Douglas Jackson - Sword of Rome

Well, Valerius Verrens had Serpentius on his side. He looked to his right and took comfort from the former gladiator’s presence. The Spaniard had found a set of auxiliary armour from somewhere, but he preferred not to fight in a helmet because he said it restricted his vision. The hatchet face read his thoughts and twisted into a smile. ‘Would you rather die in your bed?’

Valerius grinned back, but whatever he had been going to say was lost in the clamour of horns.

‘Form line!’

The leading ranks moved swiftly from four cohorts, including the elite First with its double strength contingent of eight hundred legionaries, into two solid shield walls manned by eleven hundred men apiece. Legionary training dictated that each man required three feet of space to fight in, roughly the width of a standard scutum . Against Boudicca’s champions or German tribesmen the combination of a stout shield, a gladius with a strong arm behind it and Roman discipline would all but guarantee victory. But the men of First Adiutrix were fighting Romans — Romans with the same stout shield and short, deadly sword, who were just as disciplined. When they met, it would be a question of who had the strength of will, the strength of arm, and who cracked first.

With less elegance, Valerius helped shepherd the gladiators into their place in a third shield line, formed by the three centre cohorts of the original formation. When men fell or were wounded, or when their sword arms tired, the third line would provide replacements for the first and second under the directions of their centurions. As he had agreed with Benignus, he kept four centuries back as a mobile reserve to reinforce any weak spots in the Othonian ranks, or capitalize on any weakness in the enemy’s. The three remaining rear cohorts would perform the same function, but on a larger scale, and their very presence would be a constant threat to the opposition because of the danger they posed of a flanking movement.

On the far side of the field the men of Twenty-first Rapax went through similar motions, but in a series of much smoother movements. ‘Soon now,’ Serpentius muttered.

As he said the words, a clarion call rang out over the battlefield and told Valerius the Twenty-first’s legate had completed his dispositions and sounded the advance. The hair on his neck felt as if it was standing on end. A shiver ran through him, the last vestiges of a fear that would soon fuel the fury building inside. To his front, the extended ranks of the First Adiutrix seemed to shimmer as men checked their station and tightened the grip on their pila . ‘Now, Benignus,’ he whispered. ‘Now.’ The braying notes of the cornicen were echoed all along the line by brisk orders from the centurions.

The battle had begun.

Six hundred paces separated the two legions. Three hundred paces before the collision. Some men counted their steps as they marched; anything to keep their minds off what was to come. Others stared at their enemies, but saw only the faces of their bastard children or their sweethearts. A few ejected the day’s breakfast and claimed it was not fear but excitement. Many muttered prayers and wished there had been time for a sacrifice that would have given some indication of the day’s outcome. A surprising number relished the thought of the coming battle. The men of the First were proud of their legion. Proud of the fact their Emperor had called on them for help. It didn’t matter that another had treated them worse than dogs, or that it was a third who had given them their eagle to follow. What mattered was that they had an eagle. They were the Legio I Adiutrix and they would make the name of the First Adiutrix ring through the ages. It began today. Hadn’t Juva and the five centuries who’d returned victorious from Placentia taught these rebel scum a lesson? They had trained and marched and counter-marched, spent countless hours hammering at posts and each other with the heavy practice swords, dug roads and built bridges. They were the First and they were the best. Now they would do what they were trained to do. Fight.

They marched in silence, with the measured, implacable tread that had made the legions feared from one side of the world to the other. They marched for Rome.

And towards them marched five thousand men equally certain of victory.

At four hundred paces, the scorpiones and onagri began the killing, the five-foot arrows of the ‘Shield-splitters’ living up to their feared nickname and the big boulders crashing through shields to smash bones and crush skulls. ‘Close up! Fill the gaps!’ The cries of the centurions rang out along the line, as they would until the day was won or lost. Men moved forward from the second line of shields to the first, and from the third to the second. Valerius stepped over a twitching body with half a head and a single staring eye. To his right, where Benignus had taken up position, an ambitious young tribune on the legate’s staff cried out in agony as a scorpio bolt tore a gaping hole through his mount’s chest and carried on to pierce his thigh, pinning him in place as the beast fell and crushed his ambitions for ever. And still the missiles came.

‘Close up. Fill the gaps.’

Less than three hundred paces now, and the enemy was an unbroken line of brightly painted shields, the twin boar legend of the Twenty-first Rapax proclaiming their identity to the world. If the veteran centurions of the First hadn’t been so occupied, they could have scanned the enemy ranks for faces they knew beneath the distinctive transverse crested helmets of their counterparts. Men they had fought with in bar brawls and screwed alongside in brothels during twenty years of postings. But they concentrated on holding their men in check. They could feel the eagerness of the marine legionaries and hear the distinctive throaty snarls of dogs desperate to be unleashed. But not yet.

‘Steady. Hold the line.’

Valerius dropped back to Marcus, who marched beside his century’s signifer with the mobile reserve. ‘Remember, when the first three lines charge, these men’s instinct will to charge with them. But we must hold them fifty paces back and wait.’

‘They won’t like watching other men doing the fighting,’ the lanista warned him.

‘I don’t care what they like. They’re legionaries and they’ll obey orders. The first man who gets ahead of me will find my sword up his arse.’

‘Aye.’ The old gladiator grinned. ‘That should do it. I’ll let them know.’

A hundred and fifty paces. ‘First three ranks at the trot.’ Three and a half thousand men moved instantly from the walk to the steady-paced jog that could carry them for miles. Across the divide, the sight of the unit banners and standards wavering as their bearers increased pace confirmed that the Rapax’s legate had issued the same orders.

‘Hold your spacing, you bastards,’ Marcus growled.

Seventy-five paces. ‘Ready.’ Three and a half thousand fists closed on the shafts of the heavy, weighted javelins they carried.

Sixty paces. ‘Throw.’ Three and a half thousand arms pulled back and launched their pila towards the enemy. The moment the javelins flew, the legionaries drew swords with a metallic hiss that sent a shiver through every man.

Forty paces was the ideal killing range of the pilum , the heavy spear that consisted of a length of ash tipped by a shaft of iron the length of a man’s arm and a pyramidal point designed to pierce shield and armour. But the primus pilus , the senior centurion and tactical commander of the first wave, had judged his distance perfectly. By the time the javelins fell in three great hissing arcs, the front ranks of the opposing lines had just entering the killing ground. The heavy spears punched into shield, or armour, or flesh. If point met shield at the optimum angle, the spear would rip through layers of ash as if they were silk. With good fortune the owner would survive with a dent in his armour, but for the rest of the battle his shield would be hampered by the heavy javelin. Plate armour might stop a direct hit by a pilum if the impact was not perfect, but its wearer’s charge would be stalled and the shock was capable of cracking ribs and breaking bone. Any man foolish enough to look up as the spears fell would end up with a shaft of iron through his skull.