‘Hold on, lads!’ he called out at the top of his voice. ‘Hold the line!’
The legionaries alternated between quick thrusts with their nimble short swords and punching their heavy rectangular shields forward. The heavy chain mail and scale armour and sturdy helmets gave them far greater protection than most of the men opposed to them. Prince Talmis had few regular soldiers, and aside from some eastern mercenaries and the Arabs, his army was mostly made up from tribesmen. They carried an assortment of spears, swords and clubs, and carried flimsy hide shields. Consequently, they died in droves as they came up against the men of the First Cohort and the auxiliaries on either side.
The soldier in front of Macro made a thrust and then howled in agony as he withdrew his arm. A sword blow had nearly severed his wrist and the useless fingers twitched and released the blade. Macro pushed past him as the legionary groaned and clutched his mutilated limb to his chest, blood spurting down the silvered scales of his armour. Macro crouched slightly, carrying his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move swiftly. He held his shield up to protect his face and stared over the rim at his enemies as he held his sword poised.
A large warrior in a thick leather cuirass held a heavy curved sword in both hands above his head. His eyes met Macro’s and he smiled savagely as he stretched his arms back to make a powerful blow. Then he slashed down. Macro saw that the blade would split his shield in two, and take his left arm with it. He sprang forward, inside the arc of the massive blade and slammed his shield into the man’s chest and head. The Nubian’s arms struck the rim of the shield and the sword leaped from his hands, embedding the point in the sand behind Macro. He punched his blade into the Nubian’s side, ripped it out and thrust again before stepping back into the line of the First Cohort. The Nubian stumbled away and was lost amid swirling robes of two Arabs with spears who took his place in front of the centurion. They immediately jabbed at Macro but their weapons were easily blocked by the shield and Macro made no attempt to step forward and strike at them. Their futile blows thudded against the leather surface until the press of their comrades behind them forced them right up against the line of legionaries.
This was the kind of fighting which the legionaries’ equipment had been designed for and at which the soldiers excelled, and all along the line the Nubians found themselves confronted by an unbroken wall of heavy shields behind which well-armoured men stood their ground, striking brutally into the ill-protected bodies packed together beyond the shields. Mortally wounded and injured Nubians fell before the Roman line, and the terrified cries of the still living were stifled as their comrades trampled over them to get at the legionaries. Most were driven on by courage, hatred of Rome and the prospect of looting the province. Others, even the cowards, had no choice as there was no way to escape the battle through the dense mass of bodies surging forward. Those far enough back to be subjected to the continued fall of Roman arrows could do nothing to avoid the deadly barbs, only pray to their gods for protection.
The Nubians were spared the danger of the bolt throwers as Cato had given the order for them to conserve ammunition rather than fire blind into the dust that obscured the view a short distance from the battle line. The crews were whipping their mule trains as the carts on which the bolt throwers were mounted were driven back to the second position Cato had chosen the previous evening.
Slowly the vast numbers of the enemy began to tell and the First Cohort was forced to give ground, step by step. Men were falling, caught by spear thrusts through gaps in the shield wall, or sometimes overwhelmed when one of the Nubians managed to wrench a shield aside long enough for one of his fellows to strike a blow at the legionary behind. Though the losses of the Nubians were far greater, Cato could see that the four-deep line with which the cohort had begun the battle was reduced to three men in most places. The bowed-out formation was steadily flattened, and then began to curve inwards as the more solid formations on either side of the First Cohort still managed to hold their ground. Out on the wings the cavalry cohorts were fighting off a second, half-hearted attack by the enemy horsemen. The battle was going to plan, Cato realised, and he promised a generous offering to Fortuna if luck continued to favour the side of Rome, as the battle entered the decisive phase. It all depended on Macro and the First Cohort, holding their formation as they gradually fell back.
‘Sir?’
Cato turned to see an optio standing beside his horse. ‘Yes?’
‘Message from the Prefect Scyllus, sir. He begs to report that his archers are running out of arrows.’
‘Very well. Tell the prefect to save what he has left and form his men up behind the reserves.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The optio saluted and turned to run back towards his unit.
As the rain of arrows stopped, the enemy drums beat with renewed energy and the horns blared out to offer encouragement to the Nubians. The pressure continued and the Roman centre was driven inwards as the enemy pushed forward, heedless of their own dead strewn across the battlefield beneath their feet. Prince Talmis’s body of heavy infantry had pushed their way through the throng and now engaged the tiring men of the First Cohort. Well trained and equipped, they were able to fight the Romans on a more equal footing and more of Macro’s men were cut down. The line was growing perilously thin as Cato watched. Yet he dare not give the order to spring the trap before he was certain the moment was right.
‘Sir!’ Junius shouted, thrusting his arm out. ‘They’re going to break through!’
Cato turned and saw the threat at once. A short distance to the right of Macro’s centre a single rank of legionaries was struggling to hold back the enemy. They thrust their shields forward and their iron-nail shod boots scrabbled in the sand and grit as they desperately tried to stand their ground. But it was like holding back a flood with a line of sticks. One of the men slipped and went down on his knee. At once two Nubians thrust his shield back, knocking the legionary flat. He was run through with a spear even before he could prop himself back up on an elbow. More men pressed through the gap and turned on the Romans on either side.
‘Shit,’ Cato muttered. The crisis of the battle had been reached. A rising cheer of triumph swept through the nearest of the Nubians as they scented victory. There was one chance left, Cato realised, wheeling his horse round to face the men of the reserve cohort. The legionaries stood to, shields resting on the ground, javelins held to the side.
‘The fate of the army is in your hands!’ Cato called out to them as he drew his sword. ‘You must save your comrades of the First Cohort and seal the gap in our line! For the Jackals!’
The centurions led their men in a throaty cheer that was unmistakably half-hearted. Cato could not afford the reserve to fail, and with the briefest of hesitations he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. ‘Follow me!’
Cato strode towards the Nubians pushing forward through the First Cohort. The senior centurion of the reserves gave the order to advance at the trot and the legionaries came on, grim-faced, javelin points held high as they rumbled across the parched ground. Cato was still twenty paces ahead of them when he reached the gap. Several of the Nubians had stopped in their tracks as they saw the fresh formation closing on them. Choosing the nearest of them, a man with wild hair and armed with a club, Cato broke into a dead run, hunched forward and sword held out to the side, ready to strike. His left shoulder burned with pain from the blow he had received at the temple and Cato gritted his teeth as he swerved to avoid the clumsy blow of his foe, and thrust out his left palm into the man’s face, snapping his head back and knocking him to the ground. He didn’t pause to finish the man but turned aside to the next, a dark-robed Arab brandishing a spear. The point came up, stabbing at Cato’s throat. He parried the shaft aside with his sword and then grabbed it with his spare hand. The Arab growled a curse as he tried to snatch it back. Cato thrust his sword high into the man’s arm, and again, until the grip loosened. As they struggled, the rest of the reserve cohort came c
harging up, the front rank lowering the javelin tips and thrusting out at the enemy who had managed to spill through the gap in the First Cohort’s line. They pressed past Cato on both sides, one of them stopping to slam his shield into the Arab and send him sprawling. A quick javelin thrust killed the man and the legionary ran on as Cato nodded his thanks.
The sudden arrival of four hundred men sealed the break in the line and steadied the hard-pressed legionaries of the First Cohort. Cato drew back from the fighting and returned to his horse. Junius stared at him as if Cato were mad for leading the charge, but he ignored the tribune and turned to survey the battlefield. The bulk of Prince Talmis’s army had been drawn into the centre of the Roman line, as Cato had hoped it would be, making for where the Romans seemed weakest. On the flanks the main weight of the legion still stood in column, scarcely touched by the enemy missiles. The moment had come, Cato knew. He must attempt to close the trap now, while the centre of his line was still intact.
He nodded to Junius. ‘Give the order.’
The tribune hesitated. ‘Sir, I—’
‘Give the order!’
The soldiers carrying the bucinas heard the command and did not wait for it to be relayed to them. They pursed their lips and raised their mouthpieces and blew. Three strident notes blasted out across the battlefield. The signal was repeated and before the last note died away the two columns of legionaries began to advance, fighting their way forward along the sides of the Nubian horde, out beyond the buckling line of the Roman units holding the centre. Beyond them the cavalry cohorts also advanced, in echelon as they covered the flanks of the Roman army.
At first the Nubians appeared to be unconcerned by the columns of legionaries extending around the edge of the host. Those in the centre were still convinced that victory was in their grasp; they fought like lions to break through the Roman line once again. Cato saw a silken banner rippling from side to side above the centre of the Nubian ranks and he realised that Prince Talmis had come forward in person to urge his troops to shatter the slender force that still held them back.
The flanking cohorts tramped forward until the last century had linked up with the main battle line. Then they stopped. A command was passed down the line and each cohort turned inward to face the sides of the massed warriors of the Nubian army. Another command echoed along each of the extended wings and the legionaries formed their shields into an unbroken wall. Then they advanced, pressing the enemy back before them and cutting down all those who came within reach of their short swords.
While the legionaries closed the trap, the auxiliary cavalry charged forward, cheering as loudly as they could as they made for the enemy horsemen still formed up some distance behind their infantry. If the enemy’s nerve held, no amount of noise and raw courage would save the outnumbered auxiliaries from eventual defeat. Cato had calculated that their sacrifice would buy enough time for the rest of the Nubian army to be defeated. However, as he watched, the Nubian horsemen and the camel riders began to break away from their formations, individually at first, then in small groups, streaming away across the landscape to the south.
‘Bloody hell,’ Junius exclaimed bitterly. ‘What do they think they’re doing? The cowardly dogs!’
Cato nodded. Only a handful of the Nubians stood their ground and were quickly cut down by the mounted auxiliaries. The suddenness of their victory went to the heads of some of the Roman horsemen and they set off in pursuit before their officers could stop them. However, most began to trot back to form up on their standards, and they turned to form a line across the rear of the mass of Nubian infantry still attempting to overwhelm the centre of the Roman line.
But the tide of the battle had already turned. Those on the flanks, facing the fresh Roman legionaries, were ruthlessly forced back, pressing on their comrades caught in the middle. There was nowhere to escape, and soon no way to move as the fearful Nubians were caught in a vice between the advancing Roman lines. The beating of drums died away and so did the wild ululations and war cries, and as the Romans hacked their way into the Nubians, the first cries of panic and blind terror came from those who were so tightly pressed together that they could barely move and had no way of seeing or understanding the reason for the crush.
As the uncertainty and fear spread to the men still fighting against Macro’s line, the Nubians began to back off, looking over their shoulders until they were out of reach of the swords and spears of the Romans, then turning and trying to force their way back through the trapped multitude. The legionaries and auxiliaries paused, breathing heavily and arms drooping from their exertions.
‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ Macro’s voice boomed out. ‘Get after them! Kill ’em!’
Without waiting for his men, Macro roared incoherently and charged forward, stabbing and hacking at the men in front of him. The rest of the men saw that victory was at hand, and charged after him, slaughtering the enemy without any mercy or pity. The sand beneath the legionaries’ boots was soon dark with blood and bodies fell so swiftly that the Romans were advancing over them to get at the enemy. The wailing and desperate cries of anguish from the Nubians rose into the hot air as the heat of the sun made itself felt and added to the torment of those still caught in the closing trap. Cato saw that the banner of Prince Talmis still rose above the sea of dark-skinned figures and he could just make out the tight ring of gleaming helmets as the Prince’s bodyguards struggled to extract their master from the massacre.
‘We should offer them terms,’ said Junius and Cato glanced round to see the sickened expression on the tribune’s face. ‘Sir, we should offer them terms. This is a . . . bloodbath.’
Cato could understand his reaction, but there was nothing that could be done to end the slaughter. The Romans were outnumbered. If they paused in their deadly work, they would lose the initiative, and with it the battle. They had no choice but to keep on killing. Cato shook his head. ‘This is war, Tribune. This is the face of battle, and you had best grow used to it.’
Some of the Nubians tried to surrender, throwing down their weapons and holding out their empty hands as they pleaded for their lives in their tongue. To no avail. They died alongside their comrades who fought on, hampered by the stifling press of men, which made it impossible for them to wield their weapons effectively.
For more than an hour it continued as the Roman cordon closed round those still trapped, Prince Talmis amongst them. The auxiliary cavalry had blocked their retreat and speared those who tried to get past them. Occasionally small groups of fugitives did manage to thrust past the horsemen, but the survivors were allowed to escape and the landscape to the south was dotted with figures running for their lives. As midday approached, the killing began to slacken as the Romans became too weary to continue the slaughter. Some of the Nubians took advantage of this and slipped between men who made no effort to stop them. Cato rode forward and his horse had to pick its way carefully over the bodies as it crossed the killing ground.
‘Stand to! Centurions, call your men to their standards!’
He saw Macro, spattered and smeared with crimson, leaning on his shield, chest heaving as he gasped for breath. ‘Centurion! Let the enemy pass. All except the Prince and his bodyguard. And the gladiators. They mustn’t escape. Understand?’
Macro nodded, blinking away the sweat that dripped from his eyebrows. He pulled himself up and lifted his shield as he turned to address his men. ‘Form ranks!’
The men of the First Cohort wearily trudged back to their standards and waited for orders. Cato felt a bitter weight in his heart as he saw that less than half of the men remained. The reserve cohort that had rushed to fill the gap had suffered a similar proportion of casualties. Macro waited until the last of his men was in position and then ordered them to advance on the standard of Prince Talmis. Cato’s horse shied at the mounds of bodies that lay in his path and he dismounted and made his way to Macro’s side.
‘Well, the plan worked.’ Macro smiled wearily. ‘Never thought
I’d see the day when I’d be grateful to Hannibal.’
‘It’s not quite over yet.’ Cato nodded towards the knot of bodyguards gathered around the Prince’s standard.
Macro shrugged. ‘They’re finished, one way or another. Surrender or die, Talmis is ours.’
The Romans opened their ranks to let the last of the lightly armed Nubians and Arabs flee, and then closed in around the bodyguards. They were big men, with scale armour and conical helmets. They carried oval shields and heavy spears and stood shoulder to shoulder as the Romans advanced on them.
Cato raised his arm as they came within twenty paces of the standard. ‘Halt!’
His men shuffled to a stop, watching the enemy warily. Cato stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘Does Prince Talmis still live?’
‘He does.’ An imposing figure edged his way into the front line of the bodyguards. Talmis wore a black cuirass over black robes and his helmet and shoulders were covered with the hide of lion. His expression was cold and bitter as he stared out over the bodies heaped across the battlefield. The Prince’s eyes fixed on Cato. ‘What do you want with me, Legate? My surrender?’
The Legion Page 40
