Douglas Jackson: Sword of Rome

‘Close the ranks,’ he roared. ‘Hold the line.’ The order was echoed by the curved trumpet of the unit’s signaller. It was a question of nerve. When cavalry met cavalry the accepted tactic was to charge in open order, to avoid individual collisions that would cripple man and horse, but Valerius was inviting just that. His racing mind took in every detail of the enemy. The thunder of hooves pounded his ears and the Batavians were a sweat-blurred wall of horses and men that surged and rippled, the gaps opening and closing as each rider attempted to keep station on the next. Lance tips glinted in the sun. Had he miscalculated? Would their leader order a volley? He imagined the chaos if the spears arced into the close-packed ranks. No, they were closing too fast. If they waited to get within throwing range they wouldn’t have time to draw their swords and no man willingly went into battle defenceless. Instinct told him to pick a target, but it was still too soon. Think. Stay calm. You command. Today he must suppress the battle madness that made war a joy. Gaps opened in the Batavian line as countless hours of training prevailed and they resumed their natural formation. The enemy horse overlapped the Vascones by eight riders. Logic dictated that when the two lines met and the Vascones were checked, the Batavians would wrap around Valerius’s flank and the slaughter would begin. But Valerius didn’t intend to be checked. His plan was to smash through the Batavian centre. But first something had to break.

Seventy paces.

The faceless mob took shape as a line of glittering spear points and glaring-eyed, bearded faces, lips drawn back and teeth bared. A wolf pack closing for the kill.

Fifty.

It must be soon. But not yet. Patience.

Thirty.

‘Boar’s head,’ Valerius screamed, and his command was instantly repeated by the signaller’s insistent call.

At his side, Serpentius effortlessly switched his sword from right hand to left and put the reins in his mouth. The Spaniard reached to his belt and in a single smooth movement drew back his arm and hurled one of the two Scythian throwing axes he always carried. The spinning disc of razor-edged iron took the centre horse of the Batavian line in the forehead and the beast reared and swerved, setting off a chain reaction as riders hauled their mounts aside to avoid a bone-crushing collision. For the space of two heartbeats the centre of the disciplined Batavian attack splintered into chaos. It was long enough. Valerius nudged his mount right and the Vascones automatically followed. The boar’s head was predominantly an infantry tactic, a compact wedge designed to plunge like a dagger into the heart of the enemy, but every Roman cavalry unit practised the manoeuvre. At Valerius’s command the auxiliaries had moved seamlessly from line into an arrowhead formation, with Valerius, Serpentius and the signaller at the tip, aimed directly at the point where the stricken horse had swerved aside. Valerius hit the gap as the Batavian to his left tried to close it. He was already inside the rider’s spear point and he could smell the fear stink on the man’s wool over-tunic as his spatha swung in a scything cut that split ribs and breastbone, jarring his wrist and drawing a shriek of mortal agony from the other man. The dying Batavian reeled in the saddle even as Valerius’s angle of attack slammed his horse aside, creating more space for the rank behind. A simultaneous scream from his right told him that Serpentius had drawn blood and then they were through and clear. There was barely time to take a breath before he shouted his next orders.

‘Wheel left. Form line.’

He had intended to smash the Batavian attack and retire to protect Otho, but the instant he turned he recognized an opportunity too tempting to ignore. The charge had carved the Batavians in two and now the riders to the right of his line milled in confusion a hundred paces away. Six or seven men and two horses writhed in the dust where Valerius had struck the centre. Those on his left were closest and had held their nerve, but they were pitifully few, with perhaps a dozen troopers still in the saddle. Valerius still had more than twenty men and now he launched them against the nearest Batavian survivors.

‘Kill the bastards!’

The Vascones charged in open order while their enemies were still re-forming, and the Batavians had barely reached a trot before the Spanish tribesmen were among them, cutting right and left and howling their war whoops. Valerius picked out a mailed figure in the centre of the line and it was only as he closed that he saw how young the man was. Calculating eyes shone from a pale, determined face beneath the rim of a helmet that shone like gold. The Batavian drove his spear point at Valerius’s chest and only the speed of fear allowed the Roman to deflect the shaft upwards with the edge of his sword. He felt a bruising crunch as the point clipped his shoulder and ducked to avoid the ash shaft swung like a club at the side of his head. Still, the cavalryman was able to batter his shield into Valerius’s body as they collided, almost knocking him from the saddle. They circled like fighting dogs, snarling and seeking out a killing opportunity. Valerius saw the moment his enemy’s eyes widened, the mouth opening in a final scream as the auxiliary felt the edge of Serpentius’s sword crunch into his neck between helmet and mail. In the same instant, Valerius rammed his spatha between the gaping jaws. He felt the jarring impact as the iron point met the back of the skull and hot blood spewed from the boy’s mouth to coat his sword hand. His victim was thrown back, already dead in the saddle, and his pony ran for a few strides before the body fell to sprawl among the corn stalks.

‘Must be getting slow,’ Serpentius muttered. ‘I’ve seen the day you’d have had a chicken like that for breakfast and spat out his bones.’

Valerius gasped his thanks and turned to survey the battlefield. Four or five dismounted Batavians still battled for their lives on foot, but the rest were dead or dying, and the survivors of the enemy left flank were still milling about where they had been when the Vascones had charged their comrades. ‘Enough,’ he ordered the cavalry leader.

The man looked mystified. Serpentius spat something in his own language and the officer called his men off. The surrounded Batavians formed a wary circle, but when Valerius ordered them to lay down their swords they complied readily enough. He heard the sound of hooves and Otho rode up with his guards. ‘Why have you spared these traitors?’

‘Because they’re not traitors. They were only obeying orders, just as we are. Think about it. If your mission succeeds, in a few weeks’ time we’ll all be fighting on the same side, so what’s the point of killing them?’

‘They would have killed us.’

‘I accept that, but-’

‘Then I’m ordering you to kill them.’

Valerius raised his sword and Otho edged back. ‘I gave them my word that they’d live.’

The other man bridled. ‘I-’

‘Look.’ Serpentius pointed to where the remaining Batavians were trotting back towards the edge of the wood, where another, larger force had appeared. Valerius bit back a curse as he saw that the newcomers vastly outnumbered his men.

‘Form up,’ he roared. ‘Senator Otho, retire to the rear.’

He heard a sword being unsheathed. ‘I’ve done enough retiring for today.’

Serpentius laughed and Valerius shook his head wearily. ‘Very well, but stay close to this Spanish rogue. And if he says run, by Mars’ sacred arse, you run.’

By now the Batavian horsemen had reached the larger force. Valerius squinted in the bright sunshine as some sort of heated discussion took place among the enemy, punctuated by a sharp cry as one of the riders pitched from the saddle.