Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘Bloody hell,’ said Macro. ‘They’re good. Never seen men move so damned fast.’

‘Draw swords!’ Tigellinus yelled.

Cato grasped the handle of his weapon, taking care to lock his fingers firmly round the leather grip, knowing full well that it was fatal for a fighter’s sword to slip in his hand during battle. He pulled the weapon from his scabbard and held it level, the side of the blade resting against the trim of his shield with no more than six inches protruding beyond the shield. On either side of him the rest of the guardsmen continued to advance on the gladiators, sword points glinting.

Their leader, unharmed by the Praetorians’ javelins, swiftly sheathed his blade and snatched at one of the shafts angled into the ground. He yelled to his followers. ‘Come on, lads, give them some of their own medicine!’

He hurled the javelin towards the guardsmen, now less than twenty paces away. He could hardly miss the line of shields and gleaming helmets bearing down on him. The javelin punched through the shield of the man next to Macro, bursting through his shield arm and lodging hard against the guardsman’s mailed chest, before the weight of the shaft dragged his shield and arm down. He let out a roar of pain as his pace faltered and he dropped out of line, sheathing his sword, and then wrenched his shield arm free in a welter of blood.

‘Close up!’ Macro ordered instinctively. ‘Close the line!’

Several of the gladiators followed their leader’s example and four more of the guardsmen went down before Tigellinus could react to the danger and prevent the loss of more of his men.

‘Charge!’ he cried desperately. ‘Charge!’

Macro’s mouth opened wide as he let out a deafening roar of battle rage, then he lowered his head and pounded forward. Cato gritted his teeth and stayed close to Macro’s flank. Ahead of them the gladiators braced themselves for the impact. Those with javelins still in hand grasped the shafts tightly, ready to use the weapons as spears. There was a rolling clatter of thuds and grunts, broken by the sharp ringing rattle of blades clashing as the Praetorians surged in among their foes.

Macro made straight for a barrel-chested German with shaggy hair tied back from his face. The man raised his heavy round shield and held a falcata out to the side, ready to strike. He bared his teeth in a snarl and leaped forward. The shields crashed together forcefully, but the greater momentum was with Macro. He threw his weight in behind his shield for good measure, causing the German to stumble back a couple of paces. Even so he was trained to recover swiftly and savagely parried Macro’s thrust, sending the point wide. Good as his responses and technique were, it was his training for individual combat that did for him. His attention was fixed on Macro and it was only at the last instant that he recognised the threat from Cato, coming from the other side. Cato punched his shield in, catching the German hard on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He went down, his wide back bent over one knee. Cato struck without hesitation, ramming his blade deep between the shoulder blades, ripping through muscle and shattering the man’s ribs and spine. He wrenched the blade free, with a spray of hot blood, and instantly turned to guard against any attack.

‘Good kill, lad,’ Macro acknowledged.

The skirmish raged around them, the gladiators holding their own as they fended off the Praetorians’ blows with their shields or parried them away with deft flicks of their wrists. As Cato watched he caught sight of the leader as the man slammed his buckler into a guardsman’s helmet, snapping his head aside. Then the gladiator followed through with a powerful thrust into the exposed throat, ripping the blade free at once as he stepped back, lowering his body into a crouch, looking round for his next opponent. There were other Praetorians on the ground, Cato noted, and only two gladiators. Only the armour and larger shields of the Praetorians were saving them from suffering even more casualties in the uneven fight.

‘We’re losing this,’ Macro observed. ‘We’d better do something. We have to take charge.’

Cato nodded, keeping his eyes on the fight. It would draw attention to them, and there would be those who might wonder at their easy assumption of command – if they survived the skirmish.

Macro snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Praetorians! On me! On me!’

Cato echoed the cry. The nearest of their comrades began to edge towards them and quickly a small ring formed, shield to shield, as the guardsmen sought the protection of the formation.

‘Hold your position!’ Macro called. ‘There’ll be help any moment! Hold on!’

Tigellinus had echoed the cry and a second ring of Praetorians had formed a short distance away. The rest fought back to back or were locked in a series of individual combats across the open ground. Cato kept his shield up as he stood beside Macro. Glancing to the other side he saw Fuscius breathing heavily. The optio’s eyes were wide and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Despite the fierceness of his expression his arms were trembling and the end of his sword wavered as he pointed it at his foes.

‘We’re safe enough,’ Cato said to him. ‘If we keep together and hold the formation.’

Fuscius glanced at him quickly and then looked back, nodding vigorously.

The gladiators surrounded the ring, but there was no coordinated attempt to charge home. Instead each man seemed to have chosen a particular soldier as his opponent and either stood sizing them up or darted forward to attempt to slip their weapon round the shield. Some made feints and then tried to strike. In all cases the presence of the soldiers on either flank of their chosen target foiled their attempts. This was not the kind of fight they had been trained for and their frustration was evident. There was a lull in their attacks. Cato sensed the opportunity to make a fresh appeal to them to end the fight.

‘You cannot win!’ he called out. ‘There’ll be more soldiers here any moment. You’ll be cut to pieces if you resist. Lower your swords!’

‘We die either way, brothers!’ the leader called out. ‘Out there fighting to entertain Romans, or here and now, fighting Romans! Fight on!’

With a bellow of rage the gladiator charged at the man just beyond Fuscius and punched high with his shield, forcing the Praetorian to raise his shield to counter the blow. At the same time he drew his arm back and swung it in a hooking arc, under and round the bottom of the guardsman’s shield, then up in a vicious thrust into the Praetorian’s groin. So hard was the blow that it drove the air from the man’s lungs and almost lifted him off his feet as the blade punched up into his vital organs. With a savage cry of triumph the gladiator ripped his sword free and leaped back, then punched the gore-stained blade into the air.

‘Kill them! Kill them all, my brothers!’

There was a chorus of roars and shouting from his companions as they closed round the two rings of Praetorians and hacked and slashed at the shields and helmets.

‘We have to take their leader down,’ Macro grunted as he parried a sword thrust. ‘If he falls, they may lose heart.’

Cato risked a glance back, past the pavilion, and saw the nearest of the other Praetorian centuries hurriedly forming up. A trumpet sounding the alarm from beyond the palisade announced that the auxiliaries were also making ready to intervene. However, there was still time enough time for the gladiators to cut Tigellinus and his men to pieces. Up on the reviewing stand the Emperor had re-emerged, goblet still in hand. He glared angrily down on the scene.

‘What is this? Who gave the order for the fight to start?’

Cato cleared his throat. ‘Let’s do it then.’