The soldiers banged their spears on their shields.
'These Germans call themselves the Alamanni. They think themselves All Man. We know better. They are all cinaedi. These hairy bum-boys reached Rome. The eternal city is unwalled. They ran from a rabble of plebs and slaves led by a few delicate old senators.'
Gallienus waited for the laughter to subside. 'The quickest and bravest of them have already crossed the Alps. And you all know what happened to them on the other side. The acting governor of Raetia, with just a handful of regular troops and some local peasants, cut them to pieces.'
'We know it. We know it,' chanted the soldiers in their rough northern accents.
Gallienus raised his voice. 'Today we will free Italy from the barbarians. Today we will free our fellow citizens whom they have cruelly enslaved. Today we will take back the Germans' booty and share it among ourselves. By tonight there will not be a poor man in our army!'
As one, the soldiers roared their approval.
'Are you ready for war?'
'Ready!'
As the third repetition of the ritual response was still ringing out, Gallienus looked at Achilleus and his standard bearer. He winked at the two men and nodded forwards. Then, suddenly grabbing his helmet, he kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. It leapt ahead, closely pursued by those of the other two.
Behind the emperor, his senatorial entourage was caught unawares. They milled in confusion, their horses bumping into each other as they hastened to follow. The soldiers loved it. As he sped away, Gallienus heard them mocking their social superiors before the unit battle cry boomed forth: 'Io Cantab! Io Cantab!'
Gallienus turned into a gap between two of the units and galloped north towards where the reserve of Horse Guards and the rest of his entourage waited.
An emperor never travels alone. As they drew near, the emperor indicated his permission for his a Memoria Achilleus to draw off to one side, where the other heads of his imperial bureaucracy waited. He smiled at their incongruously civilian aspect. There was Quirinius, the a Rationibus, who oversaw his treasury; Palfurius Sura, the ab Epistulis, who handled his correspondence; and Hermianus, his ab Admissionibus. They were all powerful, important men. The imperium could not function without them. But far away from their desks in the imperial chancery, they looked lost.
Holding their horses' heads under the Horse Guards' flag — a red Pegasus on a white banner — the military high command were very different. Three stood out in front: Volusianus, the Italian former trooper, now Praetorian Prefect; Heraclian, once a Danubian peasant, now the commander of the Equites Singulares; and Aureolus, the one-time Getan shepherd promoted to Prefect of Cavalry. Behind them were the other protectores — part bodyguards, part staff officers: three more Danubians — Tacitus, Claudius and Aurelian; two more Italians of plebeian origin — Celer Venerianus and Domitianus; and finally, the Egyptian brothers Theodotus and Camsisoleus, and Memor the African. At the sight of these tough, loyal men, Gallienus's heart lifted.
The emperor dismounted and called for his battle charger. As it was led forward, the senators came up all in a bunch. They radiated hurt dignity. These were the men of Gallienus's father. The emperor Valerian trusted them. He had grown up with several among them; he was one of them. Men like old Felix, who had been consul no less than twenty-three years earlier. He was in his late sixties, but Valerian had trusted him with the defence of Byzantium from the Goths just three years ago. Then there was the yet more elderly and more polyonomous Gaius Julius Aquilius Aspasius Paternus, who had governed Africa in the year of Felix's consulship and had himself held that office at some even more remote date.
For a moment, Gallienus thought he should not have wounded their dignitas to get an easy laugh from the soldiers. To be fair, the Goths had not taken Byzantium, and no harm had come to Africa. But the senators' race was run. In the golden age, when the imperium was conquering all it surveyed — even in the silver age, when it was easily holding its own — its armies could be commanded by elderly landed amateurs, more at home designing an exotic fish-pond than sweating on the march. But this was a new age. A harsh age of iron and rust. It called for a hard, new sort of man. It called for Gallienus's recently formed protectores.
Even in an age of iron and rust, the previous year had been a bad one. Late in the campaigning season, when the leaves in the north had already turned, the Alamanni had burst across the border between the headwaters of the Rhine and the Danube. The governor of Raetia had been cut down in battle, his army routed. The Alamanni had swarmed on and crossed the Alps. Unarmed Italy had been at their mercy. Gallienus had cut short his campaign in the far north near the ocean and desperately given chase, just getting over the mountains before the snow shut the passes. As soon as he and his field army had departed, another confederation of Germans, the Franks, had crossed the Rhine. There had not been enough Roman troops to oppose them, or even to chase them.
Thank Hercules, thought Gallienus, that his second son, the Caesar Saloninus, had been safe with Silvanus the Dux of the Rhine frontier behind the strong walls of Colonia Agrippinensis. Silvanus was a good man. He would see no harm came to the imperial prince. Gallienus pushed away the thought of his eldest son, the beautiful and dead Valerian the Younger. It had been just two years since the boy had died on the Danube. Foul rumours had sought to implicate Ingenuus the governor of Pannonia. But it could not be. Ingenuus was a sound man, loyal through and through to the imperial house. The gods had willed the darling boy die. It just had to be accepted. Take what comfort you could from philosophy, it just had to be accepted.
Gallienus had not caught up with the Alamanni last autumn. They had wintered in Italy, the Franks in Gaul. The barbarians had scoured the land around their quarters. It had been a cruel winter: iron and rust.
As the gods would have it, this year had started better for the Romans. First, in the spring, news had come to Gallienus at Aquileia that yet another northern barbarian invasion had been thwarted. Thousands of Sarmatian horsemen had crossed the Danube into Pannonia but had been resoundingly defeated by Ingenuus. Then had come messengers telling of the repulse from Rome of the Alamanni. In truth, most of the credit was due to Gallienus's brother Licinius. But, for once, some of the senators had played their part. Men such as the Prefect of the City Saecularis and the Father of the Senate Arellius Fuscus. With a wince that almost hurt him physically, Gallienus recalled reading how, in order to keep morale high, his orders to send his youngest son Marinianus to safety in Sicily had been ignored. The infant prince had been paraded in front of the makeshift army. It was fortunate for Licinius that this news had come in a laurel-adorned letter of victory.
Events had continued to unfold well for the Romans. The Iuthungi and the Semnones, two of the tribes that made up the confederation of the Alamanni, had left the main body and set off early for home. As Gallienus had told the troops, the new acting governor of Raetia had massacred them on the far side of the Alps. Simplicinius Genialis had done well in Raetia. Now it remained for Gallienus to finish the rest of the Alamanni here on the plain before the walls of Mediolanum.
'The barbarians are doing something else.' The old senator Felix sounded personally offended.
Gallienus looked at the enemy. The high-priest of each of the three Alamannic tribes on the field — the Hermunduri, Mattiaci and Bucinobantes — had finished the rites to win the favour of Woden and Thor. The magnificent horses and the prisoners who had been selected lay in their blood, decapitated. As each sinistus melded back into the host, he was replaced by a greater number of large figures in wolfskins. Individually, slowly at first, the fur-clad men began to dance. Somewhere among them would be the leader of the expedition, the Alamannic war-leader the Romans called Crocus. Hroc — or Wolfhroc, as his own people knew him, would be dancing and howling, offering his sword to Woden, drawing down the savage, slathering power of the Allfather's beast into his body.
To most Roman eyes, the foreign rites were incomprehensible
barbarity; primitive, unchanging, irrational. Apart from those in the ranks with Germanic ancestry, only a few could interpret them. The emperor was one of these few. Gallienus knew he would have understood no more than the majority had it not been for the years in his youth that he was detained at the imperial court as a guarantee of the loyalty of his governor father. There he had been educated with a shy young barbarian hostage from the north. Ballista had opened his eyes to the peoples beyond the frontiers.
Gallienus did not condemn the bloodthirsty rites of the Alamanni. Different gods demanded different things. Only a fool failed to realize that a battlefield was a god-haunted place. How could it be otherwise? Imagine the tedium of immortality. How many years into eternity before one had drunk every wine, sampled every exotic food? Or was one shackled to an unchanging diet of ambrosia, nectar and the smoke of sacrifices? And sex? How many beautiful girls or boys before satiety set in, followed by perverse experimentation then disgust? Think of the boredom of rereading the same books again and again. Imagine the envy of the unattainable emotions of mortals — the sweaty thrill of the unknown, the gripping fear, the true courage in the face of death, the pain of loss. Nowhere were these more sharp than on the field of battle. No wonder the gods came close.
Gallienus could feel his patron god Hercules close by — a crackle in the air, the tightness in his skin, the god-given clarity in his mind. In his battle calm, he surveyed the scene.
The Alamanni were about five hundred paces away. Their infantry was massed in the centre, a solid block of maybe thirty thousand men straddling the Ticinum road. The cavalry, probably in the region of ten thousand horses, were more or less equally divided between each flank.
Gallienus had made his dispositions accordingly. He had about the same number of cavalry. He had stationed four thousand on either wing and kept two thousand back as a reserve. His infantry in the centre were badly outnumbered: just fifteen thousand. But he had arranged a couple of things in their favour. And, above all, he had a plan.
Across the plain, the wolf-dancers had worked themselves into a frenzy. Their howls were being drowned by the start of the massed singing. The various tribes of the Alamanni sang the deeds of their forefathers. The battle would start soon.
Gallienus got into the saddle and turned to his staff. 'Comites, it is time to take your posts.'
The emperor had exercised tact. Old Felix and Volusianus were to command the infantry; young Acilius Glabrio and Theodotus to take the cavalry on the left. There was to be one of the senatorial nobility and one protector at each division but, for the horsemen of the vital right wing, two protectores: Claudius and Aurelian. Gallienus would lead the reserve of Horse Guards himself.
The comites mounted up and saluted. 'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'
Felix spoke up, his aged voice querulous. 'Your plan — it is not Roman. It goes against our traditions and our nature. It is better suited to the guile of barbarians — Moors or Parthians.'
To hide his irritation, Gallienus settled his helmet on his head, laced it tight. 'Then it is good we have four alae of Moors among our cavalry and one of Parthians.' He paused, then spoke heavily. 'The first tradition of the Romans under arms is obedience to orders.'
Wordlessly, Felix saluted again, and turned his horse's head. The commanders of the divisions rode away.
Across the plain, the standards of the Alamanni were raised. As the barbarian advance began, the discordant songs died. They were replaced by the barritus. Low at first, like distant thunder, the German war chant rose from forty thousand throats. The warriors held their shields over their mouths to increase the reverberation. The barritus crescendoed to a harsh climax. It faded away then returned — harder, yet more menacing. Again and again, it rolled across the plain, intermittent, petrifying. Fear enters by the ears.
Gallienus knew the barritus did more than intimidate. The Germans believed it foretold the outcome of battle. If it sounded strong, they thought they would win. It sounded strong.
From the Roman ranks came a medley of war cries. The northern units gave back the barritus. The North Africans, howling and clapping, gave tongue to a faster, higher chant. The easterners wailed an ululating yell.
Gallienus saw that the Alamanni were committed. They came on slowly, the horsemen on the wings keeping pace with the infantry. They were menacingly unified, full of purpose. Fear also enters by the eyes.
There was no need for orders from the emperor. The dice was cast. When the Germans were about four hundred paces away, Volusianus gave the signal for Gallienus's first device to aid his outnumbered infantry. Twang-slide-thump: the quickest of the ballista crews shot. In a moment, the others joined in. Twang-slide-thump. The sound of the torsion artillery echoed along the line of Roman infantry. Almost too fast to see, the bolts sped away.
There were only fifteen ballistae, but their effect was out of proportion to their number. Here and there, holes appeared in the Alamanni ranks. Warriors were punched backwards. Some were pinned grotesquely to the man behind. Shields and mail coats gave no protection against the inhuman power of the steel-tipped bolts.
Stung, seeing their friends and kinsmen die with no way to exact revenge, the Alamanni infantry came on faster. The war-leaders quickened their pace. Their retinues surged behind them. Wedges of the best fighters emerged from the straight line — the boars' snouts that would crash home first.
Out on the flanks, the German cavalry shook their bridles and urged their mounts to stay level with the men on foot.
Like a wind moving a field of corn, a tremor ran through the Roman infantry. Across the left and centre of the line arms swung and threw. Thousands of flashes of light arced out in front and fell to earth. Now battle was irrevocable, Volusianus had ordered the caltrops to be deployed.
A caltrop is a horrible thing: three or four vicious spikes emerging from a ball of metal. No matter how it falls, one, needle-sharp, points upwards. Thousands of them now carpeted most of the ground in front of the Roman infantry, waiting to tear through boots and soft flesh. Gallienus's second ploy was in place.
The emperor looked all around the field. He could feel his god beside him. Once a man like Gallienus himself, Hercules' labours for mankind had won him immortality and Olympus. Now, on this dusty plain before the walls of Mediolanum, Hercules held his hands over the emperor. In his god-given clarity of mind, Gallienus judged distances and speed, estimated time. The Alamanni infantry were within two hundred paces. Disciplined volleys of arrows flew out from the rear ranks of the Roman infantry. Individual Germans shot back on the move. Gallienus's reading of the battle told him it was time; he commanded that the prearranged signal be given.
Trumpets rang out, and his personal standard, a purple draco, hissed back and forth.
A cheer was heard from each flank. From where they were drawn up, a distance behind the infantry, the Roman cavalry walked forward. At the sight, their German counterparts broke into a cacophony of shouts and charged. Quickly, they drew ahead of their infantry. The Roman alae moved to a trot then a canter.
On both wings, the cavalry clashed roughly level with the stationary line of Roman infantry. In a moment, the combatants were intermingled. All order vanished. Squadrons, smaller groups, even individuals charged, wheeled, retreated, then charged again. In both melees hand-to-hand and distance fighting coexisted. Each mounted man sought to press home his attack or seek safety as his courage or circumstance dictated. On the left, Gallienus caught a glimpse of Gaius Acilius Glabrio. The young senator, resplendent in scarlet and gold, was laying about him manfully. Soon, most such details were hidden by plumes of thick dust.
The Alamanni foot were closing. A number of warriors were falling to arrows. A few were still snatched backwards by artillery bolts. The Roman archers and ballistarii were doing their best. They could not stop the charge. A few parts of the German line seemed to hang back, but the wedges headed by the war-leaders and their household warriors were moving fa
st. Long hair flying, these big, well-armed men were a fearsome sight.
The barritus had dropped to a low murmur. After their long advance, the Alamanni needed their breath. Stationary, the Romans continued to bellow out their war cries.
Gallienus peered through the dust at the cavalry melees. On the left, Acilius Glabrio and Theodotus seemed to be holding their own. At least the swirling dust cloud had not moved appreciably. The right was a different story. The troopers under Aurelian and Claudius appeared unusually reluctant to stay at close quarters. They were giving ground, being driven back behind the Roman infantry line. Gallienus was pleased.
Javelins flew from both sides, just as the infantry of the Alamanni centre and right reached the caltrops. Running close together, pushed on by those behind, some Germans could not avoid the terrible spikes. Others were too distracted by the incoming missiles to notice the menace underfoot until they felt the searing pain. Warriors fell, shrieking. Battle-mad, their comrades ran over them.
The Alamanni crashed into the Roman line. The din hit Gallienus like a blow. There was one huge noise, louder than a temple collapsing, composed of a myriad smaller noises: shield on shield, steel on wood, men shouting, men screaming.
The momentum of the boars' snouts was driving them into the Roman line. Blades and spearheads flashed. Arrows whistled overhead. Men jabbed, hacked, pushed, shouted. Sharp steel bit into flesh. Men fell. The ground ran slippery with blood and spilt intestines. Men lost their footing. They were trampled in the horror by friend and foe alike.
The Roman line looked painfully thin. At the rear, junior officers shouted, threatened, cajoled. They physically pushed men back into line. They beat men with the flats of their swords, yelling for them to give their all.
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