‘Sir!’ Their leader, a powerful-looking man with a sunburnt face in his mid-thirties, saluted Corbulo. ‘Alkaios, Thessalian auxiliary light cavalry.’
‘Yes, yes, get on with it.’ Corbulo was anxious to get to the point.
‘We sighted the main body of Thracians half an hour ago about ten miles east. They’re mainly infantry, about three thousand of them. They’re moving quickly and with purpose; they’ve stopped burning as they go. We ran into one of their cavalry patrols but fought them off at the cost of two of my men, one of whom was only wounded and taken prisoner. May the gods ease his suffering.’
‘Indeed.’ Corbulo could guess as well as anyone else what was in store for the unfortunate man. ‘You say you saw no large amount of cavalry?’
‘No, sir, just patrols.’
‘Minerva’s tits, they must have guessed that we’re heading for the river and have sent their cavalry around us to the north to hold it against us. Mauricius, take your four turmae and delay them; they must not be allowed to prevent our crossing. We should reach the river in just over an hour.’
‘Yes, sir, we shall do all that is necessary.’ The cavalry prefect barked an order at his decurion and the 120 Gauls peeled away from the column and raced towards the river.
Corbulo turned to Quintus Caepio. ‘Caepio, take your turmae and keep pace with us half a mile out to the east to shield us from any cavalry threatening our flank.’
Caepio saluted and raced back down the column.
‘Gallus, get some horses for the engineers, I want them to get as many ropes as possible secured across that river. If they don’t have enough men who can swim get volunteers from the ranks.’ Gallus looked pleased with the task allotted him and galloped off to find his temporary command.
Vespasian was impressed at the calm forward thinking of his young superior; it steadied his nerves, feeling that all eventualities were being accounted for. Corbulo turned to him.
‘Vespasian, get the baggage and bring it level with the head of the column fifty paces to the west. With the rearguard gone we can’t leave it unprotected. Tell the handlers to do whatever they must to speed those mules up. I don’t want to abandon it unless absolutely necessary.’
Vespasian smiled inwardly as he saluted and made his way back down the column; it seemed that he was destined to always be around mules, one way or another.
There were less than two miles to go to the river. The baggage train had drawn level with the two cohorts, the mules having been beaten into more speed; very few had refused or bolted. Vespasian took his place next to Corbulo, who was now at the head of the first cohort; Magnus retreated a respectful distance to the left of the column.
‘The men are getting tired, Vespasian,’ Corbulo said quietly, glancing nervously at the Thracian dust cloud, now considerably closer. ‘They’ll be in sight soon. We won’t be able to stop after we’ve crossed the river, we’ll need to keep going and hope that the crossing delays the savages longer than it delays us. But what then? They will always move faster than us; they’ll catch us in a day.’
‘Perhaps we should just stand and fight, take our chances,’ Vespasian replied, instantly not liking the idea.
‘With two cohorts of veterans and the cavalry that we have, that would be the sensible course to take, but with this lot of rookies we wouldn’t stand a chance out here in the open. We need to cross that river, and then find some way to frustrate the enemy.’
With a mile to go the ground had started to fall away gently down into the shallow river valley. Copses of beech and alder populated its sides, breaking up the smooth carpet of grass, which would normally be speckled with small flocks of sheep; but today it was empty. News of the arrival of the Roman column in this peaceful vale had gone before it and the shepherds, anxious not to have their charges requisitioned for the soldiers’ cooking fires, had already hurried them to safety.
At the base of the valley flowed the swift Harpessus. Its icy water, recently released from the snowfields high in the mountains to the west, was channelled over a hard bed of shingle and bounded on either side by broken rocks. Hardy trees clung to the banks; the fast-flowing river had whittled away at the soil beneath them, forming strange archways from their exposed roots.
Ahead of them Vespasian could see the advance guard of engineers struggling chest deep in the water to secure the ropes that would aid the column across the hundred-foot width of the river. Two were already in place and a third was attached to a tree on the near bank and extended to its full length along the bank upstream. Vespasian watched as an engineer tied the loose end around his waist and then launched himself, with a strong breaststroke, against the current, keeping the rope taut. The river pushed him further away from the bank. The tension of the rope swung him across until eventually he reached the slower water near the far bank and was able to strike out for the shore, where a comrade helped him out.
As they neared the crossing point the sun sank behind the high massif of the Rhodope range, and the valley darkened as their shadow ate its way along its length.
The proximity of both the Thracian war band to their rear and a means to escape them, if only for a while, to their front caused a few of the less steady of the recruits to try to break ranks and run for the ropes. They were mercilessly beaten back into place by the vine canes of their centurions and shamed into remaining there by the reproachful glares of their comrades.
Corbulo called back to Faustus: ‘Any man who tries to push himself forward will be left on this side of the river. Pass that on, centurion, and pass the word for Gallus to report to me.’
As Corbulo’s warning was relayed down the column other shouts and cries could be heard coming from a wood half a mile further down the river to the east.
‘Mauricius has found their cavalry,’ Corbulo guessed. ‘Let us hope that he can hold them for long enough.’
‘How will he get across?’ Vespasian asked. Corbulo didn’t answer.
They were a hundred paces from the river. The third rope had now been secured and the engineers had started work on a fourth. Two hundred paces to their right Caepio had formed up his Gallic auxiliaries to cover any flank attack should the Thracians break through Mauricius’ cavalry.
Gallus brought his horse to the trot next to his commanding officer and saluted. ‘Sir, the river is between four and five feet deep and the current is very strong. We have lost one man swept away already.’ His face betrayed a mixture of nerves and excitement at the promise of his first action.
‘Thank you, tribune. Gentlemen, speed and efficiency are the keys,’ Corbulo said to his two young subordinates. ‘Gallus, the second cohort will cross first with the mule train and then form up on the far bank facing the enemy. Vespasian, your cohort will form up, two centuries deep, here, to cover their crossing and that of the auxiliaries, if there are any left. Have your men pile their packs by the ropes before forming up.’ Corbulo looked towards the wooded area downstream whence the clash of weapons and the screams of wounded still came. ‘If we are attacked we shall make a fighting withdrawal century by century; Faustus’ century will be the last to cross. Call in the scouts, they’re no use to us out there now, we know what’s coming; then get your freedman to lead the carts into the water upstream of the ropes and keep them there, just the carts, not the pack-mules. Hopefully they’ll slow the speed of the water and fewer men will be swept away.’
‘Yes, sir!’ They both saluted.
‘And, Gallus,’ Corbulo continued, ‘if we are attacked and I don’t make it over, cut the ropes, stay formed up on that side and oppose their crossing, that’s the best chance that you’ll have. If you try to run they’ll catch you and cut you to pieces.’
CHAPTER XXI
Magnus had been less than pleased with his role, but, grumbling, had taken the carts to their position in the river. As the mules struggled to keep their heads above the flow one of teams panicked. The animals broke their harnesses, and they, the load and their driver had been swept aw
ay in the freezing torrent, almost taking one of the ropes with them. The rest, perhaps chastened by the fate of their fellows, resigned themselves to their task and held their positions.
Vespasian sat on his horse to the rear of the second century of his cohort, at the centre of the Roman line; next to him waited the cohort’s cornicen. Each century stood four men deep and twenty men across. Caepio’s four turmae of Gauls covered their left flank and the Thessalian light cavalry their right. Spread out in skirmish order in front of them was the fifty-strong unit of light archers.
Behind him Corbulo and Gallus marshalled the second cohort in front of the two upstream ropes and the pack-mules by the two downstream. The crossing began. The men, eager to have the river between them and the enemy, ignored the freezing temperature of the water and, with shields slung across their backs, began to haul themselves across, one hand holding on to the ropes, a foot above the surface, the other clutching their pack-poles and pila.
The first two centuries crossed without mishap and were forming up, sodden, on the far bank, when from up the slope in front of Vespasian, audible even over the rush of the water, came a great shout. The Thracian war band appeared over the crest of the hill and stood silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky. They gave another huge roar, clashed their javelins against their oval shields, and then started to jog steadily down the slope.
A wave of fear rippled through the cohort of new legionaries.
‘Steady, lads,’ Faustus called from his position in the front rank next to the signifer, ‘remember your training. Hold the line, listen for the cornu signals, release your pila when ordered and then shields together, weight on your left legs and stab through the gaps. You’ll break their mothers’ hearts.’
A nervous cheer went up from the ranks.
‘That’s not a cheer,’ Faustus roared. ‘That sounded to me like the squealing of a gaggle of Mesopotamian bum-boys getting it up the arse for the first time. Now give me a cheer worthy of the Fourth Scythica.’
Their confidence boosted by the redoubtable Faustus, the legionaries raised a mighty cheer and began to bang their shields rhythmically with their pila. The noise was deafening, but still the Thracians came on.
Vespasian looked back to the river; the pace of the crossing had quickened with the now-visible threat of the Thracians only a half a mile away. Four centuries were over and the last two were in the water. They would be able to start withdrawing his cohort soon, but not without first engaging the enemy. It would be, as Corbulo had said, a fighting withdrawal; he hoped that his men would have the discipline for such a manoeuvre.
Then disaster struck. The mule team nearest the far bank, unable to take the noise and the rushing water any more, bolted for dry land. Caught unawares by the sudden lurch their driver was hauled off his seat on the cart and swept downstream, the reins still around his wrists. The power of the current caused the reins to yank the terrified beasts to their right, toppling them and their wagon. The whole lot swept into the first line of legionaries, plucking eight from the rope as it crashed through them and on into the second line. The men on the second rope had time to see it coming. They dropped their packs and pila in order to hold on with both hands. The cart, the thrashing mules and their comrades cascaded into the legionaries, entangling them in a mesh of limbs, reins and wheel spokes. They held on for dear life and for a moment the whole avalanche slowed, straining the rope. The men to the front of the mess scrambled as fast as they could for the safety of the bank, whilst those behind shouted at their comrades to let go, but to no avail. With a sickening inevitability the weight on the rope wrenched the tree to which it was tied on the far bank from the ground, its roots already loosened by years of erosion. The rope with its cargo of men and debris arced out into the current towards the last of the pack-mules on the third rope. The unfortunate creatures were knocked off balance and away downstream taking those from the fourth rope with them, their handlers saving themselves by dropping their leads and clinging with both hands to the still secure ropes.
Vespasian watched as Corbulo and Gallus raced around trying to restore order to the crossing, but his attention was soon drawn away by the mounting noise of his men and their opponents. The Thracians were only two hundred paces away. With Corbulo busy down at the crossing it would now be down to him to issue the signals. He knew the theory from his lessons with Sabinus, all those months ago. He had seen them work in training on the march from Italia, but he had never seen them given for real. He knew that the timing was everything.
The archers to their front let off three quick long-range volleys bringing down nearly eighty of the tightly packed war band, but doing nothing to halt their advance.
‘Open ranks!’ he shouted at the cornicen. The low notes of the G-shaped instrument rumbled over the field, its deep tone audible to all over the din of battle cries. Immediately every other man of each century stepped behind his comrade to the right, creating passages for the now retreating archers to run through.
‘Close ranks!’ The cornicen sounded a different call and the manoeuvre was reversed.
Unencumbered by body armour the Thracians increased their speed steadily. They were a hundred paces out. Vespasian knew it would come soon.
‘Shields up!’ Again the cornu sounded. The rear three ranks raised their semi-cylindrical rectangular shields and stepped forward to hold them over the heads of the men in front of them. They created a patchwork roof that, if firmly supported, would keep those beneath safe from javelin, arrow or slingshot.
At forty paces from the Roman line the Thracians let out a huge roar and hurled their javelins. Hundreds of the iron-tipped missiles soared into the air and then arced down towards the three centuries and the cavalry to their flanks. With a thunderous clatter, like hail on an ox-hide drum, they rained down on to the waiting shields of the legionaries, thumping into the leather-covered two-inch-thick wood. The temporary roof held firm, with only the occasional scream indicating the inexperience of some rookie who had fatally let down his comrade to the front. The few gaps were immediately closed.
‘Shields down!’ Another blast from the cornu and the men lowered their shields, snapping off any javelins still embedded in them.
‘Pila ready!’ Shields and left legs went forward; right arms flew back with hands gripping the smooth wooden shafts of the lead-weighted pila.
On either side the cavalry commanders had both timed their charges to perfection. Giving the order on the release of the javelin volley they charged underneath it. They had smashed through and cut off the disordered flanks of the Thracians, who had not had the time to rearm themselves with their most fearsome weapon, the rhomphaia: a sleek three-foot-long iron blade, razor sharp and slightly curved back at the tip, attached to a two-foot, ash-wood handle.
With both flanks now isolated and fighting their own private cavalry-infantry battles, the main body came on, throwing down their shields; they would be of no use to them now for what they had in mind. Each man reached behind his head and with a sweeping movement unsheathed his rhomphaia, The Thracians broke into a reckless sprint wielding these terrifying weapons with both hands above their heads. Maddened by battle lust they screamed as they charged, bearded faces contorted with rage. Long cloaks billowed out behind them; heavy calf-length leather boots pounded down the grass.
Trying to remain calm Vespasian watched the approaching surge of hatred, counting to himself. This was the most crucial order and it had to be timed to perfection.
With twenty paces to impact he bellowed, ‘Release pila!’
The cornu sounded. The Thracians had travelled another five paces by the time the legionaries responded to the signal. As one, the three centuries hurled their heavy weapons at a low trajectory towards incoming wall of unprotected flesh. At the moment of release each man drew his gladius from the sheath on his right side and then put his weight on to his left leg and crouched behind his shield. Those in the rear ranks pressed their shields on to the backs of their comrade
s in front. They braced for impact.
Ten paces from the Roman line more than two hundred pila slammed into the howling stampede. Men were thrown backwards as if yanked from behind by an invisible rope. The barbed points of pila passed clean through their ribs, hearts and lungs, bursting out through their backs in sprays of hot crimson blood. Faces disintegrated as the lead balls at the base of the shafts punched holes through heads, exploding grey matter over the already blood-spattered bodies of those following behind.
But still they came on, leaping over their dead or wounded comrades, heedless of their own safety. Screaming their defiance at their iron-clad adversaries, they hurtled towards the rigid wall of shields, bringing the blades of their rhomphaiai hissing down through the air, trying to slice through the helmets of the men behind.
At the point of impact the Roman front rank pushed their shields forward and up. The bronze-reinforced rims took the impact of the rhomphaiai, snapping handles and notching blades with clouds of sparks. Iron shield bosses thumped into the chests of the warriors as they crashed into the solid Roman line, winding some and throwing others off balance.
The line held.
Then the short pointed swords, designed to stab and gut, thrust out from between the shields at groin height and commenced their lethal work. The bellows of rage turned into shrieks of pain and anguish as the iron blades pushed up through the vitals of the now stationary Thracian front line. Bellies split open, spilling their steaming contents over the feet of both attacker and defender alike. Genitals were severed, arteries opened and blood flowed freely.
The press of their rear ranks prevented the Thracians from using their rhomphaiai to full effect. They were used to more open combat, typical of their inter-tribal battles, where there was room to swing the weapon, lopping off the heads and arms of their opponents, or sweeping the legs from under them. Here they were of little account.
Tribune of Rome v-1 Page 24
