Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  ‘Do it,’ Castus said.

  Vitalis nodded, then swung himself back into the saddle and spurred his horse into a gallop. Dust funnelled up behind him, pale grey in the moonlight.

  *

  Forward again, pushing through the ranks, Castus reached the front line and took his shield from Brocchus, then lifted his head to check the formation of his legion. They resembled a mob now, all order frayed, penned in behind the defensive wall of shields. Already Castus could hear the enemy signals, and see the vast indistinct horde opposite stirring into motion once more. Rhythmic shouts were going up, a chant, but he could not make out the words.

  Seizing a fallen spear, he clashed it against the rim of his shield. Two strikes, four, and then the men around him took up the rhythm.

  ‘BRITANNICA!’ Castus yelled. ‘BRITANNICA!’ He felt the force of battle flowing through him again, the fighting spirit powering his blood. All along the line, men joined the chant, the clash of spears and roar of voices filling the night.

  Across the darkened enemy lines, the moon lit a fluttering banner. The white draco of Pompeianus. Castus fell silent, tightening his jaw. He dropped the spear and drew his sword. Then, a moment later, the enemy let out a single vast cheer and began their charge.

  They moved from the centre, forming as they ran into a blunt-headed wedge aimed directly for Castus’s legion. Castus heard himself shouting, crying out the familiar commands, but everyone around him knew what was happening now: bodies tensed, feet braced, they counted their heartbeats until the shock of impact.

  The force drove Castus back, the whole line buckling around him, and then there were spears darting and jabbing around his head. Pushing back upright, he shoved himself forward, feeling dead men beneath his feet. He was clambering over corpses piled knee-high. A shield rim punched against him, ringing off the manica that cased his right arm; Castus flicked his blade out and heard a yelp of pain. The men behind him were pressing at his back, and he was shouting, incoherent, as the two masses of men ground together.

  He swung a blow overarm and felt his blade cut into an enemy shield; he tugged, but the sword was stuck fast. Another wrenching tug, then the weapon came free, but when he drew back his arm Castus saw only a stub of broken metal above the gilded hilt. He dropped it, reaching down into the crush beneath him for another weapon. His hands skated over the backs of fallen men, a bloodied face. Then he was crouching, his shield raised above him as he groped blindly in darkness. A sharp edge beneath his fingers; he ran his hand along it and felt a hilt, a worn grip. Closing his fist around the sword Castus surged back to his feet, but he was disorientated now. The crush swirled around him, a wild melee, and for a few moments he could not tell friend from foe. He heard somebody shouting: ‘HERCULIA! HERCULIA!’

  Then he saw the feathered helmets of his own men, and struck out in the other direction.

  A man came pushing through the ranks beside him. Castus saw only a helmet crested with horsehair, a shouting face. ‘Form a wedge on me!’ the man was yelling. ‘Form wedge and advance!’

  Castus gaped at him for a moment. ‘Who are you?’ he screamed. ‘Get back in line!’

  But the man was already ploughing his shield into the mass of the enemy. There were more men behind him, shoving their way up through the ranks. But not enough of them, Castus thought. Not enough to make a difference.

  ‘Hold your positions!’ he bellowed into the clattering din. ‘Hold steady!’

  The man with the horsehair plume was still pushing forward, the line stretching in his wake as some of the front-rank men obeyed his command. With a stab of shock, Castus realised that he had recognised the man: the infantryman’s helmet had confused him, but suddenly he was certain. ‘Gods below!’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Brocchus!’ he cried, glancing around him. There was no sign of the eagle-bearer. ‘Brocchus! Hold the men back – keep the formation steady!’

  ‘Tribune.’ A figure staggered up beside him, grasping his arm. Rogatianus’s dark face was almost invisible behind the nasal bar of his helmet. ‘Tribune… was that…?’

  Castus nodded, teeth clenched. He could see the horsehair plume swaying over the enemy ranks, the armoured figure of the emperor hacking a path into the heart of the opposing formation. Ice filled his veins, and he remembered the battle in the forests of Germania years before, Constantine’s mad horseback charge across the flooded valley at the barbarian fortifications… It was happening again. It was happening again, and there was nothing he could do to stop it…

  ‘We have to get him back!’ he shouted to Rogatianus, and the centurion nodded sharply. ‘Form two files of your men behind me, quickly – shields to the front and we go!’

  Already the enemy formation, thrown into turmoil by the sudden foray, was massing again, pressing forward to seal off the emperor and his band of followers. Castus felt the jostle of men at his back, the clash and rattle of locking shields. Then he swung his hand up, a dead man’s sword lifted high, and yelled the order to advance.

  At once the enemy closed around them, spears hedging them on all sides. Castus wielded his shield like a weapon, smashing aside bodies, punching the boss into the faces of men ahead of him. When he looked up he saw the horsehair plume still dancing in the moonlight. Beyond it, far beyond it over the massed gleaming helmets of the enemy, waved the white draco of the enemy commander.

  The mad bastard, Castus thought. He wants to fight his way through to Pompeianus…

  Fury surged through him, and a roar burst from his throat as he fought. All of this was about Constantine. The emperor’s glory, the emperor’s victory. The men whose corpses Castus stamped underfoot had died for that. The lines of dead and wounded sprawled behind the legion lines had fallen for that. Reeling on his feet, still battling forward, Castus felt a sensation of hatred flooding him. Who was this man, this emperor, to order such slaughter? For so many years Castus had followed the man, saluted and acclaimed him, bled for him, fought his battles, killed his opponents. He had risked everything, and laid a path for Constantine in the blood of other men. Only now, lost in the frenzied mesh of battle, did his heart recoil from that truth.

  ‘Constantine!’ he screamed, and he did not know if it was a battle cry or a curse.

  There was no sign of the horsehair plume now, but when the mass of soldiers ahead of him fell back for a moment Castus saw the body sprawled across a mound of the slain. He yelled again, plunging forward; Rogatianus was right behind him, with a knot of other Britannica men, and the enemy were falling away from them.

  ‘Shields around me!’ Castus called over his shoulder. A last few strides, swinging his blade, and he stood over Constantine’s body. The emperor was wounded, but was still moving, trying to stand.

  ‘Rogatianus – two of yours to help carry him.’

  A javelin smacked into his shield; another flicked over his shoulder. His men had formed a ring, surrounding the fallen emperor. When he looked down Castus saw Rogatianus on his knees, a javelin jutting from his neck. He cried out, but the centurion had already dropped at his feet.

  Throwing down his shield, Castus seized Constantine under the arms and wrestled him upright. The emperor was soaked in blood: his own, or the blood of other men, Castus could not tell.

  ‘Forward,’ the emperor gasped, staggering on his feet. ‘We must go forward.’

  Castus seized him by the shoulders. ‘No!’ he shouted, spit spraying from his mouth. ‘Listen to me, you insane idiot – you’re killing my men! How many more do you want to die? Back to the lines – now!’

  Dragging the emperor behind him with one hand, sword levelled in the other, he turned and began fighting his way back to safety. Rogatianus’s few surviving men raised their shields around him, and together they beat a path through the enemy.

  Chaos all around them, shouting men falling back, others pressing forward. Castus could feel hot blood coursing down his body inside the bind of his cuirass; he had a cut on his neck that he had not noticed.
Behind him the emperor was still staggering, head down. The noise of battle had become a constant rumble and hiss, like the hoarse breathing of a giant. Blades clashed and flickered in the moonlight, but Castus felt numb, heedless of the danger all around him, intent only on forcing himself forward.

  Then, ahead of him, the enemy ranks opened and he saw the wall of sun-wheel shields. He was shouting, the words ripping from his throat, men tumbling out of the line to surround him and draw him back between them.

  Then the shields closed around him, and he was safe in the heart of the battle once more.

  *

  The field was rutted with the dead. The sun was still below the eastern horizon, but there was light enough in the sky to make out the corpses lying in mounds on the blackened grass. Castus walked slowly, stepping across the bodies, and with every step he felt his boots sink into the blood-soaked ground.

  He had no idea how long the fighting had lasted, or truly when it had finished. The men in the battle lines had been too exhausted to cheer; they had just sunk to their knees among the bodies of their fallen comrades. Still the slaughter had continued, even after the messengers had ridden across the field with news of the victory. Hundreds, perhaps thousands more of the Maxentian soldiers had died, either trying to retreat or in desperate refusal to surrender. Pompeianus had been found dead on the field, Castus had heard, surrounded by the men of his bodyguard. He had seen nothing of Constantine after dragging him out of the battle.

  Far across the field in the slow leak of daylight, Castus could see other parties moving among the bodies. Some were soldiers, searching for their fallen comrades, others were civilians who had appeared from the surrounding villages to loot the dead. A patrol of cavalry passed, their horse, stepping warily among the corpses. Castus raised his hand in tired salute; it had been the cavalry who had won the fight in the end, breaking the enemy’s right wing and rolling up their flank.

  Exhaling, Castus felt the ache in his body, the slow churn of nausea in his belly. He was still wearing armour, his dented helmet clasped beneath his arm, and a thick pad of bandages tied against his neck. How many men had he lost? He had known many battlefields, but none quite like this. None where most of the fallen were Roman soldiers.

  ‘Dominus!’ Eumolpius cried from away to his left, raising a fallen shield. Castus made out the sun-wheel emblem, distinct in the greyness. ‘There are more here,’ the orderly called. ‘This was our position, I think…’

  Castus nodded, then strode over to join him. He had not been sure where his legion had been placed, but now he saw it plainly. The dead were piled in front like a low uneven rampart, and spilled away behind.

  ‘Stack up some shields here as a marker,’ Castus said. ‘Then run back to the lines and fetch the stretcher parties.’

  Already he could see surgeons and army slaves moving around between the bodies, kneeling beside some with bandages and water flasks, shaking their heads over others. Pacing heavily, Castus followed the line that his legion had held.

  It was getting lighter now, and he could make out the faces. He forced himself to look at them, to remember their names. Fifty paces on and he paused, staring down at the choked knot of bodies sprawled together at his feet.

  Salvianus, he thought. The young Christian recruit lay on his back, his face blank and oddly peaceful, sightless eyes rolled upwards in death. Beside him, lying against the piled corpses of other men, was Trocundus. Castus could not tell which of the two had fallen first, but their outflung hands were almost touching, as if they had reached out and found some unlikely companionship in death.

  Castus breathed deeply, feeling the pressure in his chest. He had seen so many dead men; it should hardly matter to him. But when he raised his blood-crusted hand to his face he felt tears well from his eyes. Tired, he thought. Exhausted. He forced himself to turn away from the bodies and continue along the line.

  A flash of gold, down in the muck of dust and blood. Castus stooped, groaning with the effort, and picked up the hilt of his broken sword. He was surprised nobody else had taken it yet: the gilding alone was worth a good price. He stuck it through his belt, then turned to gaze out over the plain.

  ‘Brother,’ a voice called weakly. ‘Brother – you got water?’

  Castus paced forward, peering into the gloom. The fallen soldier lay a short distance away, propped on one elbow. Even as he approached, Castus could tell he was from the opposing army. He could also tell that the man was dying; one of his legs had been almost sheared off, and he was lying in a congealing pool of his own blood. It was amazing he was still conscious.

  ‘Fucking parched,’ the soldier managed to say. Castus knelt down beside him, feeling the blood soaking the knee of his breeches. He pulled a flask from his belt and held it to the soldier’s lips.

  ‘Wine!’ the man said, after sucking down a mouthful. He grinned, let out a shuddering gasp, then drank again. ‘Now that’s decent of you, brother…’

  Castus recognised his accent. Pannonian, like his own. He could not see the fallen man’s shield, but he knew where he was from.

  ‘Herculiani?’ he said. The soldier nodded, then tipped his head back with a groaning sigh.

  ‘I was ten years in the Second Herculia,’ Castus told him, and his voice caught as he spoke. ‘Primus’s century, then Dexter’s. Ever heard of them?’

  The soldier blinked, and his eyes seemed to clear a little. ‘Valerius Dexter I know,’ he said. ‘He’s a tribune now, so they say. Haven’t seen him in years.’

  ‘How come you’re here?’

  The soldier stirred, then gasped in pain. Castus took him by the shoulder to support him. He could smell the blood all around him.

  ‘Came down with Galerius,’ the soldier said. ‘Six years ago, was it? Whole detachment went over to Maxentius… He’s the emperor in Rome, so we said he… must be the proper one to support. Right?’

  Castus snorted a laugh, then lifted the flask for the man to drink again. It seemed the only help he could offer.

  ‘So what about you? How’d you end up fighting for Constan-thingy?’

  ‘Long story,’ Castus said in a breath. He wondered if he might somehow save the soldier, carry him to a surgeon; he glanced around for a slave he could call to help him. But no – the man’s life was ebbing fast. Even to move him would kill him.

  ‘Go on, then,’ the soldier said. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world…’ A shudder racked him, and he tensed. ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘No, I haven’t… ha ha!’ He was laughing through clenched teeth, still grinning.

  Castus felt his own body shaking, tremors of cold running through his limbs, as if the man’s pain were soaking into him. He could not speak.

  ‘Oh, well,’ the dying man said. ‘They’re all the same, eh? You follow yours, I follow mine, but they’re all fucking bastards when all’s done…’ His face had turned grey, and his brow was beaded with sweat. ‘Hey,’ he said, the words seeming to leak from him. ‘Is it true your one’s turned Christian? That’s what we heard…’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Castus replied. He was holding the dying soldier to his chest now, feeling the slow creep of death.

  ‘Ah,’ the soldier said again. ‘Well… reckon I’m done, brother. Can’t feel a thing… Give my regards to the old Danube, if you get that far… How about another drop of that wine, eh?’

  Castus lifted the flask to the man’s mouth, his hand trembling. The soldier’s lips did not move. He gave a last twitch, and then the light faded from his eyes.

  Easing the body down, Castus knelt for a few moments. A sudden shudder locked his shoulders, and his chest heaved against the breastplate of his cuirass. He drew another breath, then hauled himself to his feet. Away across the plain, the first rays of sun were lighting the sky.

  *

  Vitalis met him as he strode back into the legion camp. Castus could see men looking at him, muttering words to each other. He assumed it was because he was covered in blood.

  ‘Did you l
ose your mind?’ Vitalis hissed, grabbing him by the shoulder.

  Castus stared at him, then shook himself free and walked on. Vitalis fell into step beside him.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ the other officer said in a low voice. ‘I mean… the heat of battle’s one thing… but that’s no excuse!’

  Ahead of him Castus could see the command tent already raised, horses and men gathered around it. Diogenes was there, with Brocchus and Modestus. They turned to stare at him as he approached, their faces blank.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Castus said as they parted before him. Nobody spoke. He pushed past them and on into the tent.

  ‘Aurelius Castus,’ a voice said. A young man, a staff officer by the look of him, was leaning against the folding table. Macer stood beside him, with a couple of orderlies. The young man straightened up.

  ‘By the sacred order of the emperor, Constantine Augustus,’ he said, ‘you are hereby relieved of the command of the Second Britannica Legion. Aelius Vitalis will take command in your place.’

  Castus blinked, feeling the air rush from his body. He looked at Macer, and the old drillmaster shook his head sadly and turned away.

  Taking the gilded sword hilt from his belt, Castus tossed it onto the floor. Then he turned and walked out of the tent, into the clean morning sunlight.

  ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ Vitalis said from behind him.

  Chapter XIV

  The oval of the old amphitheatre resembled a gaping mouth, filled with broken teeth. Amidst the heaps of fallen masonry and the scarred stonework, nearly ten thousand prisoners from the defeated army filled the bowl of seats and the open space of the former arena. Stripped of their weapons, armour and belts, they sat in huddles, dressed only in their loose tunics. Archers lined the parapets above them, but the prisoners seldom glanced upwards. They seemed more intent on keeping out of the direct glare of the sun.

  Stepping from the dark archway high in the upper tiers, Castus heard the iron gate swing closed behind him and the key grate in the lock. Slowly, hands clasped at the base of his spine, he descended the steps between the tiers of seating. Two soldiers walked behind him, armed with spears, but none of the defeated men made any hostile move towards him. Some just stared as he passed; a few of them hissed abuse. On their faces Castus saw anger, humiliation, tired resentment.