by C. R. May
The population of Rome was abandoning her in their thousands. Every class of citizen was represented in the throng, from the poor who came with little more than the clothes on their backs to those who seemed to be attempting to carry away the entire contents of their domus with them, either in hired wagons or pushed along in hand carts by the ubiquitous slaves. Here and there bundles of belongings lay abandoned by those who had given up trying to save it all – those who had realised that there would simply be no place for all the belongings in Rome, even if they did manage to manhandle them all the way to Caere.
With a shake of his head Numerius steered his horse away from the river of people and in the direction of the forum Boarium. The familiar hills of the Palatine and the Capitoline, capped by their temples and fine houses, stood like twin sentinels before him, guarding the entrance to the forum Romanum that lay beyond. To his surprise the Boarium was filled with livestock, and he paused once again as the scale of the disaster that had struck the city suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. It had been that very morning that they had collected in the forum and marched out onto the field of Mars to be reviewed by the members of the senate and cheered by their fellow citizens. As they marched away the city had returned to the business of the day, confident in the ability of their men to see off this barbarian rabble. Cattle had been driven from the surrounding countryside to the meat market here, and slaves would have been sent down to buy supplies for the victory feast. All had been well until early afternoon when the first of the army had burst back into the city to spread the terrible news of their defeat, and from that moment nothing would ever be the same again.
He looked down as the sound of a man politely clearing his throat cut through his thoughts, and the slave bowed respectfully before returning his gaze with a confidence unusual in one of his position. He was a giant of a man, his long black hair tied into a knot that sat at one side of his head, and although he wore the finger ring of plain iron that confirmed his lowly status, the slave was finely dressed and well-armed. Numerius was intrigued as to who would own such a man and gave permission for him to speak with a curt nod.
‘My mistress sends you greetings and asks if you are the tribune, Numerius Fabius Ambustus, sir?’
Numerius looked beyond the slave and saw that several fine litters had removed themselves from the throng and sat waiting for the man’s return. A wagon had pulled over before them and a number of similarly dressed slaves and spearmen stood guard around it, forcing the citizens to give the whole a wide berth as they moved towards the gate. He nodded. ‘I am. And your mistress is?’
‘The Virgo Maxima, tribune. She asks if she might speak with you?’
Despite the evidence of his eyes Numerius was stunned – the litters obviously contained the Vestal Virgins. If the sacred women were fleeing the city things must be even worse than he feared – this really was a full-scale evacuation. He dismounted and handed his reins to the slave as he walked across. The curtain on the leading litter was pulled aside and the figure of the high priestess emerged and greeted him with a thin smile. ‘Numerius, I am sorry that we must meet for the first time this way. I have just left your father, the Pontifex Maximus, and I thought that you would like to know that he has decided to remain in the city.’
To the Virgo Maxima’s evident surprise Numerius found himself smiling. ‘I would have expected nothing less.’
He glanced across to the wagon. An ornate bronze cauldron was securely lashed to a supporting framework and attended by a young woman whose sacred vestments he had failed to spot among the crowd. Guarded by four burly soldiers, each sat facing away from the cauldron with their weapons drawn, she was obviously one of the Vestals, her hair kept permanently braided in the Roman bridal fashion. Numerius’ mouth gaped before he managed to breathe a question. ‘Is that…?’
The Virgo Maxima made a reply before the question could be completed. ‘The Eternal Flame, yes. We are transporting the goddess Vesta to Caere in her hearth fire. As long as the eternal flame endures, Rome will live.’ The priestess touched his sleeve lightly, causing him to jump. There were severe penalties for touching so exalted a person as the Virgo Maxima and he had never thought to do so. The gods seemed angry enough without adding further insult. She smiled at his reaction. ‘You are not allowed to touch me; I can touch whoever I want.’
He returned the smile, but her face had hardened as she led him aside. ‘Your father fears that he will not see you again, so I will explain his concerns. He is afraid that you will blame yourself for the present calamity, but he assures you that any blame lies with him alone. His hubris angered the gods when he sent his sons to Clusium and they are taking their revenge on the city. Nemesis, the Daughter of Justice, appeared before him and demanded that he forfeit his life.’
Sixteen
Bent forward, the shadowy figure paused by each man as he scooped a handful of the greasy powder from the pot. Rubbing their hands together, each warrior worked the mixture briskly into his face until they appeared to fade into the shadows. Druteos leaned forward and whispered to his clansman. ‘Don’t forget your torc.’
The warrior smeared the remainder across the body and terminals of the necklet and smiled, his teeth suddenly appearing as a shocking line of white from the gloom. ‘Satisfied?’
Druteos, his face and neck already blackened, flashed a smile in return and moved on.
Solemis, as chieftain, crouched at the head of the line and he nodded his thanks as he repeated the process. Tense, they watched the doorway opposite for the signal to go as they gripped their weapons and propped their shields reluctantly against the barricade. Although they would soon be needed if all went well the boards were just too big to carry through the restricted space ahead. Leaving the garishly painted boards in full view of the Roman defenders would hopefully lull them into a false sense of security – only madmen would attack so many armed men without their shields.
The fire at their back had long since burnt itself out as night finally drew a veil on what had been a tumultuous day for Celt and Roman alike. The great doors to the city, desiccated by the heat of the summer, had flared and torched immediately. Within the hour the flames had weakened the great timbers and posts to such an extent that they had crashed outwards in a welter of sparks, bringing a portion of the walls tumbling in their wake.
The rear of their position was now horribly exposed and they had waited anxiously for the thunderous noise that would accompany the arrival of Brennus and the army, but despite their expectations it had never come. As the darkness deepened Solemis had ordered the line of their defences extended to meet the walls of the buildings that lined the square, and a final bulwark looped around to incorporate the traveller shrine. Finally, just as they were beginning to think that the city must be abandoned, disorganised groups of defenders, emboldened by the darkness and the fact that they were not after all about to be overrun by the barbarian army, had begun to creep forward. Word had evidently been passed back into the city of the paltry size of the enemy force at the gate and soon the numbers had swollen to fill the far side of the square and the roadway beyond.
Although heavily outnumbered it was obvious to Solemis that the men opposing him were little more than the rabble of the mob. There was no sense of leadership or the fabled Roman disciplina among them, and he quickly came to the conclusion that if they could cross the square without losing any men to the javelins and bows in evidence the Horsetails would sweep them away. The line of shops and drinking dens at their back would prove the ideal route. Solemis had dispatched Albiomaros across, and he had reported that although the walls that divided one property from the next were built of mortared stone those on the upper floors were of wattle and lime plaster, similar to the roundhouses back home. He had eagerly seized the opportunity to outflank the mob, and Albiomaros had led Vortrix and Galba into the building to cut a path from one building to the next as their clansmen waited impatiently for the signal that would unleash their fury against thei
r tormentors.
The signal was not long in coming, and they rose from the shadows and hurried across to the doorway. Vortrix smiled as his chieftain came up and motioned that he follow on with a jerk of his head. The Horsetail disappeared up a steep wooden staircase and ducked through into a side room on the upper floor. By the time that Solemis had reached the opening all that was visible of the warrior was the seat of his trews as it melted into the gloom of the next room in the chain. Bent forward, they hurried through room after room, painfully aware that they were gambling everything on one attack. If the men opposite discovered that they had left their defences they could easily block both ends of the terrace and fire the buildings – it would be a grisly and ignoble end.
Solemis finally spilled out into the last room in the series to be greeted by the smiling face of his champion. Albiomaros thrust a cup into his hand. ‘Drink up!’ The wine was welcome after the heat of the day and the firing of the gates, and glancing around Solemis realised that they must be in a storeroom above the taberna as Galba handed cups of wine to the others as they came through.
Albiomaros had turned back to the far wall and raised the blade of his lancea. Solemis could see that a rectangle of plaster had been carefully removed from the final wall, exposing the wattle beneath, and he gave a small nod of recognition at his big friend’s preparation. With luck the room on the far side was clear of the enemy, but if not the wall would appear no different to anyone in the room beyond until the moment that the tips of the heavy spears punched through.
Albiomaros placed the blade of his lancea between the stalks of wattle and nodded to Vortrix, who followed his action. Tense, Solemis crouched and gripped his spear in sweaty hands. The long strands of his horsehair plume tumbled forward to obscure his view just as the pair began to frantically saw at the wattle, and he flicked it away with an angry toss of his head. The bindings, as dry as old bones after their years encased in the moisture-sucking lime plaster, shattered under the assault and within moments the pair of warriors moved aside. It was the signal, and Solemis burst through the final barrier in a cloud of dust. A woman screamed, and before he had time to think he had leapt across to plunge his lancea into her gaping mouth. As her eyes stared in shock and terror he let go of the shaft of the spear and whipped his knife from its scabbard. The man on top of her had only just begun to react, and as his head turned Solemis gripped his hair and opened his throat, pushing his head forward into the sacking that lay beneath the couple to stifle any sounds. Satisfied that the men were no longer a threat he raised himself and worked his spear free as he looked about the room. His clansmen were all through; twenty men with blackened faces, the whites of their eyes daimonic in the murkiness of the chamber as they strained to hear any reaction from below.
The sound of footsteps caused them to exchange worried glances and they moved back as one to either side of the doorway. Solemis drifted back into the murk as the shadow of a man appeared on the wall of the staircase and began to climb.
‘I take it that scream means you are finished?’ The voice sounded light-hearted as its owner climbed unknowingly to his death. ‘You’ll appreciate some of this wine while you wait for me!’ A figure appeared in the doorway holding a small amphora, and Solemis watched in detachment as the Roman died before he even realised that he had been in any danger. Berikos had the presence of mind to leap forward and snatch the amphora away from the Roman’s dying grasp, and the pale line of a smile split his darkened face as he raised it to him in the Celtic toast for good health: ‘slantu!’
The men smiled at the irony as Berikos moved the body away from the doorway, and Solemis glanced at it as he came across. Dark blood mixed with the air from his lacerated lungs was bubbling out through dozens of holes in the victim’s chest, and although he was sure that the man would never move again, he added his spear thrust to the chest of the dying man for luck. The Horsetails who had been crowded out of the frenzied attack came across to wet their spears in the bloody mash, and Solemis moved to the head of the staircase and turned back as his clansmen bunched behind him. Reaching up he wiped the grime from Albiomaros’ helm, and the silver owl face shone again in the wan light as Solemis spoke softly to the familiar faces which filled the room.
‘Our clan champion is leading the attack today.’ He smiled as a look of surprise and pride crossed his friend’s face before taking in the faces of his clansmen one by one. ‘Let’s show this rabble what real warriors fight like!’ They touched spears and shared a look of determination as Albiomaros rolled his shoulders, kissing the bloodied blade of his lancea as he moved through the doorway.
Solemis followed on closely, watching as a man staggered from a side doorway to bounce off the wall opposite, and his heart leapt at the sight. If the mob had had access to the supplies in the taberna the whole time that they had been in the square, it could only aid their attack. The bulk of the drunk blocked the passageway, and Solemis watched as Albiomaros thrust his spear deep into his flank and heaved him aside. The big blade slipped in easily and the Horsetail champion hesitated for a heartbeat as he attempted to tug the shaft free, but the heavy-set man had twisted and slumped to one side, trapping it against the wall, and he quickly abandoned the attempt before the attack lost momentum. Pounding towards the open doorway at the end of the short passageway, Albiomaros waited until he burst out into the open before drawing his great broadsword with an extravagant sweep of his arm. It was the perfect action and Solemis emerged moments later to be confronted by a swathe of startled faces as his friend roared his battle cry and swung his blade in great sweeping arcs.
Solemis felt the joy of battle surge through him as he saw that they had achieved complete surprise. The crowd shrank back under the onslaught, tumbling over one another in their panicked efforts to escape the death dealing giant as Albiomaros scythed into their ranks, the embodiment of Camulos himself.
The retreating mob had opened up a space between themselves and the emerging Horsetails, and Solemis dropped his lancea to draw his sword as he came on. The loss of Albiomaros’ spear in the taberna and his decision to abandon it for his sword had a devastating effect on the Romans. By opening up a gap it had provided the space that they needed to swing their great blades, and they took advantage of the opportunity to cut bloody arcs through the packed ranks.
The light cast by the quartered moon cast a silvered glow over the multitude as the brands that had lit the scene were extinguished along with their owners. Solemis took a pace back and surveyed the scene as the crowd continued to fall away before their attack, and he cried out as his men came up alongside him. ‘Keep them moving! Push them out of the square!’
Albiomaros led several men in a sweeping attack to Solemis’ right as they slashed at the disorganised mob. They were still heavily outnumbered, and they all knew that the key to victory was to chase the enemy from the area, not engage in a fight to the death with a cornered foe. If the Romans were given the opportunity to think they could still overwhelm the Gauls by sheer force of numbers. The crush that had formed at the exit to the square had forced several men to turn and face their attackers, and Solemis instinctively knew that these men posed the greatest danger to them. More than a few carried spears, and without shields the Horsetails would be particularly vulnerable if they could galvanise themselves to mount an organised defence.
Solemis’ gaze fixed on one particular Roman and he moved back into the fray. Without a helmet but clad in a magnificent breastplate of muscled bronze, the man was probably one of the men who had been at the battle that day who had discarded the item in the rout. The shame of that defeat was writ large on his features and Solemis knew that he would be a tough opponent. He screamed a challenge as he approached but the man braced and stood firm, his eyes fixed on the silvered arc of the broadsword. Solemis brought the blade sweeping across, feinting at the last moment to take off the Roman’s thigh, but the soldier was experienced and he read the move perfectly as he flicked the butt of his spear shaft up t
o scoop the strike away. Momentarily off balance, Solemis tried to step aside, but his foot brushed against one of the many bodies that already littered the ground. To his horror he began to fall, and he twisted his shoulder and dragged his sword clear as he tumbled to the ground. Experience told him that the blade of his opponent’s spear would be swinging back around to finish him off as he lay defenceless, and he was twisting away the moment that he felt the solid ground beneath him. A heartbeat later the blade sparked as it struck the stone road surface a finger width from his face, and Solemis rolled on and back to his feet in one fluid movement, skipping back to dodge the follow-up strike as it flashed past in the moonlight. As both men dropped into a fighting stance and began to circle one another warily Solemis saw that the soldier’s small victory had encouraged those around him. It was the very thing that he feared, and he knew that the man had to die, quickly, if the attack was not to lose momentum.
A small salient was forming in the line opposite as those nearby moved towards the spearman for protection, and Solemis yelled with anger and frustration as he launched himself at the man once again. Trusting to his strength he grasped the shaft of his opponent’s spear in his left hand and thrust it aside as he swung his sword with his right. Caught off guard the Roman managed to twist his upper body away as the blade crashed down to glance off the polished bronze of his armour. The movement had been enough to save the man’s life but the strike had been good, and although Solemis was encouraged by the look of pain that swept across the spearman’s features he knew that time was running out for them as he took a backward pace. Increasing numbers of Roman soldiers were forcing their way through the mob and a tight knot of spear wielding men was beginning to coalesce around his opponent.
The number of bodies that lay strewn about were beginning to slow their attack to a crawl as the Horsetail warriors attempted to push the enemy away through the sheer ferocity of their assault. Solemis suddenly felt a sting of pain, and looking down he saw one of the earlier wounded had reached up to thrust a knife into his calf. He hobbled back again, lopping the top of the Roman’s head off with a contemptuous swing of his sword as he risked a glance to either side. To the right Albiomaros was still swinging his broadsword in great arcs, the blade a blur of silver in the moonlight. Hacking through the men opposite, the terrified Romans were falling away before him in disarray. Solemis looked across to the left and let out an involuntary gasp at the sight that met his eyes. The left wing of their attack was moments away from being turned as a strong counter-attack threatened to envelop his men there. Well-armed men were emerging from the doorway that they had themselves exited only a short time before and the cause of the disaster was as obvious as it had been unavoidable. The ground floor room in the taberna had been taken over by a group of soldiers as they took advantage of the missing owner to help themselves to the unguarded wine supplies. Now they had come to their wits and were spilling out of the same doorway that the Horsetails had used only a short time before to hit the rear and flank of those in the square outside. As he watched, Vortrix was surrounded and overwhelmed, the Romans gathering over his body to gleefully stab down as he fell.
