As he ran for cover and pulled a shield from a dead soldier, Marcus saw Postumius crawling in the dirt to his right holding his hand to a bloody head. “Cover the Tribune” he called instantly and ran with several men to place shields over Postumius who had clearly taken a thrown stone to his head and been knocked to the floor. The movement created a gap in the defensive line as, without Bassano giving orders and with most men on the floor hiding from the increasing arrow fall, the remaining men seemed to be unsure what to do and so did nothing, most hiding under their shields to avoid the sharp arrows. To add to the confusion the smoke was getting thicker and obscured everyone’s vision.
Marcus looked up from his position on the right of the cave entrance to see a group of Aequian soldiers forcing their way through the Roman line into the gap created by his moving to save Postumius from a hail of arrows and stones. When the Aequii saw the Tribune on the floor they wheeled to their left and headed directly for him. Marcus shouted for Decimus but he couldn’t see him anywhere in the smoke and dust which had covered everything from the entrance to the cave to where he stood, and the Aequians were quickly closing on his position.
“On your feet” called Marcus to the men who had run across to cover Postumius. He quickly scanned the land around him for a good place to defend but there was nothing but sand and small rocky outcrops amidst the swirling smoke. Postumius had regained his feet and stepped forwards unsteadily with a look of panic on his face as the Aequians were now only thirty paces from them, the bloodlust clearly visible in their eyes. The sound of an arrow thumping into the ground near his feet made Marcus step backwards and he quickly came to his senses.
“Men, form a line here, we will create a wall of shields to protect the Tribune, quickly” he shouted with as much authority as his voice would muster, waving his sword across in front of him. “Sir” he called to Postumius “Get behind us and be ready to kill anyone who gets through our shield wall”. Postumius, his eyes groggy and his helmet dented, nodded as he stepped backwards holding his hand to his head as a long line of blood trickled from his skull cap.
Marcus was pleased that the men fell in quickly as he ordered, locking their shields to his and shouting obscenities at the approaching enemy. “Stand firm” called Marcus as he watched the first man throw himself with a great leap into the shield wall to his right. The shieldbearer took an involuntary step backwards as the Aequii soldier flung his sword down over the top of his shield in a cleaving action catching the inner arm of the Roman soldier, which instantly sprayed blood out across the back of his own shield and into the face of his attacker. The Roman screamed in pain and dropped his shield which knocked the attacker to his knees as he stumbled forwards to press his advantage. Without hesitation Marcus stepped into the gap created by the fallen shield and, as the man grappled with it to steady himself, he stabbed his long sword into the side of the neck of the prone man. The Aequian clutched at the sword impaled through him and stared in disbelief into the fifteen year old eyes of the boy who had just killed him. A slow wash of blood spurted from the mouth of the man as he seemed to yell a final blood filled curse at Marcus and fell forwards thrashing his legs wildly at Marcus’s shield as he died, making him stumble sideways. The soldier to Marcus’s right stepped forwards and crashed his own shield down onto the man’s thrashing leg snapping it in one movement and immediately stopping the kicking action.
“That’ll help” said the Roman soldier grinning madly at Marcus with a mouth showing many missing and broken teeth and a grotesquely shaped nose that had clearly seen many battles. Marcus felt his heart skip a beat as the soldier pulled him back into line and turned away to scream at the approaching Aequians. But he didn’t have time to think about what he had just done and looked around for his sword. The weight of the falling man had pulled the sword from his hand and it was now stuck fast in the dead man’s neck.
Marcus blinked blood and sweat from his eyes and he saw an attacker step forward and send a two-handed sword swing at the Roman line. The soldier to his right parried the sword swing and butted the attacker with the central boss of his shield sending the man staggering backwards into two more of the enemy who had appeared from the thick smoke behind him. Marcus grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled and twisted it, yanking it free of the man’s neck and turned wildly to swing his sword at an attacker who had lunged at him from out of the smoke. Marcus was suddenly aware of an Aequian soldier screaming as he fell across his vision and blocked the path of his fellow attacker. He saw that the man’s head had been slashed from right to left and without thinking Marcus stepped to his right as his instincts told him to get closer to his fellow soldiers, the shield wall was still holding its ground but was loose and needed firming up.
“Close up” he bellowed, not knowing where the deep booming voice that rang out came from, and he was elated to feel the bump of a shoulder come closer to his as he turned now to face the attacker who was staring straight at him and grinning, spittle and blood held in droplets around the neatly trimmed black beard on his face. The man was screaming something but Marcus did not hear, he only saw his face contorted into a mix of hatred and madness. As the attacker leapt forwards Marcus felt his breathing slow and his muscles tense, his years of training at home in Tusculum and in Rome had given him good basic skills but he was no match for a full grown, battle hardened soldier. In his mind he saw himself chopped to the ground, dying in a pool of his own blood with the smiling face of his killer laughing down at him as he cut his gold Patricians ring from his finger. But from somewhere deep inside he heard himself screaming to stay alive and he came back to his senses with a prayer to Fortuna to save him from death.
The attacker was swinging wildly with his long sword and Marcus raised his to block it as he stepped forwards with his shield to block the approach of the man. The swords clashed and Marcus felt his arm shiver and go numb as the thicker heavier blade of his assailant crashed through his blocking sword action and smacked into his raised shield. As Marcus tried to raise his sword again it knocked clumsily against his shield which was being kicked and twisted by the bearded attacker, who then whooped in delight as he twisted Marcus sideways to his left and away from the Roman line, leaving him open to attack from his right. Marcus knew now that raising his shield had moved him out of the shield wall and that he was exposed. Time seemed to slow as the attacker, drops of spit cascading from his mouth as he laughed, brought his own sword round in an arc which was aiming straight at Marcus’s neck. Marcus tried to move his sword but his arm was numbed and it was too heavy and too long to move easily in the short space between him and his attacker. Without wanting to Marcus closed his eyes and tensed his body to wait for the sword to strike, he knew there was nothing he could do to save himself.
Thwack. The sound of a sword smashing into wood and the sudden realisation that he was still alive brought Marcus back to reality. In front of him a Roman legionary had somehow appeared, blocked the arced swing of the attacker and in a quick slicing movement had smashed the edge of his sword into the Aequians face and then deftly removed the sword arm that had sent the blow at Marcus. As time seemed to speed up and Marcus came to his senses he watched as a spray of blood arched into the air and seemed to hang in his vision for a long moment before falling to the ground. The Aequian didn’t have time to scream before the Roman stepped neatly forward and with a brutal downward blow, which lifted the Roman from his feet, cleaved the helmet and head of the attacker straight down the middle. Gore and blood spilled sideways from the smashed helmet as the Roman stepped backwards and Marcus felt himself pushed brusquely back behind the re-forming shield wall. “Stay back with the Tribune you bloody idiot, you’d get yourself killed fighting like that” yelled the man above the noise of the fighting as he quickly stepped over the dead Aequian and neatly stabbed another attacker through the ribs, his sword thrusting through the man’s body before he realised he had been punched. Before Marcus could shout an answer Decimus arrived at his side and grabbed hi
s arm, “Ok?” he shouted whirling Marcus around behind him with such strength that Marcus felt like the boy he was again.
Decimus seemed to look Marcus over in seconds and assess that he was fine before calling to Rufus and his men to advance, leaving the four remaining men of the shield wall standing shocked, bloody and breathless amid a pile of dead bodies.
The noise of the battle suddenly burst upon Marcus. It was as if he had been in his own silent world in this small corner of the ravine, but now everything became clear to him. The smoke was disappearing and the arrow fall had stopped. Beside him the soldier with the missing teeth had already started to rifle through the dead Aequians clothes as his comrades stood over him in case any other attackers arrived. Marcus looked around at a sudden flurry of activity to see Postumius being carried away by his orderly and three other soldiers, clearly still bleeding from his head wound, but shouting orders to everyone to kill every last Aequian dog they could find.
Chapter 5
After thanking the remaining soldiers in the shield wall and getting their names so he could commend them to Postumius and his brother, Marcus found himself standing on a raised area of rocks to see what was happening around the cave entrance. The smoke was nearly clear now, the last licks of flames dying in the centre of the charred bushes, and Marcus surmised that it had been only minutes since the Aequians had raced from the cave entrance and set fire to the shrubs, which were plainly doused in some kind of oil to have belched such thick smoke. A clever move, he thought, as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve to remove the blood which was dripping into his eyes. The scene of devastation in front of him was terrible. If he had not been used to daily sacrifices, having to sharpen the blades and butcher the meat of the dead animals, he thought it might have affected him more, but he coldly put the humanity of the situation aside in his mind and continued to survey the scene. The Aequian archers had clearly killed over a hundred of the Roman soldiers who had stood in the line only moments before, with, what seemed like four or five parties, similar to the one that had attacked Marcus and his small group, having also raced from the cave in attempts to escape. Only one of these groups of men, the largest of about forty, was still fighting, the others lay dead amid piles of Roman and Aequian bodies. The ‘surprise’ Antonicus has foreseen had been right thought Marcus looking to the skies.
As he watched, a large eagle appeared from the right and swooped away behind the trees, rising and falling in a slow arc as it did so and making a screeching noise which pierced the noise of the battle around him. Marcus wondered what sign the gods were sending to him or if the bird was just disturbed as it had a nest nearby. The eagle transfixed him for a moment as it swooped and played in the sky as if it was fighting an invisible foe, its talons reaching out and then pulling back as its cry split the air.
It was only now that Marcus realised he was shaking. His arm was still numb from the sword strike of the attacking Aequian and he clenched and released his fingers as he suddenly felt drained of energy. He remembered his uncle telling him of post-battle fatigue and wondered if this was it as he took ever deeper breaths and tried to gain control of his heart beat. He watched as Decimus and Rufus followed the legionary who had saved his life, who seemed able to effortlessly slice through the Aequian army as if they were mere children with wooden swords. The soldier had a familiar style as he parried, butted, swiped, stabbed and lunged right into the centre of the remaining knot of enemy soldiers leaving a trail of dead men behind him but Marcus couldn’t quite focus as he wiped a mix of sweat and blood from his eyes. Before he could see the final moves of the Roman army as it closed in on the last of the enemy he heard the blare of the war trumpets telling the soldiers to retreat and create battle line, a call which was almost instantly accepted by every soldier on the field in front of him. The discipline drilled into these men was remarkable thought Marcus, also thinking that if they had been better led, less of them would have been caught and killed by this ‘surprise’.
Feeling numb Marcus found his way back to his horse and mounted it with the help of one of the orderlies whose job was to guard them, so that he could see all the activity around him more clearly. He had never stood in a battle line before. His position, as a Patrician, behind the Triarii in any battle usually meant all the real fighting was finished by the time he came forwards to engage the remaining enemy. In the battle at Mount Algida he had already been near the front when the attack started and had rushed forwards, keeping pace with the fourth line of the phalanx as they crashed into the Aequians. Thinking back he thought how safe he was then compared to what had just happened and he shook his head as he took deep mouthfuls of water from his pouch and sat breathing heavily while soldiers rushed around him getting themselves into their legions.
Suddenly Postumius appeared ahead of him surrounded by his bodyguards, his head bandaged under a shining new helmet and his tunic cleaned and breastplate shining like new. He marched unsteadily straight towards the last Aequians, who were now surrendering to Decimus as they realised that they were overwhelmed. Marcus saw Bassano being dragged from the centre of the battlefield, he had clearly fought on despite the long arrow sticking out from his leg, and he was berating the orderlies who were trying desperately to lift him and carry him to the medical tent.
Marcus nudged his horse forwards to follow Postumius and was surprised to see Antonicus appear in front of him with a strange look on his face.
“What is it Antonicus?” said Marcus urgently, looking, with some fear, over his shoulder in case he had missed some final attacker who was now creeping up behind him to finish him off. With nothing there Marcus looked back at the Augur. The look on his face was one of shock and astonishment, his deep set eyes seeming to disappear into dark shadows under his heavy eyebrows and his mouth open, white patches of saliva catching in the corners.
“The great golden eagle, you must have seen it too!” said Antonicus walking forwards and grasping Marcus’s leg while his eyes looked into the sky. His grip was intense and Marcus tried to pull his leg away from the man, suddenly scared that he had gone mad.
Antonicus stared into Marcus’s eyes with such force that Marcus felt he was looking into his soul. The voice that came from him was not the voice of the man Marcus had known for the past five months, it had an un-worldly quality and every other sound and movement around him seemed to disappear as he spoke. The sound came out in a whisper, yet it was as loud as the clash of a sword and Marcus felt his chest tighten and he couldn’t breathe while the words were spoken.
“The eagle will lead Rome” he rasped squeezing Marcus’s leg even more tightly. “Five times” he nodded vigorously, the saliva now trickling into his beard. “You saw it?” he said, pointing a shaky finger into the sky, his arm muscles tense and the veins on his brows bulging as he stared into the near distance.
“The waters will shrink before him in his hour of need, as the prophecy foretells” he shook his head as if hearing a voice from far away. He suddenly looked at the floor as if seeing through the horse, his eyes moving quickly across the ground before fixing back on Marcus “the city must be purged and” his eyes bulged “Killed. Killed. All of them. Never to be a city again” he said urgently in quick short breaths.
“Fortuna and Mater Matuta beg his favour and serve his cause”. He paused looking to the sky as if waiting for more words from the gods as his eyes watered leaving great tracks down his dust covered face.
“The eagle will be a true servant of the people” he shook his head, his eyes closing and an expression of true pain appearing on his face. His eyes snapped open and his pupils dilated as he focused on Marcus “he must be a patron of the people” he nodded as if answering to someone Marcus could not see, “he will, he will” he said, nodding vigorously, his eyes wide.
“He will be the only one” he paused before continuing “the only one who can defeat the barbarians at Rome’s door. But he will not be there, he will not be there” he repeated his face dropping and his voice
becoming a low whisper. “They will have sent him away, but he will return in glory, tipping the scales.” He released Marcus’s leg as his mouth stretched into a wide grin, his breath ragged and short. “Yes, tipping the golden scales” he added, almost laughing and then gripping Marcus’s leg again, nearly pulling the greave from his shin as he did so.
He stared at Marcus as if he hadn’t seen him before, his eyes wide with wonder “the eagle will be the greatest leader of Rome there has ever been. But he must be a friend to Juno and the mothers of Rome” he whispered nodding his head urgently and suddenly releasing his grip from Marcus’s leg before saying “Fortuna needs the mothers of Rome”.
He lifted his hand to point a finger to the heavens, his long arms slowly stretching as if he was some great orator on the Rostra in Rome about to announce a new law. “Beware the friend who is not a friend of the people” he added, the white froth of spittle now thicker in his beard as he leaned in close to Marcus, his demeanour conspiratorial.
“Fortuna will follow the eagle” he nodded, “and...and” he seemed to stutter as if he was coming out of his trance “remember the poor soldier, the plebeian, poor soldier, poor soldier” he stammered, his face flushing bright red and his eyes closed as if in pain.
Dawn of The Eagle Page 4
