As Valerius glanced over towards his awaiting men — a hundred horsemen and two hundred heavy infantry, he could see in each of their eyes their desperate anticipation to race down the hill. They had suffered too many defeats and saw many of their countrymen die at the hands of Hannibal’s army. They wanted — no, needed to bloody their swords, and with each new chorus of cries emerging from the camp, Valerius had to urge his men to be patient, just a little while longer.
He saw many horrors in his long life; too many battles and too many wars, death and mayhem were nothing new to the old veteran. This, however, was different. The very thought of fellow Romans, the survivors of Cannae being tortured to death for sport, by lowly slaves, was unbearable. If it were in his power, he would race down the hill on his own and slaughter them all, to the last with his bare hands. However, just getting on his horse some nights was a challenge. He knew that, one way or another, this was his last war.
Finally, Valerius knew it was time. If all went as he had planned, Gaius and the dozen men that went down there with him should have removed the outer guards and made ready the attack from within. If not, he knew, as capable as his men were that they didn’t have the manpower or time to spare to take the whole camp if it were defended. The sun would be rising soon, within the next two hours, and he doubted that there were enough captured Romans down there to keep the gladiators occupied past morning. So time was not on his side.
Now was the time to act.
With only a whisper Valerius turned towards the nearest officer, a boy, too young to be a centurion, and gave the word for the men to mount their horses and make ready.
The message was quickly relayed from man to man.
Slowly, and with as little noise as possible, save for a few words from the horses as they were mounted, Valerius and his single cavalry cohort began their slow and careful march over the hill and towards the gladiator camp, which was under a mile from their current position. They would shock the enemy with speed, while the infantry swept in behind them and slaughtered the stragglers.
He didn’t order his men into a full gallop, not yet. He led from the front, spreading his men out wide. Their horses moved steadily in a parade pace. Always he kept his eyes ahead, expecting every minute the horn to sound, warning the gladiators of his riders approach. However, after the first quarter mile, he heard nothing save for the continuing cheers and screams that carried for miles in all directions.
Within a half-mile, Valerius increased his speed, which was followed by his men. Now the ground started to rumble ever so slightly as the clattering of armor and weapons fill the blackened horizon.
His heart started to race. He felt young again, filled with the anticipation of the charge. He hadn’t done this in so long. This was how his men were supposed to fight — their enemy straight ahead — no tricks or traps, just man and iron.
The outer walls were in sight. As he had hoped and expected, Gaius had not failed in his given task. Not a single gladiator sentry was in sight. The whole camp was undefended.
With a thunderous roar, Valerius cried-out as he drew his spear and kicked his horse into a full gallop. He outpaced the rest of his men for a fraction of a second as the horsemen cried out, drew their weapons and charged at full speed.
A moment later, an alarm did sound as there was no hiding the fact that the gladiators were under attack. Only now it was too late to mount any kind of proper defense.
The low makeshift wall couldn’t stop the horses from leaping over it, or breaking right through it.
Valerius remained out in front of his men, ahead of them by a few yards as his horse leaped feet first over the wall. He was smiling like a boy as he saw his target, a lone gladiator, a dark-skinned man who froze with panic in his eyes as he saw the still screaming Valerius come right at him.
Valerius struck before the slave could do anything to defend himself.
As the man’s head split, the spear rattled terribly in his hand, which nearly caused him to lose it; he held on and continued forward, never stopping as more and more slaves ran out in front of him.
Those he did not kill outright his horse slammed into. With its weight and momentum, dozens of slaves were trampled by the wall of horsemen who followed Valerius.
Blood spattered across his face as his blade cut across another man’s throat. This time, he did lose his spear as the blade, which had quickly become dull and useless stuck as it hit bone.
Quickly, he drew from behind him one of three smaller throwing spears. It didn’t take long before he found another rebel slave as he threw the spear at a woman who had charged at him; a small dagger in hand. His aim was true as the shaft tore between the woman’s breasts.
No sooner than he had thrown the first spear did a second man run up beside him, trying, or more so hoping that he could trip the horse and force Valerius down to the ground.
Valerius thrust, the spear just barely managed to clip the man across his face, tearing deeply into his left cheek. It wasn’t a killing strike, but he went down regardless.
Valerius had his last weapon in hand. Now deeper within the camp the gladiators were starting to rally. The early, easy victories were harder fought as he caught sight of a number of his men go down; either their horses tripped, or they were hit by a well aimed arrow or spear throw. Still, not all the gladiators were willing to fight as large groups were running, most weaponless as they ran in the opposite direction of the Roman horsemen.
He caught sight of one large group of fleeing slaves; a mixture of men and women who raced towards the northern walls, and for a moment, he thought about given chase. He could easily catch them and drop three, maybe even five of them before he had to veer off. However, the group stopped dead in their tracks as a larger party of tattered, beaten and tortured freed Romans ambushed them.
Valerius' smile widened as he watched his countrymen, after having seen their comrades mutilated and tortured for hours, carried out their vengeance on their jailors. Those few with weapons hacked at the wall of panicked bodies while the others dog-piled the rest, beating them down, man and woman alike with their bare hands or whatever they could find on the ground. A few Romans died during the process, but their numbers were too great to be stopped. And across the camp, the scene was repeating as the gladiators soon found they had nowhere to run.
Valerius caught sight of his next target, a lone man who looked more like a child who couldn’t have been older than fifteen. More than likely he was a runaway slave who had joined this army. At the moment, Valerius did not care about the boy’s age or the frightful terror that was in his eyes, as he glanced back, while still running as fast as his young legs could carry him.
Valerius yelled something. He didn’t really know what he had said in the heat of the moment as he took aim while in a slow gallop. It just came naturally. He wasn’t typically a person, at least in his age to taunt his enemies before he killed them. However, in his carelessness, caught up in his youth as he bore down on the running boy, he failed to catch sight of the real threat.
Just as he was about to unleash his spear, Valerius’ grip on his weapon was suddenly knocked free as he felt a very sharp and extremely painful sting hit him right in his arm pit.
The old veteran yelled in agony as he knew from experience that an arrow had struck him just above his armor.
In near full gallop he wasn’t able to hold on the reins of his horse as he fell off his animal and tumbled into the blood-soaked ground where the arrow that stuck out of his armpit snapped from the impact, where the head was pushed deeper into his body.
The pain seemed to be numbed as his face was caked with mud, but as he rolled over onto his back, the moment he tried to move his arm, all he could do was scream out again.
Before the gladiator could hit him again with a second well aimed shot, the man was impaled three times by Roman spears, as a group of riders saw Valerius go down and instantly redirected their attacks to defend their leader.
Two men leaped
down from their horses and covered Valerius with their shields without hesitation to the danger they were putting themselves in. Right away, a number of arrows and spears hit their shields. Clearly, they weren’t the only ones that saw Valerius go down. If his men hadn’t acted as quickly as they had he would be dead already.
Soon the two were joined by a dozen more. They created a wall that was impenetrable.
Two men appeared behind Valerius. Worry in their eyes they pulled him out from under the Romans who shielded him. He seemed a bit dazed as he stared up at his officers who continuously called for him. Only then did he realize that they were trying to get him to respond, to gauge how hurt he was. With the arrow shaft broken none could see where he had been hit, and the large cake of mud that covered him obstructed any signs of blood.
One of the officers signaled for a horse and rider to carry Valerius out of the battle. He suddenly felt very embarrassed at his vulnerability. His people weren’t supposed to see him like this and every second they spent trying to safeguard him, they put themselves in more danger as the battle continued around them. More so, however, he felt ashamed. He lost his mind in the heat of the battle. He trained his Wolves for years not to give into their natural desires during combat and remain level headed, but for the first time in many decades, he had returned to his youth — those foolish years of his brash arrogance that had wounded and eventually killed his best friend Julius, Gaius’ father, when he was too stubborn and believed he was immortal. However, he was not young anymore and his slower reaction and diminished senses had finally caught up to him.
He slumped over the horse’s back, barely aware that he was up off of the ground. Another Roman had the horse’s reins tied to his own. A few moments later the sounds of fighting became distant. And a minute more Valerius was unconscious.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Gaius walked among the dead and dying. The bodies, men, women and even children, choked the ground. Those that weren’t dead but badly mane, were put to the sword. A dozen men went about that ghoulish work, a few taking more joy in it than he would have liked to see out of his people. Some managed to escape the battle, fleeing into the surrounding hills. He wanted to give chase, but he didn’t have the men to spare, or the time His principal concern, as he looked down at the dead, was finding Calfax. He hoped that the old gladiator had been among those to fall. So far he'd been unlucky.
He knew Calfax was not among the hundred or so prisoners who had surrendered, and he prayed to the gods that he hadn’t escaped. However, with each passing hour, he feared that might have been the case. Regardless, the deed was done. Calfax’s army was broken; a minor victor among so many defeats.
The sun had rising some time ago; the warm morning air did not bring comfort. Despite this victory, time was against Gaius and his men. Hannibal’s army was still out there, superior in every way, and while he still had a fifteen hundred men at his command, they were badly outnumbered and hampered with the protection of the survivors of Cannae, and now those Romans they had saved hours ago. They had to set off quickly before their battle was discovered by Hannibal’s scouts. Rome, the city was still in danger. With that fact still lingering in his mind, Gaius had no time to order a proper burial for the Romans killed here this day, not even his own men who died during the raid. So, he ordered, without Valerius’ consent that the bodies of the dead Romans be piled and burned. What rights they could afford he had given. As for the slaves, they would remain where they fell; food for the circling birds that waited eagerly for this army to move on.
Gaius caught sight of Brutus, one of the few senior officers he had seen since last night. He was running up towards him as he walked among the dead, still glancing from right to left, looking for the old gladiator leader of this defeated band.
“Gaius!” Brutus called as he neared, carefully working his way between the bodies. Gaius could hear the urgency in his voice as his name was called out again.
“I know. You can tell Valerius that I will have the men marching within the hour. We are only cleaning up and still gathering survivors,” Gaius called out even before Brutus, nearly out of breath had reached him.
“No. It is not that. I’m here about Valerius. I’ve been trying to find you.”
“What of him?” Gaius asked eagerly.
“He was wounded during the raid. Badly, I’m afraid.”
“What?”
“Yes. He took an arrow under the arm. We managed to save him before anymore damage could be done, and evacuated him from the battle. But I’m afraid,” Brutus was nervous about his sentence. “He is hurt badly. I do not know if he will survive.”
Gaius instantly forgot about his search for Calfax’s body as he walked past Brutus, demanding, “Take me to him.”
A temporary camp had been established to gather the wounded, prisoners and the survivors before they were to march and link up with the main body of the legion. Gaius worked his way through the collection of bodies that stood, most cheerful and bolstering about the victory. His men stood shoulder to shoulder with the survivors, sharing stories, offering water, wine, food and clothing, while doctors and orderlies took care of those who had been wounded during their imprisonment, torture and then battle. Those that could not walk were loaded onto wagons, while the prisoners were chained together, and waited for the long march back to Rome. A number of men, his fellow Wolves and the survivors cheered and patted him on his back as he walked threw them. He had freed them, and all were eternally grateful for his efforts. His thoughts were, however, only on where he needed to go.
Every possible horrific image filled his mind as he walked towards the small tent that had been erected to keep Valerius safe and away from prying eyes. When he finally neared, two men stood guard. They quickly stepped aside and opened a path for Gaius to enter. He was hesitant. However, as he stood before the tent flap, glancing over at one of the two men with a worried look. The man lowered his eyes, which too were filled with dread. Gaius then stepped forward.
Inside, Valerius was thankfully awake and alert. He was laid down on a cot. His armor stripped from his body, his chest and arms covered with dried blood and sweat as a doctor was knelt next to the general, examining the wound.
Valerius cursed the doctor as the man dug into the wound, which had to be cut wider so that the arrow head and splinters of wood could be extracted. The whole process was worse than the arrow tearing through his flesh in the first place.
“Dammit man! Is it too much to ask that you hurry up?!" Valerius bellowed as the doctor, knife in one hand, tweezers in another dug through the open wound. Now and again, the old Greek would drop a bloody piece of wood into a cooper bowl that lay near him.
“If you held still, general, I could finish faster,” the doctor grumbled as he grabbed another piece and dropped it into a bowl. “It serves you right for falling off of the horse and shattering the arrow like you did. Next time, you need to be more careful.”
Gaius’ tensions lifted as he watched and listened to the banter between Valerius and the doctor.
“Yes, yes, I shall take your advice,” Valerius muttered between long swings of wine, which did little to ease the pain.
The doctor turned and looked up at Gaius as he walked over towards him. Before he left, he leaned in close and spoke low, so not to allow Valerius to hear.
“When you are done with the general, I would like to speak to you outside. However, do not be too long. I have to get him ready to be moved.”
“Understood, doctor, and thank you,” Gaius replied as the doctor stepped past him and exited.
“I want a status report. How did the rescue go?” Valerius asked as he forcefully tried to lift himself, so he could see Gaius more clearly.
Gaius took a deep breath before he dared to speak. Seeing his mentor like this, lying down on a bed, bloodied and in obvious pain was a serious blow to his perceived images of the man. His own father, he had remembered being frail and weak as his sickness was slowly eating away at
his youth. However, Valerius, he was always strong, as powerful as an ox. He seemed invincible — a steward of Rome’s unlimited power. Nevertheless, it pained him more than anything he could recall seeing that image shaken as it was at the moment.
“Ah,” Gaius struggled to begin as he stepped over towards Valerius and stood at attention. “We killed or wounded at least two hundred of the slaves, while sustaining twenty-eight casualties on our end… ah, twenty-nine, including you. Seven dead and four more we aren’t sure will survive the day. We have over sixty prisoners, most runaway slaves, a few of the gladiators.”
“Which means some of them escaped, I assume?” Valerius grumbled, annoyed that he wasn’t able to kill or capture all the gladiators as he had hoped.
“Yes. I believe so. I thought it best to not order a pursuit.”
“Good, I don’t won’t our ranks to be thinned more than it is. And, what about the men we rescued? How many did we manage to save?”
“We freed forty-four. Nine were killed during the battle; five more have died since from wounds. Almost all of them are wounded, in one way or another.”
“And those already dead before we arrived?”
Gaius hesitated again, but quickly answered.
“As far as I can tell, they tortured and killed around four hundred, perhaps more. We can’t really tell in some cases, since there isn’t much left of them.” Gaius sighed heavily before he spoke again, “If only we could have been quicker.”
“We did what we could, lad. Don’t blame yourself for not being able to change what couldn’t be.”
“I…” Gaius stopped himself from speaking further, but Valerius, even in his barely audible state could see that something else was bothering his pupil.
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