Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  His vision was filled with the elephant; he’d never been this near to something so massive. Blood ran from its myriad wounds; javelins hung down its sides, held in place by their barbed heads. Thwack. Its trunk flicked a legionary head over heels, into the men several ranks back. A meaty impact and an agonised shriek followed as it used its tusks on another victim. Every instinct screamed at Felix to run from this unstoppable monster, but he stood fast. Death was preferable to abandoning his comrades.

  Setting Gnaeus back on his feet, he drew his sword. ‘With me?’

  Gnaeus’ face was grey with fear, but he nodded.

  ‘Antonius?’ Felix called.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Felix.

  The elephant had moved deeper into the midst of the principes. A mixture of Matho’s men and those from other centuries pressed in around its head. The ground to its left, nearest Felix, was heaped high with bodies, dead and living. He winced at the cries of pain his passage caused, but he couldn’t stop to help, even to send someone to the other side. The elephant had to be brought down. Jupiter, let it not see me, he prayed, his sandals slipping on blood and gore.

  Felix thought the god had answered his plea. Ten paces he stole towards the elephant, Gnaeus and Antonius on his heels, and it didn’t notice. Where the beast’s weakest spot might be, he had no idea. Between the ribs, just behind the left leg, seemed as good a place as any – that was the best spot for bringing down a deer with an arrow.

  ‘Stick it behind the elbow,’ he hissed.

  ‘Aye,’ came the replies.

  The elephant couldn’t have heard: the din of battle was incredible, but whatever the reason, it turned its head. Where its right eye should have been, an oozing red socket gaped, but its left, nearest Felix, burned with palpable rage. There was no question that it had seen him.

  ‘Quick!’ he shouted.

  If it presented them with its invulnerable front, they were dead men.

  Time slowed. Gnaeus shouted something. A princeps stabbed the elephant in the trunk. With a bugle of pain, it swung back and stamped him into oblivion. Felix got three paces nearer. Sword raised, he fixed his gaze on the elephant’s left foreleg. Ichor coated it to the height of a man’s knee, and his stomach turned. Back went his right arm. Jupiter, guide my blade, he thought.

  He was almost deafened by the elephant’s trumpet, saw little other than a wall of leathery, grey skin as it turned, right on top of him. Smacked in the head by the lower part of its chest, Felix was driven groundwards. Landing by some miracle on one knee, he managed to keep hold of his sword. His shield was gone, smashed into firewood by a mighty foot. Worse, he was under the fucking elephant. He looked up, panic tearing at him. Making a blind stab was pointless – the javelins in the first elephant had been proof of that.

  Marking the ribs at last, he aimed for the left side of the chest. Sure that it would be his final act, Felix gripped his sword with both fists and drove it up, into the elephant’s flesh. Sharp enough to slice meat off the bone, the blade ran in hilt-deep without stopping. A mighty shudder, and the elephant let out an odd, sighing cough. Its front knees trembled, and the sword was forced down with immense force. Letting go, Felix fell on all fours. Extra energy flooded his veins at the thought of being crushed, and he scrambled towards the daylight.

  He almost made it.

  A vast weight dropped from above, trapping his legs. The aftershock slammed his face into the ground; dirt filled his mouth. Everything went black.

  Slowly, Felix came to. Pain filled his body. There was grit on his tongue; loud noises filled his ears. Men were shouting, cursing, screaming. Further off, weapons clashed; a trumpet sounded. This can’t be the underworld, he thought, feeling the crushing heaviness on his lower half. Twisting his head, he made out the immobile mass of the elephant on top of him.

  He made a vain attempt to free himself. Nausea clawed the back of his throat as he realised there was no sensation in his legs, let alone his feet. Perhaps his spine had been snapped. Felix had seen men who’d been injured in that way before – half-creatures who relied on others to wipe their arses. Death was better than that. Don’t abandon me now, Jupiter, he thought. Please.

  At length, the sounds of fighting dimmed and then died away. Roman voices drew nearer, and Felix began to shout for help. Joy filled him as friendly faces came into sight, clambering over the slain – Antonius among them.

  ‘Brother!’ Face spattered with blood, but hale otherwise, Antonius dropped down beside Felix. He heaved at the elephant with an awed expression. ‘Did you kill it?’

  ‘Maybe. I think so. Where’s Gnaeus?’

  A grim shake of the head.

  ‘And the others in our contubernium?’

  ‘Most of them are alive, I think.’ Antonius pushed at the elephant, and cursed. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I can’t feel anything below my waist.’

  ‘We’ll get it off you in no time. You’ll be fine.’

  Felix prayed his brother wasn’t just trying to make him feel better.

  The news that one of their own was trapped flashed through the nearest legionaries at lightning speed. Ropes were fastened to its legs, which luckily faced in the opposite direction, and scores of men gathered around Felix, ready to push as their comrades on the far side pulled. A scowling Antonius directed operations, and ensured that there were men kneeling to his left and right.

  ‘The instant the elephant rises,’ he ordered, ‘shove in those shields, front uppermost, as many as you can. If the fools on the ropes let go, I don’t want him crushed again.’

  Fresh fear bathed Felix as, with loud shouts of effort, the carcase was heaved off him. Antonius dragged him free at once; he called out, and the legionaries on the elephant’s far side released their grip. The enormous body fell back into position with a resounding thump. Felix winced, oblivious to the cheers rising to the skies.

  Antonius was by his side. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘No!’ He reached down and squeezed his thigh, hard. Pain darted up his body, and he felt a spark of hope. ‘Pinch my calf.’

  Understanding, Antonius obeyed. ‘Can you feel it?’

  ‘Aye.’ Felix’s voice was hoarse. ‘Go lower.’ Giddy with excitement as the toes of his left foot began tingling, he looked down. ‘Try the other one.’ Antonius obeyed, and Felix exulted as discomfort radiated from his right foot. Pins and needles followed as, aided by his brother, he massaged his legs. Little by little, blood and sensation flowed back into his limbs. He beamed at Antonius. ‘I’m all right. I’m all right.’

  ‘The gods be thanked. Come on.’

  Antonius helped him up, which set their comrades to cheering again.

  Matho appeared, putting an end to their jubilation. Antonius explained what had happened, and Matho threw a dour look at Felix. ‘The elephant fell on you, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. After I stabbed it in the chest.’ Felix jiggled one leg, and the other, glad of the darts still radiating through his flesh.

  Matho grunted. ‘Where’s your sword?’

  ‘Under the elephant, sir.’

  Antonius and those who heard grinned, but Matho was unimpressed. ‘Find another – and a shield.’ He cupped a hand to his lips, addressing the rest. ‘Pick up any javelins you can find, then back into formation, you maggots. Make it quick! The advance will sound any time.’

  Discovering Gnaeus’ mangled body close by, Felix took his sword and shield. There was no time to grieve his friend’s death, only to accept the javelin Antonius handed him and face the enemy again. Casualties had been heavy – ten men from the century were dead, and another half a dozen injured too badly to fight – and the slaughter was just beginning.

  Matho didn’t dwell on their losses. Pacing up and down the front rank, and along the century’s sides, he told his men what a fine job they had done with the elephants.

  ‘Apart from the fool who threw that javelin, mind,’ he snarled. ‘If I ever find him . . .’
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  Most of the monsters were slain or vanished out the end of the corridors, never to return, Matho went on. Some had turned and run in panic at their own side. Reports were that the enemy cavalry had been driven from the field. When the trumpets sounded, the principes would march to the attack behind the hastati. Matho leered. ‘We’ll show those mongrel Carthaginians what legionaries can do, brothers!’

  Still marvelling at his lucky escape, Felix bayed his enthusiasm with the rest.

  Matho’s prediction came true not long after. Messengers arrived from Scipio, ordering the advance. Shrill trumpet blasts echoed along the army’s front, and the earth reverberated to the tread of thousands of hobnailed sandals. Although Felix was at the front of the century, he was blind to the enemy’s position thanks to the hastati before them. Since his promotion to the principes, he had never been comfortable with this arrangement and so by way of distraction, he kept count of his steps. One hundred paces they went. Matho, wise to the importance of the coming fight, positioned himself in the centre of the front rank, from where he continued to bawl encouragement. At the back, the optio repeated the chant.

  Two hundred paces.

  Yells and shouts could be heard from their front now – the enemy’s war cries. Matho’s vigorous response was endless repetitions of ‘ROMA!’, while clattering his sword off his shield. Felix and his comrades copied him, and in that rousing fashion, they covered another hundred and fifty paces. They have to be close, thought Felix. Very close.

  The hastati charged a moment later, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  Matho and the other centurions had their soldiers follow, at the walk, ten wide, and as deep as there were men to fill the ranks. The second century in each maniple came behind the first. They came to a halt some thirty paces behind the massed hastati, who had met the enemy with a clash loud enough to wake the dead. ‘Hold the line, brothers!’ Matho cried, breaking ranks to face them. ‘Ground your shields. Take a piss. Have a quick drink. Our time will soon come.’

  ‘Legs working?’ Antonius asked Felix.

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘A lucky escape.’

  ‘Aye.’ Accept the elephant as my offering, Jupiter, Felix asked. If I make it through the day, you’ll have a ram too.

  Grim-faced, they waited as the hastati did their best against the Carthaginians. Nothing could be seen of the enemy apart from their spears, which arced up to fall amid the hastati. The ranks before Felix swayed and rippled as the fortunes of those at the front ebbed and flowed. Optiones stood ready with their long staffs, on occasion battering men back into formation.

  Instinct made Felix unsheathe Gnaeus’ sword. He cursed its pitted, nicked blade, but wasn’t surprised. His comrade had never been the best with a whetstone. Propping his shield against his earth-stabbed javelin, Felix rummaged in his purse for his own. With careful strokes, he ran the bluish-purple stone up and down the iron, over and over. The comforting rhythm distracted him from the chaos and bloodshed. Testing the edge with his thumb, he nodded with satisfaction. It would do for now.

  ‘Give it here.’ Antonius held out his hand.

  Felix watched as his brother sharpened his own weapon. ‘Hand it over,’ he ordered as Antonius finished.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘No.’

  They both chuckled. It was a standing joke. Felix’s Gaulish whetstone was of the finest quality, and Antonius had long coveted it.

  Their laughter died away as they spied an optio from the troops in front coming to confer with Matho.

  ‘Prepare yourselves, brothers!’ bellowed Matho a moment later. ‘The hastati are about to withdraw.’

  Felix quickly retrieved his shield and javelin.

  Under the watchful eyes of their optiones, the hastati began to retreat, a century at a time. The withdrawal of each unit opened a gap in the battle line, and Matho led his men into the first available space. The remaining hastati should have held until the principes were in place, when the gap left by their withdrawal would be filled by the next century of principes, and so on. To Felix’s surprise, he and his comrades were still twenty paces from the front when some of these last hastati began breaking away. Gore-spattered, many with wounds, they looked spent, and uncaring of the huge hole now created in the Roman line.

  Eagle-eyed, Matho saw what was happening. ‘Quicker, you maggots!’ he screamed, and broke into a run.

  Every man copied Matho; their line reformed just as they reached the hastati. Chests heaving, they assumed close formation: shields a man’s pace apart, held at eye height, javelins ready.

  ‘The enemy aren’t ready to attack. They’re reorganising,’ said Antonius in delight.

  Twenty-five paces away, across a ground littered with corpses, wounded and discarded weapons, stood their opponents, a ragged mass of Ligurians, Gauls and Balearic slingers, Carthaginian and African infantry. Officers and chieftains strode to and fro, barking orders and shoving men into position.

  ‘With so many different troops, that must be their first and second line,’ said Felix. He cast a glance to his left and right, and the gaps that had not yet been filled. ‘It’s good they’re not ready. If they attacked us now, we’d be screwed.’

  Despite their own disorganisation, some of the enemy sensed an opportunity. Balearic slingers began advancing towards the principes. Slings whirling around their heads, they released their bullets with vicious cracks. Most legionaries raised their shields, but not all. A couple of men went down, stunned by the impact of the stones off their helmets. Noticing the slingers’ success, the Gauls chanted and banged their swords off their shield bosses.

  Still there was no sign of the holes in the Roman line being closed.

  In the stomach-churning moments that followed, Matho came into his own. Stalking along the front rank, he screamed in man after man’s face, ‘Ready?’ With each ‘Yes, sir!’ he clapped the princeps on the shoulder and moved on. He kept his back to the enemy the entire time.

  ‘He has balls bigger than Priapus,’ muttered Felix.

  Antonius and his comrades chuckled.

  ‘Hammer your shields,’ Matho shouted. ‘Loud as those savages yonder!’

  Clash, clash, clash, went Felix and his comrades. ‘ROMA! ROMA!’

  The din they made checked the Gauls long enough for the remainder of the principes to arrive. Everyone cheered as the gaps vanished.

  ‘A volley first, then we advance. At the signal, brothers!’ Matho raised his right arm.

  Blood pounded in Felix’s ears, dimming the clamour. His left forearm ached with the effort of holding up his shield. Under his mail and subarmalis, his sweat-soaked tunic clung to his body. A dull ache radiated from the base of his spine, and he wondered if the elephant had done him permanent damage. It didn’t matter much, he decided. Death was beckoning.

  Trumpets rang. Officers shouted.

  ‘LOOSE!’ roared Matho.

  Taking a deep breath, Felix threw.

  A time later – Felix had no idea how long – the recall was sounded. Savage fighting, with no give or take on either side, had seen heavy casualties. Hundreds of bodies, Roman and Carthaginian, lay entangled in death’s cold embrace. Countless discarded weapons and shields were scattered around, on top of, beneath them. With the ground thus obstructed, the fighting had fragmented into smaller, vicious contests that were impossible to control or monitor. During one spell, Felix and Antonius had ended up with just their tent mates, and been lucky to survive.

  The century had suffered more losses – six dead, and the same number of wounded. A comrade of Felix and Antonius was among the latter, while the brothers had come through unscathed. Matho had a slash along his sword arm; it wasn’t life-threatening, but he’d had to change places with their optio Paullinus, a saturnine individual with a bulbous nose and a deep love of the wineskin. Although Paullinus was more likeable than Matho, he wasn’t the same leader, and the signal to withdraw had come as a relief to all.

  Thei
r respite was brief, just enough to see the wounded given basic treatment and sent to the rear. Scipio’s orders, relayed by fast-moving riders, were to regroup into their usual units, and then to intersperse themselves with the triarii, who were being deployed at last.

  ‘This is it, brothers,’ said Matho. White-faced but as combative as ever, he had a rough bandage on his injured arm. ‘It’s come to the triarii – you know what that means.’

  ‘Things are fucking bad,’ said a voice from the ranks.

  Felix and Antonius exchanged a loaded glance. The triarii had only been used in one of the battles they had fought in; that victory had come at a high cost.

  Matho’s chuckle was unpleasant. ‘Aye, you’re right. The guggas are more stubborn than I’d have thought. The hastati couldn’t break them. We gave it our best effort, and still they held. Before we hit them again, we’ll have to listen to the triarii giving us shit. Useless maggots, they’ll call you. Cocksuckers. Yellow-livered sons of whores. Goatfuckers. Pillow biters – every one of us a molles of the worst kind.’

  Felix and the rest snarled their anger.

  Matho’s smile would have made a baby cry.

  ‘Don’t like that? Good.’

  They bayed like hungry wolves.

  ‘Forget about the triarii. They’re old men compared to you fine specimens.’ He let them cheer, then went on, smiling, ‘The glory of Rome, you are! You’re better soldiers than any of the child-murdering gugga scum with Hannibal. Better than arse-humping Gaulish savages, or half-naked brutes from the Balearic Islands. You’re even better than those Libyan bastards with the long spears.’

  From Matho, this was unexpected, rare praise. The principes lapped it up, cheering until they were hoarse. By the time a unit of triarii had lined up on either side, they barely gave them a look.

  ‘I should be with you in the coming fight, but I can’t, worse luck.’ Scowling, Matho raised his injured arm. ‘Make me proud, brothers. Do your century and your maniple proud. Your legion proud! Make Scipio proud!’