‘Sound the advance!’
Trumpets blared, centurions shouted, and the standards inclined towards the enemy. With a measured tramp, the three phalanxes began to edge forward.
Maximinus checked the columns detailed to go into the woods. Both were slow off the mark. What were Marius Perpetuus and Pontianus doing? Probably having their legs depilated or listening to revolting poetry about interfering with small boys. Typically irresponsible, completely hopeless – you could not rely on a Senator for anything.
Trumpets rang out from the front. The attack columns shuffled and barged to a halt. The central one was about a hundred paces short of the fortifications. The ones on the wings had stopped at the foot of the slopes. The men had their shields up, locked together. Barbarian arrows were arcing down. Were there fewer than on the other days? Considerable numbers of warriors could be seen up there now. It was impossible to tell. The trumpets sounded a different order. After a moment, volleys of Roman arrows hissed away, filling the air like a host of bats. So far everything was the same as on the previous days.
Maximinus turned. Two of his entourage were talking, young Pupienus Africanus and another Senator. They fell silent under his gaze. He turned back. He knew he was scowling. Paulina was right: these Senators despised him. But in return he had nothing but contempt for them. During the long march, the soldiers had complained. Soldiers always did; it had no significance. The real defeatism, bordering on cowardice, had come from the upper-class officers. They had lurked in their tents, quoting gloomy lines of verse, which Aspines told him were from Virgil. How they wished they were back safe in Rome or their villas in Campania. The ramifications of Magnus’ conspiracy had shown the disloyalty of the Senators. In its aftermath they had rushed to denounce each other. Many equestrians also had turned informer. Only the soldiers could be trusted. The sons of peasants, the sons of soldier fathers – only among these did any spark of antique virtue remain. The words of his mentor, Septimius Severus, were often in his mind: Enrich the soldiers, ignore everyone else.
‘Sound the attack!’
The trumpeter on the tribunal blew and the call was picked up by every musician in the army. The legionaries from the Rhine and Danube surged forward. Honoratus had them well in hand. On the left the auxiliaries of 5th Cohort Dalmatarum raced up the incline. There were far fewer of them, operating in greater space, and they spread out. Maximinus checked the right. No movement there. That was good. No movement in the woods beyond. That was good too.
Honoratus’ men in the centre were clambering over the stags, hacking at the projecting branches. Arrows were slicing through their ranks. Men were falling but, slow and steady, they were advancing. A loud cheer made Maximinus look to the left. A great boulder was rolling down the slope, gathering pace. At the crest the barbarians roared again as they pushed another off. The first one was moving fast, bouncing up, crashing back down, raising clouds of dust and debris. The Dalmatian auxiliaries scattered in front of it. One was too slow. In a blink of an eye he was gone, just some flattened rags and a smear of blood.
The attack on the left had stalled. The auxiliaries were huddled together in small groups, some in the few stands of trees, more out in the open. At the top the barbarians were about to release another great rock. The Dalmatians could advance no further, but it was not time to recall them. They would have to take the punishment.
The legionaries of Honoratus had now cleared the stags and were picking their way through the lilies. Only a few were going down, but the pits had broken their cohesion. The leading men reached the ditch and palisade in scattered groups, not a close formation. A solid mass of barbarians was waiting for them. This was not going to be an easy victory. But Maximinus had never thought it would be. Nothing in life was easy. It never had been.
Not many arrows were being exchanged on the right. It was as if both sides were watching the play of events in the centre. With luck, the barbarians might think the Romans lacked the will to brave that slope. Maximinus prayed that would not turn out to be true.
‘Sound the recall!’ Honoratus and his men had done enough. Thousands of men shuffled backwards, faces to the enemy, shields out. They had lost all order, but they were not running. Things were different on the left, where the auxiliaries hurled themselves pell-mell down the hill, every man for himself.
When the legionaries of Honoratus reached the eastern bowmen, there was much pushing and shoving as they passed through their ranks. The confusion was much worse as they forced their way through the serried formation of the other body of legionaries waiting with Flavius Vopiscus.
A counter-attack now would cause havoc, perhaps sweep the entire Roman army away. Of course, it was unlikely that a barbarian leader could exercise that degree of control over his warriors. They would be unwilling to leave their fortifications. They would have to cross their own traps, perhaps twice, if they met solid resistance. The odds were against it, but Maximinus thought this moment worth remembering. All too many barbarian chiefs were serving as officers in the Roman army and then returning to their tribes. The gap between the armed might of Rome and barbaricum was narrowing. If Roman discipline was allowed to slide, the gap might close to nothing.
‘Send in the second wave.’
The Panonnian and Moesian legionaries under Vopiscus knew their trade. They had re-formed their ranks and passed through the archers without trouble. Again, the sky darkened as squalls of arrows fell in both directions.
On the left, Maximinus saw Catius Clemens. Mounted on a huge black warhorse, he rode out in front of his two thousand Raetian legionaries. The Senator might always complain of colds and fevers but, unlike the majority of his order, he remembered his ancestral courage. Catius Clemens led them up at a steady walk. No boulders tumbled down to impede their slow, silent progress. The suffering of the Dalmatian auxiliaries had not been for nothing.
Maximinus gazed off to the right, where 2nd Legion Parthica and the Britons and warriors from the Suebian Sea were hunkered down at the foot of the bluff. The Osrhoene archers with them exchanged desultory arrows with the barbarians on the crest. How events went from now on, Maximinus thought, was all about timing.
Vopiscus’ legionaries had cleared the stags, were pushing on through the pits with their vicious spikes. Not yet, the Emperor said to himself. Have the courage to wait.
The Raetians were within javelin cast of the eastern crest. A storm of steel greeted them. Maximinus saw Catius Clemens’ horse go down. The legionaries kept moving. A wedge of barbarians rushed down to meet them. The two sides crashed together. Maximinus ground his teeth. It was still too soon. Just a little longer.
A great noise, like a storm in the mountains, reverberated back across the field. The legionaries of Vopiscus were at the fortification. Steel flashed in the sunlight. A glimpse of red as a legionary was hoisted on to the palisade. He fell back. Another took his place. Further along, a legionary jumped down the other side. Men were fighting the entire length of the barricade. Now. It had to be now.
‘Hoist the black standard!’
Maximinus peered to the right, willing the answering signal to appear. If it did, he missed it. The Britons and Angles were charging up the incline. The 2nd Legion Parthica was following, slower, but more compact. The Osrhoenes were shooting as fast as they could over their heads. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, give us victory. Silently, Maximinus mouthed a brief prayer to the Rider God of his ancestral hills. Had the barbarians taken the bait? Lulled by the inactivity below the western bluff, had they or their chiefs drifted off to face the obvious threat to the centre?
A huge tree trunk, lopped of its branches, rolled down. The Britons in its path leapt aside; some vaulted clean over. It smashed into the legionaries. Their line buckled, until. at the cost of buckled shields and broken bodies, they stopped its momentum. The troops flowed around and over it, re-forming their line.
The northerners were now at the summit. The legionaries piled in behind them. The line moved forward to the
edge of the trees. Its progress faltered. It stopped. In one place it bulged backwards. Maximinus caught sight of Julius Capitolinus, riding his horse behind the melee, urging his men on. The fight hung in the balance.
Maximinus unbuckled his cloak. He stepped back and draped the heavy purple cloth around the shoulders of his cousin Rutilus. He put his helmet on the youth’s head. ‘Be Emperor for an hour.’
Rutilus said nothing, his fingers tying the laces beneath his chin.
‘Father, why—’
‘He has my build. You do not.’
‘But—’
Maximinus silenced his son with a fierce glare. The imperial entourage was twittering like a flock of disturbed birds.
‘Anullinus, take command. If Vopiscus’ men fall back, throw in the Praetorians.’
The Prefect saluted.
‘Silence, the rest of you! Stay here. Micca with me.’
Maximinus clattered down the steps of the tribunal, his bodyguard at his back. At the bottom he took the reins of a messenger’s horse. Micca gave him a leg up, then vaulted on to his own animal.
The Praetorians opened ranks to let them pass. They rode along the front of the cavalry, past the Equites Singulares, until they reached where Macedo had his station at the head of the Osrhoene horse archers.
‘Take your men to the left flank. Support Catius Clemens, if he is still alive. If not, take command there. Do not let the barbarians disengage, give them no time to think.’
‘We will do what is ordered …’
Maximinus kicked on across to the right of the lines, to find the commander of the heavy horse.
‘Modestus, follow me. Draw your men up in three groups at the bottom of the ramps. When you see a signal, lead your cataphracts to the top.’
‘What signal?’
Maximinus thought the promotion of Modestus might have been a mistake. ‘Give me your cloak.’
The officer handed it over. It was a showy thing, saffron with fringes and embroidery. Maximinus put it on. ‘When you see me on the crest holding this above my head, bring your troopers.’
‘Lord.’ Modestus grinned, embarrassed, but eager to please. ‘What do we do when we get to the top?’
By the Rider, this Modestus was slow. It was hard to believe he was related to Timesitheus. ‘When you see the signal, the infantry will have forced a gap in the enemy line. You go through it, down the reverse slope, turn to the east – that is your left – and take the barbarian centre in the rear.’
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
‘Repeat your orders.’
‘Follow you, wait at the ramps, see the signal, ride up the slope, through the gap, down the other side, turn left, and charge the enemy.’
‘The enemy centre.’
‘We will do—’
‘Get your men ready. Follow in good order.’
Without waiting, Maximinus gestured to Micca and pushed his horse straight into a gallop. Two streams lay across their path. They jumped the first and splashed through the other in a maelstrom of spray.
By all the gods, let this work. The barbarians would see equal numbers of cavalry going to each flank. With luck, they would still see a big figure wearing the purple on the tribunal, and not realize the Emperor was joining the assault in the west. If they did not send reinforcements, he would turn this right flank, even if he had to cut his way through on his own.
Maximinus ignored the nearest landslip and put his mount at the second, towards the heart of the fight. The ascent was steep, and then he felt the horse go lame. It might have shed one of its hipposandals, but he did not spare it. Leaning forward, right over its neck, he drove it up the slope. The Osrhoene bowmen scattered out of their way. Obscene curses turned to cheers as they recognized him.
Coming up on the rear ranks of legionaries, Maximinus jumped to the ground. Micca was next to him. The horses stood, heads down, blowing hard.
‘With me! With your Emperor!’ Maximinus unsheathed his sword.
‘Io, Imperator!’ The men beamed. Even the wounded pulled themselves up straighter. The news of his arrival rippled through the ranks. ‘Io, Imperator!’
Maximinus picked up a discarded shield and pushed into the tree line towards the front. Micca and others pressed after him. The combatants had pulled a few paces apart, both sides getting their breath, trying to raise the courage to cross that small space of beaten ground, back into mortal danger.
Maximinus took his place in the front rank. He towered over the men around him.
The barbarians were perhaps ten paces away, shaded by the foliage. Round shields, brightly painted, some in the insignia of Roman units. Pale eyes above, blond hair, not many helmets, the glitter of spearheads, a few swords. Maximinus could see only two warriors wearing mail; standing together, a little off to his right. They were chieftains, the leaders, but this was not a hearth troop around them. This was a levy: herdsmen brought from their animals, farmers dragged from the plough. There would be bands of better warriors on this ridge, men used to swordplay, sworn to die if their lord fell. But not here. Jupiter and the Rider God had led him to a weak point in their array. Kill the two leaders, and the rest here would run.
Raising his sword to the heavens, Maximinus bellowed a war cry. The time for subterfuge was past. Let them all know he was here. Let those two chiefs and their peasants from the forests feel fear.
‘Are you ready for war?’ Maximinus’ voice boomed over everything.
‘Ready!’ The legionaries roared back.
Three times, the call and response. The 2nd Legion was in good heart.
At the last shout, Maximinus hurled himself forward, angling towards the men in mail. He did not reach them. A spear jutting down over a shield at him. Not breaking stride, bringing his sword up, he deflected it past his shoulder. Full tilt, turning his shoulder into the impact, he rammed his shield into that of the spearman. The German staggered back. Maximinus stepped into his space in their line. A backhanded cut bit into the skull of the man on his right. Twisting the other way, he sheered away half the jaw of a warrior in the second rank. A sickening pain in his ribs. A spear point gouging through the armour on his exposed right. Doubling over, Maximinus felt a blow to the back of his head. No helmet, blood hot down his neck. If he went down, he was dead.
Maximinus bent his knees, covered himself with his shield. Thrust blind from beneath it. His blade meeting resistance. Someone howling. Steel on steel. Steel on wood, sickeningly into flesh. Men grunting with effort and terror. All momentum gone.
Gathering all his strength, Maximinus drove forwards up behind his shield. Two Germans knocked off balance, floundering. He cut one down. Micca took the other.
A blur of motion, and from nowhere a spear embedded itself in Micca’s back. The bodyguard fell, his armour clattering.
No time to mourn.
‘Kill the men in mail!’ Half aware he was shouting, Maximinus cut the legs out from behind a barbarian warrior all unsuspecting on his right.
The nearer of the enemy chiefs started to turn. Too late; he could not get his shield around to face the unexpected attack from the side. With his weight behind the thrust, the point of Maximinus’ sword snapped through the cunningly wrought rings of metal, through the leather underneath and deep into the flesh they had failed to protect.
‘Kill the other chief!’ Maximinus pushed the corpse away. ‘The other chief!’
‘Emperor.’ A legionary held a severed head by its long hair.
‘Your name?’
‘Javolenus, 2nd Century, 1st Cohort, Imperator.’
‘If we are not in Hades by tonight, I will remember.’
‘Thank you, Emperor.’
The press of men had thinned. Their leaders dead, the enemy were running. Maximinus hunted for an officer. ‘You, Centurion, lead your men to the left. Drive the barbarians from the ridge.’
The man saluted, and was gone. A horse picked its way through the dead and dying.
‘Julius Capitolinus, take men to the right. Keep the gap in their line open.’
The commander wheeled his mount, shouting for soldiers to follow him.
All that remained was to send the cavalry through. Maximinus ran back the way he had come. Emerging from the trees, he sheathed his sword and yanked off the gaudy cloak. Modestus and his men were dismounted at the foot of the slope. The yellow cloak was ripped, stained with blood. He waved it above his head. Down below, troopers pointed. Modestus gazed up, scanning along the ridgeline. Gods below, surely the fool could see his own cloak? A little blood had not changed it out of all recognition. Maximinus watched a trooper take Modestus by the arm, point in the right direction. The officer started shouting, gesturing for the groups at the bottom of the other two ramps of fallen earth to join him. A soldier helped him into the saddle. The men scrambled to horse.
After the cataphracts had thundered past, Maximinus felt the wound on the back of his head. It was nothing too bad. He wiped the blood from his hands on to his breeches. Stepping carefully, to avoid the arrowheads and spears strewn across the ground, he walked through the belt of trees and looked down the other side. Modestus and his men were riding hard to the east. The valley was filled with fleeing Germans. Those in the path of the Roman heavy cavalry were ridden down. Soon the routed warriors would reach the encampment. Amidst the wagons and terrified non-combatants, chaos would reign. The path to safety would be choked, impassable. When the Roman soldiers reached them, all would be slaughtered: the old, women and children. None would be spared, not even babes in arms. Maximinus felt no pity. He had waited all his adult life for revenge on this scale. These were different tribes, but all northern barbarians were the same. Born to deceit and cruelty, they were human only in form.
Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust Page 16
