by Ian Ross
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ἄπλωτα μὲν τὰ κατὰ θάλατταν ἦν οὐδ’ ἐξῆν ποθεν καταπλεύσαντας μὴ οὐχὶ πάσαις αἰκίαις ὑπάγεσθαι στρεβλουμένους καὶ τὰς πλευρὰς καταξαινομένους βασάνοις τε παντοίαις μὴ ἄρα παρὰ τῶν δἰ ἐναντίας ἐχθρῶν ἥκοιεν ἀνακρινομένους καὶ τέλος σταυροῖς ἢ τῇ διὰ πυρὸς ὑπαγομένους κολάσει ἀσπίδων ἐπὶ τούτοις καὶ θωρήκων παρασκευαὶ βελῶν τε καὶ δοράτων καὶ τῆς ἄλλης πολεμικῆς παρατάξεως ἑτοιμασίαι τριήρων τε καὶ τῶν κατὰ ναυμαχίαν ὅπλων κατὰ πάντα συνεκροτοῦντο τόπον οὐδ’ ἦν ἄλλο τι παντί τῳ προσδοκᾶν ἢ πολέμων κατὰ πᾶσαν ἔφοδον ἡμέραν.
For the sea could not be travelled, nor could men sail from any port without being exposed to all kinds of outrages; being stretched on the rack and lacerated in their sides, that it might be ascertained through various tortures, whether they came from the enemy; and finally being subjected to punishment by the cross or by fire.
And besides these things shields and body armour were being prepared, and darts and spears and other instruments of battle made ready, and galleys and naval armaments were collecting in every place.
And no one expected anything but to be attacked by enemies at any moment.
Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History
Historical Note
In AD 311 the Roman Empire stands on the brink of civil war. The unity established by the emperor Diocletian decades before has collapsed, and now four rivals contend for supreme power.
In the west, Constantine controls Gaul, Spain, Britain and the Rhine frontier. Licinius commands the central Danubian provinces, Greece and the Balkans, while Maximinus Daza rules the east and Egypt. Between them the usurper Maxentius, son of the former emperor Maximian, possesses the city of Rome itself, with Italy and North Africa.
The rival emperors prepare their troops and negotiate their alliances. All know that the coming war will decide the future of the Roman world.
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
Epigraph
Historical Note
Maps
Prologue
Part One
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Part Two
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Part Three
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Part Four
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Author’s Note
About The Battle for Rome
Reviews
About Ian Ross
About the Twilight of Empire Series
From the Editor of this Book
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
Prologue
Agri Decumates, Germania, December AD 311
The nine men were riding hard, bursting the silence of the winter forest. All trace of the road was gone, and they navigated only by the pale gleam of the sun through the weave of black branches overhead. Five hours the chase had lasted, and still they did not know who was pursuing them.
Up the slope between the trees, the riders crossed the bare summit of the ridge and plunged down the far side, into a narrower valley thick with dark pines. They had only ridden a short distance when the two remaining guides hauled on their reins and drew to a halt. One of them, the taller man with the red-dyed hair, raised himself in the saddle to peer between the trees, then called back. His breath plumed white in the frigid air.
‘They are ahead of us.’
‘How is that possible?’ the tribune, Ulpianus, said. He had been wounded in the morning attack, speared in the gut with a javelin, and his face was grey from loss of blood.
‘The valley goes like this,’ the guide told him, sketching a wide arc with his right arm. ‘They went around, I think.’
Ulpianus hissed between clenched teeth: ‘Find out who they are.’
The two tribesmen slipped from their saddles and began to edge down the hillside. The cries of the pursuit had fallen away now, and the slow silence of the forest was ominous. Pines groaned in the icy breeze.
‘Castus,’ the tribune said, wincing back over his shoulder. ‘To me.’
The rider behind him nudged his mount forward. He was a big man, with a thick neck and the ugly broken profile of a boxer. Like the others, he wore Germanic costume, and he had let his hair and beard grow out in a scrub of yellowish bristles. But the broadsword belted at his side and the gold torque at his collar marked him as a Roman soldier.
‘They have us surrounded,’ the tribune said. He sat hunched in the saddle, and the linen that bound his stomach was soaked through with blood. His strength was ebbing fast. ‘If we have to fight, take the package in my saddlebag and break through. Alone if necessary.’
Aurelius Castus twisted the reins between his fists, exhaled slowly. ‘I think we can make it if we stay together,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving you, dominus.’
Ulpianus glanced at him. ‘As a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard, you’re sworn to obey your commanding officer’s every order!’ He drew his lips back in a pained smile. ‘However, I expected you might say that… We all have our duty.’
‘We will do what we are ordered…’ Castus replied, his throat tightening as he spoke the first words of the traditional soldier’s oath.
Turning in the saddle, leather creaking beneath him, he looked back at the surviving members of the group. The attackers had hit their camp in the hour before dawn, howling out of the darkness in a swift raid that had left three men dead and two more wounded. Castus knew that they could all have been slaughtered, half of them in their sleep, but the raiders had only wanted to determine their strength, their identity and their purpose. One of the guides had vanished too, captured or fled.
Two of those that remained – his friend Brinno and another man – were fellow members of the Corps of Protectores. Two more were mounted archers of the Equites Sagittarii: good soldiers, but close to exhaustion, and still shaken after the loss of their comrades. There was the single surviving slave, the tribune, and then the two guides up ahead. All them uncertain and confused.
Castus’s hands were numb as they gripped the reins, and his face felt flayed and raw from the cold. A web of aches ran from his thighs up his spine and across his shoulders. The wind breathed ice across the back of his neck, and he tried not to shudder.
Six days had passed since they had left the imperial court at Treveris. Their mission was simple enough: they were to carry a sealed package to the court of the emperor Licinius, who ruled on the Danube. Only the tribune knew what the package contained, but whatever it was mu
st be valuable to warrant sending such a strong despatch party through barbarian country in the dead of winter. In times of peace, they could have travelled south, around the headwaters of the Rhine and up through the province of Raetia. But the governor of upper Raetia had declared his allegiance to the usurper Maxentius, controller of Italy; now Maxentian patrols ranged freely through that territory. Whatever the dangers of the barbarians, the risk of the package falling into the hands of the usurper’s men was far greater.
Castus eased back in his saddle, flexing his spine and his shoulders. He gazed at the forested hillsides around him. This wilderness between the Rhine and the Danube had once been part of the Roman Empire: the Agri Decumates, it was called. Fifty years ago there had been farms in these valleys, roads and towns, settled villas. For the last three days Castus and his party had been following the line of the old fortifications, the overgrown ditch and collapsing palisades that had once marked the edge of civilisation, now just a dead-straight scar across a wild landscape.
This was Alamannic country, but the Alamanni were bound by treaties with Rome. Either their attackers that morning had decided to ignore the treaties, Castus thought, or they too were intruders in this land, and had no treaties to break.
He looked down the slope and saw the two guides clambering back up between the trees, returning from their brief reconnaissance.
‘They wait for us, down in the valley,’ the red-haired one said. ‘They want to talk, looks like.’
‘Who are they?’ the tribune demanded.
‘Burgundii,’ said the other guide, and spat.
The guides were each from a different Alamannic tribe; the idea was, Castus supposed, that they distrusted each other more than they disliked Romans. With any luck, he thought, they hated the Burgundii even more.
‘Castus,’ Ulpianus said quietly. ‘You and Brinno go down there with the guides. Find out everything you can.’
And make sure the guides don’t betray us, Castus thought as he shook his reins.
They moved through the trees, leaning back in their saddles as the horses picked their way downhill into the valley. Castus was not a good horseman at the best of times; his mount was big, powerful, but it was also ill tempered and had a heavy gait. Ahead of him, Castus could see the two guides talking. They too seemed in a bad mood.
‘What are they saying?’ he asked Brinno, who rode just behind him. Brinno was a younger man than Castus, lean and sinewy; he was Frankish himself, a chieftain’s son born in the barbarian lands near the mouth of the Rhine, but had lived in Treveris these last twelve years. The language of the Franks and the Alamanni was similar enough.
‘The dark one wants to sell us to the Burgundii, I think,’ Brinno said.
‘And our red-haired friend?’
Brinno grinned, showing the gaps in his broken teeth. ‘He wants to wait. Maybe we meet somebody who will pay better!’
Castus felt a knot of tension slip in his chest. Brinno was a good man to have at his side. They had trained together, and stood side by side in battle before. He trusted the young Frank as much as he had ever trusted another man. As much as he had ever trusted anybody.
The slope levelled, and they rode slowly out from the cover of the trees onto the open valley floor. A shallow stream flowed wide over a shingle bed, the water glinting with ice between the rocks. The air was so cold down here it hurt to breathe. Almost too cold for fear; Castus just wanted this to be over, and soon. He could see the moon, a perfect white half-circle low above the treetops; only an hour or two of daylight remained.
On the level ground at the far side of the stream the Burgundii were waiting. Four of them, sitting with careful idleness on their shaggy little horses. Castus glanced quickly right and left. As many again on either side, just within the trees. Beyond them the valley narrowed, with high spurs of rock showing between the pines. A bottleneck. He realised that their pursuers had been herding them to this exact spot. Reaching beneath his cloak, he tugged at his sword hilt, freeing the blade from the cold lock of the scabbard mouth.
Leaning forward over his saddle horns, Castus surveyed the enemy riders. They wore capes of animal pelts, and each man had a wolf’s tail hanging from his shield. One had a red tunic, and his hair hung in neat braids – the chief, Castus guessed – but the others looked rough-edged and thick-bearded after many days of hard living. Their weapons were clean enough though, spears and broadswords, and the men had the look of fighters.
The two guides were talking, the Burgundii answering them in curt dismissive phrases. Castus heard Brinno sniff in disgust.
‘How many do you count?’ he said quietly, barely moving his lips.
‘Four right there, four more up the slopes on each side,’ Brinno replied.
Castus nodded. ‘Twelve, and nine of us. Not bad odds.’
‘You include the guides?’
‘All right, seven of us.’
‘One a wounded man who can hardly sit on a horse?’
‘Six, then.’
‘One a slave?’
‘So, five… What are you saying?’
Brinno gave a slow shrug and widened his eyes. ‘Nothing, brother. Only… if we go at them we have to go hard.’
Then he grinned again, and Castus found himself smiling back.
The conference was over, the two guides turning their horses and cantering back across the stream. Their expressions gave nothing away, but Castus already knew what they had to report. As they climbed slowly up the slope he told himself not to look back.
‘They say we can pass, but we have to surrender our weapons and horses,’ he informed Ulpianus and the others waiting below the ridge. ‘And the gold or valuables we’re carrying too.’
‘Valuables?’ said the other Protector.
‘The guide they captured this morning must have told them that,’ the tribune said. ‘Probably hoping to save his skin.’ He drew himself up in the saddle, his face tightening with the strain. ‘Listen,’ he told them. ‘We ride down there slowly, keeping close together, guides on the flanks. We get to within fifty paces of them, then at my signal we charge… every man for himself, cut your way through them and keep riding until we’re past. Understood?’
Nods all round. No words were necessary. Castus caught the tribune’s glance, and his eye went to the saddlebag.
Wind whipped at the treetops as they made their last preparations. Each man dismounted, checking his horse tack and equipment. Those who had wine or water drank and passed the canteens. Then they swung back into their saddles, loosening swords, the archers flexing their bows. Castus raised his arms above his head, warming his muscles, and felt the burn of blood flowing to his numbed hands. He retied the leather grip of his hunting spear, jabbed the weapon right and left, then propped it across his saddle bow and pulled the cloak back around him. Then they began the descent into the valley.
The Burgundii were still waiting on the far side of the stream, but their brothers had closed in from either side, watching as the Roman column moved out from the pines and forded the shallow icy water. Castus was riding in the lead, with Brinno to his right and Ulpianus just behind to his left. They were out of the water now, the horses shivering and blowing steam as they climbed the bank onto the level ground. Sixty paces. The Burgundii were shifting, spreading out ahead of them.
Fifty paces. No word from Ulpianus.
Forty. The Burgundii were lifting their spears, backing their horses. They had to attack now, Castus thought. Either that or halt.
He risked a glance back at Ulpianus. The tribune was swaying in his saddle, eyes closed, one arm clasped to his belly.
Gods below. Castus swept the spear free of his cloak and kicked his heels. ‘Go!’ he yelled, and the word rang in the frozen air.
His horse heaved, then surged forward into a headlong charge that almost threw him from the saddle. Behind him he could hear Brinno’s scream of rage, then the noise of the wind erased all sound and for three heartbeats he felt airborne, flung forwa
rd with the spear whirling out and the bright blade flashing in the sunlight.
Two men ahead of him urged their horses together to trap him. Castus was almost on them when he hauled the reins sharply; his big horse jinked, forelegs off the ground, then slammed into the rider to the left. Castus swung forward with the impact, punching down with the spear as his horse kicked out at the other animal. The spear went wide; he pulled back his arm to strike again but the rider was already falling from the saddle, tumbling beneath the hooves.
A sword lashed in from his right, and Castus swayed backwards as the blade cut the air before his chest. He turned his spear clumsily and got the shaft of it up with both hands to block the next attack. The other rider was close, the two horses shoving together; the sword came down and chopped into the spearshaft, and when the Burgundian dragged his blade free the shaft broke. Castus hurled the stump of the broken spear at the man’s head, then reached beneath his cloak for his sword.
His hand found only bunched wool; his belts had twisted and the weapon was out of reach. The Burgundian’s face was alight with triumph as he raised his sword for the killing blow. A jolt went through him; Castus’s horse had lashed its head round and bitten the other animal on the neck. Castus leaned quickly from the saddle, ramming his arm across the Burgundian’s shoulder and grappling his neck. Before the man could regain control of his panicking horse Castus had dragged him half out of the saddle. He punched his fist into the side of the man’s head, once, twice, very fast; then the other horse bolted clear. Castus heard the crunch of the Burgundian’s neck as he let him drop.
Sun was in his eyes, everything dazzling, and the air seemed too thin to breathe. Twisting, he looked back and saw Ulpianus slouched in the saddle as his horse circled and pawed the ground. Three enemy riders were closing in from the valley slope, whooping as they came; an arrow struck one of them and he flung up his legs and tumbled back over the haunches of his mount.
Cursing, Castus wrestled his own horse around and then seized the tribune’s reins. Groping through the folds of his cloak he found the hilt of his sword and with a sharp tug he drew the weapon free. To his right, Brinno was in combat with another rider, the two of them circling as they traded grimly precise blows. The Burgundian chief, the man with the braids, had got behind Brinno and was raising his spear to strike. Castus urged his horse into a swift canter that closed the distance between them fast; the Burgundian chief was still watching Brinno as Castus yelled and slashed his sword down. The blade sheared off the back of the man’s skull. Blood sprayed pink in the clean air, and Castus felt the heat of it spattering his face and chest. A moment later Brinno’s adversary was down too.
