‘And that is their king, Rex Priarius,’ Dagr added, seeing Gallus eye the Lentienses leader. The lime-haired auxiliary centurion cupped his hands to his lips and turned to face into the woods, making a trilling bird-noise. A short while later, Gratian’s forces emerged from the trees by Gallus’ left. They crouched, just like the auxiliaries, remaining unseen. The fierce Heruli formed the Roman centre, six ranks deep and nearly two hundred men wide, with the equites remaining well-hidden in the trees to the right of the line and the archers along with the VIII Augusta cohort taking up the left. Gratian and Dexion stood behind the wall of Heruli, the mounted pair pointing across the field, eyes judging the tract of emptiness between the two forces, frequently turning to the southern hills.
You rely upon Merobaudes? What if he has chosen to be a disobedient hound? Gallus wondered, just as the grey clouds won the battle for the sky and the fine spray rain turned heavy, soaking him in moments. The Frankish general was supposed to be here. Without him, Gratian’s force would be no match for the vast Lentienses army should the barbarians spot the Roman force watching them. Without Merobaudes, the Western Emperor’s neck was at risk. He along with every other Roman present would surely be trampled and cut to pieces by the Lentienses… including Dexion. Gallus mind darted from one future to another. To die here and know Dexion had fallen too would be a fitting end. But should the Western Empire be thrown into turmoil with the loss of its emperor, what hope was there of a relief force to aid Valens and the XI Claudia in the east?
Mithras guide me! he mouthed, touching the hewn, bloodstained remains of the small wooden idol in his purse. One word hissed in his mind in reply.
Survive.
It hit him like a rock between the eyes. Had it come from the deity, or from deep down in the darkness inside? He was given no chance to consider this, as a Roman buccina sounded. His blood ran cold as he turned to see Gratian waving his hands as if lifting invisible weights. ‘Up, up!’ he cried out as if reinforcing the trumpet call. The Heruli rose obediently, as did the other units in the line. Their meagre cover had been cast to the wind by the boy-emperor.
You fool! Gallus mouthed, his blood running cold. At once, his eyes switched to the far side of the clearing. The Lentienses mass fell silent. Some eighteen thousand stunned faces turned and gawped at the tiny Roman force on the western edge of the woods. Then, as one, they erupted in a throaty howl and, a moment later, surged across the clearing.
Gallus looked along the puny Roman line. Fall back, he mouthed, willing Gratian to see sense. But Gratian simply watched the onrushing Lentienses with a languid eye, as if he was judging some dull palace entertainment. Likewise, Dexion showed no signs of alarm. The Heruli braced, presenting a line of spears, jutting from their wall of red and white ringed shields. The rightmost of them stood just a pace away from Gallus, and Gallus stepped towards the man so their shoulders brushed. At that moment, Gallus longed more than ever to have his beloved Claudia ranks cluster by his free shoulder. Instead, the auxiliary century formed a line there, Dagr the lime-haired colossus immediately beside him, adopting an inadequate defensive stance, holding his spear overhead as if readying to throw it.
‘No,’ Gallus growled, grabbing the man’s wrist. The giant’s eyes flared in indignation for a moment, but Gallus ignored him, digging his own spear butt into the ground for stability then stood one foot forward and the other at an angle, dug into the earth for purchase. ‘Brace!’ he called along the auxiliary line, rainwater now sheeting from the brow of his helm. The ferocity in his voice seemed to blow away the possibility of any riposte from Dagr – ostensibly his superior – who along with the rest of the century, followed suit, presenting a row of spear tips. Those with shields lifted them and held them as Gallus did also.
‘Wolf-eyes and now wolf’s bark?’ the giant centurion said, one eyebrow cocked.
‘Wolf’s corpse if we don’t stand together,’ Gallus snarled. ‘Ready!’ he screamed as the tide of Lentienses washed to within a hundred paces. Each and every one of them wore the gleeful look of warriors knowing they could not lose, mouths agape in their thunderous war cry. Many thousands of arms shot up, hoisting those ango javelins. The sight sent a cold wash through Gallus’ veins: he had seen what the Roman plumbatae could do to an enemy army, and this missile was every bit as deadly. ‘Shields, higher!’ he cried. From the corner of his eye, he noticed something. Dexion was looking in his direction, seeking out the feral voice in the auxiliary century. He dipped his head and tilted the brow of his helm down. But vitally, the men had abided his order and the shields rose, as did those of the Heruli who had seemingly heard Gallus’ cry and saw wisdom in it – a clutch of them in the rear ranks also throwing up a wall of shields around Gratian and Dexion. The Lentienses loosed their javelins with one guttural grunt, and then flew for the Roman line like a swarm of hornets. Gallus braced as one missile whacked against his shield boss, jarring his already tender shoulder, then another burst through his shield, the tip coming to a rest an inch to the right of his cheek. He heard the dull, wet thwack of many of the missiles punching into flesh, and felt a warm, wet spray of blood shower his face as it mixed with the teeming rain.
Damn, it felt good to be in battle once more, he thought, exalted and then ashamed. Tartarus or Elysium? a dark voice taunted him, as if chastising him for the momentary exhilaration.
He rid himself of the thought as the auxiliary to the right of Dagr sunk to his knees, his body palpitating as he tried to wrench the spear from his chest, gouts of blood lurching from his mouth with every pull as the barbs wrecked the inside of his chest cavity. Another lay a few strides back from the line, his face ruined by a direct strike from a well-aimed javelin. Many others – nearly a third of the century – were on their knees, roaring and clutching pierced or shattered limbs. On his left, the Heruli had fared better, with the ordered and complete shield wall peppered with javelins but only a few men having fallen.
And still the Lentienses came like demons, bounding to within fifty paces. Now they tore their francisca throwing axes from the leather straps on their chests and hurled them, one after another, low along the ground. They skipped and spun across the grass, throwing up dirt and debris as they came. Gallus threw his shield down to cover his legs, but one axe crunched into the top and reduced the timber edge to shreds, the impact diverted the axe, sending it spinning up and skating from the brow of his helm. Another bouncing axe tore past his calf and he ducked from another just in time. The auxiliaries nearby did not fare so well – one man stood gawping, a throwing axe having leapt up from a divot in the earth and embedded in his forehead. Now sheets of dark blood wept from the cleft, coating his face. One auxiliary staggered back, two axes embedded in his chest, and another man pivoted and howled in agony as an axe took away his leg below the shin, blood spurting from the stump. Forty or more had fallen, and a clutch of the Heruli and several of the Augusta legionaries had been struck down too.
Twenty paces, ten. The Roman line bristled, crying out as the Lentienses bounded over the last few strides then, like rabid dogs, leapt upon the imperial front. Rainwater and blood sprayed into the air as shield smashed against shield and sharpened steel sundered flesh. Gallus heard his own war cry as the incredible weight of the Lentienses drove the Roman line back. ‘The flanks!’ he bellowed as an enemy sword chopped down and shredded what was left of his shield – for the barbarians were swarming to the ends of the Roman line, knowing their huge numerical advantage meant they could easily envelop the imperial force. He threw up his spear to block a flurry of Lentienses sword thrusts, then swiped it round as if fighting off wild animals, the spear tip ripping one man’s belly open and then plunging through the underside of another’s jaw before resting somewhere inside his brain cavity. The dead man fell back, taking Gallus’ spear with him. Weaponless, he snatched up a fallen Lentienses shield and did all he could to resist as the auxiliary right crumpled under the pressure. A sword tore across his jaw, cutting his helm’s chinstrap. The nex
t swinging flat of an enemy blade sent the helm toppling into the mud. The rain and bloodspray soaked his face and beard and he knew the next blow might be the last one.
He caught sight of Gratian watching his soldiers die, only now becoming agitated, backing away on his horse, eyes wide and fixed on the southern hills. Merobaudes isn’t coming. You’ve been betrayed, you bastard. You and your vile agent will die here…
Then, like the lament of a vengeful god, an orchestra of cornua wailed through the rainstorm. The sound filled the clearing and seemed to echo back and forth. Again and again they sounded. Confused, the Lentienses’ pressure ebbed. Their warriors backed away, shields raised, heads flicking one way and then the other in an effort to locate the source of the horns. As quickly as their battle cries had faded, a hubbub of snatched curses and panicked shouts replaced them. ‘Romani!’ one shrieked, his bulging eyes fixed on the southern hills and his rugged face at once paling.
Gallus turned to see the dark wash of shapes that poured over the hills. Two wings of fine equites, each a thousand strong, riding flat in their saddles with brown leather armour and sharpened lances levelled. The riders spilled down the hillsides and into the clearing, breaking into a charge straight for the Lentienses’ rear, fetlocks thrashing and throwing up rainwater and mud with every stride, coming right for where Gallus and the auxiliaries were about to capitulate. Leading them was a giant: tall, with strands of his long, brown hair lashed to his scarred, drawn face by the rain. He rode a mighty bay stallion, muscular and fast.
Merobaudes.
Gallus backed away, knowing what was about to happen. With a grim discord of crumpling bodies, dashing iron and tearing flesh, the two Roman cavalry wings ploughed into the barbarian mass. The largely unarmoured Lentienses warriors were cast up into the air like children’s toys, limbs flailing, sometimes attached to torsos by nothing more than a strip of skin or sinew. Blood puffed at the head of the cavalry charge as many of the Lentienses disappeared under the thrashing hooves, and Roman spears and swords lanced and hacked at any who dared to stand their ground. The seemingly unstoppable tide of Lentienses was rocked, but still they had a massive numerical advantage. With a cry from King Priarius, they turned away from Gratian’s small force at the western treeline and surged against the riders attacking their rear. But the Roman cavalry peeled back nimbly, breaking away before the Lentienses could ensnare them.
They galloped towards the eastern treeline, drawing the pursuing tribesmen into the centre of the plain before wheeling away to the southern hills again. The barbarians slowed, confused, then they broke out in a wail as the eastern treeline now came to life. A wall of glittering iron and legionary banners emerged from the shadows there – Gallus recognised the insignias of the Celtae and the Petulantes, two of the western auxilia palatina legions formed from allied Frankish tribes and now clad in iron like legionaries. A moment later, they were joined by eight more legions – a majestic wall of iron and bright shields. To a well-drilled series of orders and buccina tunes, they lifted javelins and bows and loosed as one. The glum sky almost darkened completely as the thick hail slashed out across the charged air of the clearing and battered into the Lentienses, tearing flesh, sending streaks of blood in every which direction, stealing the lives of many hundreds. The rest, stricken with terror, looked to the west and Gratian’s men, to the south and Merobaudes’ cavalry, readying to charge again from the hillsides. King Priarius’ eyes were wide with fear now, seeing his men were almost surrounded. Another trio of missile volleys dropped thousands more of his people to the reddened ground, screaming. Many began to cast down their spears and turn to run for the north whence they had come. The battle was over, the Lentienses’ spirit had been snatched away, but the cornua sounded on and on.
Suddenly, with a blast of the horns near Gallus, his beleaguered line of just a few thousand at the tree line were urged forward to help seal the victory. Gallus saw Dexion and a clutch of equites coming to hurry the auxiliary century out onto the plain. He realised then that he had lost his helm, and only just turned his back in time. He rushed out onto the flat ground, stopping only to pick up a shield from a fallen auxiliary.
‘Advance!’ Gratian screamed, his languid mask evaporating as he craned forward on his saddle, haranguing his armies into the fray from his position of safety behind them. ‘Slay every last man! Flood this plain with their blood!’
Gallus was faced with only the backs of fleeing, panicked tribesmen – bare backs mainly. He had no urge to plunge his spear into the flesh of a beaten enemy.
‘They flee, back to the Rhenus, back home,’ Dagr panted, slowing in his pursuit.
Gallus slowed with him. The pair caught their breaths, watching as a cluster of a few thousand of the tribesmen seemed set to make it back into the rugged woods at the north edge of the clearing. Arrows continued to rain on those to the rear, ending lives in swathes. The rain lashed harder and harder, and in every direction Gallus looked, he saw that the moments-ago pleasant glade was carpeted with bare-chested Lentienses, faces gawping in death cries or staring lifelessly to the skies. The earth underfoot was pure mire too, and his boots were ankle-deep in red-tinged water. Gratian had got what he demanded, it seemed. Just three small packs of Lentienses escaped – King Priarius fleeing with them – less than one in five of the eighteen thousand who had just a short while ago rushed confidently at Gratian’s men.
‘The battle is over, but their king lives on,’ Dagr mused, seeing the last of the Lentienses fading into the northern trees.
‘Perhaps that is no bad thing,’ Gallus panted. ‘His armies are in ruin. He will not risk marching against Rome again… besides, after what happened here, I reckon he will have enough to concern himself with – holding onto power within his own people for one thing.’
A splash of hooves sounded behind them. A burning sense of realisation crept over his skin as he heard Dexion’s voice. ‘Auxiliaries, gather up our dead.’ The hooves slowed to a walk, and Gallus knew the speculator was coming round and would in moments look him in the face. Like an obedient soldier, he dropped to a crouch and made as if to dig his hands in under the shoulders of the nearest fallen legionary. With a flick of his palm, he cast up a handful of blood-streaked mud, smearing it across his features. Dexion walked his mount past. ‘Good, good,’ the speculator said in contentment, peering down his nose and moving on.
Gallus risked a look up, exhaling in relief to see the back of Dexion. But then he noticed another pair of eyes upon him. Dagr was staring at him.
‘That is an odd custom,’ Dagr said, pointing at his own face, then pointing at Gallus’ blood and mud-smeared features.
Gallus tried to brush the comment off. ‘Wanted to make him think I killed more Lentienses than I did. Maybe I’ll get promoted?’
‘Hmmm,’ Dagr said, his eyes narrowing a fraction before he turned away to help with the dead nearby. Gallus sensed the man studying him every now and again with further furtive glances, but tried to block it out as they heaped body after body together – the Romans for burial and the countless Lentienses for burning.
It was nearing evening and still teeming with rain by the time the dead had been dealt with. The Army of the West now filled the clearing, thirty thousand strong. The glade was filled with their many tents and awnings, and they ate and listened while Gratian took to riding his silver stallion amongst their campfires. Dexion rode by his left side and Merobaudes, the giant Master of Horse rode, on his right wearing a shell of fine iron armour, his long dark, straggly hair soaked and hanging to his shoulders.
‘A fine victory was won today, my men,’ Gratian called out. Merobaudes seemed to flinch just a fraction at the use of my. ‘From this day forth, I will be known as Alemannicus Maximus, vanquisher of the Lentienses and their Alemannic allies.’ Again, Merobaudes seemed to bristle. ‘Now you must all be wondering: where next? Where will we take more glory?’
‘Aye!’ many cheered, more than a few ruddy-cheeked having overdosed on their wine
ration.
Gallus, reacquainted with his helm, watched on from under the shaded brim, chewing on mouthful of hot mutton and carrot stew and a small loaf of bread. Take us east, you bastard! he thought. This army had made light work of the Lentienses. The Goths, he knew, would be a far tougher prospect, but with this force and Emperor Valens’ armies united, Thracia could be saved. Take us east at haste! His teeth ground and he lowered his bowl as he scowled at Dexion. And then… then I can prize out your heart.
‘Something wrong with your food?’ Dagr asked quietly, looking at Gallus then flicking his gaze at Dexion in suspicion.
Startled, Gallus shook his head and returned to eating, pretending to be as ravenous as the others in the auxiliary century.
‘The Lentienses were a parasite in the imperial flesh, burrowing into our territory, sacking and looting our lands, but their might is crippled,’ Gratian continued. ‘Yet the head of the parasite lives on,’ he stabbed out an arm and pointed to the northern woods, ‘scurrying back upriver then across the Rhenus to fester and grow again.’
Gallus looked up at the boy-emperor with a creeping sense of dread of what was to come next.
‘So we must crush the head, grind it into the dirt.’ Gratian punched a fist into his palm and grinned. ‘For only then can we be sure that our lands are safe. Thracia and the East will have to wait, for in the morning, we march into the woods to hunt proud Priarius and strike him down.’
The blood thundered in Gallus’ ears. All his thoughts turned to his loyal men and the armies of Thracia.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 15
