Gordon Doherty - Viper of the North

Yet the centre of the XI Claudia held good. Pavo butted his shield out at the next Goth who came at him, winding the man and then jabbing his spear down and into the man’s larynx. The Goth’s eyes had not even dimmed before he was trampled by his own kin and the next Gothic warrior barged into the fray. Pavo grimaced as another arrow smacked from his helmet and punched into the eye of the legionary behind him. He ignored the warm eye-matter that soaked his neck and targeted the Gothic warrior to his right who was swinging his longsword down on Zosimus. Pavo dipped his shield momentarily and speared the Goth through the jaw. The Goth’s arms fell limp, the longsword toppling to the ground. Pavo wrenched at his spear, and it finally came loose with a meaty clunk, complete with the Goth’s jaw and tongue. Pavo shook the spear to rid it of the gory mass, but it was stuck fast.

Then Sura’s voice pierced the air by his left side. ‘Pavo, watch your flank!’

Pavo spun to his right; Centurion Zosimus had stumbled and exposed Pavo’s right side. A Goth leapt at the fracture in the shieldwall, hacking down for Pavo’s neck. He raised his spatha, roaring in defiance, knowing he was too late, waiting on the death blow. Instead, he was showered with blood and offal, as a young legionary lunged forward to fill the gap and rip open the oncoming Goth’s belly with a spatha swipe. Pavo didn’t even have time to nod his gratitude, when a spear punched through the lad’s chest, throwing him back and pinning him to the earth.

Pavo roared and smashed his shield forward, hurling his spear at one Goth then ripping his spatha from his scabbard to stab another in the gut. He glanced around for his next foe, then realised he was standing forward of the line. He stepped back, once, twice, three times, but still the left flank was retracting. This felt wrong, Pavo realised; the XI Claudia and the I Adiutrix were being pressed back too fast — beyond the point of refusing a flank. Then a buccina wailed three times, and he heard a Roman voice call out over the tumult.

‘Hold your ground! Refuse the flanks!’

Pavo’s eyes widened; if they were pushed round past a right-angle with the Roman centre, then they were doomed. In between parries and shield butts, he snatched glances up and over the Gothic swell to understand what was happening. Then he saw it: the two Gothic cavalry wings had cantered around the flanks of the battle, readying for a charge on the Roman rear. Readying to dash the legionary line against the anvil of Gothic spearmen.

Mithras, save us! He cursed inwardly and ducked back down under the swipe of a Gothic axe. He glanced to Zosimus. ‘Sir? We’re collapsing in on ourselves.’

All around them, the men of the Claudia and the I Adiutrix stumbled back, lamenting the sight of the Gothic horsemen. In return, the riders grinned like demons as they moved at ease, eyeing their prey.

‘Where is our bloody cavalry?’ The big Thracian growled, snatching glances over his shoulder in between beheading one Goth then braining another. The cataphractii were stationary, some two hundred paces back. And now the Gothic cavalry had rounded on the rear left and rear right of the legions unopposed. They were readying to charge.

‘All is not lost.’ Gallus gasped over the din of battle, hacking at the speartip of one Goth and then ducking from the sword swipe of another, ‘I persuaded the magister militum to prepare for this eventuality.’

‘Sir?’ Pavo panted.

Then a buccina cry split the air. Four clean notes. Pavo looked to Gallus; the tribunus seemed to be whispering some prayer of thanks. From across the plain, a cry of joy broke out from the Roman right flank. At once, the push of Gothic spearmen abated in uncertainty. Pavo looked to Sura, who mirrored his frown. The pair looked across the sea of bloodied and hugely depleted intercisa helmets, broken spears and fluttering eagle standards to see that the flimsy timber fence surrounding Ad Salices had been pushed to the ground. Behind the fence, twelve ballistae and another twelve onagers were aligned, loaded with bolts and boulders and manned by eager crews. More, the ballista at one end of the lineup was the hulking four-pronged device. The Gothic cavalry wing closing on the Roman right suddenly halted. They turned in their saddles, eyes bulging as they saw the weapons trained on them, realising their flank was exposed to the artillery.

An absurd silence hung over the field for but a heartbeat. Then, Traianus’ cry from the distant right flank ended it.

‘Loose! Tear them apart!’

With the groaning of timber and thick ropes snapping free of tension, a storm of bolts and rocks hurtled through the air and smashed into the Gothic cavalry by the Roman right. The impact was lethal; horses and riders were crushed like ants under the rocks, their bodies tossed across the plain, and those who avoided the rocks were punched from their mounts by the rapier-like bolts, some skewering three or more riders and knocking many more to the ground.

From the Gothic centre, war horns wailed to rally the riders. But, as some of the shattered wing scrambled back onto their mounts, those still mounted heeled their beasts in panic, trampling over their kin, stumbling over the slain.

‘Again!’ Traianus roared. The crews scurried around the devices, loading them and then twisting the winches to stretch and ready them once more.

Pavo felt a mix of joy and terror wash through his limbs; the right was secure, but the left was moments from being shattered. The Gothic charge on that side had only faltered temporarily on seeing their other wing smashed by the Roman artillery barrage. Now they had resumed their charge and were only a hundred strides away at most. The ground shook with their approach and a chorus of terrified moans broke out across the Roman ranks.

Then the buccinas sang out a series of notes that saw the cavalry alae on the secure right flank burst into life. They hared to the left to join the alae there, doubling their strength. As one, the Roman cavalry then swept across the rear of the legionary lines and then smashed the charging Gothic cavalry wing in the midriff.

The cataphractii led the way, punching into the Gothic formation as a wedge and then driving deep into their midst. Their lances wreaked havoc as they sliced through to burst clear on the opposite side, then turned back to carve another path of destruction. All the while, the equites sagitarii wheeled in circles to the rear of the Gothic wing, showering the riders with arrows and covering the charge of the cataphractii.

The Gothic charge had been broken at the last.

Pinned down and enraged, the Gothic riders lost all formation and were forced to skirmish against the swooping cataphractii, but without any momentum of a charge, their mastery of mounted combat was blunted. The Gothic cavalry were feared by Roman citizens as expert cavalrymen, but these ironclad demons from the east were shredding them. And then the last of the Roman cavalry, the equites, one thousand strong, galloped round to the rear of the Gothic infantry lines. There, they swept across the banking, scattering the chosen archers.

‘God is with us!’ One voice from the eastern comitatenses cried above the chaos.

‘Mithras is with us!’ Zosimus barked back with gusto.

At this, the Roman line roared in a joyous release, spared from slaughter by a tactical masterstroke. Pavo felt the press of the Gothic spearmen lift completely as they backed off, wary of the equites at their backs and conscious of the sudden cessation of archer support. He panted, limbs trembling. He wondered why the thundering in his heart was not abating. Then he saw that Draga was in discussion with Ivo, the pair mounted high above the jostling Gothic spearline. Ivo nodded, then turned and relayed Draga’s suggestions to Fritigern as if they were his own. Fritigern nodded hurriedly then called for the war horns. The horns moaned across the plain, and the Gothic cavalry were rallied by this, breaking free of the cataphractii death trap on the Roman left and the artillery bombardment on the Roman right. Then, from behind the wagons by the foothills, a fresh wave of some two thousand Gothic cavalry poured from the valleys. They raced around to the Roman right to flank the artillery, and in moments they were upon the crews of the ballistae and onagers, hacking them down without mercy. With that, the artillery fell silent.