He stared into the fire for a moment.
‘And what a fight. The bitches came at me first, evil creatures, while the dogs snarled and growled behind them, and I knew that to run would see me dead in no time, so I went for them with my spear. Two of them I killed in ten heartbeats, before they learned to be wary of my spear’s reach, and I left them whimpering and bleeding out in the snow at my feet. After that the rest of them massed to mob me, and the moment of greatest danger was at hand. I didn’t wait for them to come at me, but took the initiative, casting my spear at the biggest of the males to put him down, and Hercules was in my right arm that day because the cast was true, burying the blade deep in his chest and killing him instantly. My sword was in my hand by then, and I went at them in a kind of fury, not caring what happened as long as I was not ashamed before my god. My shield saved my life, allowing me to fend them off to my left, and punch at them hard enough to break one poor creature’s jaw, while I took my iron to the others on my right, but even so I found myself on my back with the last two wolves worrying at me, one atop my shield and ravening for the meat of my face, the other boring in from the right seeking my sword arm. In desperation, and nothing better, I stabbed out with the sword and put it down his throat, either by chance or the favour of Hercules. Either could be true, although as a priest I naturally favour the latter.’
He grinned at Egilhard, reliving the blood joy of the moment.
‘Which left one. The fiercest of them, the young male who would have supplanted the pack leader soon enough, pinning me down into the snow with his jaws inches from my face, snapping and snarling, and my strength suddenly ebbing like the river’s tide, inevitable and unstoppable. My sword was stuck in the other beast’s throat, with him coughing and spasming on the iron, and I could not pull it free, only drag his dying body closer to mine. My shield arm was weakening, losing the fight to keep the last of them from my throat by an inch at a time, the muscles burning with such pain that I was snarling back at him with that agony. I released my grip on the sword, freeing my right hand, and in that moment I knew there was a choice, to relieve the pain in my left by supporting the shield, and perhaps even throwing him off me, or to do something more subtle, and end the fight. The logical thing to do would have been to free myself from the creeping threat of his snapping teeth, only inches from my face, but before Hercules I knew what I had to do. I reached down under my shield and drew my pugio, lifted the blade to his throat and put the point against the place where his blood was just beneath the surface, holding back from making the kill for just a moment, with the iron pricking the skin beneath his fur. He didn’t cease his attempts to get at me, of course, we were both too lost in the blood rage for any retreat, and so I allowed the shield to drop an inch, and pushed the pugio up an inch, no more, and opened his throat.’
He fell silent, and after a moment Egilhard felt compelled to speak.
‘There were seven of them?’
‘There were. The priests who were waiting for us novices to return were astounded when I carried seven heads back into their camp, covered in their blood and exhausted. I laid six of them on the altar to Hercules in thanks for his strength in my hour of need, and kept only the best of them for myself, not the biggest, but the last of them, to remind me that sometimes a man must retreat to attack, and that the greatest strength can only prevail so many times before guile and subtlety are required to bring about victory. And so I am “Seven”.’
7
Cremona, Northern Italy, April AD 69
‘Gladiators? Fucking gladiators? You’re telling me that we’re ordered to sit here and scratch our arses waiting for a few toy soldiers to turn up, while the real fight happens under our fucking noses but we’re forbidden to take part with the grown-ups?’
Alcaeus watched from his place behind Scar as the man to whom the prefect had spoken shook his head at the vehemence of his subordinate’s response to their orders, unmoved in the face of the German’s malevolent reaction. Resplendent in a bronze cuirass, lovingly polished to a bright shine by his slave, and every inch the Roman gentleman at war, Alfenius Varus had been appointed to overall command of the Batavi cohorts less than a week before, and the two men were still adapting to the situation. Scar stared at him for a long moment, with the expression of a man about to say something deeply unwise, but he turned away, the only expression of his anger the rhythmic beating of his vine stick against one of his greaves. The Roman spoke to his back, his tone unchanged from the even but firm way he had dealt with his second in command since being appointed to command the empire’s most warlike and challenging allied force. Clearly untroubled by the Batavis’ reputation, he was apparently equally unawed by either his subordinate’s evident military abilities or the facial wound incurred in Britannia that had gifted him his ferocious expression.
‘You and your men are posted to this wing of the army, Prefect Germanicus, because the gentlemen who exercise the emperor Vitellius’s power here do not entirely trust your men alongside their own. There have been too many fights in camp, too much recrimination between your soldiers and the men of the army’s legions, for you to be accorded a place in the line. To be frank, there are doubts as to just how vigorously you will prosecute the fight against an enemy when the need to do so is at its most pressing.’
Varus had previously served as legatus augusti Valens’s Camp Prefect, during the long march south to cross the Alps and rendezvous with the other half of the rightful emperor’s army in northern Italy. Instrumental in quashing a mutiny during that march into the Roman homeland, in part triggered by the Batavi themselves, Varus had found himself appointed to command the troublesome auxiliaries once they had reunited with the four cohorts that had marched under Caecina, with orders to keep so tight a control over the Germans that no further provocation could be offered to legionaries who were clearly spoiling for a fight.
‘Do I have to remind you, Prefect, that not only is this a direct contradiction of the treaty between Rome and my people, but that one of the few victories this army has won to date was achieved by my men, a single century capturing a cohort of enemy marines?’
Varus waited a moment to be sure that Scar had exhausted his ire before speaking again, addressing him by his Roman given name rather than that used by his tribal soldiers.
‘And do I have to remind you, Prefect, that your men then spoiled their victory by strutting around the camp they shared with the Twenty-First Legion boasting about their victory, and pointing out that all the legion had managed to achieve was slaughtering the Helvetians. So there’s no point in your looking so distressed, Prefect Germanicus, because your command has brought this punishment on its own head by its overbearing behaviour, and not just the four cohorts attached to the Twenty-First but those which accompanied us over the Alps by the south-western passes. Ever since your cohorts joined the army your men have been telling anyone stupid enough to listen to them that you Batavians had mastered your parent legion, long before the Fourteenth Gemina was sent to fight in the east, and that you are the match of any legion in the army. All of which needless posturing had the result that when Fabius Valens sent his four Batavian cohorts away on detached duty to ease the tension they were causing, the legions promptly mutinied at the loss of so potent a fighting force.’ He laughed bitterly at the obvious irony. ‘You know as well as I do that by making themselves thoroughly unpleasant with their posturing and boasting, your men also made themselves seem an essential part of the army, and their absence caused a horrendous uproar that almost saw the legatus augusti himself killed!’
Scar shrugged, staring across the battlefield that stretched away to their left from their position next to the river Po at the army’s rightmost position.
‘You dealt with that uprising quickly enough as I have heard the story, Prefect, and with the same ruthlessness with which you now hold us within this iron cage, forbidden to take a step forward without your permission.’
Varus nodded soberly at him.
He pointed to each of the opposing force’s formations in turn, naming one legion at a time from the enemy’s left wing, directly opposite the Batavi cohorts, to the far end of the Othonian line over a mile distant to their left.
‘In front of us I see a shiny new legion formed of blue tunicked marines who have yet to fight as a legion. To their right and our left are several cohorts of the very same praetorians who murdered the emperor Galba to put the usurper Otho on the throne, curse their treachery. And, if I squint hard enough to see the enemy’s right wing, I can see what the scouts tell us is the Thirteenth Gemina, with a detachment of your former parent legion, the Fourteenth too. I fail to see how the Othonians think they can stand against the cream of the frontier legions with such a rag bag of inexperience and treacherous venality, even if the Thirteenth ought to give a good account of itself.’
He stared hard at the praetorians for a long moment, shaking his head in disgust.
‘When the news of Galba’s murder reached us, I sacrificed and prayed for the opportunity to look down the length of my bloody sword at the men who were self-serving enough to murder an emperor like a dog in the streets of Rome, no matter how insecure his reign might have become when the army refused to recognise his rule. So don’t imagine that I’m happy being told to stand here and await the improbable attempt to turn the battle by an incursion across the river by a force of gladiators who may well have turned tail and fled by now.’
Scar turned to face him.
‘You’re not the only man on this battlefield with a score to settle against the palace guard, Prefect. We have our own reasons for wanting to get to a sword’s length with them, and yet here we are, standing guard on a river that already protects our army’s right flank. Our eight cohorts are indeed the match of any legion in this battle line, and yet here we sit, protecting the army against an attack by a cohort or two of men who are no better than slaves. Well-trained sword fighters, but with questionable military abilities and with no honour whatsoever. And no more than half our strength at their very best, by the scouts’ estimate. Defeating any attempt they might make to gain this side of the river will bring us no glory at all, and any man who falls to their swords will be wasted for little purpose.’
‘Little purpose, Germanicus?’
‘You’re right, Prefect, my words were poorly chosen. To no purpose whatsoever.’ The German turned to look at the legion being marshalled into position on their left, the words of a bellicose marching song drifting across the dusty farmland as the cohorts of veterans marched into their places in the Vitellian army’s line. ‘So while we stand and stare at an empty river, the Twenty-First Rapax is preparing for battle against them …’ They turned to stare across the as yet unbloodied battlefield at the legion that faced the Batavi cohorts’ new parent legion, their blue tunics making them a unique sight on a battlefield dominated by the more usual whites and reds of the established legions. ‘First Classica. Soldiers from the fleet at Rome, you said?’
Varus nodded.
‘Marines, recruited by Nero and treated rather badly by Galba when he took power after Nero’s suicide. Ironic, isn’t it? If he’d won them over to his cause they might well have protected him from the praetorians Otho bribed to kill the emperor and acclaim him as the man’s successor. Instead, the men of the First Classica turned the men sent to seek their aid away at spearpoint. Although either course of action would still have put them right there, facing Twenty-First Rapax like lambs waiting for the slaughterman’s blade.’
Both men stared at the legion standing opposite, their neat, ordered ranks gleaming in the afternoon’s sun, every man in his place and standing in perfect, immobile silence, waiting for their opponents to complete their preparations to fight.
‘The men of the Rapax will go through them like a knife through tunic wool. The Twenty-First isn’t called the “Predator” without good cause.’
Scar shook his head slowly.
‘I do not entirely share your optimism, Prefect.’ Affronted, the Roman opened his mouth to issue a retort, but found his rebuke choked off by Scar’s raised finger. ‘In the interests of a good working relationship, it would be as well for you to be very clear that I am not given to overlooking opinions with which I am unable to agree, no matter what degree of mistrust my command might have sunk to in the eyes of the men who tell me where to go and fight. Or, as seems to be the case here, not to fight. It is not the way of the Batavi to hold back an opinion, and it is certainly not my way. It was one of the reasons that Julius, your first emperor in all but name, chose to ally our people with yours, but in truth we could not have changed that brutal honesty even if our very survival had depended upon it. So while I will ask for your forgiveness for contradicting you, I cannot apologise for the opinion. After the battle you may choose to put another man into my place – but then after the battle you or I may be dead, and the question of no more importance than what I had for breakfast this morning.’
Varus looked at him for a moment before replying.
‘Why? How can you look at the Twenty-First Legion and see anything other than those marines’ doom advancing on them? The Twenty-First has a hundred years of battle experience, a hundred years, and its eagle has seen victory in half a dozen provinces and more. That legion’s centurions are the best in the army, fierce, proud and brutal, and not likely to be overly troubled by men whose cohorts were only formed a year or so ago, and who have never before taken to any field of battle. Are they?’
Scar scratched the skin beneath the flat plate of his helmet’s neck guard, feeling the ridged line where an Iceni spear thrust had found the opening between mail and helmet, opening a six-inch-long gash that had soaked his back with blood, during the last battle of the revolt that had seen the rebellious tribes’ warriors annihilated by legionaries and auxiliaries numbering little more than a tenth of the defeated Britons’ strength.
‘Battles don’t always go with numerical superiority, Prefect, or with reputation for that matter. And yes, we know the Rapax well enough, a proud legion and nasty with it. Their centurions foster the belief that they are the best men in the army, savage in battle and careless of their lives when an enemy has the impudence to stand against them, much the same as ourselves. They are eager to fight and glory in the kill, painting their faces with the blood of the men they have slaughtered despite repeated orders not to do so. But I know fighting men, and what I see in those blue tunics is something equally dangerous.’
Varus snorted his disbelief.
‘Dangerous? What could be any more dangerous than the Twenty-First Legion in full cry?’
The Batavi prefect smiled thinly as he stared at the stolid lines of marines.
‘Discipline, Prefect. That legion over there may be new, but the cohorts and centuries that make it up look as ready for a fight as any veterans I ever fought beside in Britannia. Perhaps more so.’ The Roman was shaking his head, but remained silent as the Batavi continued. ‘We fought alongside our parent legion the Fourteenth Gemina often enough to see how you Romans face battle. And even in the ranks of the Fourteenth, named “victorious and blessed by Mars” after standing with us against ten times our own number to end the rebellion in Britannia, there were still men who had to be pushed into place with piss running down their legs. But that legion standing waiting for the Twenty-First to complete their preparations does so in complete silence, its ranks n
ot wavering in the slightest. And see how well presented they are?’
Varus shook his head with a look of incredulity.
‘Well presented? You’re trying to tell me that a freshly polished pair of boots will win a fight with the most bloody-handed legion in the empire? Those men have no idea what’s about to hit them, or they would be emptying more than their bladders at the prospect!’
Scar shrugged.
‘There’s more than one sort of courage, Prefect. The Twenty-First will be their usual wild selves, vying to be the first to get at their enemy, a warrior tribe of the sort that demands my respect. But those men facing us have one key attribute that might yet cancel out their ferocity …’ He smiled tightly at the prefect’s mystification. ‘Their appearance tells us a great deal about their training, Prefect. Their armour and weapons gleam so brightly that it can only be the result of repeated cleaning and oiling. I doubt there’s a single man in those ranks with his hair anything other than tightly cropped, and they’ve probably all shaved today as well, which means they have iron discipline, Prefect, unforgiving and harsh, with centurions who toil constantly to ensure that their men reach the highest possible standards. And men like that are unlikely to restrict their concerns to the closeness of a man’s hair to his scalp.’
Betrayal: The Centurions I Page 24
