“Keep tight” Narcius called to his men. “Stay close” he yelled, “and no looting the dead until we’re done” he shouted over his shoulder as he ducked a punch from a bearded man who was struggling to pull his sword out of his belt and had resorted to his fists in an effort to stay alive. Growling with bloodlust Narcius despatched him with two sharp punches of his sword, the warm blood running over his hand as the final twist of his sword gutted the man. In his peripheral vision he saw the blade of an attack swinging at his head and lifted his shield to block it. The space around him was suddenly tight as he saw groups of Romans pushing further ahead and swathes of Etruscan spears clattering into each other as the holders pushed left and right in an attempt to hold their ground.
“Hold” screamed Narcius. “Don’t charge forwards, keep the line. Keep it tight and advance slowly” he yelled as the message was shouted down the line. “Give me space” he yelled at the legionary to his right, a veteran of five years with the legions, who instantly pushed to his right and called the same command to the man at his shoulder. A shoving and grunting of several men gave him some ground, which allowed him to stab into the shoulder of an attacker, who was then knocked to the floor by his own men pushing from behind. Two swords slammed into his back and neck almost as soon as his knees hit the floor. Taking a breather as the ranks ahead of him seemed to thin for a moment Narcius saw Crastinus and his men had cleaved a deep path into the Etruscans, who were now attempting to turn and run. Crastinus seemed to sense Narcius looking at him and their eyes met, both men grinned. Narcius mouthed forward and left using his sword to attempt to explain his meaning as Crastinus’ eyes narrowed in momentary confusion. Trumpets blared somewhere behind him, but Narcius was too focused on the centurion of the second cohort to listen to the call, now was a decisive moment. Crastinus nodded his understanding and his cry of “forward and wheel left” split the air as Narcius grinned and yelled “forward and wheel right” to the men around him. After a few seconds of the movement, the trumpets screamed again and Narcius acknowledged the sound to himself with a grunt. Marcus had seen the movement and reacted instantly.
Crastinus ducked to avoid a blood covered spear tip as it whistled past his ear, his shoulders rolling as he moved his sword arm into position and he pushed his shield to his left to open enough space to thrust at the guts of the man who had tried to kill him. The man threw his shield up, his eyes blinking as sweat dripped from his nose. Crastinus laughed as he angled his blade directly into the man’s thigh, crunching against the bone before he edged his weight onto his right foot and lunged until the hilt snagged on the man’s skin. With a twist he retrieved the blade and used his elbow to keep the shaft of the spear out of harm’s way. The screaming was drowned out by other similar shouts along the line.
“Keep pushing” screamed the centurion as he thrust the point of his sword into the same man’s guts, feeling the blade slide easily into the unprotected mid-riff. Movement to his side caused him to lift his shield as another long spear thudded into his wooden barrier, a grunt of effort preceding the defensive movement, which had all but saved the centurion from certain death. The thrust unbalanced the centurion and he dropped to one knee to get his footing and take a deep breath before almost jumping into the line of men in front of him, not pretty, he thought, but effective. Two of the men who had turned their spears towards him were momentarily knocked backwards, allowing Roman blades to find soft targets. Crastinus glanced to his left and nodded. “Keep pushing” he screamed; his voice now hoarse and ragged from the exertion of calling orders. A legionary to his right grunted as he was caught by a spear tip along his helmet, the metal ripping and twisting the soldier’s head to the left as he almost fell. Crastinus had time to get a jab of his blade into the forearm of the attacker, clattering against the bronzed plate which covered the arm. The force knocked the arm aside and allowed the legionary to both scream at the Etruscan and also embed his sword into the enemies’ eye socket, the squelch of the eye popping almost as loud as the scream of the dying man.
“Keep pushing, keep it tight” Crastinus shouted again. “Keep it tight” he growled at the man to his right who was still struggling to control the helmet which had been knocked to cover the left side of his head and almost obscured his right eye. “Get back, rest and sort it” he shouted as the man tightened his lips and nodded before stepping backwards to allow a freshly screaming legionary to jump into the gap. Sweat poured into his eyes as the centurion attempted to lift his head and see what was ahead of them. They’d successfully driven thirty or forty steps into the Etruscan line and were continuing to find targets despite the wall of spears which faced them. Momentarily Crastinus looked up and considered how dark it was under the thousands of raised spears in the phalanx. To his right other soldiers were driving into the gap that the move by Narcius and Crastinus has opened in the enemy centre. The ground sloped slightly, which hampered the spearmen and made the job of the lighter eagles easier. He grinned as he saw a thick bearded Etruscan round on him with a long iron blade, his movement showing that he bore no shield, just the blade that faced him and a shorter dagger in his other hand. The man almost threw himself into the centurion and despite Crastinus’ training the long blade raked down his shin as he managed to force his shield against the strike. Crastinus’ greaves saved his leg from any damage and he flicked his foot back to avoid the inevitable stab at his feet that followed. Angrily he stabbed at the shoulder of his attacker, noticing that a carefully orchestrated strike from two other Etruscans had come at the same time as the suicidal thrust from the shield-less man. So that was their game, kill the officer and take back control. To his left a legionary had managed to stick his sword into the armpit of one of the spearmen, his shouts quickly followed by his body falling into the initial attacker. Crastinus had time to grin as he stared into the eyes of his foe, the man losing his footing as the spearman fell. He thrust his shield forward with his left arm and instantly counterbalanced by dropping his right shoulder and lifting his blade into an upwards strike aimed at the attackers groin. The long blade snapped back and clattered along the length of Crastinus’ sword, attempting to push it to the left, but the power of the strike was enough to force the blade back and to strike home. It wasn’t a killing blow as some of the strength had been removed from the hit, but it sent the man reeling backwards, dancing as if he’d been burnt and screaming his anger into the air. The noise disappeared as more Etruscans pushed forwards, spear tips shooting out at Crastinus.
“Keep it tight” screamed the centurion.
Watching the eagles as they thrust into the ranks of the phalanx had given Marcus such an emotional outburst that he realised just how nervous he had been at the thought of fighting the enormous horde of Etruscans. But as the plan started to take effect he found himself relaxing as he watched the professionalism, and skill, of the paid soldiers take effect on the ill-trained farmers and conscripts of the Etruscans. The Roman line had detached itself from the phalanx steadily, the centurions conspicuous as they anchored and led the moves. Then the eagles had appeared from the forest of spears and shields, then raced into the central line of the Etruscans. Across two hundred yards of the centre of the battlefield the Roman offensive move had created havoc as the phalanx firstly split as men moved to chase the retreating Romans and then fell in their droves as the short-bladed men of Rome thrust into every gap to cause carnage. Within minutes the eagles had moved several ranks into the panicked Etruscans who were so densely packed in their formation that they simply couldn’t wield their weapons. The stench of blood rose into the air alongside the chaotic screams, sound of orders and counter orders being shouted from both the Etruscan defenders and attacking Romans. As he watched, careful to order the ranks of Roman soldiers behind their attack to move forwards to support Narcius and to remain vigilant in his concerns about the wings, he saw the rear ranks start to buckle. Men were turning and edging backwards. Officers were whipping at lines of turning soldiers, who were clearly si
gnalling, with their feet, that they felt the battle was lost.
Instantly he called the order to the trumpeter on his right, yelling at messengers to relay orders to the wings. “Call the front ranks to charge the centre” he yelled, “they’re breaking” he added as he kicked his horse and yanked it’s reins to steer it to his right. “Messenger, tell Laminitus to head straight at their centre, push straight through. You” he pointed to another messenger, who stared wide eyed and eager at his commander. “Ask Aemilius to form a wedge and support Laminitus, but to split his legion half to the right wing and half to the left. His job is to take out those wings, this bull has just been brought to the sacrificial altar” he smiled. “Repeat that order” he snapped before the man could move. Satisfied, he turned back to the battle and let the messenger race off. The wings were now starting to become detached as the centre started to crumble. He took a deep pull on a water pouch before handing it across to the other officers who moved with him towards the right of the Roman rear line.
“Call the cavalry in on the right wing” he ordered to the signaller, who blew several notes before stretching his neck to see the quick response from Ahala. “The gods are with us” shouted Marcus as he raised his sword and thrust it to the sky. “For Rome” he cheered. The cry started close in the rear ranks, but within seconds the cheer had spread like an earthquake across the ground. In that moment Marcus knew that they had won. Despite their superior numbers the Etruscan lack of discipline and poor soldiers had been their undoing. With a cheer he kicked his horse forwards to join the second line of soldiers and cheer them to victory.
*****
Chapter 11
Istros pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and moved his arms in tight to his body. These caves were cold. He’d come across the network of old mining caves which ran under some of the city’s main streets when he had first arrived in Rome and now he used them as a thoroughfare to avoid the eyes of the many paid watchers that lived on the dark streets above. Rats scurried out of his way, and the occasional dead animal lay sightless in a dank corner, but apart from that the caves were always eerily silent. He’d listened to the meeting at the senator’s house by hiding in the roof space which ran between the garden and the main room of the house, but it had been close to three hours before he had finally felt it was quiet enough in the house to crawl back out and on to the roof to make his escape. His shoulders ached from being confined for so long and he was both tired and hungry. The meeting hadn’t offered much in the way of information for Capitolinus but there was enough for him to show that his efforts had been worthwhile. As for a plot against the man? No. The Romans had been more concerned about grain prices, the cost of rebuilding the city and the usual bout of early summer disease brought about from the low lying marshes which caused swarms of insects to infest the city every year despite the improvements made to the main drain which ran under the forum, the Cloaca Maxima. To Istros the meeting was excruciatingly boring. As he pulled aside the thick brambles which brought him back onto the road below the steep cliff which backed to the temple of Jupiter he heard voices, which caused him to stop half in and half out of the narrow slit in the rock.
“Agreed then” came a voice from two dark shadows ahead of him. The speaker was a large man, his pot belly silhouetted against the blue-white clouds which hid the bright moon. “A pound of bronze, but only after you get the information. I need to know when the supplies arrive, and I need the password” the voice said.
Istros’ ears pricked at the words and he squinted at the two figures in an attempt to find any identifying features on both of the men he could see, but it was too dark.
“I need something now” came the reply from the other man, who was wrapped in a thick woollen cloak which covered him from his head to just below his knees. His shape suggested he was lean and wiry, possibly a slave but definitely young as his voice had a slight high pitch which Istros knew was usual of boys in their early teenage years.
The larger man grumbled as he felt around in his cloak and handed something across to the boy. “And don’t waste it on whores. I need you back in that camp and keeping your eyes and ears open” came the gruff response.
The boy grumbled as he turned and started to jog down the goat track which led to the low walls which ran along the river. Istros decided to follow the older man as he sauntered back along the upper track before turning down towards the city, skirting a few huts which had recently been put up by families who were trying to rebuild the homes that had been destroyed by the Gaul’s. The man ahead of him was slow, so Istros allowed himself plenty of time as he moved stealthily after him. Within ten minutes the man he’d followed had entered a large house on the Palatine hill, a residence Istros was familiar with, one of the houses owned by Cincinnatus. He pursed his lips with a frown and decided to find out a little more about what he had heard and what scheme these men were plotting, maybe it could be used to his advantage. He rubbed his hands together, Rome was becoming a very lucrative place to be.
******
Brevo swore as he caught his foot on a discarded spear, the sharp iron tip catching his sandal as he attempted to step through the mass of dead bodies. The smell of death hung in the air, that mix of sweat, urine, spilt blood and faeces that always followed battle. Here the stench was almost overwhelming as the Romans had piled as many stripped Etruscans as they could physically carry into an enormous pile. The bodies were a twisted mass of flesh which were now attracting flies and various carrion birds and causing the centurion and his men, detailed to pile up the dead, to slow down the pace of their progress.
“That’s it men” he called as he scowled at the mess around him and screwed up his face in disgust. “Let’s get our kit and get out of here” he added as he picked up a pack and threw it across his shoulder. Several men grunted their agreement as they, too, picked up various packages and bundles and threw them into a waiting two wheeled hand cart. “Anything worth keeping” he asked with a nod towards the bundles of armour, folded clothes and bent looking swords.
“A couple of decent items at the back there, sir” replied a blood-encrusted legionary as he lifted the cart and started to drag it along behind him.
Brevo replied with a huff as he fell in behind the cart. “Typical, we get the shit jobs and everyone else gets to pick the best of the kit, strip the gold from the bodies and head for their beds” he grumbled.
“Ha” laughed the cart pulling man. “Want me to speak to the primus pilus on your behalf sir.”
Brevo grinned at his reply. “Yeah, yeah. Narcius is alright” he added with a shrug. “Just unlucky I was close to him when we finished them off and he was barking out his orders” he added. “Anyway, we’ll be sharing the loot out later as usual” he said as he fell into a silent walk, his men closing in as they appeared behind him from their various duties. “Who’s setting the fire” he asked, meaning who was setting fire to the branches, twigs and strips of oil soaked rags that they had added to the pile of bodies.
“Carvus” came the reply.
“Right” said Brevo. Ahead he saw several of the legions centurionate standing by a clump of trees, heads bent in conversation. “Set us up a good camp and get the pot on, I’m starving” he called over his shoulder as he set off towards the group of officers. Grunts followed him as he smiled back towards the shuffling men.
“Hail” he called, with hands raised towards his fellow junior officers. Nods greeted him. “What’s up?” he asked with a frown at the serious looks on the faces that greeted him. “You look like you bet on the blue and the red won.”
“New orders” replied Petronius, his smaller frame dwarfed by many of the men who stood around him.
Brevo scratched at the scar on the left side of his eye socket. “What?” he asked with some trepidation, the centurions didn’t usually worry about new orders.
“Camillus wants volunteers to pursue the Etruscans. He wants them all dead, no survivors” replied Verus, the third cohort centu
rion. “Never seen him do that before.”
“Some say he’s lost his mind.”
“No way. Must be something more than that” replied Brevo. “What’s the boss say” he asked.
“Narcius argued against it but Camillus wouldn’t listen, just like last time, no survivors, teach them a lesson” he finished with a shrug.
“Who’s volunteered then?”
“Nobody, so he’s deciding, and now that you’re back with the last of the men we’ll get our answer” Verus replied. “Come on, better get over there” he added as he slung an arm across Brevo’s shoulder and asked, “anything good on that cart?”
**
It took the centurions ten minutes to file into the makeshift command tent where all the senior ranks had now converged. Narcius stood in the corner scowling at the new arrivals, who saluted quickly and found a position as far away from the eyes of the primus pilus as possible. “All present” snapped Narcius.
Marcus and Aemilius stood from their seated position where they had been studying a map with Ahala and another cavalry officer. Both men looked grim faced. Brevo and Verus shared a glance as they saw the determined look in their commander’s eyes. Brevo noted the three candles lit on the table at the back of the tent, the oils and the small silver knife with drops of fresh blood on the tip. Mars had been invoked, it was just as his friends had said, this wasn’t finished yet.
“Soldiers of Rome” Marcus said as the men stood a little taller at his words. “Today has been a great victory, one that generations will speak of with pride. But today’s victory is only a small part of what must be done. The gods have been consulted” he said as men looked to the candles behind him. “And whilst one enemy lives, they will continue to rise against us, to stab us in the back, to stop Rome from achieving the greatness that the gods have ordained for us.” He allowed his gaze to circle the tent before speaking again. The silence intensified as he held every eye in the room. “Rome is entering a new era” he said. “An era in which we, the soldiers of Rome, will be the defining force for our nation. We can no longer rely on treaties with our neighbours, who then turn on us when they think we are weak. If Rome is to be the master of itself, it must be the master of all the tribes of the Latin delta.” He looked around at the soldiers, studying every eye as they watched him before continuing. “If we let any of these dogs return to their masters they will regroup and come hunting again. Better to strike now and destroy them once and for all. We will lay waste to the countryside hereabouts and stop them returning. In this way they can have no choice other than to fight us or to starve.”
The King of Rome Page 17
