excitement was palpable. The horses whinnied and pulled to be allowed to run, but were reined in with tight hands. The men were nervous, Brutus could see. Many of them checked their spears over and over, loosening them in the long leather holders that hung down by the horses’ sides.

They could see the faces of the rebels now, a mass of shouting, running men who held swords high over their shoulders for one smashing blow. The blades caught the sun.

The centuries of the Tenth tightened their formations, each man ready with his drawn gladius, his shield protecting the man on his left. There were no gaps in their lines as they trotted forward. Then the cornicens blew three short blasts and the Tenth broke into a run, holding silence until the last moment, when they roared as one and heaved their spears into the air.

The heavy iron points punched men from their feet along the enemy line, and Brutus had the extraordinarii launch a fraction behind, their more accurate strikes aimed at anyone trying to rally the enemy. Before the armies met in earnest, hundreds had died without a Roman life taken. The extraordinarii circled on the wings and Julius could see the riders bring their shields around automatically to cover their backs as they wheeled. It was a superb display of skill and training, and Julius exulted at the sight of it as the main lines crashed together.

Glavis spent his first mighty blow on a shield, smashing it through. As he tried to recover, a sword entered his stomach. He winced in expectation of the pain to come, dragging his blade up again. As he tried for a second blow, another Roman crashed his shield into him and he fell sideways, the sword knocked from numb fingers. Glavis panicked then as he looked up and saw the forest of legs and swords beginning to pass over him. They kicked and stamped at him and in seconds his body had been stabbed four more times. The blood poured out of him and he spat wearily, tasting it in his throat. He struggled to rise, but they kept pounding at his body. No one could have marked the exact instant of his death. He didn’t have time to see the front line of his Gauls collapse as they found they could not break the fighting rhythm of the Tenth.

As Glavis was seen to fall, the Gauls wavered, and that was the moment Julius had waited to see. He shouted to his signaler and two short notes rang out.

Brutus heard and felt his heart leap in his chest. Despite the advantage of numbers, the mercenaries were breaking against the Roman charge. Some of them were already streaming away, dropping their swords. Brutus grinned as he raised his fist in the air, sweeping it down toward the enemy. Their spear holders were empty and now they would prove their true worth. The extraordinarii responded as if they had fought together all their lives, wheeling away to give themselves room and then hitting the enemy like a knife into their ranks, tearing them. Each rider guided his mount with one hand on the reins and his long spatha sword cutting heads from those that faced them. The horses were heavy enough to smash men from their feet, and nothing could stand against the sheer weight of them as they plunged into the lines, deeper and deeper, breaking the rebels apart.

The front rank of the Tenth moved quickly over their enemies, each man using his blade and shield in the knowledge that he was protected by his brother on the right. They were unstoppable and after the first ranks went down they picked up speed, heaving and grunting with the strain as arms began to tire.

Julius called the maniple orders and his centurions roared them out. The velites moved back on light feet and let the triarii come forward in their heavier armor.

The rebels broke then as the fresh soldiers came at them. Hundreds threw down their weapons and hundreds more sprinted away, ignoring the calls of their leaders.

For those that surrendered too early, there could be no mercy. The Roman line could not afford to let them through the advance, and they were killed with the rest.

The extraordinarii flowed around the rebels, a black mass of snorting horses and shouting riders, splashed red with blood and wild enough for nightmares. They hemmed them in and, as if there had been a general signal, thousands of men dropped their swords and raised empty hands, panting.

Julius hesitated as he saw the end. If he did not have the cornicens sound the disengage, his Tenth would continue until the last of the rebels were dead. Part of him was tempted to let that happen. What would he do with so many prisoners? Thousands of them had been left alive, and they could not be allowed to go back to their lands and homes. He waited, sensing the eyes of his centurions on him as they waited for the signal to stop the killing. It was butchery by then and already those closest to the Roman ranks were beginning to reach for their weapons again, rather than die unarmed. Julius swore softly to himself, chopping a hand down. The cornicens saw the motion and blew a falling tone. And it was finished.

Those left alive had been disarmed as quickly as the Tenth could spread amongst them. In small groups, they searched the mercenaries, a single Roman removing blades while the others watched in grim concentration, ready to punish any sudden movement.

The mercenary officers had been called out of the ranks to stand in front of Julius. They watched him in silent resignation, a strange group, dressed in rough cloth and mismatched armor.

A breeze blew coldly through the battlefield as the sun sank toward the horizon. Julius looked at the kneeling prisoners arranged in a semblance of ranks, with corpses breaking the neat lines. Catiline’s body had been found and dragged to the front. Julius had looked down at the pierced and bloody thing that had been a senator. There would be no answers from him.

Though Julius thought he knew the truth of the failed rebellion, he suspected Crassus would remain untouched by his part in it. Perhaps some secrets were better kept from the public gaze. It could not hurt to have the richest man in Rome in his debt.

He glanced over as Octavian slapped his mount’s neck, practically glowing with the fading thrill of speed and fear. The extraordinarii had been blooded at last. Horses and men were spattered with gore and earth thrown up in the charge. Brutus stood amongst them, exchanging quiet words of praise while he waited for Julius to end it. It was not an order he would have enjoyed, Brutus admitted to himself, but Rome would not allow a show of mercy.

Julius signaled to the men of the Tenth to herd the officers closer to him. The optios thumped their staffs into the mercenaries, knocking one of them sprawling. The man cried out in anger and would have thrown himself at them if another hadn’t reached out to hold him. Julius listened as they argued, but the language was unknown to him.