The Celtic warrior released the handle of the axe and stepped back, howling in agony, hand grabbing for the wound. Karus was unwilling to allow his opponent to go. Over the jagged edges of his ruined shield, with the axe still held fast, he advanced. The warrior, cognizant of only his pain and wound, was oblivious as Karus closed upon him. Karus punched out, sword point sliding easily through the other’s throat and out the back of his neck.
The warrior’s eyes opened wide, then rolled back as he convulsed once before falling backward like a felled tree. The body tumbled down the slope a few feet before a large rock checked its progress.
Breathing heavily, Karus took a step back and glanced down at the tribune. His arm still ached from the blow to his shield. Karus shook his arm to shake off some of the pain. His fingers tingled.
“On your feet, sir.” Karus prodded the tribune with a foot. “Or so help me, I will leave you behind, honorary rank or not.”
Even that did not get through, and Karus realized the young tribune was too dazed to properly function. Tossing his ruined shield aside, he reached down, hooked an arm under the tribune’s shoulder, and hauled him to his feet. Half dragging the boy along, Karus started struggling up the slope, back toward the safety of Second Cohort’s line.
In the growing darkness, Karus could just see the line up the slope, perhaps twenty yards away. The confusion of the fight raged across the slope of the hill as legionaries caught out in the open struggled to reach the safety of the line.
“Come on, son,” Karus said, helping the dazed tribune up the slope.
“What happened?” the tribune asked, head lolling to one side. He almost collapsed, but Karus kept him upright and moving.
“You got clobbered real good on the head,” Karus said. “Tomorrow I promise you will have one serious headache. Come on now, son, we have to climb or we are both dead.”
“Where are we?” The tribune tried to shake him off. Karus kept a vice-like grip on the boy’s arm and continued to drag him along as they climbed one slow step after another. The resistance ceased and the tribune began using his feet.
“What’s your name?” Though he knew the boy well enough, Karus was trying to get the kid’s brain working again.
“Tiberius Garius Delvaris.” The words came out slurred, and the eyes rolled slightly. Karus shook him roughly to keep him from passing out.
“Tribune Delvaris,” Karus said. “Keep your legs going; we need to climb.”
Karus saw Delvaris glance behind them. The boy’s eyes flew open. Instinctively, Karus shoved the tribune to the side and dodged right, bringing his sword around.
A spear reached out into the space where the two had just been a half second before. Karus batted the spear down into the dirt with his sword, then, lightning fast, swung it back into the face of his attacker, clipping the bridge of the man’s nose. With a howl, the spearman immediately dropped the weapon and fell on his back, tumbling down the hill.
Karus stepped over to the tribune and reached down to haul Delvaris back to his feet. The line was only ten yards away. Before he could complete the motion, a powerful blow struck his side, armor absorbing the impact. Karus cried out with the pain of the strike and tried belatedly to dodge, but another hammer blow to his back threw him forward to the ground, where he landed heavily next to Tribune Delvaris. Having lost his sword, Karus fumbled for his dagger, attempting to roll away at the same time, desperate to avoid the next strike.
Karus looked up. A Celtic noble dressed in rich furs stood over him, sword raised, poised to deliver the killing blow. Helpless on his back and dagger half drawn, Karus froze.
He was about to die.
There was an abrupt, meaty thwack, followed by a huff as the noble’s wind was forced from his lungs. Karus blinked in astonishment, not quite believing what he was seeing. A javelin had somehow sprouted from the man’s chest. The Celt stared in shock at the shaft of the javelin, which had carried right through and out his back.
Dark blood trickled from his lips. The noble trembled violently. Then the sword fell from nerveless fingers, and he toppled to the side, where he lay twitching in the dirt.
A legionary horn sounded. There was a tremendous shout from just up the hill, almost immediately followed by the pounding of hundreds of feet. The legionary line drove its way down the hill in a charge, thundering past Karus a few feet, and then came to a rough halt, officers calling for their men to reform.
“HAAAH!” The legionaries shouted as their line came back together, shields aligning to form a wall with an ominous-sounding thunk.
“Next time you decide to take on the enemy single-handed, how about giving me a warning first?”
Karus looked up to see Dio standing over him. His friend reached down, offering a hand. He hauled Karus to his feet, a relieved grin on his face.
“I will try to remember that,” Karus said. His shield arm, side, and back ached painfully.
“Do so, or I may just have to kill you myself,” Dio said, then looked over Karus for wounds.
“I’m just battered, nothing worse,” Karus assured him, shaking his friend off.
“You’re lucky,” Dio said. “Keep acting like a fool and you will never live to see the comfortable life in Sicily.”
Dio turned to look at the dead Celtic noble. “An exceptionally fine toss, if I might be so bold to say so.”
“Your work?”
Dio nodded.
“Thank you for that,” Karus said.
“Very gracious of you,” Dio said. “How about buying me a drink or two when we get back to Eboracum?”
“I will get you a barrel of wine.” Karus saw his sword and retrieved it. His shield was an utter ruin. Karus felt saddened—it had served him well for a number of years. Instead, he looked around and selected one that had been discarded just a few feet away. Its previous owner lying by its side no longer had a need for it.
“The good stuff,” Dio said before turning back to his line. “At the slow, and in good order.” Dio shouted to be heard over the sound of the fighting to either side of his cohort. After the charge, the enemy Second Cohort had pushed down the hill had yet to reorganize. “Fall back.”
The line began stepping slowly backward and up the slope of the hill, shields facing toward the enemy down the slope. Karus looked into the darkness, squinting. The enemy had been pushed down the slope around twenty yards beyond the line. The Celts appeared hesitant to move up after the legionaries who had just handled them so roughly.
Karus swung around and looked up the hill. Like a burial shroud, the cloud cover, which had hung so low all day, waited with a dull, milky whiteness around sixty yards up the slope.
“Help him along.” Karus gestured down toward the still-dazed tribune, who was lying in a heap muttering to himself.
“He’s useless,” Dio said with a disgusted glance. “Going back for him was foolish.”
“He’s a Roman,” Karus said. “I would no more leave him to the enemy than I would you.”
Dio frowned, then bent down and helped the tribune to his feet.
“Marus, get your sorry arse out of the line. Give me a hand with this fool.” The legionary jogged over. Dio handed over the boy to the legionary’s care. “Help the tribune up the hill for me. Make sure he gets to the summit, and don’t leave him alone until he regains his senses.”
“Yes, sir.” The legionary started assisting the dazed tribune up the hill, half dragging him.
Karus glanced at the two. Marus, a lowly plebeian from the worst slums of Rome, helping a fifteen-year-old patrician from one of the more powerful houses. Though the distance from their respective stations in life was as vast as could be, tonight they were both Romans. In the end, that was all that mattered.
“Where’s the First?” Karus asked.
“To my right,” Dio pointed. “Until we pushed down to rescue you, they were firmly anchored and holding our flank.”
“Who’s to your left?”
“Varno, I t
hink, along with elements of the Fourth Delmatarum,” Dio said. “It seemed a little confused. I had sent a runner to get a better idea of what was occurring, but he’s not returned yet.”
“I need a century of men,” Karus said, looking in the direction of the left. He could not see much, but he could hear the spirited fight.
Dio’s cohort line had carefully backed up the steep slope and were nearly to the two officers. Karus and Dio began climbing the hill to keep from being overtaken.
“You are intent on heading over to the left then?”
“Yes.” Karus nodded.
Dio glanced around and spotted a centurion in the third rank. “Cestus, on me.”
The centurion moved over to Dio and Karus. He fell in alongside as they climbed the hill.
“You and your century will be coming with me,” Karus told the junior centurion. “We’re going to make some sense of the left.”
“Yes, sir.” Cestus called his men to fall out. Karus eyed them as they broke ranks. These were the manumitted the emperor had sent to the Ninth as replacements. Muddy and flint-eyed, they looked indistinguishable from regulars who had served for years. He could detect nothing that hinted at their previous life and it spoke volumes that Dio was entrusting Karus to their responsibility.
Dio caught Cestus’s arm. “Stick to Karus like flies on a three-day-old corpse. Keep him from doing anything stupid or you will personally answer to me.”
Karus felt himself frown. Cestus’s eyes flicked his way before returning to Dio.
“I will keep him safe, sir.” Cestus flashed a grin Karus’s way. “As a newborn babe in his mother’s arms.”
“He’d best be,” Dio said.
“Permission to, ah,” Cestus said, “restrain the camp prefect if I need to?”
Dio grinned at Karus. “Granted.”
“Everyone’s a comedian.” Karus shook his head and looked heavenward. “Let’s get moving.”
Karus increased his pace, angling his way up the slope toward where he thought the Seventh might be. Cestus’s men spread out around Karus and their centurion. A large gap had clearly formed between the Seventh and Second. In the darkness, and the harried retreat up the hill, Karus could understand why it had happened. He found it no less frustrating though.
Littered with both large and small stones, the ground was extremely rugged. Karus was careful in where he placed each foot, lest he turn an ankle. The risk was serious, for should he lose his footing and fall, he would tumble down the hill.
Within a short time, they reached the end of Dio’s line, which was some ten yards beneath their current position. Dio had his entire cohort steadily pulling back, climbing the hill. Karus estimated that the spot where he now was had been Dio’s original position before charging down the slope. With luck, Seventh Cohort was just ahead, simply hidden by the veil of night.
It had become so dark that it was difficult to see more than a few feet. As if to prove the point, two enemy warriors abruptly emerged from the darkness. Karus eyed the Roman-style short swords they carried. The two were armored with mail shirts and carried shields. Saying nothing, the two made a cautious approach, half crouched, shields and swords held at the ready.
“Swarm them,” Cestus ordered curtly. Half a dozen legionaries broke from the protective screen and descended upon the two. With the number of bodies in the way, it was difficult for Karus to see what was happening. There was a series of hammer blows from swords on shields, then a couple of clipped screams, followed by an agonized moan. The legionaries stepped back. The two were down. So was one of the legionaries.
Cestus’s optio scrambled down the slope. He knelt down beside his comrade, examined him quickly, and then looked up at his centurion. The optio curtly shook his head, then stood.
“Back in formation.” Cestus’s tone was hard. “And, for the sake of the gods, be more careful.”
A sudden massed shout ahead was immediately followed by a tremendous clash. It told Karus that two large bodies of men had just come together. A few steps later and Karus was able to just make out the end of Varno’s line.
Seventh Cohort, shields forward and locked in a contiguous line, was slowly pushing a mass of the enemy down the hill before them. At the same time, the enemy, easily several hundred strong, was trying to force their way up the slope. It meant that there were a number of the enemy trapped before the Seventh’s shield wall. They were pressed in so tightly that they could barely move or even use their weapons, let alone their shields. Karus had seen such presses before and knew that dozens of the enemy were literally being crushed to death. It was a horrible way to go.
“Form a wedge,” Karus ordered Cestus.
The other centurion looked over at him in surprise.
“We are going to hit the side of the enemy’s line hard, and then, with luck, break it,” Karus explained curtly. “Now hurry, before they realize we are here.”
Cestus called for his century to form a wedge.
“Argus,” Cestus said in a hard tone, “you have point.”
“Yes, sir,” a burly legionary said. Karus could hear the pride in the man’s tired voice. It would be his honor to face the enemy first. Point was also the most dangerous spot in the formation. Normally Cestus would have taken that position. Karus wondered what the legionary had done to earn such a distinction from Cestus.
Despite the uneven terrain, the men quickly slid into position, with Karus and Cestus directly inside the formation and behind the point man. The beauty of the wedge was that it allowed small bodies of men to attack a superior formation. It placed the defenders in an awkward position, with the arrow formation generally slamming home into a solid line and penetrating it at a specific point. This meant that where the wedge breached a line, the enemy at that spot only had limited angles of attack and defense against the legionaries. The Celtic defenders would be unable to fully use their weapons. The legionaries, on the other hand, with their short swords and large rectangular shields, would have the advantage.
Typically, such formations were used to break an enemy’s line into smaller parts. This was something different. Karus was hoping the shock of their attack on the enemy’s flank would induce a general panic.
“Advance,” Cestus ordered, and the formation started forward in a steady step, shields presented outward, the men grim-faced. Swords were held at the ready, waiting for the moment of contact and the opportunity to punch out at the enemy. “Keep those shields up.” Cestus’s gaze roved over his men as he kept up a running dialogue. “Steady there, careful now … I said careful. Pay bloody attention! The ground is rough. Watch your footing. Marcus, that means you. Stumble again and I will have you on a charge!”
Karus felt the thrill of the moment as they closed, fifteen feet, then ten. With each step, the din of battle became louder, almost overwhelming the senses. Shouts, screams, and a thousand other sounds blended together to create one serious racket.
Karus kept his eyes upon the enemy ahead as Cestus snapped out an order and angled his formation down the hill toward the end of the enemy’s line, better aiming it. With the last few steps, the approaching formation was finally noticed. Karus could well imagine the shock of the enemy, with the legionary century appearing out of the darkness as if by magic and bearing directly down upon them. A few turned to face the wedge. Others attempted to back up, but with the press of the enemy’s line, there was nowhere to go. It was too little and too late as Cestus’s century smashed into the extreme flank of the enemy’s line.
The legionaries to either side of the arrow point of the wedge grunted with effort as they leaned into the push, smashing and bashing their shields forward to keep the momentum going. They were rewarded with screams and cries of pain. The impetus of the wedge carried the century forward, the front rank stepping over and trampling those who had fallen under the onslaught, either stunned by a smashing shield or pierced by one of the deadly short swords.
Karus jabbed down with his sword, stabbing a warrior
the wedge had passed over. The sword took the man in the side of the neck, and he immediately fell back to the ground, blood fountaining and steaming in the frigidly cold air. Cestus, to Karus’s right, punched his sword into the belly of another, who let loose an agonized scream. A second stab cut the scream off.
Karus turned to his left and stabbed another man on the ground, taking this one in the thigh and opening the artery, eliciting a groan from his victim. The warrior dropped the sword he had been attempting to use to strike at the unprotected leg of a legionary, and instead reached for his own, intent upon staunching the flow of blood. Karus knew it was a futile effort, and in a few moments the man would be dead. For good measure, he kicked the hilt of the dropped sword out of reach and stepped away.
“Push,” Cestus shouted, encouraging his men onward, even as he dispatched another enemy with a quick thrust. Karus looked up and saw that the forward progress of the wedge was faltering, more from the compact nature of the enemy’s line than from any actual resistance. They had only traveled twenty feet so far, splitting the enemy on the flank almost in two, as if peeling back a slice of cheese.
Those who were trapped between the Seventh’s line and the wedge were being rapidly cut down. Karus turned around and saw a number of legionaries from the Seventh, who had just been in hot contact with the enemy, set the end of their shields on the ground. They were taking advantage of the unexpected break in action. Cestus’s initial contact had swept the enemy from the tail end of the Seventh’s line. Karus estimated that there were at least seventy men who were now free to be employed elsewhere. He saw an opportunity.
“You men,” Karus shouted, pointing at the legionaries with his sword. “Wrap around to the other side of the wedge. The right side. I want a line there yesterday.”
Lost Legio IX: The Karus Saga Page 12
