Thankfully there were still no cavalry to be seen, nor the bridge detachments from the city, just these 18,000 or so legionaries in front of us, who were marching up the hill as quickly as they had headed down the far slope, still looking fresh and ordered.
Two hundred paces away. Close enough to see individual legs and feet moving beneath the Roman shields. Fortunately I was able to see over the heads of my men, being considerably taller than most. Most generals these days stay on horseback to have the best possible view of the battle unfolding, or more likely in case they have to make a quick getaway. I preferred the old-school way, standing on your own two feet, sharing the danger with your men. I also find that being involved in the fighting yourself means that you have a heightened sense of how the battle’s balance is shifting, and then you can take steps accordingly.
One hundred paces away. Up till now, the battlefield had been largely silent, except for the constant chorus of marching feet and clunking armour, for that is the Roman way; silent, grim and efficient, but occasionally treating oneself to a cheer or two. Suddenly, a trickle of men in front of me began to scream and shout, bashing sword upon shield. This trickle rippled through the ranks, and soon it became a flood. Eventually the whole army was roaring, and rhythmically striking their shields. I even found myself shouting with them, even if it was in a different language. Then the Gallic army took up one of those fearsome, haunting war songs. It was all I could do not to cry. Music can do strange things, especially given the right occasion. This glorified militia, howling scorn and contempt upon the greatest military machine in the world, and only me aware of how precarious our position truly was. Since that first day in Vienne, over these past few weeks I had gained a sense of almost kinship with the Gauls. Maybe not kinship, but comradeship certainly. These proud people, who loved the simple things of life, were far better company than many of the noblest men of Italy. That combination of their pride and my sorrow was overwhelming.
We were still shouting and screaming when the enemy came to an abrupt halt. And then, as we saw each legionary reaching for his pilum, our ululating cries began to fail. I can still remember that moment as if it were only seconds ago. Sometimes I wake up shivering and sweating as it recurs in my nightmares. As the last war cries were dying on our lips, the whoosh of thousands of javelins flung towards us was chilling. You see them, like an iron hedge in the sky, hurtling up towards the peak of their trajectory, then the sharp-tipped heads plunge down at you.
It was probably all of six heartbeats between the end of the war cry and the first screams of pain, but it felt like an eternity. They are brutal things, Roman javelins. Not only are they far stronger than the spears made by other nations, but they also have a wicked barbed point to them, and if that passes through your shield, in the heat of battle it is almost impossible to remove, forcing you to fling away your main source of protection. If you are very unlucky, the long narrow shank behind the point can penetrate the shield and carry on to puncture your chest beneath.
I had no shield, not even a breastplate, having forgotten in my drugged state that such things come in useful for a battle, but the man to my right thrust his own shield in front of me, and did his best to huddle with me behind it. We were so close I could smell his reeking breath. The stench of liquor was so strong that I even remember thinking of leaving the relative safety of his shield just to escape the smell. Then a spearhead tore through the shield, the hook gouged a further hole, and the hateful thing whistled between our heads and thumped into the ground. We looked at each other in amazement, before my saviour tried to salvage his shield, then dropped it and the entangled pilum to the ground. As it was designed to do, the spear had bent on impact, making it impossible to throw it back at the Romans, but this was not my plan.
Up and down the line, hundreds fell. I could hear the screams of agony as men were skewered where they stood, some spitted as the spear passed through their shields, their bodies, and still further into the soft earth below. I could already see the men running back for the cover of the woods, and I raised my sword high above, signalling our planned retreat, and the officers urged those who had not decided to run to do so.
As we sprinted for shelter, I glanced back to see the Romans raise their arms in triumph, and then begin their pursuit with a roar. It was working! Though the volley had done much damage, our line was still in good order. We now began a deadly race. Our troops had to reach the safety of Quintus’s line of archers quickly enough to allow them at the very least two volleys at the Romans, without any of our men in the way. If we took too long, then Quintus would only have time for one volley before the Romans were upon us, and they would be only slightly outnumbered by an inferior force.
‘Run, you bastards, run!’ I harangued them, and sprinted as fast as my weakened body would let me. We were racing ahead, and the more cowardly among us had already reached the trees. Then I almost froze in horror, making me trip over my feet and sprawl to the ground. What about the wounded?
I had forgotten that a quick retreat would mean that all those who had been hit in the volley would not be able to match our pace. As I scrabbled to my feet, I saw all those bodies strewn on the hillside, plus several hundred who had survived the attack, but my plan had left them at the mercy of the Romans. The front ranks were closing in on my wounded men. It was inevitable: as the legions tramped over the littered bodies, the dead would be crushed and those still living would be hacked and stabbed by the oncoming legionaries.
Seething at my own stupidity, I was powerless to help them. All I could do was reach the woods in enough time to repay the damage. Surging back into a sprint, I was now one of the last of the Gallic army on that bloody ridge. Fire coursed through my veins as my aching limbs complained at the effort, but I had to get to safety quickly or risk being mown down myself. Another few yards and I was in among the trees. At last I saw the double line of archers ahead of me and barged my way through, only to see the ordered ranks of men behind them. Carnunnos and the rest had done their job well.
The Roman formations fragmented when they hit the woods, as each man had to negotiate his way through the densely packed trees in his cumbersome armour. I heard Quintus shout an order, and then the first volley of arrows was loosed. We had no archers like those in the proper army, but many of our men were hunters and had brought their own bows for the campaign. Over such a short distance, even their poor-quality shafts were able to pierce Roman armour. Men were flung back by the impact of that crashing volley, and I looked along the length of our line and saw that the sacrifice of our wounded was not completely in vain.
Normally when under missile fire, the legions form the testudo, making a tortoise-like shell with the front rank holding their shields before them while the rest raise theirs to form a protective roof. However, the exuberance of their charge and the number of trees made this impossible, and we responded by sending shaft after shaft into that mass of men. Soon we were out of arrows, and all we could do was charge the legions while they were still disorientated and out of formation. The Gauls have always been individual fighters, and many were delighted at the chance to face the Romans man to man.
Bormo was one of the first into the enemy. He wielded his dual blades with deadly skill, stabbing at the neck of one man one instant, then slashing at another’s hamstring the next. I could sense the Roman line buckling under the weight and ferocity of our attack, and I grabbed the nearest man and shouted in his ear: ‘Get to Sextus and tell him to charge. Now!’ Then I headed into the fray myself.
I hadn’t held a blade in anger since those dark days in Britannia, but that familiar feeling of battle was coming back to me. You stop thinking about tactics, or self-preservation, and instead think about targets. Neck and groin. Those are crucial. A good blow there will kill a man very quickly. Cut, thrust, parry, hack. Sometimes you don’t need to think, and it becomes purely instinctive, an almost trance-like state, where your body takes over completely and enemies fall dead at your feet. Suc
h men develop a passion for battle and killing.
Fortunately I am not one of those blood-crazed killers. I put my survival down to two things, strength and speed. While you might think that my height would hamper my swordplay, it does not make me less of a swordsman. Flashy tricks are for the arena, not the battlefield, and a rough shove to the ground followed up by a stab does the job just as well as fine wristwork. But in my case it is coupled with lightning-quick reactions, so it was with confidence that I strode out with my men towards the enemy.
The first legionary I encountered made a feeble attempt to strike me with his shield boss, hoping to knock me over and deliver the killer blow. I easily sidestepped the effort, and swung my blade down towards his outstretched shield arm. Cutting straight to the bone, the stump sprayed my face with blood, and my opponent gave a yelp of pain as his severed forearm and shield crashed to the earth, and the man behind me finished him off.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a sword coming at me from the right. Spinning round, I desperately parried the blow. The legionary tried a counter-stroke, but this time I anticipated and blocked it quickly, knocking his sword out of the way before unleashing a powerful stab at his stomach. The thrust met the resistance of his armour, but the strike was strong enough to pierce the woven plates and deliver a fatal wound. As I felt my sword penetrate, I twisted the blade so that it wouldn’t stick in the muscular flesh, and with an almighty heave pulled it free.
But I was having more success than most of my men. We were certainly holding our own, but the enemy were beginning to recover from the initial shock of finding a resolute enemy instead of a scrabbling rabble of men on the run. Where was Sextus with the cavalry? We needed them to flank the enemy line and hasten the victory.
My sword arm was beginning to tire with all the hacking and stabbing in the front rank, but I was determined to lead by example, and not to drop to the rear for a breather. A chorus of whistles changed everything. The centurions, prominent because of their red-plumed helmets, were blowing their whistles. Normally this signified a rotation in the ranks, with the front moving to the rear and all the others moving up one spot, so that the enemy were presented with a fresh rank of men every few minutes. But the ranks were retreating!
Thinking it strange, given how evenly matched the exchange had been until then, I was trying to fathom why the legions would retreat. As an idea struck me, I saw that my men were following the fleeing Romans with whoops and shouts of joy. I tried to call them back into line, but I was like a charioteer who had lost hold of the reins. The Gauls sensed victory, and they would let nothing stand in their way.
As the Gallic army left their general and the shelter of the woods and ran back into the open, they saw, too late, the solid Roman formations drawn up in front of them. The first of our men to charge had such momentum that they were unable to stop in time; instead they had no choice but to fling themselves upon that wall of men. Now the Romans had the clear advantage. In the open the ill-disciplined Gauls were no match for the legions, and my rage was made all the worse by my awareness of the irony of it. The Romans had feinted a retreat just as we had done, luring my impetuous troops out of the shelter and back into the killing ground.
Now some Gauls began to run away, genuinely this time, in an effort to save their skins. The cries of my men being butchered by the merciless Roman ranks still haunt me to this day. Except that these cries were soon drowned out by a thundering of hooves, and I looked desperately to the left. Sextus rode at the head of his squadron, his boyish face grinning in delight as they headed straight for the Roman flank.
Orders were barked to the men closest to the new threat, and the files on the legion’s right turned to face the cavalry. Ruefully, I stood still and watched, knowing what was about to happen. Sextus had charged too late, meaning that instead of meeting the Roman rear, he faced a solid flank. Waiting until the last possible moment, the legionaries lowered their spears, resting the butts on the blood-spattered ground, and braced themselves for impact. No horse in the world will charge a forest of spears, and most pulled up short. But the horses ridden by Sextus and the reckless boys at the front did not have time to react, and were impaled on those iron barbs. The riders were flung headlong into the middle of the formation, where they would be dispatched unseen by us on the outside. Those Romans who had been too far back to use their javelins at the beginning of the battle flung them now at the cavalry, who had stalled in front of those gleaming spears.
Horses whinnied and shrieked. Men tumbled out of the saddle, impaled on those cold metal shafts. They lay on the grass, twitching. It was pure carnage.
By now most of our army was on the run. I could see the older men were trying to hold back the tide, but the battle was as good as lost. It served no purpose to waste yet more lives. I signalled to the commanders to let the men flee, hoping that the Romans would not give chase. Thank the gods they had no cavalry that day, or they would have butchered the lot of us as we ran. I hoped that the Romans would instead cheer their victory and then set about plundering the bodies. Meekly, we slunk back to the woods, amid the jeering of the victorious legions.
XIV
A crisis. A great big bowel-emptying crisis. That was what I was in. Galba’s vaunted army of Gaul had been obliterated, massacred by the Roman legions. Those legions were hardly going to declare their loyalty to Galba, having that day defeated an army supposedly raised in his name. I had failed him utterly. Or rather, Vindex had failed him.
I was still fuming at the arrogant fool for presuming he could lead the army to victory, and now his pride and lust for glory had brought ruin. Striding purposefully through those wretched woods, along with all the other survivors, I tried to work out what to do next. Men hobbled away, clutching at their wounds. Dying men cluttered the paths, a trail of the dead and the dying leading the way out of the woods and away from the slaughter.
A young boy, the downy hair of his first beard stained with blood, writhed in agony. He was bent double on the ground, like an abandoned baby. His hands pressed tightly at his stomach, but I saw some of his entrails leaking out between his fingers. I crouched down, and put my hand on his shoulder. The boy moaned pitifully, but was trying his best not to scream. He turned to look at me, and spoke something in Gallic. I felt so useless, not knowing what he wanted to say. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and look questioningly at him. Gritting his teeth, the boy took a hand away from his open stomach, and there was a sickening squelch as something hit the earth. I didn’t dare look down. Tears ran down the boy’s face, but still he didn’t cry out. His wavering hand reached for my sword hilt. I understood, and stood up. The boy quickly brought his free hand back to the wound, and screwed his eyes shut. Drawing my sword, I gave a swift slash to his neck, and ended his pain. The blood spurted up, all over my chest, and I turned to vomit on the blood-soaked earth.
I was almost mad with rage and revulsion by the time I made it out of those woods and into the open grassland on the reverse slope. I had been betrayed, but that was nothing to the betrayal of the army by the man who had called them to arms with glorious words of rebellion. My thoughts turned to revenge. Two men stood in the long grass just twenty paces away, near where I had first come upon Sextus that morning. Quintus had his back to me, but I could hear him talking to his father. I must have looked like some avenging Fury, the young boy’s blood flecked over my face and body, hand still clutching a sword stained with the gore of my fellow countrymen, and all because of that man. The governor crumpled at the sight of me. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. Some blood had caked around his mouth. A result of my breaking his nose, probably.
‘My son, Sextus…’ he began tremulously.
I cut him off. ‘Dead.’
He gave a howl of anguish, but I wasn’t in the mood to pity him.
‘Dead because of you; and thousands of others, sacrificed for your shot at glory, Governor.’ I used his title mockingly. ‘What did you think was going to
happen today?’
‘I thought we could win. I thought a Gaul in revolt would help get rid of Nero and help Galba to the throne. I’m not just a senator of Rome, I am the chieftain of the Aquitani. Galba promised to make me High King of Gaul. High King of a client kingdom of Rome, but my sons and I would rule Gaul. If you were me, what would you have done?’
I was reeling. All this time I had thought Vindex was a simpleton who just wanted his day of triumph, but his ambitions had been far higher. I had been fooled, twice. To be fooled by a man like Vindex hurt, but what hurt more was that Galba had not trusted me enough to tell me the whole truth. Vindex’s ambition was yet another reason the old man had been adamant that there should be no battle with the legions, no Gallic rebellion. I had come so close to giving Vindex the victory that he craved, but did not deserve.
‘You’re a traitor to Rome,’ I accused him.
‘What has Rome ever done for me?’
‘Aside from maintaining your family’s lands and titles, and giving you a seat in the Senate? But more importantly, what have you done for Rome? Today I’ve watched thousands of men die and led an army against my own people to save Rome from a tyrant.’
‘Sextus is dead,’ he bawled, his eyes red with anguish. ‘Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough?’
The Last Caesar Page 15
