Authors: Douglas Jackson
‘The Fifth?’ Celer’s face mirrored his puzzlement. ‘We’ve taken prisoners from Twenty-first Rapax and Fifteenth Primigenia, but none from the Fifth that I know of. But yes, we beat the buggers. That is, us and the Praetorians. We were in reserve behind the Thirteenth when we had word to reinforce your right flank. General Primus sent a wet-behind-the-ears tribune to take command and a scout who led us blundering about in the dark. Eventually we found some Thracian auxiliaries who pointed us in this direction and when we came across some fighting the tribune decided we might as well join in. Fortunately, it seems we attacked the enemy.’
Valerius suppressed a shiver at the realization that the survival of his legion had been decided by a blind throw of the dice. But that was past now.
‘Can you put out a picket to allow us to regroup and care for our wounded? Our little battle may be over, but there’s still plenty of fighting and I wouldn’t like to be surprised by some cohort that’s got lost and is looking for a fight.’
Celer nodded and issued an order to one of his officers. Valerius had already sent a runner to Claudius Ferox asking for a detailed report on the Seventh’s status, but his instinct told him that they would be able to hold their own now that the pressure had been removed from their flank. He asked Celer for news of what was happening in the centre and on the left, and the old man responded with a cackle of bitter laughter.
‘Only the gods and the owls have the answer to that question. Annius Cluvius Celer cannot see in the dark, and neither can Marcus Antonius Primus. I can give you my impressions, for all they are worth.’ With a shrug he bent and stabbed his bloodied
gladius
into the earth to clean the blade. ‘Two blindfolded bears meet in the forest. They roar. They push. They test each other’s strength. They back away. Push again. Eventually they must decide whether to wrestle or to run. Only when they properly come to grips will they know who is stronger, and even then greater cunning or Fortuna’s aid may still decide the outcome.’ Celer’s face split into a surprised smile, as if he’d only just realized that he’d survived. ‘As I understand it, our strongest defences are on the right, with two legions to hold them. I know of no crisis before we received our orders, though what the position is now I cannot guess. Primus has confidence in the Thirteenth and they are defending the narrowest of fronts on the causeway itself. It would take Achilles and all his Heroes to shift them. They were faced by the Fifth Alaudae and I’d hazard the flank attack you faced was as much a probe to feel out their width as a genuine attempt to destroy you.’
Serpentius sniffed and spat. ‘I can assure you it seemed genuine enough at the time,’ Valerius said. ‘You mentioned Praetorians?’
‘The ragged fellows we picked up on the road,’ Celer explained. ‘Vitellius butchered their centurions and stripped the rest of their position and their rank. Three cohorts strong and they fight as hard as they hate, which is hard indeed. They charged off into the murk, but I thought it best to obey our original order and reinforce the Seventh.’
‘You did right.’ Valerius gripped the other man’s arm and Celer winced. ‘We’re still hard pressed, and the Eighth cohort is out on its feet and has lost half its strength. Form your men up and we will rejoin the legion.’
The militia veteran smiled wearily. ‘It will—’ A surging rush rent the air to the north, followed almost instantly by an enormous crash that seemed to shake the very ground they stood on. Then the screaming began, a different kind of screaming that made the normal battlefield sounds almost commonplace. The kind of screams men utter when they have been visited by some nameless, faceless horror.
‘What in the name of Mars was that?’ Celer found his tongue.
Valerius exchanged a glance of recognition with Serpentius. They’d heard that sound before and could imagine the results. The screams came from the ranks of the Thirteenth Gemina, the backbone of Primus’s battle formation, packed three centuries wide and twenty deep on the narrow causeway and the ditches beside it. Celer had said that not even Achilles and all his Heroes could shift them.
But they weren’t facing Achilles and all his Heroes. They were facing Cyclops.
The engineers of the Twenty-first Rapax called it Cyclops because it was huge and instead of only one eye it had a single arm. The Vitellian legions who force-marched from Hostilia to meet Marcus Antonius Primus’s attack had left their artillery to make its own plodding way in their wake. But the Twenty-first had been at Cremona for months and their camp east of the city walls was defended by all that centuries of Roman ingenuity in the art of war could provide: palisades, ditches, stake-filled pits, towers – and artillery. Their ‘shield-splitters’ and
onagri
catapults had been manhandled from their positions and accompanied the bulk of the legions, but their value on the damp ground and in the dark was limited. Cyclops was different. A dozen oxen had taken three hours to haul the great siege catapult the four miles from Cremona. It had cost another two to peg and rope the structure into place so it wouldn’t be hurled into the air by the earth-shaking power that kicked through the wooden frame during a launch. It had an arm as long as three tall men ranged top to toe, and could throw a boulder the weight of a small ox six or seven hundred paces. Valerius went through the calculations in his head. Even now the engineers would be straining at the levers to pull the arm and sling back into place, ready for the next release. Cyclops was designed to destroy walls and buildings; its effect on flesh and blood could be truly awesome. Corbulo had used catapults against the massed ranks of the Parthian host at the battle of the Cepha gap and the giant missiles had broken the King of Kings’ resolve. They were notoriously inaccurate, but that didn’t matter against a target directly ahead and half a mile deep. From somewhere to their right front came the distinctive thump of the great oak beam hitting a barrier of straw-filled leather sacks. A rush of displaced air and the almighty crash as the boulder landed. Valerius winced at the thought of the giant rock, the size of a large cauldron, landing among the close-packed ranks of a century. Men utterly destroyed in an instant, their flesh pulped and their splintered bones turned to deadly shrapnel. The first bounce tearing through rank after rank, to be followed by a second and as many as three or four more. Each bound killing and maiming and spreading terror and despair. A single catapult could cost Marcus Antonius Primus his battle.
‘We have to stop it.’ Valerius knew he had no choice. He called for axes to be brought forward, but Serpentius laid a hand on his arm.
‘Times have changed, Valerius.’ The Spaniard kept his voice low. ‘You have a legion to command. Your job is to lead, not to go crawling around in the dark getting yourself killed.’
Valerius would have shrugged him off, but it was like being gripped by an eagle’s claw. Besides, he knew the former gladiator was right. Almost five thousand men depended on him for direction and leadership. The bulk were less than two hundred paces away, bewildered, hungry, exhausted and still fighting to stay alive in the darkness. They would hold their positions as long as they could wield a sword and keep their shields high. To desert them, even for so vital a mission, would be a betrayal.
He nodded reluctantly. ‘How many men will you need?’
‘Twenty should do it,’ Serpentius said. ‘Enough to take care of the engineers and the guards, form a perimeter and keep two or three of us alive long enough to disable the beast.’
‘All right. The first century is as good as any for this kind of work. Choose your men from the survivors.’
‘With respect, tribune.’ The voice was Celer’s. ‘Your men have been fighting all night, and you said yourself that they’re exhausted. We, on the other hand, are relatively fresh. Do me the honour of allowing me to lead the escort and choose them from amongst my men.’
Valerius hesitated. These were old men – no, not old, not quite, but worn by time and hard service. Yet every one was a veteran, with a lifetime of campaigning behind him. And the Colonia militia had taught him not to underestimate the value of experience. They might struggle to march twenty miles in a day, but they were fighters. He walked along the line of soldiers. Their eyes glittered in the torchlight and not one flinched when he met their gaze. ‘Very well, prefect. Choose your men. But Serpentius leads. This is the kind of work he was born for.’
A legionary appeared out of the dark and laid a bundle of long-handled iron-headed axes at Valerius’s feet. Serpentius bent to pick one up, weighing it in his hands. ‘Four should be about right.’ He turned to Celer, and Valerius was surprised at the respect in his voice. ‘You’ll know your men best, sir.’
‘Crispinus, Lucco, Julius.’ Three broad-shouldered legionaries stepped forward as the prefect chose his axe men. He rattled out a list of names and sixteen others formed line beside them.
‘You’ll do,’ Serpentius ran a challenging eye over the old soldiers. ‘But if any of you don’t fancy taking orders from a former slave and hired killer, now’s the time to say so.’ He waited, but not one of them spoke out and he grinned. ‘Don’t worry about making a noise, because we’ll all be carrying these.’ He picked up a fallen enemy shield. ‘We’ll be going in as fast as you’re able. Leave me to do the talking if someone challenges us. If you get separated, the enemy watchword is Ajax and the reply Agamemnon. Watch the man in front, because when we get closer that’ll be the time to become slow and silent. Prefect?’ Celer nodded, flinching as a new rushing sound signalled the latest missile arcing towards the Thirteenth’s ranks. ‘Once we pinpoint the catapult you stop and regroup. I’ll be up ahead checking the positions of the guard. We hit them once we know how many and where they stand. With luck they’ll be so busy watching the show they won’t notice us until we’re cutting their throats.’ They smiled at that, but Valerius saw little humour in it, and no wonder. These men would have to traverse the battlefield in the pitch dark, find the catapult, defeat its defenders and destroy it. The enemy weren’t fools. They were as aware of the machine’s importance as Primus. For all Serpentius’s brave words this was a dangerous, possibly suicidal venture, with only a limited chance of success. But it had to be attempted. He felt the Spaniard studying him. ‘No time like the present.’ Serpentius nodded and hefted the shield. Twenty men followed his example. ‘We should be back by first light.’
Valerius went to Cluvius Celer and took him by the arm. ‘Don’t take any chances, prefect. Trust this brute, do the job and get your men out. Succeed and you’ll be worth another legion to Primus.’
Celer nodded and took his place beside the Spaniard. Together they led the nineteen men of the Ateste cohort of the
evocati
out into the darkness. Valerius watched them go before ordering the torch to be extinguished. When the light died he had a gut-twisting premonition that something else had died with it.
In the starlit darkness, Serpentius set a steady pace over fields flattened by the march and counter-march of thousands of legionaries. This was when the Spaniard came truly alive, when he felt the blood surging through his veins and an almost god-like belief in his ability to move unseen and unheard through the landscape. Without the clumsy militia men he would already have been halfway to his destination, but he couldn’t destroy the catapult on his own. He hissed a warning to Celer as he was about to plunge into a narrow drainage ditch and the prefect passed the alert on to the men behind. On the way, Serpentius picked up a fallen legionary’s helmet. With the big shield it gave him a silhouette familiar to the men of either side. He kept his
spatha
sheathed and carried the long-handled axe comfortably in his right hand. Somewhere out there in the darkness lay the big catapult. He had no doubt he could lead these men to it. The question was which route to take.
The causeway of the Via Postumia was perhaps two hundred paces to the left and would provide the most direct passage. To reach it they would have to pass through the rear ranks of the legion whose swords the Spaniard could hear beating against the shields of the as yet unyielding Thirteenth Gemina. There was also the possibility of bumping into small groups of survivors from the attack against the Seventh Galbiana’s right flank. So far there’d been no sign of the Praetorians Celer had mentioned and Serpentius guessed they’d overcome the enthusiasm of the first flush of victory and prudently retired to the Flavian line. Visualizing this section of the battlefield he realized just how fortunate Marcus Antonius Primus had been. With a little more luck the Vitellian flank attack would have found the gap between the Thirteenth and the Seventh and carried on to rampage in his rear. It seemed clear that in the dark the attackers had no idea just how narrow a front the Thirteenth defended. When they struck the Seventh Galbiana they’d probably thought they were fighting Aquila’s legion. It all proved how chaotic a battlefield was in the night.
Serpentius intended to take full opportunity of that chaos. The enemy commander’s first probes would have convinced him Primus intended to defend the road in depth and he’d have to alter his tactics accordingly. The Spaniard recalled First Adiutrix’s dispositions at Bedriacum. Four cohorts in the front line, followed by two banks of three cohorts: a formation three hundred and fifty paces deep. So a narrower front might mean a further hundred or hundred and fifty paces. Valerius had reckoned the catapult’s maximum range at seven hundred paces, which put its likely position, at most, a third of a mile behind the enemy front line. Did that mean it could be sited among the three reserve cohorts in the rear? The possibility triggered a mental shrug. If it did he would just have to meet that obstacle when he reached it.
‘Ajax.’
Serpentius felt his companions freeze at the authoritative voice from the darkness. ‘Agamemnon,’ he replied with equal arrogance. ‘Headquarters section carrying our injured tribune back to the
medicus
.’
He heard a disapproving sniff. ‘The legate won’t be too happy with that. First win the battle then deal with the wounded, that was the order. Even officers.’