Douglas Jackson - Sword of Rome

‘What about their right flank?’ Benignus grunted in annoyance, and the junior tribune who’d posed the question in a voice frayed with nerves blushed under his glare.

‘Judging by the fat boars on their shields, you’ll soon have the honour of fighting the Twenty-first Rapax. Their ranks are a little thinner after Placentia, but from what my lads tell me it looks as if they’ve been brought up to strength by a cohort or two of the Twenty-second. Caecina’s put most of his cavalry on the flat ground to his right, but you won’t have to worry about them because we’ll keep them busy for you.’ A glint in his eye said he was looking forward to the contest. ‘As for the rest,’ he shrugged, ‘First Italica is in the centre and advancing up the line of the road. Who’s among the trees is anybody’s guess, but we know Fifth Alaudae and First Germanica were with Valens when he reached Augusta Taurinorum.’

Valerius listened with growing dismay to the account of the enemy’s dispositions. They would be facing four legions and elements of a fifth with two legions, the exhausted advance guard of another, and a few Praetorian cohorts. And one of those legions had never fought a battle. He could still hear the roars of the centurions on the far side of the road attempting to bring order to the confusion among the vines. Paulinus had been right. Given time, the engineers could have turned this terrain into a killing ground, but by marching into the enemy’s arms the legions of Otho had committed themselves to a fight on the worst possible ground. The only consolation was that the nature of the landscape would hamper Vitellians and Othonians alike. On the roadway, the Praetorians would be outnumbered, but the narrow front would tend to negate the First Italica’s advantage. He realized with increasing clarity that the battle would be won or lost on the plain where First Adiutrix stood.

A messenger arrived from the command group ordering the legion to advance, keeping station with the Praetorians on the raised roadway to their right.

‘Why should we advance if they’re already coming to us?’ Benignus complained. ‘If we fight here, at least the Thirteenth will have a little time to clear some space to see the enemy.’

‘Titianus is frightened Valens and Caecina might decide to run away,’ Valerius ventured. ‘His brother ordered him to bring them to battle and he’s doing what he’s told.’

‘If he had any sense he’d be more scared of the enemy than he is of his brother,’ the legate snapped. ‘Very well, order the advance and make sure the lead centurions know to keep station with the standards of the Thirteenth. We will form line when the enemy is at six hundred paces.’

Valerius saluted and ran off with the other tribunes to pass on the orders and join his gladiators. When the trumpet sounded its command they shuffled forward, keeping station on the cohorts ahead and to their flanks, the centurions using their vine sticks to straighten the ranks. It was painfully slow because they could only move as fast as the men of the Thirteenth forcing their way through the trees and the vines, cursing as they fell into hidden ditches. A murmur ran through the leading cohorts and the centurions barked their commands for silence. Valerius strained his eyes and he saw the reason for the noise. On the far horizon, perhaps two miles distant, polished metal glinted in the bright spring sun and he imagined he could see a dark shadow spreading across the fields. An image came to him of blood spilling across a marble floor and he swallowed hard and thrust it from his mind. But he couldn’t prevent his heart from beating faster or stop the flame that lit deep in his belly and flared to fill his chest. Part of it was fear, because no man could march into battle without feeling fear. Its smell filled the air like the earthy scent from some noxious flower. What mattered was how a soldier used that fear. Every man had courage, but experience had taught Valerius that courage was not infinite and no man could predict when the supply would run out. He had seen scarred veterans who moments earlier had been boasting how many enemy would die on their swords collapse quivering with fright before a battle. The phalerae and awards for valour that weighed them down meant nothing then. All around him men hitched their armour into more comfortable positions, or checked their grip on sword and shield. They had cursed the big, cumbersome shields on the march, but they didn’t curse them now, because in a few minutes those three layers of ash or oak could be the difference between life and death.

As he strode over the dark earth he shouted instructions. ‘I don’t want to hear a sound when you see the enemy. A Roman legionary does not waste his breath with threats and taunts. He does his talking with his sword.’ He allowed a hint of savagery to infuse his voice. ‘But when you charge I want to hear you scream like the beasts of Hades, because a good scream keeps a man’s courage up and turns his enemy’s blood to vinegar. Wait for my order before you throw your pilum , I know you’re not spearmen, so I’ll leave it until we’re close, but not so close that you don’t have time to draw your sword, or whatever exotic killing implement you arena scum prefer. Stay together and keep your discipline. That shield will protect you as long as you stay in line, but get isolated and you’ll be holding off one man and too busy to notice his mate until he starts carving your kidneys.’

He looked over his shoulder to where Juva marched beside his standard-bearer in front of the right-hand cohort of the third rank. The Nubian’s pilum looked small in his big fist and his face was a mask of menacing concentration. He felt Valerius’s eyes on him and turned and met the Roman’s waved salute with a broad grin. Beyond him, the tight-packed cohorts of the Praetorian Guard held to the line of the road, and far off on the right flank the standards of the Thirteenth rocked and stuttered as their bearers forced their way through the vegetation.

A centurion’s bark cut through the silence. ‘Stay in line, you bastards, you’ll get there soon enough.’ Valerius noticed that now the enemy was closer the gladiators strained against the enforced leisurely pace like dogs on a leash. And not just the gladiators. The marine legion marched with the pent-up energy of men determined to prove themselves worthy of the eagle they followed. By now, in the space between the leading cohorts, he could see the individual formations that made up the enemy legion and identify the colours that marked them as the Twenty-first Rapax. A shiver ran through him at the sight. They looked impressive. No, they looked invincible.

Yet this was one of the legions Spurinna had sent from Placentia with their tail between their legs. The question was how it would react to that defeat. Valerius was again burdened by a sense of unease at facing Roman soldiers on Roman soil. Spurinna had told him Twenty-first Rapax had been raised and recruited in the Padus valley. Some of the men he faced behind the big shields would have been born here, perhaps even ploughed these very fields. He shrugged off a melancholy he could ill afford and felt an icy calm settle on him. Well, they would die here and their own earth would provide them with a permanent resting place. Perhaps he would die with them. After all, he was a soldier, and that’s what soldiers did. No matter how good you were, there was always the chance that someone was faster or better. As he had told Juva, a battle was very different from a siege and he had never fought Roman soldiers in battle before. He remembered a recurring dream that had haunted him in the years following his return from Britannia. He would be fighting for his life when his legs suddenly felt as if they were encased in mud and his sword weighed ten times more than normal. He’d feel Boudicca’s warriors chopping him to pieces and wake screaming. These legionaries he would fight today were the veterans of the Rhenus legions. They carried the same arms and equipment as the First Adiutrix, but they were battle-tested and had years more training. Perhaps among them was a man who was faster, or better, or had Fortuna on his side.