Nemesis

by C. R. May

  Forced backwards by the strength of the assault, she heard Philippos yell in dismay as her foot slipped on a loose rock, throwing her off-balance. Her opponent seized his chance to end the fight, stabbing forward with the hooked point of his blade at the Celt’s unprotected chest. Catumanda’s old master, the druid Abaris of the Trinobantes, had hailed her as his finest pupil with the blade, and she proved it now. Already planning her counter move as she fell, Catumanda waited until she saw that the man had overreached himself and spun across the dusty ground. Before he could recover she was back on her feet, and she brought her blade up in an arc to slash through the exposed tendons of her attacker’s forearm. As the falcata fell from nerveless fingers and the man gasped in shock and surprise, Catumanda pirouetted past, sweeping her blade back down to lay open the knotted muscles of his thigh from groin to knee in a spray of blood.

  The shouts and calls from the watching Lusitani trailed away as Catumanda turned back to her opponent, and sun glittered on cold steel as she slashed again. The man’s eye went wide in horror as the red line of a smile opened at his throat and his beard matted in a sheet of blood. In a last desperate act he clasped his only usable hand in a futile attempt to staunch the flow, but his legs were already folding beneath him. The warrior’s face turned towards his friends a last time, and they all saw the disbelief written there before he slumped forward onto the dusty roadway.

  Catumanda stooped to clean her moon blade on her victim’s cloak as blood pulsed out to make a gory mash on the road, and she nodded to herself with satisfaction as she examined the weapon. Olindico had been right, Uxentio was indeed a fine smith. The weight, the balance – there was gods-cunning in the blade. Straightening up she slipped it inside her tunic and arched her back, exhaling with pleasure as she looked back at the Lusitani leader and smiled beatifically. ‘The salt and fish are still for sale. My friend will set the price.’

  Twelve

  Away to his right on the far side of the field, Numerius watched as the mounted horsemen of the Senones galloped up the slope under a pall of dust. He had anticipated that the heat of the day would prove too much for the pale northerners, but their rapid march south and the undiminished vigour of their attack had quashed any such hopes. Numerius owned a slave from the far north, a Germanic who lolled around like a love-struck youth when the heat of the summer was fully on the city; he gave a short snort of irony – he had always suspected that the man was a shirker.

  The Roman army had looked on as the Celtic priests, men Numerius knew to be called druids, had sacrificed what looked to be an Etruscan noble. The killing had soon been over, and the animated roar from the army facing them had told the Romans that the omens, as far as they were concerned, had been bad. Despite the gravity of the moment Numerius had pulled a wry smile. He had been on dozens of campaigns and he had yet to find the omens declared unfavourable once the armies faced one another. He had wondered idly what the results would be should such a thing ever occur. Would the Celts have turned around and walked away? It seemed likely, and he determined to talk to his father, the Pontifex Maximus, about it should he ever see the man again.

  Numerius’ mind came back to the present, and he saw that the riders had weathered the storm of javelins and were gaining the summit of the hillock as fighting spread along its length. The rorarii were driven back beyond the summit, and flashes of sunlight glinted from polished metal like broken ice as the rival horsemen met in a clash of steel.

  Far ahead of him the sound from the Gaulish battlefront ebbed away like a receding wave and the Romans looked back as one. Clearly the eerie silence presaged something terrible, and moments later their fears were confirmed as a rising crescendo of noise rose to fill the valley. Spears clattered, and the howl made by tens of thousands of barbarian warriors rose to new heights as the haunting wail of the carnyx blared forth. At once an enormous chieftain, glorious in a raven-capped battle helm, broke into a sprint, his huge sword raised high as he ran.

  Numerius looked across the heads of the three ranks that were all that remained of his century; over one third of his men had been stripped from him to reinforce the centre and replaced by a handful of rorarii. Despite the desperate fighting that would ensue he hoped that the Gauls would attack on a wide front. Even thickened by the men from the flanks, he doubted that the soldiers of Rome could withstand a concentrated blow by the northern giants.

  The Celtic charge spread across the plain and came on like an unstoppable tidal bore, and Numerius called across the heads of his men. ‘Remember your training. Stand firm and hold your ground.’

  The men before him hunched into their shields and braced themselves as the Gauls began to emerge from the heat haze, their images hardening with frightening speed into thousands of charging figures led by naked giants. As they approached, the Gauls reached the area of dry ditches crisscrossing the riverbank. The runnels were clearly visible to the leading barbarians and they vaulted them with ease, but those following close behind stumbled and fell as the ground unexpectedly disappeared from beneath them. It was enough to draw the sting from the charge, and although the thunderous crash from his right told Numerius that the main strength of the Gauls had struck the line, pitifully few had managed to reach his position.

  If their opponents were lacking in numbers and clothing, they lacked nothing in bravery, and they threw themselves upon the lances of the phalanx as they reached the line. Despite the heroics displayed by the leading Gauls the line held, and Numerius thrust overarm with his lance as the snarling face of a warrior came within range. The man, his features contorted by hate, angrily knocked the blade aside with his head and forced his way deeper into the crush, punching with the pommel of his sword or thrusting his helmeted head at any who came within reach. Constricted in the phalanx, the Romans were unable to lower their arms to ward off the blows from the barbarian, who twisted and squirmed as he came closer to the tribune. He had obviously marked Numerius as the leader of the group by the quality of his armour, and he was clearly prepared to trade his life for the chance of taking the Roman’s.

  Numerius dropped his lance and drew his short stabbing sword as he prepared to face the onslaught. The man was almost upon him and the Roman could now see that he was one of the warriors who fought naked in the front rank of the army. True to his warrior code and huge in stature, the man wore a golden torc of exquisite design around his neck. A conical helm of bronze largely hid a shock of reddish hair, beneath which piercing blue eyes and a bristling red moustache marked the man as one of the Gaulish nobles.

  Numerius raised his shield and took a pace forward. The action brought him face to face with the Gaul, and the Roman whipped the heavy bronze rim of his shield smartly up to strike his opponent squarely on the chin. It was a blow which would have stunned a horse, but the Gaul hardly seemed to notice as he attempted to bring his great blade into play. Now the press of bodies acted to Numerius’ advantage as he had intended. He had witnessed the fighting outside Clusium the previous summer and he knew that the Celtic blades were at their best in open-order fighting. Pushing in closer he worked his blade forward. As the men on either side pushed together to pin the warrior’s arms, Numerius felt his blade slide effortlessly into flesh. A momentary look of shock flashed across the face of the Gaul, quickly replaced by one of anger as the man struggled to bring his own great blade into play while his strength yet held. Numerius pushed the blade in up to the hilt and twisted it as he sought to bring the man down but, to his amazement, his desperation only seemed to make his opponent stronger. Aware that he was nearing his end, the giant looked to take down as many Romans as he could while his strength lasted. Using superhuman strength the big man managed to free his sword from the press, swinging the great blade in an arc as he chopped to left and right. Packed tightly within the confines of the phalanx the Romans were unable to take any avoiding action, and the blade bit deeply into exposed necks and shoulders, slicing through bone and muscle before emerging and continuing its grisly j
ourney.

  The Gaul was cutting a wide swathe through their ranks and, in desperation, Numerius managed to work his blade free and stab again. This time he took greater care with his aim and the blade slid into the softer tissue of the barbarian’s belly with ease. The Roman twisted his grip and stepped in again, using all the power of his shoulder muscles to drive the blade up and into the warrior’s chest. A rattle escaped the mortally wounded Gaul as his heart was cleaved asunder, and the strength finally left his great arms as the blood drained away. With a last snarl of defiance he fell to his knees among the bodies of his victims and Roman spears skewered him, forcing him down as he finally pitched forward to lie among them.

  The barbarians were striking all along the line now, and men struggled to push back as the naked champions cut deep inroads wherever they hit. Another of the Gauls, his body covered in a mass of chaotic swirls and patterns, began to cut his way through the phalanx towards him, and Numerius realised with horror that his sword was still embedded in the chest of the first man. He risked a look down and saw that the giant had died face down in the grass, trapping Numerius’ sword beneath his great bulk. The tip of his blade, slick with gore, pointed mockingly from the back of the man and Numerius knew that he would never have the time to roll the Gaul over and retrieve it before this new killer arrived. As Roman fighters fell before his great blade like summer wheat Numerius suddenly remembered the knife at his side. Driven by desperation now he snatched it from its scabbard and leapt upon his attacker. Taken unawares the Gaul hesitated for a heartbeat, but it was enough. Numerius plunged the dagger into the man’s neck, sawing the blade back and forth as a great gout of blood pumped out from the severed artery to cover them both. Enraged now and determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, the Roman tribune stabbed and stabbed again at the Gaul until he lay dead at his feet.

  Gulping down great lungfuls of air Numerius wiped the stickiness from his hand as his mind and body recovered from the fight. The men surrounding him were looking at the dead Gaul in shock, and he shouted above the din. ‘Look to the front and close up.’ He called across the heads of those around him. ‘Front rank, keep it tight!’ It was not a moment too soon. The main body of the Gauls had crossed the worst of the ditches and reformed into a ragged line. With a great cry they burst forward, moments later hitting the phalanx with a deafening crash. As the Romans braced and shoved back Numerius risked a glance across the field to see how the rest of the army was faring under the onslaught and gaped in horror. Unimpeded on the smoother surface of the floodplain, the barbarian charge had been far more concentrated. Led again by their naked champions, the bull-like men had smashed into the front ranks with unstoppable force and the whole position had given way. Men were already streaming away from the rear of the phalanx, casting aside their armour and weapons in a bid to hasten their escape. A hole had been punched into the Roman line and the men closest to it were already beginning to waver as they fought their personal battles between the conflicting demands of honour and self-preservation. On the far side of the field the horrified Roman could make out the Gallic horsemen streaming down the sides of the hillock as they prepared to harry the panic-stricken Romans from the field.

  Numerius looked back to the front as his mind struggled to cope with the scale of the disaster. Expecting the victorious Gauls to be massing for a final, devastating assault, he blinked in surprise as he watched the enemy expertly disengage and begin to trot across to join their tribesmen at the breach. He needed to see the extent of the rout as he desperately sought a way out of the debacle for himself and the men of his century. His horse was a short distance to the rear, and he made to move across before he realised the effect that it would have on the men under his command. One look was enough to tell him that their courage hung by a thread. They would look to him to extricate them from the ongoing nightmare, and to see their leader mount his horse for whatever reason would cause them to throw down their weapons and follow their fellow citizens south. He turned to the men at his side as an idea came to him. ‘Here, help me with these.’ As the men in the phalanx warily watched the Gauls streaming across their front, Numerius began to drag the body of the second dead warrior across to the first. ‘Drape him across the first one. I need to see what is happening.’

  A soldier reached beneath the corpse and worked Numerius’ sword free, wiping the worst of the blood and viscera from the blade and handle before handing it back to him with a grim smile. The tribune nodded his thanks and replaced it in its scabbard, snapping it home as his spirits began to rise once more. With the fighting over for now he realised just how close they had come to being overrun themselves. The collapse of the Roman centre had been a disaster for the army as a whole but it had saved the men on the flanks from complete annihilation. Numerius rested his hands on the shoulders of two of his men as he levered himself up onto the back of the corpse. Cassius had edged across, his chest heaving after the fight as he looked up at his leader. ‘What can you see, tribune?’

  Numerius shook his head in wonder at the sight that met his eyes, a sight he thought never to witness. It was nothing other than the total and absolute destruction of the army of Rome. The breach, already large, had widened as the Roman army simply melted away. He had witnessed the Tiberis swollen by the spring rains break its banks as a boy, and the sight that met him now resembled the picture that his mind had retained from that day. The Gauls were gushing through on a rapidly widening front as the men at the flanks pulled themselves into islands of resistance in a desperate effort to defend themselves. Away to the right thousands of his fellow citizens were following the road back to Rome – a mere dozen or so miles away – discarding their weapons and armour as they ran. At their head, Numerius saw to his disgust the mounted figures of Sulpicius and his officers. He glanced down at the expectant faces but found that the words refused to come; as Cassius and the men exchanged looks of fear, Numerius’ chin dropped to rest on his chest in shame.

  * * *

  The last of the Roman equites formed into two small knots of riders and prepared for the end. Abandoned by the rorarii, they had fought with spirit and determination until superior numbers had overwhelmed them. As the men of the Horsetails and Crow closed in for the kill, Solemis guided Tantibus back across to the place where he had lain only that morning and shook his head in wonder. The grass was still flattened despite the Senone charge, the perfect outline of his shape still easily visible, and he knew that he should have died there. So much had happened during the few short hours that had passed since he had witnessed the arrival of the Roman army. The gods had aided his escape, and he would keep his promise to them when the time for sacrifices and offerings arrived at the end of the day. His reverie was shattered as Caturix arrived in a flurry of excitement, driving his horse to Solemis’ side and exclaiming in awe. ‘They are breaking!’

  As their clansmen drove the last of the Roman skirmishers from the heights Solemis gripped his friend’s arm and whooped with joy. The first of the champions had barely got among the phalanx and already the Romans had collapsed spectacularly. Solemis watched as Brennus, surrounded by the men of his cantref, drove deeply into the enemy position. ‘You’re right!’ He shot Caturix a look, and the Crow leader could see the excitement shining in his eyes. ‘Let’s get down there and hit them before they can rally.’

  Caturix was older by a few years, and he placed a hand on his brother-in-law’s arm as his greater maturity recognised the moment. ‘Wait for our clansmen to reform, there will still be enough for us to do.’ The Crow chieftain shook his head slowly and a small smile played about his lips as he watched the Romans streaming away from the fight. ‘You remember when we had just taken the pass up into the Alpes from Lugdunon?’

  Solemis looked at his friend and laughed. ‘Yes, what of it?’

  ‘And that Allobroge war leader…’ Caturix paused as he racked his memory, but the name escaped him. Solemis let him suffer for a short while but eventually came to his aid with
a glint in his eye. ‘Ullio.’

  Caturix laughed at the memory as he continued to marvel at the men of his nation pursuing the defeated Romans along the valley floor. ‘Ullio, that was it. Ullio took us to the edge of the pass and showed us all the wonderful sights that lay spread out below us and said, “remember this moment – you see your world through the eyes of the gods”.’

  Solemis snorted and gave him a playful cuff. ‘What are you going on about? The Romans are defeated, and we have to help chase the arrogant bastards from the field.’

  Caturix grew serious, indicating the plain below as the enormity of the events that had just transpired threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Take a moment before we are swallowed once again by the mayhem: fix the scene in your memory. One day, when you sit around the hearth and a bard tells of Brennus’ great victory against the Romans, you will bounce your grandchild on your knee as the cold winds howl and pluck at the eves, and you will be back here again.’

  Thirteen

  Numerius stepped down from the improvised mound, his ashen features already betraying his thoughts to the crowd of men. Slowly he became aware of the fearful faces that crowded in, and his sense of disciplina reasserted itself. He pulled the rictus of a grin. ‘The whole centre has given way. We are on our own.’ As jaws gaped in disbelief he moved quickly to assert his authority. The natural reaction of his men now would be to discard their weapons and flee, but he had already seen that the time for flight had passed.

  He hauled himself back upon the bodies of the dead barbarians heaped at his feet and called across the heads of his soldiers. ‘The only hope that we have of surviving this day is to keep our discipline and formation intact.’ He jerked his head to the south as the men exchanged fearful glances. ‘The Tiberis takes a large bite into the plain at our rear and the barbarian army are already beyond it; there is no way through.’ He looked across and was pleased to see that the men commanded by the centurion, Caedicius, were already in the process of pivoting about to face the Gauls. Caedicius’ men, added to the centuries of his brothers to his left, still gave Numerius a sizeable force to work with, and the first flickers of hope kindled within him. He called out to his optio. ‘Cassius: wheel the men so that they have their backs to the river. I need to discuss the situation with the other commanders.’