Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

The spittle ran down the chased steel of his breastplate. Maximinus noticed several of his staff looking. He had had more than enough of most of the imperial amici . They were friends in name only. Their sidelong glances and disparaging airs infuriated him. The march had been long and hard, rations short and comfort a thing of memory. While they had burnt a satisfactory number of villages and captured many head of cattle, it was true they had not killed nearly enough barbarians. But what these effeminate fools in gilded armour failed to grasp, no matter how often they were told, was that the whole campaign had been designed for just this end, to bring the Germans to offer battle in some desolate location of their choosing.

‘All in position, Lord.’

Maximinus did not respond. He needed to review his dispositions one last time before he cast the die.

The army was arrayed in three columns. In the centre Honoratus would lead the first wave, a twenty-deep phalanx of six thousand men drawn from the legions of Moesia Inferior and the two German provinces. Shooting over their heads as they went in would be fifteen hundred Emesene and Parthian archers commanded by Iotapianus. Another six thousand legionaries, from Moesia Superior and the Panonnias, comprised the second assault. Flavius Vopiscus had charge of them. The reserve was stationed around the tribunal: eight thousand Praetorians and, to their right, three thousand cavalry made up of Equites Singulares, Osrhoene horse archers and cataphracts, in roughly equal numbers.

The vanguard of the right wing was fifteen hundred irregular infantry from Britain and from the tribes ruled by the Angles around the distant shores of the Suebian Sea. The former were led by the equestrian Florianus, the latter by one of their own tribal chiefs, Eadwine. Hard on their heels, Julius Capitolinus would charge the slope with four thousand legionaries of 2nd Legion Parthica. A thousand Osrhoene bowmen on foot would provide covering shooting.

The left wing under Catius Clemens was smaller. The initial attack would be the five hundred auxiliaries of 5th Cohort Dalmatarum, the second the two thousand legionaries of 3rd Legion Italica from Raetia. They would be backed by a thousand Armenian and Persian archers.

So many of these men would be dead by sunset. Aspines had told Maximinus a story about a Persian King looking at his army and crying because soon they would all be dead. Maximinus was no Persian. He mastered himself, touched the cold metal of the torque at his throat and the ring on his left thumb. He would let down neither his old Emperor nor his wife. Trust and good faith, they were worth the fight.

Maximinus turned slowly to take in the rear echelons. The camp was entrenched in old-fashioned Roman style. It was guarded by the 1st Cohort of Thracians and the Ostensionales, the dead Emperor Alexander’s favourite parade unit. The latter were good for pomp and little else, and Maximinus was half minded to disband them when they returned to the empire.

The woods ringed the encampment at a distance varying between fifty and a couple of hundred paces. It was all too easy to imagine a horde of screaming barbarians emerging from their gloom. Next to no army will stand if taken by surprise from the flanks or rear. Maximinus had detailed a light armed force to move out through the trees on either side. He could spare only one auxiliary cohort and a troop of five hundred Moorish horsemen for each. It was against all tactical doctrine to commit cavalry into woodlands, but the Moors fought in no set formation. If the Germans were waiting, the Roman numbers would be inadequate, but those who survived would give a warning. If the woods were empty, Maximinus had told the commanders to try to find a way around the enemy positions. He wondered if he had chosen the right men for the task. Marius Perpetuus and Pontius Pontianus were the sons of two commanders from his youth on the northern frontier. Yet neither was the man his father had been. They were soft, pampered Senators, no better than all the others. Still, if these two wanted the Consulship that he had held out to them, they would have to earn it on the battlefield like their ancestors.

‘Lord, it is time.’ It was unlikely any other but Anullinus would interrupt, let alone dare to sound as if he might be chiding Maximinus. Perhaps the Praetorian Prefect was getting above himself. Rapid promotion after having killed an Emperor might encourage dangerous notions of self-worth in anyone. And there was something feral in Anullinus’ eyes.

‘Load the artillery!’

Maximinus’ order was relayed through the ranks. The metallic click, click of the engines winding sounded sharp over the low rattle of men and the shifting of horses. Fifty light bolt-shooters mounted on carts were spread across the front of the army. Most were in the centre, but there were more on the right wing than the left. Maximinus hoped that if the enemy had noticed, they would not have drawn the correct conclusion.

‘Loose.’

Back from all along the line came the distinctive click-slide-thump of torsion weapons. Fifty steel-tipped projectiles sped away with inhuman force. Some punched into the palisade; others vanished over its top. The latter should spread terror among those sheltering behind the defences from this man-made storm. A few, with inexcusable bad aim on this third morning, embedded themselves in the earth bank. Even before they hit, the air was again filled with the clicking of the ratchets as the machines were wound back.

From behind the tribunal came a deeper noise, a resounding impact. Maximinus forced himself neither to duck nor look over his shoulder. Several of the imperial staff lacked his self-possession.

‘Baby on the way!’ The traditional shout went up, and after a moment Maximinus saw the stone, its great size reduced to next to nothing by the distance, hurtling down beyond the defences. The big stone-thrower was shooting over their heads from the camp, operating at the very limit of its range. Transporting the thing all the way from the Rhine had caused grave difficulties. Even disassembled, it had needed three large wagons. From the start, Timesitheus had argued it should be rendered unserviceable and left behind. Of course, he had wanted to get rid of the smaller carts as well. Maximinus wondered if the Graeculus was watching from the camp and admitting to himself that he had been wrong. Most probably not. More likely he was fuming because the Camp Prefect Domitius had been entrusted with holding the base. The two equestrians had hated each other for years, at least since the days when, in company with Maximinus himself, they had organized the supplies for Alexander’s Persian expedition.

‘Sound the advance!’

Trumpets blared, centurions shouted, and the standards inclined towards the enemy. With a measured tramp, the three phalanxes began to edge forward.

Maximinus checked the columns detailed to go into the woods. Both were slow off the mark. What were Marius Perpetuus and Pontianus doing? Probably having their legs depilated or listening to revolting poetry about interfering with small boys. Typically irresponsible, completely hopeless — you could not rely on a Senator for anything.

Trumpets rang out from the front. The attack columns shuffled and barged to a halt. The central one was about a hundred paces short of the fortifications. The ones on the wings had stopped at the foot of the slopes. The men had their shields up, locked together. Barbarian arrows were arcing down. Were there fewer than on the other days? Considerable numbers of warriors could be seen up there now. It was impossible to tell. The trumpets sounded a different order. After a moment, volleys of Roman arrows hissed away, filling the air like a host of bats. So far everything was the same as on the previous days.