“We have them. One more push and then we split”. The feathers and helmet of Spurius nodded as Marcus heard his call of agreement. Marcus turned to look across at Tubero, three lines back and fifty paces away. “Messenger” he called as he half turned, the man already coming forwards, his chest covered in a thick leather guard with the bronze heart saver strapped across the middle of his torso. “Message for Tubero. One more push, then we split. May Fortuna go with him and his men” he said as the messenger saluted quickly and turned to push his way through the press of Romans. Marcus took a moment to look to his right and saw the legions there already pressing forwards as the Gauls fell back, slowly but definitely. He grinned and closed his eyes as he said a silent prayer to Fortuna and Juno, adding that the temple he had dedicated to the goddesses would be magnificent if he were victorious for Rome today.
Spurius called the step once more and the legions heaved their shields forwards, snapping arms and swords into the gaps which opened in front of them. Those Gauls who had any sense were either stepping back already or had moved back a half step and then leapt forwards to thrust their own long swords into the gaps which appeared in front of them. Marcus felt a rush of air as a spear was thrust past his helmet again, the Gallic assailant baring his teeth as he avoided a Roman blade and screamed curses at not finding a target. The close shave brought Marcus back to the moment and he signalled for the push which would split the army, each man knowing that this was the riskiest manoeuvre that they had faced so far in the fight. The legionaries started to drag their shields apart and the second and third rows stepped slightly forwards to arc their shields to the edge of the splitting column of men. Shouts of anger and encouragement split the air as feet stamped and kicked into action, the level of noise growing even louder as the Roman officers shouted commands to their men. Curses and screams rent the air as the legionaries stepped forwards. A man fell in front of Marcus, his sword already stabbing deep into the collarbone as the man tried in vain to bring his sword into play. The soft gurgle of his dying voice didn’t even register as Marcus was already stepping across his body and stamping hard to get purchase on the blood slicked, broken-bodied, ground.
Spurius continued to call the steps, his head moving like a hawk from left to right as he watched for danger and moved the shields across where the Gauls threatened. Suddenly a blur of motion caused Marcus to twitch, his head ducking as a Gaul crashed through the two lines of men that were now in front of him. Spurius had turned to his right and was already cutting a long line of red into the belly of the Gaul as his eyes, as blue as a summer sky, stared at Marcus and snarled a guttural curse. The attackers’ left hand grabbed at his heart saver, the bronze tight around Marcus’ chest and he clawed at Marcus with his right hand, which had now dropped its sword and become free in the tight space. Marcus grunted with the effort of lifting his sword and dropping the hilt onto the attacker’s head with a sickening thud which split hair and bone, but the man still grasped at Marcus, his body now a series of gashes as more legionaries stabbed and hacked at his body as he continued his frenzied attack. Marcus thudded the sword into the Gaul’s skull again, the dull thud causing the man’s eyes to roll in his head, as Spurius called the line to close, another attacker already pushing as far into the gap as he could.
Marcus clenched his jaw with the effort of loosening the man’s grip by bashing his head with the heavy bronze end of his sword once more, his shield arm too tightly pressed to move across his body. As he stared at the light disappearing from the blue eyes, which constricted in agony as he thumped his sword into the face that glared at him, he had a sudden sense of foreboding and snapped his head forwards to see a bronze hammer arcing through the air.
Marcus leant back with all his weight, dragging the dying Gaul into his body as he smashed into the legionary who was a step behind him. The force of the hammer crushed the nape of the neck of the blue-eyed Gaul with such ferocity that Marcus was knocked to the floor and fell flat on his back with the dead Gauls body on top of him. The body, slick with blood, was a dead weight and despite scrabbling furiously he couldn’t move, his eyes staring up as the darkness of the Roman line closed in over the top of him.
“Camillus is down. Protect him” screamed Spurius as Marcus heard the hammer whistling through the air, the dark boards of solid wood splitting to let in shards of light as the hammer smashed into them. The screams of the Gauls rose to a crescendo as Marcus rolled to his right and knocked into the legs of a stumbling legionary who had been twisted by the force of the hammer blow. A series of metallic thuds and a sudden movement, which caused the air to stir as he rolled onto his elbow, suggested that the attack from Brennus’ hammer had been stalled, but Marcus didn’t have time to think. He needed to get to his feet. Spurius was screaming orders as the Gauls increased their attack. A sword caught Marcus on the shin, his leather greaves scuffing as the extent of the Gallic reach hardly hurt him but caused fear to rise in his chest, his heart beating like the drums of the Salii, the dancing priests with whom he had served as a boy.
Arms dragged him roughly to his feet as he attempted to right his lopsided helmet and turn to face the attacking enemy. His cheek dripped blood, the scar from the earlier attack suddenly causing pain again as the edges were torn open. He ground his teeth and stared back at the front, the shields buckling as several Gauls threw their bodies at the Romans, their bearded faces covered in grime and blood as they roared defiance at the Romans. One man was spitted through the eye by a spear tip, his head rocking backwards and his face splitting apart as he tumbled to the floor and kicked his legs out at anything around him. Spears crunched into his body as Marcus stared out into the crazed Gallic line. Where was Brennus? Where was that hammer?
“Spurius” he called as he saw the younger man push his shield into the gap and scream for order and discipline from the men around him. “Where is their leader? The man with the hammer” he shouted as the Roman officer pushed back against a bare-chested attacker who was bashing an axe into his shield with insane speed, which caused the wood to bounce like the skin of a drum. Spurius lifted the shield slightly higher, fell to his right knee and sliced the iron blade in his hand at an angle across and into the left leg of the Gaul, who tumbled like a felled sapling and screamed as his thigh was split from hip to knee, the white bone glistening for a second before his body disappeared under a flurry of spear and sword thrusts.
“Straight ahead” Spurius called without looking back at Marcus. “Ready to move men of Rome?” he called straight after, the bulk of his broad back shifting in preparation. Marcus risked a quick stretch of his neck and saw the hammer rising into another stroke, but what he saw caused him some confusion. The hammer was being wielded by the druid. He glanced around to left and right and called urgently to Spurius.
“Carry on towards the fire” he shouted as he turned and pushed aside the man behind him. He needed to understand what was happening. Had Brennus moved across to support the right flank? Was he now already charging through the lines to circle them? Marcus cursed himself. He had been too caught up in being in the front rank of the attack to realise that he needed to oversee the battle, not be caught up in front of it. His lungs hurt as he gasped for air and lunged past soldiers as they attempted to clear a space for him. His horse stood thirty yards away with the retinue of messengers and officers who were staring at him in surprise as he appeared from the press of soldiers. Two bodyguards pushed past beside him, both evidencing that they had been at his side putting their own lives at risk as he had stood in the line of men himself.
“Quick” he called, throwing the shield to the floor and motioning to mount the horse. The trumpeter came forward expectantly, bronze instrument already on his wetted lips as he awaiting a command. But Marcus simply turned his face forwards and rose as high on his mount as he could to stare at the scene around him.
The Gauls were in disarray. Directly in front of him Spurius continued to force the Gauls back towards the centre of the Gallic defensive line, the fi
re, which was their ultimate target, now glowing with white heat and the slumped body dark, like a demon from hell, sat against the burnt central stake. Thousands of Gauls were pouring backwards towards the ford across the stream on the left as Tubero forced his men in that direction. The reserve line had shored up the small gap in their forces as the men split, their long spears more than enough to deal with any Gauls courageous enough to dash forwards onto their iron tips. On the right the battle was stalling, the swirling of dust and clashing of iron suggesting that the men had reached an impasse and none were gaining any ground. So, the left it was, he thought. The only way to win this battle was to commit everything they had to this push on the left. Caedicius was not visible with the cavalry out on his far left, but Marcus called a messenger and sent him to call his horses back to support the final push. Another messenger went to Apuleius to send all the reserves he held to this side of the battlefield, a long march but those troops could make the difference. A thousand more men could swing this battle, he thought, but so could killing their leader. And as he spoke, he had a sudden flash of inspiration. Brennus was dead. He knew it. His eyes stared hard at the figure burnt to a crisp on the fire and he knew that the headless shape he saw was that of the Gallic leader. They had sacrificed him in an effort to call favour from their gods. He tightened his jaw as he thought quickly and called to the men around him.
“We must break them on the left” he called. “Starrus” he nodded as a young man, his fluffy chin showing his young age. “Take a message to Narcius. Tell him to wheel his men left and push towards our line. There” he pointed as Starrus, his eyes wild with excitement, followed the finger that pointed towards the fire which was less than a hundred yards ahead of them.
“Sir” the boy saluted and repeated the order before being released to run off into the distance.
The orders were called and the men of Rome lurched forwards as the trumpets blared their commands into the sky. The Gauls fought in a frenzy, their arms pumping their swords into the Roman lines, but still they were forced backwards. Marcus pushed his horse as far forwards as he dared, shouting and calling to the men as he rode left and right and urged the Romans to fight onwards. And all the time he kept an eye on the Hammer of Brennus as it rose and fell, then rose and fell again. Further and further the Romans pushed until the Gauls were fighting a final stand only thirty paces from the water on the left, twenty from the centre where the dying flames had consumed their great leader. A sudden cry rose from the carts away across the river and Marcus saw a great pink snake fly into the water as a line of hundreds of Gauls turned and ran, fleeing from the central line and splashing frantically into the cool, dark, water. The water foamed as a crashing sound, like a wave smashing into the rocks on the beach, rose into the air as a great cheer from the Roman forces followed it. More Gauls turned, some now starting to raise their hands as they threw their weapons to the floor, others already fleeing the scene.
Marcus called for the trumpets to command the Romans to release their men from the shield walls and to chase down the fleeing Gauls as the panic spread throughout the Gallic lines, and the trumpets blared out the command. Caedicius and his horse charged into the left flank of running warriors as his cavalry took the opportunity to slice into the defenceless fleeing men. A great cheer from the right caused Marcus to turn his head and see the final push of the right wing as it enveloped the Gauls, the noise sounding like the stamping of thousands of feet as they thumped the ground, men fleeing and chasing wildly into the stream at its deepest point. Marcus’ heart leapt, the gods were with them and the battle was nearly won. A great swell of relief coursed through his body as he felt lightheaded at the momentous victory, his breathing coming in long, deep, breaths as his mouth tightened and he ground his teeth as he watched the final move of the battle.
“Victory” shouted a soldier from in front of Marcus, his eyes shining with the joy that follows hours of dealing death to your enemies. “Victory” his neatly trimmed bearded face called as he turned to his Dictator and held up his sword in salute. “Victory” he yelled again as the chant was taken up by all the men nearest them. Marcus waved at the man and pointed his sword into the distance.
“Men of Rome” he called. “There lie our enemy. Return the gold of Rome to its owners and destroy these barbarians who dared to darken our walls.”
Before he had even finished his words, the legionaries were racing across the ground and following the thousands and thousands of cheering Romans as they crushed the last defences of the Gallic warriors, the shrill screams of the women calling from across the water already rising above the tumult. Marcus watched as Apuleius released the final reserve lines, the fresher men outpacing the legionaries in front of them as they charged across the ground, desperate to blood their swords and bring glory to themselves and their families.
Marcus sheaved his sword and wiped his brow before taking a small sip of water. He watched to the right and left, looking hard for the hammer of Brennus and seeing it surrounded by hundreds of Romans as the man holding it fell to a spear in the neck, the dust obscuring the final blow, but the cheering of the attackers clearly marking his death. As the man fell and further cheers rose in the air, he looked at the men around him, all covered in the blood of battle and the grime of the sweat that came with hours of labouring under the sun with a sword, shield and spear. Marcus relaxed, his shoulders dropping slightly as he took a deep breath and mumbled a thanks to Fortuna. He nudged his horse with his knees and stepped forwards towards the fire, which had now rescinded to an ashen mound. As he approached, he felt a desire to pick up the war hammer of Brennus and to place it in the temple of Juno as a dedication to the goddess. As he looked up, he saw Narcius striding across from the right, several men around him as he raised an arm and held it high in recognition. Marcus responded with a raised arm before he moved away towards where he had seen the hammer make its last attack. Sure enough the weapon was half hidden under a pile of bodies, each bare backed or totally naked Gaul covered in the filth of blood, dirt and dust that had finally begun to settle as the battle now continued across the water. Marcus jumped from his horse and kicked a body off the pile of men who surrounded the gleaming bronze hammer. The Gauls tongue lolled from his open mouth, reminding him of a horse that he used to own who would stand with his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth after a particularly hard gallop.
As he bent to pick up the hammer head, a sudden burst of movement snapped at him from the dead bodies, a silver coloured blade swiping at his throat with the speed of a snake.
************
Chapter 30
Marcus flung his arm up and dived left, his continuous training whilst in Ardea the only thing that saved him as his sharpened sense of self preservation and hard training instinctively took over his actions. The blade sliced into his arm, catching the underside of shoulder and biting deep into the flesh. A pair of feral eyes caught his own for a moment as the body of Aengus rose like a spirit of the dead from the pile of bodies, the blade already arcing for a second strike as Marcus fumbled to grip his sword. The second strike bit into his arm again, the blade pulling him off balance as Aengus yanked it back and leapt at him, his fingers stretching to grip his helmet as the weight of his body slammed into the Roman leader. Marcus was vaguely aware of voices screaming and feet running but his attention was solely on the blade that was now curving towards his neck as the white teeth of the attacking Gallic druid shone like stars in the sea of blood and gore that coated Aengus’ face. Marcus ducked his head and lunged forwards, the knife scraping along his helmet as he attempted to grip the arm that held the blade. The slick blood on Aengus acted like oil and Marcus’ finger simply slid along his skin, clutching at thin air as they closed. Aengus barged his shoulder into Marcus’ face and shifted his weight to come around and close a hand around Marcus’ neck from behind as his right hand rose into the air and his voice screamed “Teutates” as the strength in his body was channelled into the action of striking
the blade into Marcus’ throat.
Marcus, dropped his knees slightly, lowering his centre of gravity, before he threw himself backwards in a move that Mella had taught him years before, the motion causing the attacking Gaul to lose his momentum in the strike and allowing Marcus a split second in which to roll his shoulder and pull the man over his own body. The blade had not reached its full height as Aengus had screamed for the god to guide the weapon and Marcus had used that moment to put all his effort into the throw. The Gaul clung to Marcus with all his might as the smaller framed man span in a circle, the blade still flicking at Marcus but clashing against the bronze heart saver he wore across his chest. Aengus was grappling with the blade as Marcus gripped his wrist and dragged it down towards the floor, bringing his knee up into the Gauls face as a flare of pain exploded in his cut shoulder, the wound clearly deep. The dull thud of his knee connecting with the Gaul’s face was followed by the rasping of his blade as he quickly drew the sword and slammed the side of the blade, all he could muster at such close quarters, into the side of the druid’s head. The metal seemed to bounce off the Gauls matted hair as voices rose around them, hands and swords appearing in Marcus’ peripheral vision as the curved blade arced back at him and Aengus screamed as he launched a final attack.
The blade rang along Marcus’ iron sword as he back handed a parry and turned his wrist to thrust the blade into the neck of the attacking Gaul, the final scrape echoing as the blade whipped into the bare flesh and tore a hole through the man’s neck which opened in a gush of blood which flew into Marcus’ eyes and momentarily blinded him. He felt the Gaul grabbing at his eyes, the stench of blood and filth that was all over the man assaulting his nostrils as he gasped and threw his arms and legs at the body of his assailant. He felt a thud, then another as the Gaul was pummelled by Roman swords, and as Marcus managed to blink the last drops of Aengus’ blood from his eyes he stared into the bottomless pits of the druid’s pupils as he clenched his teeth and fell to floor into a crumpled mess of shattered flesh, his mouth attempting to scream hatred but his voice dying in his throat.
Vae Victis Page 39
