Paullus felt his heart rise, and choke him. No power on earth could break through that mass of armed men. There were thousands upon thousands of them. They would walk forward and spit the Romans on those long pikes like quail.
One of the Sabines whimpered with terror. The crotch of his tunic was wet, piss running hot down his legs. A man in the rear ranks retched. Paullus felt his stomach turn at the smell of vomit.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you!’ Naevius bellowed. The blow to the head he had taken at the White Cliffs had done no lasting damage, but it had not improved his temper. ‘What were you expecting, a flock of sheep?’
‘They aren’t slaves,’ Alcimus said.
‘Who gives a fuck about their parents?’ Naevius roared. ‘They are Greeks, and they are going to die. You know why they are going to die? Because you have been trained by me!’
The centurion jerked a thumb at the enemy. ‘See those spear points wavering like a field of wheat? The men holding them are quaking. They are scared shitless of you! Although the gods only know why,’ he added.
It broke the spell. The men laughed.
‘Now put your shields down, rest them against your legs. I don’t want you delicate girls tiring yourselves out,’ Naevius said. ‘Any of you got any wine in your flasks, pass it around. It will be an hour or more before the light infantry stop swanning around.’
Now the dust had cleared, Paullus could see a line of wagons beyond the Achaean phalanx. The tiny figures of women and children were visible. Were the Achaeans so confident of victory that they had brought their families to witness their triumph, or did their leaders think they would fight better under the eyes of their loved ones? Either way, it blocked their retreat. It was madness.
Someone gave Paullus a drink. The wine was unmixed and rough. It burnt as it slipped down his throat, but it warmed his belly. There was no way that he would let Naevius or his comrades down.
The prediction of the centurion was accurate. The light troops of both sides swarmed about in the hollow. They went in twos or threes, running forward, jinking and dodging, ducking back, the javelin men to the front, the bowmen hanging back. Missiles whirled through the air. Few found a mark, and no one came to close quarters.
‘Here we go,’ Naevius said.
From the right came a peal of trumpets and the tramp of horses. As if by mutual consent, the cavalry of the Achaeans and the allies of the Romans began to pace towards each other. At first they went at a walk, squadron after squadron, all in order and richly apparelled. It was obvious at a glance that there were far fewer Achaeans.
The trumpets sounded a sharper note. The troopers on both sides kicked on. The ground trembled beneath thousands of hooves as they moved to a canter. The air rang with the shouts and the rattle of their equipment.
The thunder of the charge reverberated in Paullus’ chest. He found he was holding his breath.
An instant before the clash, just before they collided and the foremost riders and their mounts must be dashed to ruin, the Achaeans could be seen hauling on their reins. Their horses skidded about, some bored into each other, some men were unseated, a few horses went down. In a dozen heartbeats, the proud formation was transformed into a panicked herd, fleeing back the way they had come.
A full-throated roar rose from the watching legionaries.
The Achaeans raced past the flank of their phalanx. The Romans’ Pergamene allies spurred in pursuit, cutting the rearmost from the saddle.
The roar of the legionaries faltered.
The Pergamene horsemen did not slacken their pace.
The legion fell silent.
All the cavalry – allied and enemy – pounded away out of sight to the south.
‘Fucking Greeks,’ Tatius said. ‘No better on our side than the other.’
‘Fucking cavalry,’ Naevius said. ‘Once they charge, there is never any getting them back. Still, no matter. Now we will have to earn our pay.’
The Cretan archers hared back through the gaps in the maniples. They were mercenaries. Only interested in their wages, they had no intention of being caught between the battle lines. The legion’s own velites jogged off to take the open ground vacated by the horsemen. The Achaean light infantry moved in parallel. Doubtless they would continue their inconclusive skirmish.
‘Hastati, form line!’ Naevius ordered.
Even as the trumpeters relayed the command, the rear ranks trotted around to fill the spaces between the maniples. In no time, a continuous line of hastati faced the phalanx. But, looking over his shoulder, Paullus realised how much thinner and more fragile was the Roman formation. He would have given anything to be with the principes or triarii, safe behind the front line.
Roman trumpets gave the order: prepare to advance.
‘Right, boys,’ Naevius shouted, ‘silence in the ranks. Listen for your orders. No one throw his pila until I say. Raise the war cry when you are in their faces.’
The men mumbled they understood. Paullus hoped his training would get him through this, prayed he would not let those around him down.
‘You ready for war?’ Naevius’ voice carried through the maniple.
‘Ready!’ they bellowed back.
Three times came the call and response. Paullus felt it raise the hackles on his neck.
‘At the slow military step, advance!’
The ground sloped a little, but it was not hard to keep place. Paullus could hear nothing but the rattle and clatter of armed men moving. He saw a swallow swooping low across the land ahead. Many men were about to suffer and die, but it was nothing to the graceful bird.
The Achaean phalanx was moving too. Very slowly, at little more than a shuffle, it edged down the slight incline. Its approach might be ponderous, but it was silent and somehow inexorable. The two forces would clash on the floor of the gentle valley.
Three hundred paces, two hundred. Dear gods, Paullus thought, how can anyone go through this more than once? He fought down an urge to break ranks, to run forward, get this over one way or another. Beside him, one of the Sabines was swearing continuously under his breath.
When they were about a hundred and fifty paces off, the Achaeans halted. Officers could be seen and heard trying to dress their ranks. Moving in formation would be harder encumbered with an enormous heavy pike like a bargepole, twenty feet or more long.
The Romans maintained their slow pace.
When they were within a hundred paces, the pikes of the Achaeans swung down. The points of the front ranks bristled out like a hedge. Those to the rear sloped over the heads of those at the front. The phalanx resumed its steady advance.
The Achaeans were packed close, much tighter than the Romans. There was about six feet between the shoulders of the men on either side of Paullus. He would be facing two files of the enemy, the points of ten pikes. He looked at the faces of the leading Achaeans. The cheekpieces of their helmets were fastened. Only their eyes and noses could be seen. They revealed no humanity.
Fifty paces.
‘First pilum ready!’
Paullus transferred the lighter of his two javelins to his right hand. The heavier remained in his left which gripped his shield.
Thirty paces.
‘And . . . throw!’
Three quick steps, half turned, right arm back, and Paullus hurled the pilum. Watching its flight, he got the heavier missile ready. The rain of javelins pelted down into the phalanx. He did not see his land, but here and there an Achaean went down, and a pike dropped to the ground.
‘Second pilum, throw!’
Three more steps, right arm following through, then recovering balance, yanking out his sword.
The range was closer, the javelins heavier, and more Achaeans fell. But not enough, not nearly enough. Holes appeared in the barricade of spears, but they were filled as men jostled to take the places of those hit. Mummius was wrong. The pila had not broken the jutting barrier of steel that guarded the Achaeans.
‘Draw swords! Charge!�
��
It was like running into a wall. Spearheads rammed into the leather and wood of Paullus’ shield. They jarred him to a halt. Shield held low, the bottom rim almost on the earth, he hunkered down. The tip of a pike sliced by his shoulder. He slashed at it with his sword. The blade hacked a chunk out of the wood, but did not shear through the shaft. Another got under his shield, narrowly missed his boot.
A terrible scream, like a pig at the slaughterhouse. The leading Sabine was clutching at the pike that had run him through the stomach. The legionary following stumbled into his back. Another pike took him clean in the throat.
Paullus stared in horror. The inattention almost was fatal. A pike thrust harder than seemed human punched clean through his shield. The razor-sharp tip missed his face by a hand’s breadth. And then he was fighting like a madman. All fear forgotten, swept away by the desire to survive. He chopped off the shaft poking through his shield. Bending low, he tried to force the pikes up and out of his way. To turn and run would open his defenceless back to the enemy. It would invite death. The only way out was through those ahead.
‘Three paces back!’
The words meant nothing to Paullus. Using his shield as a battering ram, he forced his way into the furious heart of the pikes. Twisting and turning, lopping off spear points, he wormed his way deeper.
A strong hand caught the back of his mail coat, hauled him out.
‘You fucking deaf, boy?’ Naevius dragged him back. ‘I give an order, you obey.’
Six or seven paces separated the wall of pikes and the panting line of legionaries. Both sides were stationary. Achaean officers were yelling, getting their men in order, working them up to cross over that space, to go back into the storm of fighting. The respite would not last long.
Paullus straightened up, and slipped. There was mud under foot. It had not rained. The mud was red. The ground was greasy with blood. Paullus was exhausted, his limbs shaking. He knew he could not face that again. Glancing at Tatius on his right, he saw the battle madness draining from the face of his friend. Alcimus looked no better. They were still alive, but they were spent. This time they would all run.
‘We are done, boys,’ Naevius called. ‘Get ready to fall back, our battle is over.’
CHAPTER 22
Militia
608 Ab Urbe Condita (146 BC)
‘AND . . . RUN!’
Somehow it was harder to run than to remain facing the enemy. To run was to turn your back, to open your shoulder blades to the fatal thrust. The wicked tips of the pikes were only a few paces away. There were hundreds of them. It would be so easy for the men wielding them to charge forward. No one had a problem stabbing a fleeing man. It would be easier than spearing a fish.
‘Fall back!’
Paullus glanced at Alcimus and Tatius. They looked as scared as he felt. None of them could summon the courage to move.
Naevius rapped Paullus across the shoulders with his vine stick. ‘You fucking deaf? I gave you an order!’
The blow stung. Paullus turned and ran. Alcimus and Tatius came with him.
The first few steps were the worst. At any moment he was expecting the lancing pain as an Achaean pike snapped through the links of his mail, drove deep into his body, punched out through his chest.
All order was gone. The legionaries jostled into one another, got in each other’s way. They fled like a herd of timid but clumsy animals with a lion at their backs. Paullus stumbled, nearly lost his footing. Alcimus must have sheathed his sword. He grabbed Paullus by the belt, yanked him back upright.
It was difficult running carrying a big heavy shield. Paullus wanted to throw the thing away. But if he did, he would have to face the wrath of Naevius. Civic crown or not, the centurion would not spare him. He blundered on with the awkward thing dragging at his arm and banging against his legs.
Then they were funnelling between two maniples of the principes. The Achaeans had not pursued them. Paullus was safe. By all the gods, he was not going to die – not now, not yet.
The principes did not call out any reproaches. The older men had seen battle before. They knew what was happening. Maybe they had hoped they would not have to fight, but their faces showed they were set on the grim task ahead.
The crush lessened and the stampede slowed. Paullus looked back. Already the rear ranks of the principes were trotting around to fill the gaps and present a new, unbroken line to the enemy.
Safe for the moment, the hastati jogged back between the triarii. They kept going for a hundred paces or more beyond the third line of veterans. Part of Paullus never wanted to stop – just keep running, back to the camp, to Megara, anywhere but here.
‘Rally on the standards!’ Paullus did not recognise the centurion who gave the command. The maniples of the hastati were all jumbled together.
Paullus saw the wolf standard of Naevius’ maniple off to the left. Together with his friends he walked over. They moved stiffly, like old slaves, overworked and much beaten. When they got there, Paullus dropped his shield and sword, doubled over and threw up. He had eaten this morning – they had not known they would have to fight until after they had left camp – but now he brought up only bile. It was thin and acid in his mouth, and burnt in the back of his throat.
Tatius gave Paullus a wineskin. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then took a long pull. Suddenly he was very hungry. Alcimus produced some air-dried beef. Paullus tore at it like an animal, swallowed it barely chewed, much like Niger would back on the farm.
The blaring note of trumpets called their attention back to the front. The principes were going into action. Two volleys of pila – in quicker succession and better grouped than the earlier efforts of the hastati – arced down on the Achaeans. Their effect could not be judged. The backs of the principes, and the tall feathers nodding above their helmets, blocked any view of the enemy phalanx.
Actually it was getting hard to see anything. The breeze still blew from the east, but it had decreased. It no longer snatched away the dust, but pulled it slowly in great thick banks across the battlefield. Only to the right, where the wind came ashore from the Corinthian Gulf, could things be made out clearly. There the light infantry of both sides kept up a desultory pretence of combat. Having run out of javelins, occasionally two or three men would dart forward and throw a few stones. They were easy enough to dodge. No one ever seemed to get hit. They all knew the battle would be decided elsewhere, and probably considered that there was no point in risking their lives for nothing.
‘On your feet, boys.’ Naevius appeared as unmoved by the carnage as if he were at the theatre. ‘Get in line.’
Numb from what they had experienced, the hastati shuffled together. Naevius took the roll call. The centurion consulted no written record. He knew all one hundred and twenty men by name. He knew who had been present this morning, and who was now among the fallen. Despite the savagery of the combat, only ten were missing – although all three of the Sabines were among them – and just four were too badly wounded to continue. The latter were to be helped to the aid post to the rear.
The principes were still fighting up ahead. The noise was oddly muted, like a distant storm. If they did not break the phalanx, it would be down to the triarii.
Realisation came to Paullus with another surge of nausea. The three lines of the Roman legion, the system of battlefield reliefs, was a perfect stratagem for a general. If the enemy broke ranks and chased those retiring, many legionaries would die; men like Paullus himself would be cut down as they fled. But that was a small price to pay for victory. The enemy would rush forward as a mob of individuals, and they would be easy pickings for the next line of Romans waiting in their disciplined maniples. If, like just now, the enemy stayed in line, they would have to steel themselves to go into combat again, not once but twice.
Paullus doubted that Naevius, or anyone else, could ever force him back into that storm of spears. To Hades with the high-flown talk of true Roman virtus, the innate manliness of the sons
of Romulus. Courage was like a grain store on a farm. It contained only a finite amount. You could take grain out, but never put any back. Sooner or later, it would run out. And you could never tell when that would happen.
‘Bollocks,’ Tatius muttered.
The principes were falling back. Again the Achaeans must have maintained their discipline. No pursuit could be seen through the murk. The principes were re-forming in front of the hastati, and the triarii were getting into a continuous line.
‘If only the fucking cavalry had not fucked off,’ Tatius said. ‘This would have all been over an hour ago.’
‘Courage, boys,’ Naevius said. ‘We are not finished yet.’
‘But it’s down to the triarii,’ Tatius said. It was a proverbial expression: the third and final throw of the dice. It was all or nothing now.
The triarii were armed with spears, not javelins With a brave shout, they levelled their weapons and surged forward. The sound of the clash rolled back like a clap of thunder.
The triarii knew their trade. They had stood close to the steel many times before. But they were massively outnumbered, and their spears were outreached by the Achaean pikes. Paullus knew that this was a fight they could not win.
‘Sir.’
Naevius was studying the battle. He was beating his vine stick against his thigh, as if exorcising a daemon, or beating out an obscene thought.
‘Sir.’
‘What the fuck is it, Paullus?’
‘We could do what the horsemen failed to do, sir.’ To Hades with his empty store of courage. Something had to be done, or they would all die on this windswept plain between two seas.
‘What?’
‘Lead all the maniples of the hastati around to the right, sir. You are a senior centurion, they will follow you. The Achaean light infantry will not delay us. The general himself said no phalanx has ever stood when hit in the flank.’
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