by James Mace
Without saying a word, Master Centurion Aetius left the arguing legates and quickly made his way back across the bridge. With a few shouted orders, the various legions and attached cohorts began kitting up and preparing for battle.
The few wisps of clouds and only a very slight breeze meant it was going to be a hot day for the legions entrenching and fortifying near Bedriacum. During the autumn, the days were pleasant. The nights were brisk and cool, though the last week had been unseasonably warm. The sounds of axes echoed as legionaries chopped down trees, while hammers pounded nails into the slowly erecting barricades.
As they were only an attachment, and not part of any legion, the three cohorts from the Judean Army were given some of the less agreeable duties, such as digging the latrine trenches and hauling stones and fallen timber to build the ramparts. The Fifth Cohort of Legio X had been given the task of harvesting timber from a large forest south of the road outside the city gates. They worked at an easy pace. General Primus wished to give his soldiers at least some measure of rest over the next couple of days.
“Rider approaching the camp, sir,” a legionary said to Centurion Nicanor.
“He’s in a hurry,” Nicanor replied. “Something’s happened with General Primus. Gaius, have the men form up but stand easy. It might be nothing, but if Primus is in contact, he may well have sent back for legionary support.”
Gaius set about finding the decani while Nicanor located their cohort commander, Centurion Galeo, who had also seen the rider.
“That’s one of our troopers,” the pilus prior noted. “He wouldn’t have been in such a rush if he were carrying a routine message.”
“My lads are standing down, sir,” Nicanor said. “Shall we return to the camp?”
“Yes,” Galeo replied. “I want the entire cohort to fall in on their equipment and start arming themselves. I’m going to go find someone who knows what the fuck is happening.”
As he mounted his horse, the echo of cornicens sounding the call to arms rang out from the camp.
“There’s our answer,” Galeo sighed.
Approximately two miles from where Arrius had left Primus and the rest of his corps, he spotted the eagles of the First Italica and Twenty-First Rapax Legions. They were in march columns, their standard bearers at the head with the legates and staff tribunes. The Flavian Cavalry Commander grinned sinisterly. He saw an opportunity to wreak havoc upon their foes. However, he had been in such a rush to attack the enemy and seize the initiative that he failed to allow time for his scattered troopers to consolidate.
“With me!” he shouted over his shoulder, raising his spatha high.
His intent was to smash into the legions before they could reform from column into battle lines. His troopers spurred their mounts into a fast gallop, lances lowered, while shouting their battle cries. Had they been in close formation, ideally a wedge, perhaps they could have overwhelmed the flank of the right enemy legion, which happened to be Twenty-First Rapax. By the time the first wave crashed into the infantry ranks, however, legionaries were closing their files and bringing their javelins to bear. It was a frantic clash, as horsemen attempted to bring their long spears down upon the exposed necks and faces of their adversaries. And while a number where cut down this way, with others trampled by the rampaging horses, a salvo of javelins ripped into the Flavian Cavalry bringing down men and horses alike. With speed and precision, the men of Legio XXI began reforming into battle lines, while those who’d been engaged directly with the Flavian horse drew their gladii and battled with them at close quarters. The horsemen who had so brazenly smashed into the Predator Legion were now attempting to withdraw from the wall of shields and flashing blades.
“Sir, enemy horse on our right!” a panicked trooper shouted to Arrius.
While his contingent withdrew from the wall of legionaries, they completely lost their nerve as several hundred Vitellian horsemen bore down on them. Meantime, both legions were rapidly forming their battle lines. The Flavian horsemen had lost all initiative as spears from the Vitellian cavalry clashed against shields, men crying out as the long blades punctured their light mail armor. The charge of the Vitellian regiments broke up what remained of Arrius’ cavalry. Their courage failed them as they turned about, fleeing in terror.
Leading the Vitellian attack was Lucius Artorius’ regiment of Siliana cavalry, with the squadrons from the Cremona region on either flank. Their well-disciplined assault had shattered the Flavian advance guard, who were now in a fight for their lives. Lucius engaged with one enemy trooper, keeping close, so the man could not effectively use his long spear. The tribune swung his spatha in a hard slash, embedding it deep into his adversary’s brow. Lucius thought the man’s helmet had absorbed the blow, but the trooper started to scream, dropping both lance and shield. His eyes were crossed, his tongue protruding from his gaping mouth. Lucius ripped his weapon free. The enemy soldier fell from his horse, blood streaming into his face, as he screamed in horrific agony.
“Reform!” he heard Centurion Liberius shout to their centurions. He then rode over to his commander, who was staring at the stricken enemy trooper. His body convulsed as death took hold.
“First time you’ve killed a man,” the centurion observed. Lucius could only nod. “Come on, sir, there is nothing you can do for him.”
Lucius was breathing deeply, his face pale as he returned to his regiment. His sword arm hung down by his side, a thin streak of blood lining the edge of the blade. He exhaled audibly and composed himself. They had certainly gotten the better of their brief clash with the Flavian horsemen, but they had suffered losses of their own. Centurions and their subordinate decurions had done an outstanding job of maintaining order and preventing their troopers from haphazardly chasing after the fleeing Flavians. The tribune took a deep breath through his nose in grim determination. He knew this day would involve hard fighting for his men, and he was filled with immense pride at being able to lead them.
“Have our wounded evacuated to the fort,” he ordered. “I assume that is where the Twenty-First is sending their casualties. Form into a screen line on the right flank, skirmishing formation. I will ride back to General Manlius and see if he’s ordering a general advance.”
Lucius directed one of the supporting regiments to cover the extreme left flank, while the other was to hold in reserve behind the two legions. He looked back towards Cremona. There were no advancing reinforcements visible.
“Please don’t let petty political bickering lose this coming battle for us,” he muttered, as he spurred his horse into a gallop.
Antonius Primus had been extremely irritated when Arrius led a thousand of his horsemen in a disorganized assault. Now he was furious as he watched the once brazen regiments of cavalry fleeing from the field. Long since breaking contact with the enemy, they were still struck by terror. Even Arrius had lost control of them. They refused to heed his orders to reform with the rest of the corps.
“That does it,” Primus snarled, as he saw a standard bearer riding towards him at breakneck speed. The commanding general rode his horse into the man’s path, causing his mount to rear up as it came to a jarring halt. “Get back in formation, you fucking cowards!”
When the man refused to listen and tried to ride around him, the general drew his spatha. Grabbing the standard, he plunged his weapon into the deserter’s throat. As gouts of blood gushed onto his blade, he yanked the standard away, shoving the dying man from his mount. Holding the reins of his horse in his blood soaked hand, the commanding general held the standard high and rode along the ranks of panicked horsemen.
“Stand, soldiers of Rome!” he shouted. “Do not stain your names with such wretched faintheartedness. Rally to me!”
Whether by his words, the sight of him clutching a regimental standard, or perhaps because his spatha was dripping with the dark crimson from a deserter, the distraught horsemen heeded his call and began to reform.
“Thank the gods,” Arrius said, riding over to hi
m. His face dripping with sweat, though breaking into a relieved grin.
Primus threw the standard at him. “Pull another reckless move like that, and it will be your blood that stains my weapon.” Primus was rightfully enraged that Arrius behaved so erratically, losing a number of their cavalrymen in the process. But, he was even angrier with himself.
“Sir, scouts report an even larger Vitellian Army spotted marching from Cremona,” a mounted centurion said.
“Impossible,” Arrius breathed.
“No,” Primus said, shaking his head. “Inconceivable, perhaps, but certainly not impossible.” He looked at Arrius. “We’ve grossly underestimated our adversaries this day. I hope it does not cost us the war.”
It was implausible that the Vitellian Army could have marched a hundred miles in such short time. Primus could only hope his legions arrived soon, before the enemy could mass their numbers against him. He still had most of his four thousand cavalry remaining, as well as another three thousand auxilia infantry. However, if Caecina had the bulk of five legions plus thousands of attached troops, Primus’ pitiful force would not last ten minutes.
“Sir, there’s a spot of ground we can hold from,” a rider said. “We’ll have to withdraw about a mile back up the road, but there is a hilltop with trenches that will serve as a natural barrier.”
“Very good,” the commander-in-chief replied, finding his nerve once more. “All units are to withdraw one mile back. I will ride ahead and scout the ground myself. Arrius, you will organize the move. And keep an eye on the Vitellians. I want to know when they are on the move and how many there are.”
“Yes, sir.”
Commander Arrius regained control of his composure, as well as his errant horsemen. He took just two companies of cavalry with him. Primus ordered the remainder of his forces to withdraw to better ground. A mile up the road, he spotted the ground his trooper informed him about. Just a few dozen meters south of the Via Postumia was a small hilltop. No more than fifty feet high, it still provided an excellent position from which to anchor his army. Off the southernmost spur was a deep trench filled with rainwater, as well as numerous branches and other natural entanglements.
“Auxilia infantry will form up in the center,” he ordered his regimental commanders. “Once the legions arrive, your cohorts will pull back and form a reserve. I want two wings of cavalry, one anchoring each flank.”
He gazed up at the sky. Late afternoon was giving way to early evening, and the sun had begun its slow descent into the west. It was still rather hot and uncomfortable, and Primus was covered in sweat. He removed his helmet and wiped a rag over his brow before looking back down the vacant road. Three hours had passed since he sent his rider to Bedriacum. Even if the legions left their packs and equipment behind, carrying only weapons, water, and a minimal amount of rations, their armor and shields alone would slow their advance considerably. He was glad it was not midsummer. The days were warm enough as it was. He not only needed his legionaries to expedite their march, but to have sufficient energy left to fight a battle at the end of it.
As his auxilia cohorts took up their positions, the infantry spread in a long, thin line, Primus suddenly felt very much alone. While he was anxious for the arrival of his legions, he was perplexed by the absence of the Vitellians. With the two legions from Cremona having already engaged his errant cavalrymen and the enemy’s main body already arrived unexpectedly at the city, he anticipated seeing their advancing standards at any moment. Strangely enough, the Vitellians had yet to press their advantage. Primus was unaware that Caecina was now in a Cremona prison, with Valens still indisposed; leaving his adversaries devoid of a commanding general. Had he known, he could have used his cavalry to conduct a series of feints to confuse and fluster the Vitellians, rather than waiting to engage in a bloody grind.
“Mercury, grant speed to my legions,” he uttered quietly.
Upon receiving their orders from General Primus, the Flavian Legions departed Bedriacum and formed into a pair of columns consisting of two legions apiece. The remaining auxilia infantry and the three cohorts from Judea marched at the very back. The terrain was open and grassy, allowing the columns to march sixteen to twenty men abreast. Each stretched well over half a mile from beginning to end. Optio Gaius Artorius found himself at the very back of it all.
“At least the Vitellians aren’t hoofing it this time, eh, sir?” one of the legionaries to his front said.
“Fucking cowardly bastards likely got tired of running from us,” one of his mates added.
While supremely confident in the fighting prowess of his men, Gaius was filled with a sense of cautious foreboding. He knew the Vitellians had added at least two legions to their ranks, and gods knew how many auxilia cavalry and infantry cohorts. There was also the matter of whether or not General Valens had dispatched forces from his own division in time to support the main Vitellian Army. Gaius continually glanced back over his shoulder. He knew somewhere back there was the Seventh Claudia Legion. Primus sent his messenger to find them and urge them to press on with all speed, hoping they were not too far behind to reach the field and swing the odds in favor of the Flavians.
The legions continued to march, taking long, rapid strides. The miles passed rather quickly. All had wished for an overcast day, yet there was scarcely a wisp of cloud in the sky. The legionaries’ armor and helmets added to the sun’s radiant heat, and every last soldier was dripping with sweat. Understanding they needed their men fit to fight after such a long and rapid march, centurions allowed their soldiers to rest a few minutes every hour, giving them a chance to catch their breath and take in water.
The hours and miles passed, with the sun glowing red in the west, blinding the advancing legions. At the head of the column, General Aquila was met by a rider from Arrius’ cavalry, who informed him that Primus had established their battle lines just four miles away.
“The Vitellians have not driven him back?” the legate asked, perplexed.
“No, sir. Their cavalry have engaged ours on the flanks but nothing decisive. From what we could see, their legions appear to be in a series of columns about a mile from our position. It’s very strange, sir. They seem unorganized.”
“What the hell is Caecina doing?” General Lupus from the Eighth Legion asked, as he joined the men. “With our advance cohorts hopelessly outnumbered, he should have attacked by now.”
“I don’t know,” Aquila said, shaking his head. “When we battled with him a few months ago he was ever the aggressor, often recklessly so. Prudence and caution are not his watchwords.”
“Do we have any idea as to their total strength?” Lupus asked the messenger.
“We counted five eagles, sir, and a lot of vexilation flags.”
“Then even with our four legions, they still outnumber us rather handily,” Lupus said, dismayed.
“Not necessarily,” Aquila conjectured. “Vitellius foolishly allowed his legions to fall well below strength, and their ranks are severely depleted. And remember, we may have only four eagles with us now, but a fifth is coming.”
As the sun was setting in front of them, it baffled Primus that the enemy had halted in their advance on his rather paltry force of horsemen and auxilia infantry cohorts. The sounds of cornicens’ horns announced the arrival of his legions, much to his relief. He was still flabbergasted, though, that the main Vitellian Army, which appeared to have been reinforced by an additional legion, had managed to make the long trek along the southern route so quickly. Both cavalry forces had bloodied each other, starting the opening phase of what would later be known as the Second Battle of Bedriacum . But now, the heart of the fighting would be done by the legions.
The Vitellians, lacking in senior leadership since the arrest of General Caecina, were still a fearsome enemy. They had almost the full strength of First and Twenty-First Legions from the Cremona Garrison. The main force of Legions V, Alaudae, and XXII, Primigenia were supported by numerous attached cohorts from seven differ
ent legions including First Germanica. General Valens was unable to ride to the front and had sent on ahead Caecina’s own Legio IV, Macedonia. Opposing them, albeit rushing forward almost piecemeal, were Legions III Gallica, VII Gemina, VIII Augusta, and XIII Gemina.
As his forces deployed forward, Antonius Primus was assailed by doubts, cursing himself for his carelessness. Had he now committed the same folly as Otho Titianus? Would the Flavian Army face the same ignominious end the Othonians had? And on the same field, no less?
The sound of rapidly galloping hooves on the paving stones alerted him to a lone rider approaching from the east.
“General, sir.” The man saluted. “Compliments of Seventh Claudia. They are just a few miles up the road and will be on the field within the next couple hours.”
“Thank Victoria!” He took a deep breath and blew it out hard, attempting to calm his nerves. The timely arrival of an additional legion would negate any numerical advantage the Vitellians currently possessed.
Lacking any substantive orders, Tribune Lucius Artorius took the initiative and led his regiment in an armed reconnaissance of their extreme left. The Flavians appeared to have concentrated a large portion of their cavalry there.
“Wedge formation, on me!” the tribune shouted, spatha held high. He spurred his horse into a gallop, his men giving a loud battle cry as they attacked what appeared to be no more than a pair of companies that had strayed from the enemy’s main body.
The Flavian horsemen were briefly caught off guard, as Lucius led his regiment in a headlong charge into their ranks. It was a brief and extremely violent encounter. Spears clattered against shields, horses crashed into each other. Men and beast cried out as they hacked and stabbed away at each other. Lucius caught one enemy trooper with a vicious stab where the chest and shoulder joined together. His adversary’s armor absorbed much of the blow, though the man shouted in pain as his lance fell from his twitching hand. He wheeled his horse about, catching the tribune with a blow from his shield before riding away. His weapon arm hung useless at his side.
