As if blown open by the breath of a god, the smoke veil parted and a single Gothic rider leapt through, his mount at full stride, his spear raised and his screaming face part-masked by a gold-plumed helm with a bronze visor that shielded and circled his eyes. Within a heartbeat, a hundred more were bounding through the smoke wall with him, each in fine armour jackets or wielding lengthy spears and well-honed swords. They came in a wedge, tight and swift, and the wedge grew wider and wider as more and more of them poured through the smoke and onto the ridge’s southern slopes, spilling around the rear of Bacurius and his cavalry.
‘Greuthingi,’ Pavo gasped – the word being repeated all around him in lament. The absent cavalry of the Goths had returned, thousands upon thousands strong, their approach veiled by the wall of smoke. And with them came pockets of Huns – braided hair thrashing in their wake, deadly bows stretched taut – and Alani lancers too, clad in bronze scale vests.
They swung round upon the Roman right flank, crashing against the Scutarii and the Gentiles before Bacurius had time to react. The Greuthingi wedge plunged through those riders like the iron beak of a war galley ramming into the weak side-timbers of another. Roman horsemen were barged from their saddles, bowled to the ground or torn on the end of Gothic lances. Man and mount disappeared from view as the tide of Gothic riders simply charged over them, spearing, swiping.
Pavo saw Bacurius rear up on his mount. The cavalry commander swung up his blade to fend off the nearest Gothic rider, only for a Gothic blade to lop his hand off at the wrist. Blood leapt from the stump and his shrill scream rang out louder than any other for that moment. An instant later, he was cut off and surrounded as a flurry of downward Gothic sword thrusts tore into his trunk before he slid from the saddle and into the mire. His horse bolted south through the fray and then, once clear, off down the lower slopes of the ridge. It was swiftly joined by those of the Scutarii and Gentiles who could break away too. They fled in smatterings of a few men. One listed in the saddle, his helmetless head bloodied and half cleaved with grey matter bulging from the terrible wound. In his wake another rode at speed, cradling his steaming, part-spilled intestines in one arm in disbelief.
A wail rose up from the legionary line. ‘So much for the Scholae Palatinae… cowards!’ one panicked voice yelled at the fleeing remnants of the cavalry right. Any other such shouts were drowned out as the head of the Greuthingi wedge thundered on into the flanks of the Roman infantry, plunging first into the Hiberi legion who were still locked in battle with the Gothic spearmen. The Hiberi stood no chance – with their right sides unshielded they were cut apart like tender meat, Gothic lances plunging into Roman chests and tearing out throats with ease. A Hiberi shield flew into the air, half-broken, the image of the golden lion on it streaked with red. Whilst the sharp head of the Greuthingi wedge did this, the huge and broad rear spilled round the back of the Roman line like a scorpion’s tail, charging along its length, tearing across the unprotected backs of the legions. It was as if a giant had lifted some titanic root from the earth under the feet of the rearmost ranks and wrenched it from the soil: men were cast up, helms, limbs and blood flying into the air. The back ranks of the Nervii were cut to pieces before they could turn and form some sort of rear-facing defence. The Fortenses too were stripped of their rearmost rank in a trice and then the Greuthingi riders came to the Joviani who barely managed to turn enough men, shields and spears round to absorb the impact of the oblique charge.
Gallus, Pavo and Sura stood, transfixed and momentarily frozen by these approaching horrors, before crying in unison. ‘Rear ranks, turn, protect our rear, form a shield wall!’ The three barged through to the centre of the Claudia’s rearguard. A pair of hands slid a black-plumed helm onto Gallus’ head.
‘But damn, it has been too long,’ he said, his chest swelling and his shoulders rising. ‘Claudia… brace!’ he bellowed as the Greuthingi cavalry stormed along the Roman rear towards them.
Pavo steadied himself, Gallus pressed against his left shoulder and Sura on his right, with Trupo, Cornix, Libo, Rectus either side of the trio, shields interlocked and spears turned to face the riders. ‘Hurry, get into place,’ he urged the men either side of the readied core. ‘For the legion,’ he snarled, seeing a silver-visored Goth coming for him, low in the saddle and now soaked with blood, lance confidently trained. The ground shook as if the world was breaking apart under Pavo’s feet. ‘For the empire!’
The Greuthingi lances struck the leftmost men in the Claudia rearguard first. Too many legionaries there were not ready and were ruined by the Gothic lances, sucked under hooves, tossed back in streaks of blood or up into the air. But when the lancers came to the centre, their spears rattled dully along the wall of Claudia shields like a toll of approaching thunder. The lead rider’s gaze met Pavo’s. Pavo showed him nothing but shield, spear, helm and wrathful eyes.
The lance punched against his shield and sent him staggering onto his back. The sky darkened as the rider and mount bounded over him. A hoof thwacked on his shield – the only thing that protected him from being trampled. The rider wreaked havoc within the massed Claudia ranks, the horse kicking and biting, the rider hacking and slashing, until Libo and Rectus leapt upon him, pulling him from the saddle so Trupo and Cornix could despatch him with a swift stab of their spathas into the point where neck meets collarbone – a grave wound.
Gallus and Sura hauled Pavo to his feet just as more Greuthingi riders spilled into the midst of the legion and the rest poured round the remainder of the Roman rear to encircle the imperial army. At that moment, the order of battle crumbled. Legions were bent out of shape and sundered inside the Gothic noose – a deadly loop of thrashing mounts, shields and spears. Swords swung, lances plunged and blood spattered Pavo from every side as he fought bands of enemy riders and spearmen who surged inside the noose to steal their share of the slaughter. It was a chaos that only existed at the edge of death. Snarling faces, final cries, singing steel and the stink of bloodspray in every direction. Somehow, his numb, spent sword arm rose time and again, bringing the blade up to save his neck. On and on the fighting went; the only respite came when the Goths forging in amongst the legions withdrew to the noose, which then tightened, driving the imperial regiments closer together, so close they could barely breathe. With a twang of many thousands of bowstrings, a rain of arrows battered down upon the compressed legions, punching into flesh. It was all Pavo could do to draw breath in the crush, let alone move his arms to bring his shield to bear. Dead men moved past him still upright, their corpses carried by the press of their still living comrades, arrows jutting from their necks, eyes and cheeks. When they had emptied their quivers, the Goths cried out and many surged inside the noose again. A pack of spearmen came bounding for Pavo. Dazed, he realised his shield was now mauled as if it had been attacked by a bear, and his sword was bent near the tip, but still, the core of the Claudia were with him, back-to-back, unrelenting. Gallus and Sura were by his side, as always. He raised his near-ruined weapon and readied himself.
Over the savage song of battle, he heard Gallus roar aloud.
‘Mithras, stand with us. You owe me this much at least!’
By the fourth hour after noon, the baked ridge was wet with streams of blood as the Goths devoured the empire’s legions, their appetite for slaughter unsatiated. Near the centre of his encircled forces, Valens’ head switched in every direction: to the orange-streaked sky above, stained with smoke and now thick with vultures, and to the crumbling regiments all around him. Through the forest of iron and men, he saw the tattered remnants of the Roman cavalry left bolting from the field, the Cataphracti and the Promotii were bloodied and beaten just like that fool Bacurius and his Scutarii right. Now the legions were trapped and alone. Already, nearly half of his forces had fallen. His eyes widened, his skin grew cold and that dark, distant memory of the great tidal surge began to rise. The din of iron and screaming men lessened and grew faint. Instead, he heard the crash of water: it was a dista
nt hiss, but growing, beginning to compete with the clamour of battle all around him.
God, why have you deserted me? he mouthed. Then he looked back to the western horizon, devoid of movement. No Western Army. No Gratian. Just the sun, slowly dipping to meet the land. Is this truly the victory you sought, absent nephew? The crashing wall of water was growing louder and louder, its silvery mass flickering across his mind’s eye.
Just then the candidati ringing him were breached. Bastianus barged his way through, his blood-spattered bald head a shade of puce and his wild, bulging eye more tormented than ever, sweat lashing from him. Spittle flew as he bawled something at Valens over and over, lost under the roar of the great wall of water. Valens gazed back at the man, equally lost, until the Magister Peditum broke protocol and grabbed him by the shoulders. Suddenly, the clamour of battle returned to him sharp and clear, as if he had just risen from a pool.
‘The reserves! Bring up the reserves, Domine.’
‘We must call upon the reserves,’ Traianus gasped, barging through the press to interrupt.
For an instant, Bastianus and Traianus looked at each other askance, each quite disgusted with themselves for being in agreement with the other.
Valens glanced beyond the Gothic cavalry and on downhill. By the small copse at the foot of the slope, his reserves waited: the spike-shielded Batavian legion, a comitatenses legion from the east and a few hundred archers, led by Victor, Richomeres and Saturninus on horseback. Just a few thousand soldiers. ‘Signal them,’ he cried.
The Roman horns keened. Four short, shrill blasts.
Valens, Traianus and Bastianus watched with stretched necks and captive breaths as they saw the pool of shimmering iron down there mix and swirl. Yes, Valens mouthed, punching a fist into his palm as he saw the Gothic cavalry twist in their saddles, suddenly wary of the threat from behind. But when the reserve force began to move, he saw to his horror part of it moving not up the slope, but away from it.
‘The Batavians!’ he gasped, seeing them march stubbornly from the field, despite Victor, Richomeres and Saturninus, riding alongside them, berating them to turn around, pointing to the battle on the ridge slope. And the comitatenses and archers, upon seeing this, lost their nerve – they too turning and hurrying south, leaving the battle behind.
‘Traitors… traitors!’ Valens snarled. The Batavian regiment had long been cold to his reign. Obedient, but cold, particularly as they rejected Valens’ Arian faith. ‘Nicene dogs!’
Traianus’ top lip curled in disgust at this – the general a Nicene too. Valens swung to him and lashed out a chastening, pointed finger. ‘Not now, Magister Militum… not now!’
‘Damn them,’ Bastianus said, a cloud of spittle flecking the air and his yellow teeth bared like an angered hound’s. Suddenly, his neck stretched and he cast a volley of abuse after the fleeing reserves. ‘I’ll cut off your balls and cook them in front of you, you spineless fuc-’
His words were cut off by four Gothic horns wailing. Spirited by the sight of the imperial reserve in flight, the maw of riders and infantry now bit down with renewed gusto upon the Roman mass. They tore at the edges of the battered legions, hauling them down, coming ever closer to the Roman centre. Riders broke forward, bounding over legionary heads, swords and spears jabbed out like fingers, pointing at Valens as the ultimate prize.
Once more, the racket of slaughter faded and Valens heard just the ominous rumble of the great tidal wave. When he closed his eyes, he saw it not in the distance and approaching, but towering over him like a titanic, silver demon.
Shattered legions broke from the ridge when they could, shooting off down the slope and fleeing to the south. Those still trapped in the ring of Goths fought on.
Pavo stumbled and half-fell back through the tumult, his mail vest torn and hanging on one shoulder. Just a handful of paces away, he saw the imperial purple banner and the cluster of Gothic horsemen hacking and slicing their way through the fray towards it.
‘Protect the emperor,’ Gallus roared, seeing it too.
Pavo, Gallus, Sura and the core of a few hundred from the Claudia who had managed to stay together barged their way across the grim tangle of gawping corpses and spluttering wounded. They reached the emperor’s retinue and the ring of fierce-looking candidati there. Just these forty men of the emperor’s bodyguard and the two legions of the Lancearii and Mattiarii javelin-throwers remained relatively unscathed – all braced and ready to face the horsemen fighting to reach the emperor.
‘Domine,’ Gallus panted, seeing Valens with Bastianus and Traianus amidst the candidati circle. Traianus saw him and Pavo together and waved them through. Emperor Valens was now smoke-stained and sweat and blood streaked and carrying a filthy spatha like a common soldier. Under the mask of gore, his face was white as milk, and Pavo saw how his eyes gazed into infinity, lost.
Their appearance before him seemed to break the spell. Valens blinked, eyeing Pavo, then seeing Gallus and the fragment of the XI Claudia just behind. His eyes settled on Gallus.
‘You?’ Valens gasped.
Gallus nodded curtly. ‘Domine. I hurried to this place from Treverorum to bring you dark news, but I fear you know it only too well by now.’
Valens laughed loud and long. ‘That my nephew plots my disgrace and covets my throne? Well the time is nearly here!’ he snarled and thrust out a hand at the wing of Greuthingi coming for him, now just a handful of paces away from breaking through the fray and reaching the javelin legions. ‘The Reiks of the Gothic horsemen will have my head, it seems.’
The Matiarii and the Lancearii now hoisted their javelins, ready to throw. Pavo noticed two of the approaching Greuthingi riders – far enough back to be safe from the defiant embers of the legions – one tall and with long, white hair and the other squat, slit-eyed and bald. Alatheus and Saphrax, he realised. They were eager, throttling the air with clenched fists, urging their riders to be the ones who seized victory.
Bastianus strode forward, past the Claudia men. He stopped for a moment, his lone eye on Gallus, then flicking to Pavo and back again. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ he laughed feverishly, ducking a stray Gothic arrow. ‘I heard the ranks chanting your name: Gallus of the Claudia. By the gods you have a fine set of lads in your legion. By the gods you do!’ he said, clasping a firm forearm to Gallus’.
‘It is what drove me all the way here, all the way back from the West,’ Gallus replied.
‘You made it out of that snakepit?’ Bastianus grinned, then glanced over the beleaguered Claudia ranks: ‘and into this delightful predicament. Do something for me, Tribunus: you and your legion – stay where you are and shield the emperor,’ he yelled, then paced forward to stand with the Mattiarii and Lancearii.
‘Where are you going?’ Pavo called after him.
Bastianus looked back with an ebullient grin. ‘Into the fray, Centurion. Lest I survive today and end up back at my dull villa in Latium!’ he said then emitted a shrill, staccato laugh, lifting his eyepatch and letting it snap back into place, before he swung away and loped towards the band of enemy horsemen about to break into the Roman centre. ‘At them!’ Bastianus cried, his bulging eye seemingly set to leap from his head as he waved the javelin-throwers with him. ‘Come on, faster,’ he howled, breaking into a sprint just as the Gothic horsemen barged clear of the melee and onto the short stretch of ridge separating them. Just when it seemed he would rush under their hooves, he halted just fifteen paces before the charging Gothic horsemen, throwing up a hand as if loosing an imaginary javelin. ‘Loose!’ he yelled. As one, the two thousand javelins of the Mattiarii and the Lancearii leapt forward, hammering into Gothic horses and punching through riders. Hundreds pitched back and dropped to the ground, thrashing, kicking, a fine mizzle of blood puffing in the spots where they had been.
The volley was utterly lethal, and Pavo wondered for just a moment if the fiery general had saved them, only to see the rest of the riders charge on through the red mizzle and over their fallen comra
des, lances levelled and trained on the javelin regiments. Some of the Lancearii and Mattiarii looked over their shoulders, stepping back, doubtless eager to be anywhere but in the riders’ path, but Bastianus stilled them with a cry that tolled above the din of battle, his face bent in a crazed grin: ‘Where are you going, you damned dogs? Is this not the moment a soldier craves?’ he bawled, tearing out his spatha then unleashing a feral scream at the Gothic horsemen as they poured around him.
The scream was long-lasting, and Pavo saw a fair few riders go down before it was silenced. The Gothic riders then ploughed into the javelin regiments. Sour and rasping death-cries sounded as these two legions fought with all they had to hold off the cavalry. The candidati and the remaining Claudia legionaries formed a defensive ring around Emperor Valens, shrinking, knowing they had only moments. But a cry from behind brought all eyes round: a swarm of Gothic infantry was now hacking at the Claudia circle from that direction. Iudex Fritigern was there, broad as an ox, his longsword sweeping to and fro. The Claudia ranks fought back with venom, but the Gothic spearmen were relentless, carving a path into the inner sanctum where Emperor Valens and his candidati waited. Pavo, Gallus and Sura barged their way through to the emperor, bringing comrades with them. They came to the small space within the defensive ring just as Fritigern broke through opposite. Traianus leapt for the Gothic Iudex immediately, but as fast as a leaping cat, Fritigern’s bare-chested brute of a bodyguard lanced him through the chest. Traianus fell, seething, blood bubbling from his clenched teeth. The circle of Claudia legionaries at once scrambled to screen their emperor, with Pavo, Gallus, Sura, Cornix, Trupo, Rectus and Libo forming a line before him, swords raised, eyes burning. The warriors with Fritigern hoisted their spears, set to launch into them, when a single word stilled them.
Gods & Emperors (Legionary 5) Page 41
