Narcius, butted the shield which clashed into his, using his weight to twist the attacker to his left. He weighed the sword in his hand as he waited for a gap to appear. As the Aequian turned his head and began to twist his body back to Narcius’s right it was already too late. With a small step forwards, he had punched the sword, his scream echoing in the air as he thrust the small sword into the man’s body. The Aequian had died without a whimper and Narcius had whooped again, his joy at finally finding something he was good at overwhelming him. For two campaigns he had been bullied by the men around him. His father was a Centurion, a man of some twenty years in the ranks, but his son Publius had been a poor recruit. He had been slow with the spear, slow to understand the strict marching orders and patterns and, he knew, a disappointment to his father. But this, this fighting suited him. Quick thrusts, strong discipline with the short sword, it fitted his strong legs and muscular shoulders and he was quick as well. As another Aequian stepped over the dead man he crouched, peering over the shield he held in front of him, moving slightly as the man eyed him, his spear pointing at his face as he mimicked a jab. Narcius almost laughed, he knew before the man moved exactly what he was going to do. The command from Marcus came and he stepped forwards slightly, edged the spear upwards with his shield and punched the short blade straight into the man’s neck, the crunch of his throat collapsing as he sliced through it resonated along the sword as he rasped it back and closed his shield back into the wall with a jolt.
To his left, Marcus saw that one of the thirty had fallen, caught in the eye as he stepped forwards. As he fell backwards Marcus saw that the man behind him stooped to pick up the short sword, stabbing his spear into the ground behind him and taking up the low crouch that they had all adopted. He smiled and yelled “Eagles, prepare to attack” at which the line of Aequians in front of him visibly stepped backwards, stumbling over the dead bodies of their fallen as they edged each other aside. Along the line the men of Marcus’s Eagles looked at each other at this unexpected turn, fear in their eyes. Marcus looked over his shield at the faces of the men facing him. Had the man with the embossed ‘heartsaver’ been their leader, he thought as he took a moment to consider options.
“On my mark, one step forward” he called across the noise of the battlefield. “Go” he yelled as he took a step forward, remaining in his crouch as he did so and noting the Aequians take a further step backwards, the men in the second rank pushing as the first line buckled.
“Attack lad” whispered Manlius over his shoulder, but Marcus’s military mind had already calculated that to step forwards could mean his brother’s attack would be faced with fleeing Aequians who could hamper the main attack or worse if they formed defensive lines.
“No, we must hold the wall. If we move out we will endanger the main attack” he said, his voice carrying to the men on his right and left. “Eagles, step back” he said as he moved a pace backwards and felt the move from those around him.
“Let them attack us and see if they die on our Eagles claws” he said, the determined grimace hiding the joy he felt inside. The press of Aequians continued to push into the back of the line of men facing them and Marcus knew there would be more killing for the Eagles before this fight was done.
Chapter 35
Fulvius’s force had covered the ground to the South wall of the fort unabated. As he approached the corner, sat on his large horse with his long spear held aloft, he could see Comus and his officers with the reserve forces, the rich and well armoured, forward and to his left at four hundred yards. Directly in front was the line of men he needed to attack, only a hundred and fifty yards at the most, he conjectured. As his mind flicked across the troops he decided exactly what needed to be done. As the enemy’s right wing pressed against the fort walls the second line was standing fifty yards behind, their spears facing forwards and attention drawn to the battle in front of them. He thought quickly as he looked at the press of men, they seemed unaware that he was approaching despite the constant warnings of the Aequian war horns. He had to attack, and quickly, or he would lose the element of surprise.
With a flourish he ordered the velites to attack as quickly as they could and to target the rear lines. Two hundred men, dressed in light tunics and only wearing thin leather breastplates with their conical helmets raced forwards. The velites tended to be younger, poorer soldiers who could not afford much armour or weaponry, often gaining more as they scavenged after each battle. The feathers on their helmets were pressed back as they ran, the small dust cloud hiding their legs as the faster runners outpaced their fellows. Most carried two javelins, a thick spear and an oval shield, but some had just a sling with which to harass the enemy. Fulvius sent thirty horses behind them to support any Aequian attack against them and shouted at his Centurions to line the men up quickly.
As the first men hurrled their javelins and whirled their slings into the massed ranks of the enemy a great roar came from the far side of the battle field as the Aequians left flank, under siege from Magnus and Marcus, started to break and run.
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Lucius watched Comus dither again. The man wasn’t a fighter despite his success in raids on Roman lands, he thought as he saw the Aequian phalanxes move forward then hold their ground under conflicting orders. It was one thing to attack villages with overwhelming force, or to raid baggage trains on the roads, but this was a proper soldier’s battle, and Comus didn’t know how to react or what to do. Worse still, he considered as Comus, once again sent riders off to the leaders of the attacking forces, the man was a poor leader. His people didn’t trust him. Inside he almost laughed at the way the man was throwing his arms around, distraught at how he had been trapped.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the fort and Lucius saw the troops of Fulvius’s army start their march towards the right flank, the closest Aequians attempting to turn their pikes and spears towards them as they approached, but the slow movement of three hundred and fifty men panicking as they tried to rush their movements, caused disarray as they did so. ‘Faster’ Lucius thought as he watched the army close on its prey, quickly following the lead of his velites. ‘Come on Fulvius, get in position quickly’. Just then a flash of light caught his eye and he turned to see the Eagle rise again on the left flank just as the troops led by Scipio, was that Scipio? He questioned himself as he squinted at the man leading the attack as the troops rounded the corner of the fort at the other end, spreading out in a run to create their long battle line, hundreds of spears facing into the flank of the enemy. He noted with pleasure that Magnus had sent his troops forward to support the line and his cavalry were now routing the Aequians. The trap was closing and the Aequians seemed, as yet, to have no answer. Lucius afforded himself a smile, but inside his stomach churned and his heart raced as he watched the painfully slow movements of the troops on the ground ahead of him.
The Eagle, he thought as he turned back to the fort. Was Marcus in that knot of men fighting for his life at the wall? The Aequians seemed to bunch as he watched, their troops seemed to buckle in front of the Eagle and Lucius smiled to himself as one of his officers called that the Eagle was beating the Aequians, his laughing voice carrying to all the men around him. Surely Marcus was there. Surely it was him leading that line, he thought as he whispered a prayer to Fortuna to watch over his brother.
Lucius took a deep breath. Now was the time to close the net. He called officers to him and set out the orders for his reserves to march directly at Comus, keeping a file of a hundred men on the left wing as a cover in case any of the fleeing Aequian cavalry tried to double back and out flank them. As the trumpet sounded Lucius smirked at Comus, who had turned at the sound, rage burning in his eyes as he stared malignantly at Lucius.
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As the sun reached mid-day the carrion crows were eating their fill of spilt gore on the fields around the fort, their black hoods and red covered beaks giving the effect of ghouls feasting on the dead as they arrived in their hundreds for this easy meal.
In contrast, the trees were alive with birdsong; their sweet music and rhythmic calls belying the death that surrounded them. As the soldiers scoured the battlefield, some finishing off the troops who were clinging to life, others searching the dead for good quality armour, coins or other valuables, the Roman leaders met in the command tent of the fort.
Scipio had recovered from his head wound not long after Cossus had marched out of the fort to lead the relief force, and had moved to support the walls where Marcus had led the defence with his improvised shield wall. The tent was a hive of activity, with reports arriving every few minutes and senior officers congratulating each other as well as doing the mundane activities that followed battle, such as writing reports and washing in the hurriedly prepared hot bowls of steaming water. Wine and cool water were available along the back of the tent and small oatcakes and honeyed figs were ready for the officers to eat their fill before the final reports were read.
Scipio was talking to Lucius, his delight at the victory evident in his voice.
“Surely, my friend, you will receive the grass crown from the men” he stated as he clasped arms with Lucius, his eyes glistening at the emotion of the moment. “They, and I, are forever in your debt.” He smiled “and to think, it was I who was coming to support you” he laughed, slapping Lucius on the shoulder as he collapsed into a chair rubbing his leg anxiously and wincing at the pain. The grass crown was the highest of military honours. It was given to a commander who had successfully saved a beleaguered legion by breaking the enemy’s siege at their camp and there had not been one awarded for some fifteen years. Lucius considered this for a moment, a well of pride building in him which he quickly held back before turning to all the officers and tapping the table with the butt of his sword. As the dull thud brought everyone’s attention to him silence fell around the enclosed tent.
“Today has been a great victory” he said flatly, his tone showing no joy or emotion. He knew he must hold his internal hubris, his pride, at bay and not gloat at the victory, because with victory came loss. Of men, of life and of property. Today the Romans had won, but he knew well that it could easily have been Comus who won if the man had any military skill. He had gambled, and his gamble had won, this time. He looked at the blood-stained and dishevelled soldiers around him, seeing in them the tiredness he felt, his muscles aching, his mind numb at the death he had seen that day.
“I will write a report for the senate and I will congratulate every one of you here today” he said earnestly looking at the faces around him, men nodding and smiling, their private thoughts hidden from his eyes. “And the name of Licinius Cossus will stand tall in my reports. He led the relief force into the fort and he led the attack on the Aequian flank in Scipio’s stead, which completed our victory. In doing so he gave his life for all of us, for our families and for Rome. He died a soldier, as he would have wanted” he said looking to Scipio and clasping his arm with a warm smile and a nod of his head. Cossus had driven his men into the flanks with alarming ferocity, slaying hundreds of trapped Aequians and starting the rout as the deep phalanx of men at the fort were trapped between Marcus’s killing wall of swords and Cossus’s thrusting spears.
“We must also thank Ambustus” he saluted the blood covered Equite, who nodded grimly, “and Marcus Furius” he said, startling the boy who was sitting in the corner, his arms red with blood and his face wide-eyed. “Without your unconventional tactics behind the new Eagle of Rome” he turned to the standard which was placed behind the campaign table, as did all the men “we would not have held the wall.” He saluted Marcus and Ambustus, who nodded their appreciation, faces stoically set into determined grimaces.
After a moments silence he turned, “Decimus” he asked looking to his first spear who was stood away to his right, his features betraying a fresh bruise across the left side of his face which clearly hurt as he replied before Lucius continued.
“What losses did we take?”
Decimus cleared his throat, picking up several small wax tablets from the table at which he stood. “From what I can tell so far, and not all reports are in” he started, biting back pain with a grimace “we lost around six hundred soldiers, forty Centurions and fifty-two horses. The baggage train arrived but they were attacked by fleeing Aequians and lost two wagons and sixty men before the Aequians were fought off” he took a deep breath, wincing again before continuing.
“The Aequians lost, at best count, three thousand foot and two hundred horse” he smiled “before they took flight”. He looked up from a tablet before continuing “Comus, we think, has escaped to Veii and his army is in pieces and making their way back to their various homes. We have scouts out watching them” he smiled as he finished “and so far we have over three hundred pounds of bronze, a thousand Ases in coin, two hundred pounds of workable iron” at this the men around him whistled and looked to each other beaming as Decimus continued to lay out the fortune they had collected from Comus’s baggage.
“And” he said loudly as the muttering of the men continued to get louder, his deep eyes roving the room to demand silence, “something like three thousand spears, shields and swords”. He closed the tablet and smiled slowly at the assembled men, all of whom were calculating their share of the trophies of the day.
“Well, a good campaign” said Lucius, again cold in his manner as he now sat at the campaign table and turned to Scipio. “I suggest you return to Rome Cornelius” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving him a weak smile. “You can get your leg seen to and speak to Cossus’s father and his wife” he said with a sad look, at which Scipio nodded, looking away as he contemplated what he might say to his family.
Lucius then stood and turned back to the room, his face becoming stern as he said “Which means one of us has to take some of the remaining men to Avaenti for the winter.” Looking around the assembled officers he had hoped for a volunteer, but the silence stretched and he knew he would have to make an unpopular decision. All of the men were tired, war weary and wanted to see their families, but the treaty with Avaenti must hold and Rome must garrison the city. As he made his decision he looked up at the men around him, none of whom met his eye. He drummed his fingers on the table as he considered what to say, his officers waiting on his every word.
“Fabius” he said as the grey-haired man stood to attention and looked to his commander, his face betraying no emotion. “When I return to Rome I will send another commander to relieve you at Avaenti” he said, his face warmer and friendlier than it had been all morning.
“I want you, and all the men here around this table to attend Marcus’s Toga Virlis ceremony at the Liberalia” he added. The Liberalia was the usual date in mid-March when boys were presented with the pure white toga of manhood. Marcus felt himself flush as Lucius spoke of his ceremony as it hadn’t yet entered his head that this was due the following spring, but he smiled to the men around him as they thanked Lucius for the honour he gave them in asking them to attend and wished Marcus good luck for the day.
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Lucius dismissed the men and asked Marcus and Decimus to remain. As the sound of the men talking melted into the background Lucius looked up with a sigh of relief at his brother. He noted that Marcus looked thinner than he had seen him look and that his sweat matted hair was hanging lankly across his head, the dark curls flattened from the long hours under a thick leather head cover and his iron helmet. His eyes looked sullen and Lucius was mindful that the boy had seen many horrors on the battlefield this day, but was also impressed at how he held himself despite his hardship.
“The prophecy” he started, picking up a clay cup of heavily watered wine and taking a sharp breath at the acid tang of the liquid. Looking at the cup with distaste he continued, “have you had any thoughts on how to progress with regard to its contents?”
“None, brother” replied Marcus, his voice weary. “It was not on the top of my list of things to do these past days” he added sarcastically as his brother half laughed at the w
ords. Marcus shifted in his seat, where he had begun to slump as the battle fatigue started to wash over his tired limbs.
“No?” he mumbled, placing the cup down and pushing it away. “Whereas I have” he said, his voice low and his fingers steepled under his chin. “I say we do nothing and say nothing to anybody” he said, as Marcus looked to Decimus who sat forward to speak, but stopped as Lucius raised a finger.
“I say, Marcus Furius, Camillus and leader of the Eagles” he smiled “that we discuss its meaning with Uncle before we do anything public.” He sat forward, coming closer to Marcus and placed a finger on the table. “This prophecy could have enormous repercussions for the family. It could also change Rome forever” he added “but we must consult Uncle to make sure that any development is founded in the laws and rituals. We do not want to anger any god by accepting something which we do not fully understand.”
“That is a good idea” Marcus added, a broad smile crossing his tired face. As the Pontifex Maximus his Uncle, Quintus Furius Paculus, would certainly have a lot of experience of this sort of thing and his advice would be well regarded. The people of Rome heard numerous prophecies every year and consulted the oracle of Delphi where the prophecies seemed important. It would be good to have an elder statesman who understood these things properly look into it in more detail, but so far the prophecy had seemed true, the Eagle was leading Rome.
As the three men discussed the idea, and if anyone else should be included in the knowledge of the prophecy, the fort around them was starting to be dismantled. The bodies of the fallen were counted and catalogued before burning and the baggage train loaded with the loot from the campaign. The Roman war machine marched on without respite.
Dawn of The Eagle Page 22
