Simon Scarrow - Son of Spartacus

The tribune wheeled his mount and spurred it into a gallop back along the track, past the men of the first two centuries who had dropped their yokes and were hurriedly checking the straps of their armour before raising their shields to form a line facing the ambushers. Leaning forward in his saddle, Marcus glanced to his right and saw the white expanse in front of the forest was filled with figures. Thousands of them were surging through the ankle-deep blanket of snow.

Quintus reined in when he reached the wagons, shouting at the thin screen of legionaries to step aside and let him through. Some of the mule drivers had already deserted their positions and were running towards the shelter of the stockade, while others ran blindly towards the stream. The water was raging between the banks and Marcus knew that anyone attempting to cross it would be swept away. There was no escape from the trap that had been set for them. They must close up and hold their ground for as long as possible. As Quintus took up his position by the cohort’s standard, close to the wagon where Decimus and his men stood ready with their swords, Marcus edged his horse alongside the tribune. He stared at the wave of men rushing towards them, their mouths open as they let out a deafening roar of triumph. Most were well armed, kitted out with shields, helmets and weapons looted from the farms, villages and small towns that they had attacked. A far cry from the ragged appearance of Polonius, the rebel tortured by Festus.

In that instant Marcus saw it all. The clever trap Brixus had set for Caesar played on the Roman’s contempt for the rebel slaves and his desire for a quick end to the campaign. Polonius had been a plant, deliberately left behind to be captured and give the information that had lured Caesar away from his baggage train. It had cost him his life and Marcus could only marvel at the courage of a man who played such a part, sacrificing himself to give his comrades a victory over the Romans. He wondered if any man in Caesar’s army would have such courage. Then there was no more time to think: the enemy was upon them.

At the front of the charge the men armed with slings and bows stopped to loose their missiles before charging on. Marcus turned at the sound of a dull crack and saw one of the legionaries fall, his face a bloody mask. He thudded into the snow and kicked out for a moment before losing consciousness. More shot and arrows rattled off the heavy oval shields as the legionaries raised them up. There was a shrill braying as the mules fell victim to the barrage and some of the mule teams began to panic and drag their vehicles out of line. Marcus saw one team veer to the side, thrusting through the legionaries. One man was knocked down, his legs crushed as the cart wheel ran over them. The mule team broke into a trot, careering across the snowy field into the rebel ranks.

‘Ready javelins!’ barked the senior centurion.

The gap between the two sides had narrowed to no more than thirty paces. Waiting for the centurion’s order, the legionaries hefted their javelins and drew their arms back. Marcus saw the centurion narrow his eyes as he timed the moment, his sword held high. With a dull gleam, the blade swept down and he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Loose!’

The dark shafts of the javelins arced through the snowflakes before striking the figures swarming towards the Roman line. Marcus saw scores of men collapse as the sharp iron heads tore through them. But the attackers did not waver and charged straight into the cohort’s shield wall. Sitting in his saddle, Marcus’s ears filled with the crash of shields and scrape and ringing of clashing blades, and the grunts of men locked in battle. This was unlike any fight he had ever seen. Worse even than the riots he’d witnessed from the street gangs at the Forum in Rome. And more frightening than the gladiator bouts he had been forced to endure. Those had involved a test of skill, each fighter with only one opponent to concentrate on as they duelled to the death. What was happening now seemed a bloody chaos of hacking, slashing and stabbing along the ragged battle-line.

At his side Tribune Quintus held his sword up and out as he shouted encouragement to the men under his command. ‘Hold fast! Drive the slave scum back!’

Then, just in front of the two horses, a rebel burst through the Roman line. An axe in one hand and a buckler in the other, his mouth gaped in a roar behind a wild black beard. He saw the Roman officer and charged forward, swinging the axe above his head and thrusting the heavy blade towards Quintus’s shoulder. Marcus acted instinctively, pulling hard on his reins so his horse crashed into the rebel and knocked him aside. The axe swept down, narrowly missing the tribune’s boot before crunching into the compacted snow on the ground. Quintus twisted in his saddle and swept his sword down, stabbing deep between the rebel’s shoulder blades. The man let out an agonized cry and collapsed face first in the snow as blood spattered the snow around him.

Quintus met Marcus’s eyes and he nodded his thanks before turning back to the fight.

Already the rebels’ superiority in numbers was telling. Both ends of the Roman line were being forced back as the legionaries tried to avoid being outflanked. But Marcus realized they could not prevent the inevitable for much longer. A harsh cry to his side alerted him to a fresh danger and he snapped his head round to see a lithe figure in a gladiator’s cuirass rushing towards him with a spear in both hands, the point aimed directly at Marcus’s chest. There was little time to react and he threw his weight back in the saddle at the same time as he thrust his sword out, catching the wooden shaft just beyond the iron point. He was not strong enough to parry the thrust and only deflected the point into the neck of his horse. It punched through the hide and flesh before the bloodied iron burst out the other side. The horse let out a terrified whinny and reared up, wrenching the shaft from the rebel’s hands. Marcus held the reins in his left hand as tightly as he could, but he was already leaning backwards and felt his legs slipping out of the saddle.

With a cry he tumbled off, letting the reins go before he crashed to the ground, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. There was no time to recover as the horse reared and kicked, spraying snow into Marcus’s face. He rolled away towards the river, then scrambled to his feet, gasping. On either side the legionaries were being driven back through the line of wagons and panicking mules.

‘Protect the standard!’ Quintus shouted. He turned his horse towards the gilded wreath and red drop that rose above the crumbling centre of the Roman line. Then his horse stumbled and Quintus desperately swung a leg over the saddle, jumping to the ground as the horse fell on its side, a broken leg thrashing out.

Marcus ran to his side. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

Quintus nodded. ‘We have to save the standard. Stay with me.’

They joined the small group of legionaries formed up round the standard and saw that the senior centurion was among them, fighting the rebels back and shouting to his men in between the blows he struck.

‘Form on the standard! On me!’

Those who could obeyed the order and closed ranks with their comrades. In the centre Quintus took stock of the fight.

‘We’re losing.’

Marcus caught glimpses of the fighting beyond the ring of men around him and saw that the centre of the line had broken. Some legionaries had thrown aside their weapons and were running away, pursued by the rebels, who showed no mercy. On either flank the centuries had closed up into desperate knots as they fought back to back until they were cut down. The men protecting the standard were slowly forced to give ground as they were driven away from the track towards the edge of the small lake.