by Alex Gough
‘I make it around twenty thousand,’ he said eventually. ‘Probably a quarter of them mounted.’
‘I came up with something similar,’ said Silus. ‘How many men does Caracalla have with him?’
‘Oclatinius told me one legion and a couple of cohorts of the Praetorians. Around six thousand. The rest of the army is advancing in two columns northwards, to surround the Alamanni territory and cut off any escape deeper into Germania Magna.’
Silus shook his head. ‘It’s not enough. Even with Roman superiority in weapons and discipline, six thousand won’t stand against twenty thousand, especially not if they are surprised. And that army down there looks ready to march. We need to get back and warn them.’
They scrambled down the hillside, half of the time on their backsides, and reached the bottom with a dozen bumps and scrapes and one painfully twisted ankle between them. Silus put a hand on Atius’ shoulder to support him and Atius moved his foot in experimental circles.
‘Are you sound?’
‘Hurts like buggery, but I can walk on it.’
They turned and saw two Alamanni riders trotting up to them.
Silus and Atius exchanged glances, then Silus put a hand up in greeting. The riders approached, slowing down as they neared. Both had spears under their arms, pointing downwards, but ready for use if needed. They pulled up next to the two Arcani and looked down at them suspiciously. One spoke to Silus in deep Germanic dialect.
Silus looked at Atius questioningly. Atius shrugged. ‘Not a clue.’
Simultaneously, the two Arcani reached forward and each grabbed the spear of one of the riders, just behind the head. They yanked towards them, and both the Alamanni horsemen were jerked off their mounts. They fell heavily to the floor, letting out oofs of breath as they landed.
The rider that Atius had accosted lost his grip on the spear as he fell. Atius quickly reversed it, and before he even had time to breathe in, Atius had skewered him, the spear penetrating his ribcage and pinning him to the earth. The barbarian’s hand gripped the shaft tightly, then his grip went limp and he fell back.
Silus wasn’t so lucky. His rider had fallen better, and had kept a grip on his weapon. They wrestled, rolling in the damp earth for mastery of the spear. The barbarian, heavier than Silus, ended up on top of him. He held the spear shaft across Silus’ neck and pressed. Silus pushed back, but the wood bore down, squashing his throat. Silus tried to gasp and found his windpipe constricted. He struggled desperately, panic rising as he fought for air. He was losing, and he suddenly felt that this was his moment, this was when he would die.
The pressure was suddenly gone. The warrior toppled sideways. Silus stared at him. Silus’ attacker had a different spear transfixing his neck from side to side. Silus sat up and looked at Atius, a dozen paces away. Silus tried to speak, swallowed and tried again. The words were hoarse.
‘Good throw.’
Atius walked over and held out his hand to help Silus to his feet.
‘I thought I was gone there,’ said Silus. ‘You saved my life.’
Atius looked down, uncharacteristically bashful. ‘It’s what we do, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Silus. ‘I suppose it is.’
He grabbed the reins of one of the riderless horses, who had been skittishly watching the fight play out. Atius took hold of the other. ‘Let’s get back to Caracalla,’ said Silus. ‘I don’t know if he deserves the warning, but those men following him certainly do.’
Chapter Sixteen
Caracalla looked Silus up and down suspiciously.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, Augustus. Atius and I counted independently and came up with the same figure. About twenty thousand.’
‘And a quarter of them cavalry?’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘They are mistaken,’ said Macrinus with a dismissive wave. ‘It’s not possible. We killed almost all of them. There were few survivors.’
‘Germania is a big place,’ said Oclatinius. ‘And they would not have given us all their men to go and fight the Chatti. They would have kept some in reserve, to protect themselves against other tribes taking advantage of the absence of fighting men. Not to mention those tending the herds and flocks, and those too young or old to fight in normal circumstances. Now they will have called on every last man, because they know if they lose this next battle, they will be destroyed utterly.’
Macrinus glared at Oclatinius, but Caracalla looked thoughtful.
‘Oclatinius is right,’ said Caracalla. ‘We should have considered this.’ He looked at Macrinus and Festus. ‘Why didn’t you warn me of this possibility?’
Festus and Macrinus looked at each other, suddenly alarmed as the Emperor’s fierce attention was turned on them. Macrinus flushed, and Festus opened his mouth and stuttered. Silus wondered if Festus and Macrinus had genuinely thought that the massacre would break all Alamanni resistance, or if maybe they wanted Caracalla to suffer a defeat to undermine his position. If it was the former they were fools; if it was the latter they were traitors. But Caracalla merely turned back to Oclatinius. When his attention was no longer on them, Silus noticed Festus and Macrinus exchange a look which could have been anger, or could have been something deeper and more sinister.
‘How long until the other legions arrive?’ asked Caracalla.
‘Messengers have been sent. They are marching double time, and will be here tomorrow afternoon.’
‘And the Alamanni?’
‘They will be on us in the morning.’
Caracalla stroked his beard, and the deep lines in his forehead became ravines.
‘Then we must find a way to delay them.’
‘We are well-defended in our marching camp,’ said Macrinus. ‘We just hold on here.’
‘It’s not enough,’ said Oclatinius. ‘These men are angry and scared and fighting for their very survival. They will overwhelm our defences long before the rest of the army gets here.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’ snapped Macrinus.
‘I have an idea,’ said Oclatinius.
* * *
‘I’m going to need you two scouting our flanks,’ said Oclatinius. Silus and Atius stood before him in his tent, near the centre of the marching camp. ‘You have both moved far beyond mere reconnaissance missions, but we need every man we can spare in the battle, which includes all the speculatores, exploratores and frumentarii. You two are too valuable to put in the front line, so you will make sure there are no nasty surprises.’
Silus looked doubtful.
‘What is it, Silus? Speak up.’
‘I don’t want to do this.’
‘Venus’ sweet ass, why can’t you just follow orders?’
Silus shuffled his feet but looked Oclatinius in the eye. ‘I made friends with the Alamanni. They saved my life. I don’t want to fight.’
Oclatinius rolled his eyes. ‘I could just tell you to do as you are fucking well told,’ he said. ‘And yet here I am, wasting my precious time persuading you to do your job. Listen, Silus. You are scouting. Not fighting. You will watch for surprise attacks. You will warn me if you see anything unexpected. That’s it. I won’t force you to offend your precious conscience – a luxury, mind you, that not all of us can afford – by risking hurting one of these barbarians that you believe you have formed a bond with.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Silus. ‘I accept my mission.’
‘How gracious of you.’ Oclatinius’ voice dripped with irony.
‘I want to fight,’ said Atius.
‘Mars give me strength. What?’
‘Put me at the front,’ said Atius.
‘Atius, what are you talking about?’ Silus felt alarm rising inside him. He had risked so much to bring his friend back from captivity, to save him from death and torture, and now he wanted to throw it away.
‘Silus, I need this. They held me for so long. They did things, things that made me feel… no longer a man.’
‘It wasn’t
the Alamanni. That was the Chatti.’
‘They are all the same. Can’t you see that? They speak the same language, have the same customs, look the same, share the same blood. If Caracalla hadn’t betrayed them today, they would have betrayed us tomorrow. You may not like what he did, but it was shrewd, clever, and in the best interests of Rome.’
‘Don’t do this,’ said Silus. ‘I don’t want you to…’ His voice trailed off. He didn’t want him to what? To kill Alamanni? To try to heal his wounds with the blood of others? ‘I don’t want you to die.’
Atius gave him a half-smile and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I have no intention of joining Christos in heaven any time soon, friend. But I need to do this.’
Silus put his hand over Atius’ and squeezed. He gave a single nod.
‘How touching,’ scoffed Oclatinius. ‘Fine, Atius, if you insist on putting yourself in harm’s way, I’ll find a place for you. Silus can do the scouting job on his own.’
Impulsively, Silus threw his arms around Atius. Atius hugged him back.
‘Be safe, friend,’ said Silus.
‘You too,’ said Atius.
‘Vesta’s tits,’ swore Oclatinius, and stomped away.
* * *
‘This is tantamount to treason,’ protested Festus. ‘To put the Imperial body in such acute danger…’
‘Stop fussing,’ snapped Caracalla, as he was fastened into his armour. ‘This is glorious. Worthy of Alexander himself.’ He rolled his shoulders, and swished his sword around him. His upper arm muscles bulged impressively, the rope-like veins running over them standing out. He was no weakling, far from it, and he was skilled in single combat. But fighting was only ever the back-up plan.
‘He will be in no danger,’ said Oclatinius. ‘We’ve been through this. The new warleader of the Alamanni will most certainly be Chlodulf, the older cousin of Chnodomar. He is elderly, and by all accounts sickly, which is why he did not attend the… ah… peace conference, but he is the most senior of those surviving. He cannot accept an offer of single combat. His council would forbid it, even if he felt his honour demanded it. They could not watch everything be thrown away because an old man wanted to fight.’
‘And while they debate it,’ said Caracalla, ‘and I parade in front of their men, taunting their cowardice and denting their morale, our legions draw ever nearer.’
‘We will still have to fight alone for a while,’ warned Oclatinius. ‘But it gives us more of a chance to hold out.’
‘This is Pandion,’ said Macrinus, introducing a stocky young man dressed in a leather cuirass. ‘He will be your chariot driver.’
‘Augustus,’ said Pandion, bowing low. ‘It is an honour to serve you.’
Caracalla looked him up and down. ‘Is he any good?’
‘I’m told he is the best we have,’ said Macrinus. ‘He can turn the horses on a denarius, and has a bravery and a speed in a race that is unmatched by the most experienced charioteers in the Circus.’
Caracalla gave him a piercing glare. ‘I have only one question for you, boy. Blue or Green?’
Pandion grinned. ‘Blue, of course. Who would support anyone else?’
Caracalla smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll do fine.’ He looked at Oclatinius. ‘Is it time?’
‘Yes, Augustus, it’s time.’
Caracalla marched out of his tent with Pandion close behind. An ornate chariot awaited him, a four-horse quadriga, held by an awed-looking slave. The horses standing abreast shuffled restlessly in their yokes, knowing that when they were carefully brushed clean, manes plaited, dressed in polished leather, something important was imminent.
Pandion mounted and took the reins from the slave, then held out a hand for Caracalla. Caracalla ignored the offer of help and bounded onto the back with an energetic leap.
‘Lead us out,’ he said.
Pandion flicked the reins, and with absolute precision, the four horses surged forward as one. The charioteer drove his Emperor out and turned him to face his troops, who were arrayed in battle formation. Caracalla surveyed them in silence for a moment, feeling a glow of pride. It was going to be a difficult day, he had no doubt of that, but he would not trade these soldiers for any others in history. Not Hannibal’s, not Caesar’s, not even Alexander’s, however much he idolised the Macedonian conqueror. He genuinely loved these men, and knew they felt the same about him.
‘Soldiers of Rome,’ he said in a loud, deep voice that carried to the back of the assembled legion. ‘Today will not be easy. The enemy have more men than us, and after our last victory, they will be fighting like wounded animals. But we are Roman. Our courage, our strength, and our discipline will win out. Our brothers are marching to our aid, and will be here by the end of the day. We must hold until they arrive.
‘I have faith in you. And I thank you for your faith in me. Most of you have fought with me before, in Britannia and elsewhere. I know you will not let me down. Together, we will conquer.’ He thrust his sword into the air, and the soldiers let out a roar of approval that reverberated through his innards and filled him with elation.
‘And to show the depth of my regard for you, I will offer my own person to the enemy, in single combat. Risk my life, and fight the barbarian chief for the honour of victory.’
Another great cheer, and despite Oclatinius’ assurances that the Alamanni chief would not accept the offer of combat, he hoped otherwise. How glorious it would be to prove himself in front of his men. They would surely hail him as the new Alexander then.
He gave a final salute and tapped Pandion on the shoulder. Pandion wheeled the horses and rode out towards the enemy. The Alamanni were arrayed in a large group, about a quarter of a mile away from the Roman lines. They were in a wide valley, with steep hills to left and right. The trees on the slopes had been deforested, precluding ambush by either side. As he approached, the indistinct mass resolved into individual bodies, individual faces, many in their prime, but many too young or too old to be at war. He felt no guilt at the sight. They were the enemy, the other, and they must be destroyed, for the safety of Rome, and for his own glory.
When he was just out of bowshot, he ordered Pandion to halt. The charioteer swung the horses to the left and pulled them to a halt. From his platform on the chariot, he was able to call out so most of the Alamanni would be able to hear his words. He drew his sword and waved it in the air above his head as he spoke.
‘People of the Alamanni. Your lives and lands are forfeit. Rome now owns them, as a man owns a slave or a dog. If you stand in our way, you will be destroyed utterly, as I destroyed the peoples of Caledonia. Your elders, your wives, your sons and daughters, will be put to the sword without mercy.
‘But I give you one chance. Let your chief fight me, here and now, in single combat to the death. If your chief is victorious, I give you my word that my legions will leave this place and go back beyond the Rhenus, leaving you in peace. But if I am victorious, you will throw down your weapons and willingly surrender your lands and your persons into Roman ownership.
‘What say you? Chlodulf. Where are you? Will you fight me, or will you cower behind your men like a frightened mouse?’
When his words finished silence hung over the valley. He ordered Pandion to ride up and down, parallel to the barbarian warriors, and as the charioteer controlled the horses in a perfect display of horsemanship, Caracalla repeatedly called out his challenge. ‘Chlodulf! Fight me, you coward.’
There was a commotion behind the front line of interlocked shields, raised voices and shouted arguments. Then the line parted, and a man rode out on a tall, grey mare. Caracalla saw the family resemblance to Chnodomar. But Chnodomar, though past his prime, still had some strength about him. This man had a rim of long hair around his bald pate, a wizened face, and was hunched over. He rode stiffly, uncomfortably. But he held a spear in one hand.
Caracalla almost laughed aloud. O Serapis, please let him fight me.
‘Chlodulf, I presume,’ said
Caracalla when the elderly chief was a dozen yards away.
‘Emperor Antoninus,’ said Chlodulf in a croaky voice, the Germanic accent heavy. ‘Your name will forever be cursed, by the Alamanni and by all the peoples of the world, for your betrayal and dishonour.’
‘Dishonour?’ scoffed Caracalla. ‘See me here, ready to fight you for honour and glory. Will you accept, or will you be the one to go to your gods in shame?’
‘There is no honour in combat with one such as you. I simply ask you to leave our lands. We will destroy you if we have to. Despite your treachery, there are still many more of us than you. But we have no desire to shed more blood. Depart, and do not come back. We will not pursue you into your Empire.’
Now Caracalla did laugh, low and mocking. ‘What an offer, to permit us to leave with our tails between our legs, like beaten curs, without a javelin being thrown. Simply tell me, will you fight me, or will you allow all your men to witness your shame?’
‘There is no shame in refusing to treat a deceiver and backstabber as an equal. I decline your challenge, and when you are kneeling at my feet at the end of this day, you will have cause to regret your words and actions.’
With that, Chlodulf turned and rode back to his men, who parted in silence to let him through.
Caracalla felt an acute pang of disappointment. It was as Oclatinius had said. Of course. Oclatinius was always right. Still, Caracalla had hoped it would be different, that he would clash swords and shields, and take the head of the enemy chief.
He tapped Pandion on the shoulder, intending to head back to the Roman lines. Then he remembered the main reason he had ridden out here to challenge Chlodulf in the first place. He was supposed to be delaying the start of the battle. He ordered Pandion to drive up and down before the Alamanni. He taunted them as he passed, telling them they were led by a coward, that they would die in battle without honour, with the contempt of their gods.
Some of the Alamanni called back, shouted curses. But some could not meet his eye, turned away, looked at the ground or their comrades.
