by Ben Kane
Romulus did likewise. At the very front he could make out groups of slingers and archers, the missile troops which led most attacks, their purpose to cause as many casualties as possible. Behind them, the war chariots formed up in the centre, with thousands of peltasts and thureophoroi arrayed in a tight square close behind. On the left wing sat the Pontic heavy cavalry, while on the other an unruly mass of lightly armed Thracian horsemen assembled.
‘That looks like battle order to me,’ Romulus muttered.
‘It does,’ agreed the other with a suspicious growl. ‘Here comes Mithridates now.’
Rapt, they watched a rider on a magnificent black stallion emerge from the camp gates to rousing cheers from the waiting host. He was followed by a number of mailed warriors on similar steeds. Crying out in a deep voice, Mithridates moved slowly across the front of the host. Loud, admiring shouts rang out in response and the distinctive sound of swords being hammered off shields mixed with that of clashing cymbals and pounding drums. Like those in any army, the Pontic soldiers revelled in the attention of their master. Reaching the centre, Mithridates spent a long time enjoining the charioteers, and Romulus’ unease grew. By the time the king had addressed his entire force, the noise levels on the other side of the valley had grown to a threatening crescendo.
‘Let them shout,’ said Petronius contemptuously. ‘It makes no odds to us.’
Perturbed, Romulus took a look at Caesar, whose stance had not changed. Nothing seems to panic this general, he thought with relief.
Caesar turned to confer with his officers. After a few moments, he faced the Twenty-Eighth, every man of which was watching him intently. ‘They’re just showing off, comrades,’ he declared confidently. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. There’ll be no battle today. Finishing our fortifications is far more important.’ At his words, an audible sigh of relief went up. Satisfied, Caesar clambered down to the intervallum and disappeared.
‘As you were,’ shouted the officers. ‘Back to work.’
Once again, pickaxes and shovels rose and fell. Carrying rocks for the ballistae, the braying mules were urged forward towards the walls. A surveyor emerged from the front gate, talking with a colleague. Behind him scuttled a slave clutching the groma, the device that helped his master to lay out a rectangular grid of the camp every day. A pair of straight, crossed sticks on a vertical pole, the groma had a lead weight dangling from the end of each of its four arms.
Relaxing, Petronius and the rest of Romulus’ comrades began chatting among themselves. Once again, their job was the easiest on offer. The optiones and centurions did little to stop the idle banter. If Caesar was unconcerned, so were they.
Romulus’ study of the enemy did not let up, however. Mithridates continued talking, and at last a long, rousing cheer went up from his assembled troops. Romulus cursed.
‘Caesar got it wrong,’ he blurted. ‘The bastards are going to attack.’
Petronius gave him an incredulous glance, but this changed as he too studied the Pontic host. Other men began to notice as well.
Mithridates had already moved to one side, allowing the slingers and archers to lope down the slope first. Next came the scythed chariots, their axles creaking loudly. Alongside those trotted the heavy cavalry and the Thracian horsemen, forming a second wave of men and steeds. Taking up the rear were the peltasts and other infantry. Romulus’ main concern, though, was the Pontic chariots and the massive amount of mounted support they had on each wing. If Mithridates’ army was making the crazy decision to attack uphill, he and his comrades would struggle to hold back an all-out attack. Most of Deiotarus’ riders were absent still.
Soon the roiling mass of chariots and horsemen had reached the bottom of the opposite slope. There was a pregnant pause and, in the lines of the Twenty-Eighth, everyone held their breath. Would the enemy move off along the valley floor, or make the fateful decision to charge upwards, towards their lines?
Romulus was glad to see that their optio was now observing too, but neither he nor any of the centurions seemed alarmed yet. It wasn’t that surprising, he supposed. Attacking up a hill was most unwise. Romulus scowled, worried that this was more than just an enemy manoeuvre. There was no harm being prepared, in warning Caesar. Was the officers’ belief in him so strong that they couldn’t see what was happening right before their eyes?
The lead slingers and archers leapt into the water, quickly followed by their comrades. Holding their bows and slings high, they soon waded across, looking up at the Roman position. Horses whinnied as they were forced into the stream, yet the heavy cavalry maintained good order while crossing. Typical of irregular troops, the Thracians traversed in a disorganised mob, shouting and laughing. Loud rumbling noises and splashes ascended from the chariots, which were also being driven into the calf-high water without hesitation. On an area of flattish ground, the Pontic soldiers reassembled, quickly reassuming their original positions. All were now glancing upwards, while their officers pointed and shouted commands.
‘They couldn’t be that stupid,’ breathed Petronius.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ replied Romulus grimly.
There was a short delay as the last enemy warriors urged their mounts into line. Then, started by the lead charioteers, an angry shout left their throats and, as one, they began to move forwards. Uphill.
‘Jupiter!’ Petronius exclaimed. ‘They’re mad.’
Their centurion finally acted. ‘We’re under attack!’ he shouted. ‘Sound the alarm!’
Raising his instrument to his lips, the nearest trumpeter blew a short, sharp series of notes over and over again. The response of the Twenty-Eighth was fast, the officers ushering the cohorts into close order while reducing the gap with its neighbour on each side. Deiotarus’ horsemen – scarcely a hundred strong – moved together uneasily. Then the legionaries working on the ditches and ramparts took in the closely packed ranks climbing the slope. Led by their officers, they charged on to the intervallum and ran for their shields and pila.
It was slow, thought Romulus. Far too slow.
The protection they needed – the remainder of Deiotarus’ cavalry – was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, it would take the legions in the camp half an hour to find all their kit, assemble and march out to do battle. By that time the Twenty-Eighth would have been annihilated. Looking around, Romulus could see the same shocked realisation appearing on men’s faces. Yet they had to stay put: without their protection, their ill-prepared comrades inside the walls would suffer the same fate.
The confident atmosphere that had prevailed all morning evaporated. What had seemed like a cushy number was going to be the death of them all. No one spoke as they watched the enemy moving uphill, taking their time to conserve their horses’ energy. Having fought the Romans before, Mithridates’ men would know that they were at no risk from javelins until they were within thirty paces, perhaps fifty down an incline like this. The ballistae were still within the walls, so there was no means of preventing the enemy from ascending the slope unchallenged. The Pontic horse would have ample time to regroup before charging. Romulus’ mouth felt dry at the prospect.
An uneasy silence reigned over the Twenty-Eighth; angry shouts and cries rose from the camp as the rest of the army struggled to get ready. Six centuries of roughly eighty men had to join up to form a cohort; ten of these assembled units made a legion. While the process happened smoothly, it took time. A good general did not march his men out to battle unprepared, thought Romulus. He and his comrades would just have to manage.
It was not long before the enemy host had come to within two hundred paces of their position. Now Romulus could make out the slingers and the archers. Clad in simple wool tunics, they were similar to the mercenaries he had fought against in Egypt. Each man carried two slings, one for short range and another for longer distances. The spare was wrapped around their necks while a leather pouch on a strap contained their ammunition. Many also carried knives. Dressed in white tunics, the archers were be
tter armed. As well as their recurved bows, many wore swords on their red leather belts. With occasional hide or linen cuirasses and helmets, these were troops which could close with the enemy as well as fire arrows from a distance.
Yet neither type would pose a threat to the legionaries’ shield wall, Romulus thought. It was the men in the chariots behind, and the heavily armed horsemen on either side, who would do that. Although he knew of the Persians’ disastrous attempt to use scythed chariots against Alexander at Gaugamela, Romulus still felt uneasy. The men around him had not been shown how to fight such vehicles, as Alexander’s had. Pulled by four armoured horses and controlled by a single warrior, they had curved blades as long as a man’s arm protruding from the end of the traces and from both wheels. They promised devastation.
Nor had the Persian chariots been backed up by heavy cavalry, as the Pontic ones were. These horsemen could sweep around to their rear and thus prevent any retreat. Dread surged through Romulus at the memory of the Parthian cataphracts. With conical iron helmets, scale mail which reached below the knee, and carrying long javelins, those opposite closely resembled the mailed warriors who had smashed apart Crassus’ legions with such impunity. The sun’s rays flashed off the chain mail covering their horses’ chests and flanks, reflecting blinding light into the legionaries’ faces.
The threat posed by Pharnaces’ army was sinking in around Romulus. Men were looking very uneasy. If they knew what I had seen at Carrhae, he thought, many would run now. Thankfully they didn’t, so their wavering lines held. Their optio looked to the centurion, who cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘Steady, lads,’ he ordered. ‘We won’t have to hold the bastards for long. Caesar is on his way.’
‘Fucking well better be,’ commented Petronius.
Nervous laughter rippled through the ranks.
They had little opportunity for any further contemplation as the Pontic archers and slingers loosed their first volley. Hundreds of arrows and stones shot up, darkening the sky. This was the opening gambit of most battles, aimed at causing maximum casualties and softening up the enemy before a charge. Although his shield was made of layers of hardened wood and covered with leather, Romulus still felt his jaw clench.
‘Front rank, on your knees!’ shouted the officers. ‘The rest of you, shields up!’
Hundreds of scuta banged off each other as men rushed to protect themselves. Those at the very front, including Romulus and Petronius, did not do the same. Instead they dropped to the ground, allowing their shields to cover them completely, while the men in the second row angled theirs obliquely before them. Those further to the rear held their scuta directly over their heads. This was a method used by the Forgotten Legion to withstand Parthian arrows, and Romulus was pleased to note that Caesar used it too. The normal deployment – with the front row remaining on their feet – allowed many soldiers to suffer injuries to their lower legs from well-aimed shafts.
There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then the air filled with gentle whirring sounds as the arrows came down to earth. An instant later, loud crashes announced the stones’ arrival too. His muscles tight with tension, Romulus waited, knowing what the next noise would be. He hated it as much as the first time he had heard it. Listening to men scream was much harder to do now than during the rage and immediacy of one-on-one combat, when it became part of the red-hot blur of battle.
Sure enough, strangled cries of pain broke out everywhere. Soldiers collapsed, thrashing at the shafts which had found the gap between shields to pierce their flesh. Others had gained enough momentum to drive through the legionaries’ scuta and into their arms and faces. Fortunately, most of the stones just clattered off the shields and bounced away, but a few did find targets, cracking bones and denting helmets. Given the number of missiles released, it was inevitable that there were fatalities. Not many, but the unlucky few slumped to the dirt, their weapons falling from slack hands.
Romulus’ dream of getting to Rome was fading. He gazed uneasily at the massed enemy ranks, asking for Mithras’ continued favour.
Everyone else was praying to their favourite gods too.
Their work done, the slingers and archers fell back. It was time for the chariots to attack. Romulus could make out at least fifty. Enough to hit most of the Twenty-Eighth head on, while the Thracians and Pontic heavy cavalry rode around to their undefended rear. Their situation was grim now, even critical. Still there was no sign of Caesar or the other legions.
Flicking their reins, the charioteers encouraged their horses into a trot. At last it was possible to make them out clearly. Clad in composite scale cuirasses and laminated armpieces, their crested Attic helmets were not dissimilar to those worn by junior Roman officers. Each carried a long-handled whip, which he used to encourage his mounts to the trot. A moment later, it was the canter. Having conserved their steeds’ energy, they had room to ask everything of them. With jingling traces and the blades on their wheels spinning and flashing, the chariots surged forward. Although the slope was steep, the ground was not that uneven and they were able to pick up speed quite fast. With loud whoops and cheers, the cavalry forces split off to the sides, eager to complete the pincer movement. Last of all came thousands of peltasts and thureophoroi, their weapons raised in readiness. Theirs would be the final job, to charge into the Roman lines after the chariots and horsemen had smashed them apart, and prevent any attempt to regroup.
The fear among the legionaries grew palpable, and again the Twenty-Eighth began to waver, despite the officers’ muttered reassurances and threats. More centurions moved to stand in the front rank, and the standard-bearers lifted their wooden poles for everyone to see. The tactic helped somewhat. No one ran – yet. Men looked nervously to their comrades, muttered anxious prayers and eyed the heavens. They were all about to die: chopped apart by the chariots or cut down where they stood by the horsemen. Where in the name of Hades was Caesar?
At last the centurions at the back ordered the soldiers there to turn about and face the enemy. If only we had some of the long spears which the Forgotten Legion used, thought Romulus. Those weapons had been able to stop any cavalry. Instead they had just their scuta, swords and a pair of javelins each. In less than twenty heartbeats, the chariots would hit their lines. Then they would be hit from the rear by hundreds of cavalry, before the enemy foot soldiers finished the job. Romulus spat on the ground. He hoped that their deaths bought enough time for Caesar and the other legions to emerge fully prepared.
Less than a hundred paces remained between the tightly packed chariots and the Roman front ranks. They left nowhere to go. It was a case of being run down by fast-moving armoured horses, or cut apart by the blades they pulled. The grinning charioteers knew it too, and urged their teams to greater speeds.
‘Ready pila!’ bellowed the centurions. The fearful soldiers obeyed, cocking back their right arms and preparing to release.
Now the legionaries could see the steeds’ nostrils flaring with effort, their heads bobbing up and down. Their hooves pounded on the hard ground, and their harness jingled. Romulus fancied he could almost hear the scythed blades whirr as they spun round on the wheels.
Fifty paces until they struck. Time began to move in a blur. A wheel on one chariot struck a rock, sending it up at a crazy angle and throwing its driver free. It overturned, dragging its horses into those of another team. Both chariots careered crazily to a halt and a hoarse cheer went up from the legionaries. But the rest were still closing in fast. Behind Romulus, a man cursed their bad luck, Caesar and all the gods. Another began to wail with fear. Anxious to release his javelin, Petronius shifted from foot to foot beside Romulus.
Twenty-five paces, thought Romulus. He could clearly see the stubble on the face of the charioteer heading for them. Good killing distance for their pila, and their only chance to make some dent in the enemy numbers. He looked to the centurion, whose mouth was opening to give the order. Before he could give it, a piece of lead took the officer in the centre of the forehead.
Released by a slinger as a parting shot, it was as clean a kill as Romulus had ever seen. The crack with which the small piece of metal struck left no doubt as to its lethality. The centurion dropped soundlessly, without giving the order to release.
Romulus’ head spun frantically, searching for the optio, but he was at the rear with the tesserarius, ensuring that no one tried to flee.
All around them, the other centuries were throwing their javelins. Tall as a man, their long wooden shafts were topped by a pyramidal iron tip which could punch through shields and armour to kill. In graceful clouds, they climbed into the air, falling among the charioteers in a shower of lethal points. Many enemy warriors were struck down, losing control of their teams of horses, which panicked and collided with one another. The three which would reach Romulus and his comrades were unaffected, though, and the charioteers grinned with satisfaction.
Behind them ran thousands of peltasts and infantry.
Of Caesar there was no sign.
Chapter IV: The Temple of Orcus
The Lupanar, Rome
Jovina did not hear what Scaevola said to Fabiola. Sensing an opportunity, though, the madam darted forward to her side. ‘This is the new owner,’ she declared with a flash of real malice. ‘We’re to sign the deal later today.’
Old bitch, thought Fabiola in alarm. She had already made up her mind to sell.
Scaevola’s eyebrows rose sharply. ‘It’s this whore I should be talking to then, eh?’
Confusion mixed with the triumph on Jovina’s face. ‘You know Fabiola?’
