by Ben Kane
Several hastati were dropped by the peltasts and slingers, but the rest clambered down the rubble with raised shields, reaching the courtyard with few casualties. They were thirty paces from the phalanx. Rather than rush at the phalangists, as their allies had done, the centurions took the time to reform their centuries. Slings cracked and spears shot down from the men on the walkways, but the Roman formations did not falter.
Gods, they’re disciplined, thought Demetrios.
‘It’ll be javelins next,’ said Dion, muttering a prayer. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look up.’
Demetrios’ hands trembled on his sarissa shaft. He clenched them tighter, grateful that facing forward, no one could see the fear in his eyes.
Dion was right. Soon after, the centurions at the front shouted an order. Up shot scores of javelins. Demetrios quickly stared at the back of Dion’s cuirass and tried not to think about the death hurtling towards them. Two frenzied beats of his heart later, and the javelins landed. Clatters and bangs rose as they struck first the upraised sarissae and then helmets, aspides and men’s shoulders. One smacked off Demetrios’ breastplate and thunked point first into the ground between him and the phalangist to his right. His relieved smile vanished as a second hit his helmet, shot off at an angle and joined its mate in the earth. Demetrios felt as if a smith had hit him with the largest hammer in the forge. Only by locking his knees did he manage not to fall. His sarissa swayed like a sapling in a gale before he managed to tighten his grip again. He took a juddering breath, and another.
At last the world stopped moving, and his eyes returned to the front. Demetrios’ concern for himself dropped away. Dion was down. He’d dropped his aspis and sarissa, clutching in vain at the Roman javelin that had, by some ill fate, dropped out of the sky at the perfect angle. Even as Demetrios leaned forward, a cry on his lips, Dion’s arms fell away. He was dead. The javelin point had gone in where neck met torso, running two handspans and more into his chest.
Whistles blew. Voices cried in Latin. Hobnailed sandals clashed off the stones.
‘The bastards are coming,’ shouted Simonides. ‘Keep those pikes steady!’
‘Move forward!’ said someone.
Dazed, Demetrios didn’t realise he was being addressed until the man behind dunted him with his aspis.
‘You’re the fifth-ranker now! Move forward, and make it quick!’
Demetrios stepped over Dion, part-propelled by the shield in his back. He pressed his own into Empedokles, who gave no sign of realising what had happened, and lowered his sarissa into place.
‘MA-CE-DON!’ someone shouted.
‘ROMA!’ roared another voice.
Demetrios’ faint effort was drowned in the crescendo of cries that rose above the courtyard. His gaze was riveted on the lines of hastati, and the elongated oval shields they bore. Black feathers waved atop every helmet, turning each enemy into a giant. Between every ten to twelve men was a centurion, recognisable by his dyed horsehair crest. Above and behind these legionaries hundreds more were descending from the breach, a relentless tide of the enemy. These soldiers, thought Demetrios nervously, were some of the same men who’d smashed through the phalanx at the dirty gates. Maybe they would do so again today. He was glad to be deep in the ranks. There was no choice but to fight.
Wary of the sarissae, the centurions had their hastati walk towards the phalangists, and so the clash began slowly. File-leaders and the second in file – the two whose sarissae protruded forward the most – acted first. Simonides heaved, and with a neat forward flick, shoved his pike over a legionary’s shield, and into his eye. Andriskos’ target, the man beside Simonides’ victim, ducked down, and the sarissa missed, driving into his shield instead. As the hastatus tried desperately to wrench it free, the file-leader beside Simonides stuck him.
Fresh hastati moved into place, closing the gaps. They pressed forward over their friends’ corpses. Splinters flew as they hacked at the sarissa shafts. Demetrios felt the first stirrings of panic. Cut the ends off enough pikes, and the hastati could swarm forward to engage the phalangists head-on. Close in, their much larger shields would grant a huge advantage.
‘Are you going to use your fucking sarissa, or just hold it like the useless prick you are?’ Empedokles shouted.
With a guilty start, Demetrios took aim and rammed his sarissa into the open mouth of a shouting hastatus. In, out, man down. Another legionary appeared at once, and Demetrios killed him too. He had no time to feel pleased as the battle grew more vicious. Wiser heads among the hastati behind the fighting realised they could be of use, and javelins began to shower in thick and fast. Casualties were inevitable, and when a phalangist went down, his file’s position was weakened momentarily by his sarissa dropping before the next man in the file could step up to replace it with his.
Watching for these opportunities, the centurions sent men to the attack. Stooping and sliding, they wormed their way towards the line of locked aspides, their faces contorted with determination and fear. For a time, none got more than half a dozen steps before a sarissa punched him into the next world, but in the end, numbers told.
An hastatus attacked the file to Demetrios’ right, and somehow reached the front rank. He was either insanely courageous, or protected by the gods. Shield lost, he had two comrades close on his heels, using him to shield themselves from the deadly sarissae. More hastati came piling after.
Demetrios’ fear redoubled. If they broke through, the phalanx would split like a block of wood struck by an axe. He didn’t know that behind his aspis, Simonides had let go of his sarissa and drawn his kopis. As the hastatus slammed up against the aspides, he leaned out and chopped off the man’s sword arm. The next hastatus was just close enough – and so eager to close with the enemy – that Simonides slashed open his jaw with the upstroke of the blade. He fell backwards into the third hastatus, wailing and spraying blood, and the slight increase in the distance from the line of aspides gave Demetrios the chance to skewer hastatus number three in the side of his chest, just to the side of his bronze pectorale.
Three comrades slain or maimed in the space of half a dozen heartbeats was enough to make the men following waver. Their hesitation saw two die under Andriskos’ and Philippos’ sarissae. The rest fled towards their comrades, and despite the centurions’ furious shouts, that section of the Roman line edged back a little.
The speira commander had seen. ‘Forward, one step!’ he shouted.
Demetrios readied himself, and when Empedokles moved, he was right behind him. He took confidence from the aspis pushing into his own back: it was as if Demetrios could feel the ten comrades to his rear. When another order to advance rang out, the Romans retreated before the deadly sarissae. There was fear in most of their faces now, an emotion that hadn’t been present moments before.
‘Three steps, and PUSH!’ came the command.
Demetrios felt as if Ares’ hand was guiding his sarissa. It glided forward, taking a Roman officer – not a centurion unfortunately – in the cheek. He rammed it in a little deeper, then wrenched it free. The officer fell from sight. Whether his hideous scream was the reason the hastati broke, Demetrios would never know, but one moment their formation had a semblance of order, and the next, it had disintegrated.
To the centurions’ credit, they re-established control fast, preventing their retreat becoming a rout. The cheering phalangists – and Demetrios – didn’t care. The enemy had been thoroughly beaten.
Let the next wave come, he thought. We will slaughter them like sheep.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Outside Atrax
Felix was dismayed when the hastati fared only a little better than the allied tribesmen had. A little, in that fewer were slain inside the courtyard. Casualties were still heavy, however, and they made no headway against the Macedonians. In reasonable order, the hastati came tramping back up to the breach, and down the piled stones that had, until a short time before, been part of the defences.
The numbe
r of missing and walking wounded made it obvious the encounter had gone badly, but the principes heard more as Pullo cornered a passing centurion. Bloodied, weary-faced, he painted a terrifying scene.
‘It’s wall to wall fucking spears in there,’ he revealed. ‘There’s no way of getting at the whoresons – none.’
‘What about the walkways on either side?’ demanded Pullo.
‘They’re defended by archers, with peltasts behind. I don’t envy you, brother.’ Without another word, the centurion rejoined his men, who were marching dejectedly by.
It was even worse than he had imagined, thought Felix with growing dread.
The canny Pullo picked up on his men’s nervousness. Directing them to empty their bladders, and check their sandal laces, he marched up and down, telling the principes what fine boys they were. They had looked like pieces of shit in Brundisium – they did still, much of the time, he said, which raised a few smiles – but they were good soldiers. Brave men, who followed orders, and stood shoulder to shoulder with one another. They were men who would lay down their lives for their comrades. Pullo came to a halt close to Felix and Antonius. His gaze, usually flinty, was full of emotion.
‘I’m proud to lead you, brothers. Proud to call you my comrades.’
Pullo had never called them his brothers before. Felix couldn’t help himself. ‘PUL-LO!’
‘PUL-LO! PUL-LO! PUL-LO!’
Something glinted at the corner of Pullo’s eye. He brushed it away, and chopped his hand down, silencing them. ‘Enough. Quiet.’ He smiled then, and the principes cheered. Under normal circumstances, Pullo would have leaped down their throats for disobeying his order, but instead he smiled again. ‘Fools. You’re fucking fools, the lot of you.’
Pullo is really worried, thought Felix unhappily. He threw a heartfelt look at the sky. Mars, we need you. Hold your shield in front of us.
The trumpets sounded. Pullo resumed his place in the middle of the front rank. As fortune – or ill luck, many would have said – would have it, his century was one of those standing directly opposite the breach. They would be among the first units to the attack. One of the first to face the Macedonians, who had already stopped three assaults dead. Every step they took towards the brooding mass of Atrax was a step closer to Hades, thought Felix.
At the base of the fallen wall, the centurions of the closest units had a brief conversation. Pullo’s century would climb second; more principes would follow behind. An uncomfortable wait followed as the first century began their climb. Arrows skittered off their raised shields now and again. Despite his fear, Felix wanted to attack. The sooner they did, the sooner the unbearable tension would end.
‘Ready, brothers?’ asked Pullo.
‘Yes, sir!’
Felix looked. The first unit was halfway to the breach; the centurion was bellowing orders.
‘Climb!’ said Pullo. ‘Keep your shield in front of you – remember those bastard archers.’
The century broke up within a few paces. It was hard enough for a man to clamber up the stony slope while holding a shield before his face, let alone keep in line with his comrades. It didn’t matter overmuch, thought Felix: they could reform at the breach. Foot by exhausting foot, he worked his way upwards. An arrow dinked off his shield. He glanced to either side. There was Antonius, swearing at the knuckles he’d just skinned on a rough piece of masonry. Mattheus was close by too, muttering to himself. Fabius was a little behind, climbing with dogged determination.
Felix cursed under his breath. There was no going back.
‘That’s it,’ called Pullo. Older than most of his men, he had still got to the breach first. An arrow struck his helmet; he paid no heed. ‘There’s a fine view up here, I tell you!’
Reaching him, Felix wasn’t so sure he would agree. Bodies – Epirote, Illyrian, Dardanian and hastati – lay thickly all the way into the courtyard. The first century of principes was edging down towards the enemy, over the gruesome footing. Almost filling the area at the bottom was a massed square of phalangists. A small space had been left for attackers to form up – from the deep layer of corpses, it served, he judged, as containment before the phalanx advanced to annihilate them.
So this is where I will die, Felix decided. He could imagine no other outcome, and if Pullo’s drawn face was anything to go by, his centurion thought the same.
‘Get your arses up here!’ ordered Pullo.
As each contubernium arrived, he sent it to join the first century, who were waiting part-way down the slope. Once half his men had reached the gap, he left Livius to chivvy the rest, and joined the group below. It seemed an eternity, what with arrows hitting their shields and the phalangists roaring abuse in bad Latin, but at last the two centuries were lined up, side by side. It didn’t take long for another four centuries of principes to reach them. The Macedonians, who were about thirty paces from the base of the rubble, stood patiently throughout, which was unnerving.
Pullo checked with a look that the other centurions were ready, and pointed at the enemy with his sword. ‘FORWARD!’
Felix and his comrades were at the front – he would have given anything not to have been, and even more to have been somewhere else altogether. A thick, bristling line of spears filled his vision. A long way behind the deadly points were the phalangists with their overlapping shields, and behind them, in serried lines, were hundreds of their fellows; their spears pointed at the sky.
Pullo and the other centurion called a halt at twenty paces, and ordered a javelin volley. It was at closer range than usual, but their hope of better success came to nothing. The upraised sarissae broke up the shower of javelins, and few did any harm.
‘Close order!’ Pullo ordered.
The principes shuffled together until only their blades poked between their shields. No one spoke. A man in the rank behind Felix vomited. He could smell urine too – he badly needed to piss himself. Despite the noise – the screams of the wounded, the phalangist officers’ shouts – Felix could hear men panting with fear. His own heart was banging off his ribs so fast it hurt. There seemed no way through. There was no way through, he decided. They were walking on the fucking proof of it – the bodies of tribesmen and hastati.
‘Steady, brothers,’ said Pullo. Despite the danger, his voice was as calm, as quiet as ever. ‘At the spears, I want every fourth man from me to break formation. Try to slide your way between the shafts – the spears don’t all project the same distance from the enemy’s shields, see. Get close enough to the first rank, and we’ll have a chance. If they lose a few men, it will break their line, and then we have a chance. Pass it on.’
It sounded like an order to commit suicide, thought Felix. Thanks to their positions, however, neither he nor Antonius would have to follow Pullo’s order. The relief Felix felt at this soon vanished. Ten steps from the enemy spears, his whole world shrank to a narrow tunnel. He could see five spear tips, their long shafts running away to a line of painted shields. Over these, he could make out men’s faces bracketed by cheek guards and brow pieces. Cold eyes stared back at him. Lips moved in prayer, or curses – or both.
Nausea washed over Felix; sudden drool filled his mouth. He swallowed it. You killed a fucking elephant at Zama, he told himself. The knowledge gave him no relief. In that needing-to-vomit moment, he would have fought such a beast again. Anything not to advance onto the bristling Macedonian spears.
‘With me, brothers!’ said Pullo, taking a step forward.
Felix copied him. One. Two. Three. Never in his life had the simple act of moving his legs been so difficult. Four, five, six.
Men were shouting in Greek. Around Felix, men were praying, babbling to the gods.
‘Mars, guide us. Mars, guide us. Mars, guide us,’ repeated someone.
The princeps who’d puked wasn’t alone – men were retching throughout the ranks. Their line held, however. Step by terrible step, they closed with the enemy.
No one had faced the phalanx directly; not even
Pullo was ready for the Macedonians to strike first. Several steps from the closest spears, a one-word command in Greek rang out. Fast as striking snakes, the phalangists thrust. Their spears shot forward in unison, a lethal tide of sharp iron. Mattheus was run through the eye, dead before he even knew it. The man right behind Felix took a spear through the cheekbone; he died choking on his own blood. Felix was lucky: his shield took the blow meant for him. It was a double-edged blessing; he fought to stay upright as the phalangist wrenched his weapon back and forth. Another sarissa stabbed at his face and another – a sea of keen-edged spear tips filled his vision. Terrified, he ducked, and the point hissed between the feathers atop his helmet.
‘Every fourth man – now!’ ordered Pullo.
Felix was so busy trying to keep hold of his shield and avoid being stabbed by the jabbing spear tips that he didn’t see Pullo break formation, or the man behind Mattheus move forward to do the same. It was all he could do to remain standing. Indecision battered him. To let go of his shield would leave him defenceless. Hold on, and he could do nothing.
‘Pullo’s down!’ Antonius’ voice cracked.
Sucking in a horrified breath, Felix peered over the top of his shield. Ten steps to his front, Pullo writhed, both hands clutching the shaft of a sarissa that was buried in his throat. A heartbeat later, the centurion’s fingers slackened, and he sagged, pulling the spear down with him.
‘Pullo’s dead!’ The news flashed through the ranks; it leached the principes’ courage faster than frost melts under the morning sun. ‘The centurion’s gone!’
Felix was consumed by grief, and fear. Unable to free his shield from the enemy spear, he would join Pullo in the underworld any moment.
Most in the front rank took a step back. Felix did not – he could not.
The phalangists’ officers bellowed an order, and the phalanx advanced a pace. Another command, and the sarissas jabbed forward. With a strength born of desperation, Felix hung on to his shield. Principes screamed as they were skewered. Gaps appeared in the front rank, and were not filled. He heard a man behind him drop, and he wrenched again, frantically trying to free his shield.
