Read The King's Cavalry Online
Authors: Paul Bannister
Milan was a busy place, a trade centre for fleeces, hides and livestock from the pastures of Gaul, Iberia and northern Italia; for metals mined in the uplands, for wine and oil from southern and western Gaul, olives from the grey-green groves of Iberia, grain from the Danube and timber, wax and pitch from the eastern forests.
Apart from all the commerce, for centuries Milan had been a favourite residence of the emperors who wished to avoid the summer heat and stink of Rome. Diocletian had considerably enhanced the palace and made it the centre of his western empire, Maximian had added to those improvements. Today, I was going there to meet the Caesar Constantine, a man whose grip on the imperial throne was shaky and contested by two rivals. I still had a twinge of unease about this meeting. Constantine had demanded I meet him face
-to-face.
The request was polite, but it was an imperial command after all and it made me uneasy. He might wish to meet to solidify our unwritten treaty of peace between Rome and Britain, or it could be because he wanted revenge on me. I had defeated and then personally executed his father Constantius Chlorus when he invaded Britain.
I turned away from the wood-shuttered window where I had been watching the merchants in the streets below to answer a knock at the door. A courier was there, bearing the familiar small red leather cylinder that bespoke an imperial message. It contained a surprise.
Constantine had sent a hurried note: he had left that dawn for Verona on urgent business, and I was to follow him. “Do not enter the city,” the note said. “If you do not find me encamped there, go to Ostia and I will find you. Come. We can speak of peace, and I wish to see you with your heavy horses.”
I took a moment to untangle this. Ostia was Rome’s port city, 15 or so miles away from the city, I recalled, for I had sailed from there once, on my way to Massalia. It was many days’ march from Verona, which was in northeastern Italy. What did Constantine mean: ‘encamped?’ It suggested a military expedition. I questioned the courier and matters became clearer. The emperor had left the previous evening to join his legions, which held a defensive position a few miles out of Milan. He had news that Maxentius, son of my old enemy, had occupied Rome. Later, I would learn that Maxentius had turned back an attack by his co-emperor Galerius. He had persuaded Galerius’ general to surrender on promise of safe passage, bribed his army to defect to him and then had broken his word and had the losing general, Severus, beheaded. Finally in sole command, he had settled in behind Rome’s great walls.
The picture was becoming clear. On the face of it, Constantine should have taken the direct route 400 miles along the Via Aemilia to Rome, but one of Maxentius’ generals held Verona with a sizeable force. If Constantine turned his back on it to hurry to Rome, he could easily be caught in a crab’s claws pincers. First, he had to neutralise the Verona force, which was under the command of the general Pompeianus. Only then could Constantine face Maxentius, and although he could not command my obedience, it seemed that the emperor wanted me and my heavy horses in the battle line at Verona.
He was offering a bargain: my military support and all that it implied, for a negotiation between Rome and its rebel colonia. This might mean peace for Britain, an end to Rome’s claim after four centuries of rule. Or it could be a trap. I hardly hesitated before I gave the orders. We would leave Milan the next morning, at first light. For Verona.
Meanwhile, in Rome, Maxentius’ bid to be sole emperor had been strengthened. He had his own troops plus those who had defected from Severus and it was common knowledge, said the courier, that the emperor was moving great quantities of food and supplies into Rome in preparation for a siege.
It was not enough that Maxentius had the greater numbers, about 40,000 men to Constantine’s 25,000, the fact was that a siege would heavily favour those inside Rome’s ramparts. The walls had been built about 30 years before by the emperors Aurelius and Probus and they were massive, impregnable-seeming works. I had viewed them myself when I went to Rome a decade or more previously, to receive my commission from Emperor Carus, called Persicus. That old soldier, one-time commander of the Praetorian Guard, had talked military matters with me and we had spoken of the walls. “The only thing wrong with them,” he said, “is that the Tiber’s banks inside the city walls are unfortified. It would only take a smart soldier with a few boats to float down and get inside that way. I’m looking into closing that water gate.” I had filed away the information. Tactical material like that can be valuable.
The courier was still standing there, at attention. He obviously was waiting for my reply. I gave it to him. “Please inform the emperor that I shall be following him,” I said, and suppressed a sigh. Then I called for Grabelius and Quirinus, my cavalry commander and his fellow tribune. We were now going to Verona and then probably, to Rome. The year was 312 in the Christian calendar, soon it would be autumn. My concern was that we might not be back in time to cross the Alps during
the winter snows, I had no idea that I was the pagan riding to try to save a religion he despised: Christianity. The Fates must have been cackling that day as they spun the threads of my future.
Grabelius did a fine job and our cavalry looked splendid as we trotted out of Milan’s southeast gates on the Via Porticata. Ahead of the main body of about 500 men trotted several troops of Asturian outriders, mostly horse archers mounted on their Asturcon ponies, which were easily identified even from a distance. They ambled, or moved oddly sideways whenever their gait exceeded a walk.
Behind them, and heading the squadrons of heavy cavalry were the conical-helmeted descendants of Sarmatian auxiliaries who had first been stationed in northwest Britain two centuries ago. These fine cavalrymen’s forefathers had been taken as hostages from their homeland and put to duties that included guarding the lands around the Wall of Hadrian. They worshipped Epona, Gallic goddess of the horse, fought under a dragon banner and had bred and trained much of the heavy cavalry of my command. They were so horse-oriented that after their discharge from the military, they refused to live in houses, but instead returned to reside in waggons like those that had been their homes on the Steppes a century before.
Most of them were mounted on heavy Roman horses from the transalpine region but some had the splendid big Frisians that were the pride of our cohort. We bought the animals as three year olds, and within a year or so they were fully trained and would serve as the world’s finest war
horses for more than a dozen more years.
My only regret was that most of our Frisians were geldings. We had kept some uncut for stud purposes, but those prideful war
horse stallions could be less than tractable, and although the Sarmatians handled them well, it was most practical to neuter the beasts. The Persian Nisean breed, of which we also had a fair number, were large horses with a very comfortable gait, but they were not of the same class as the Frisians in terms of intelligence, aggression and loyalty, but they certainly were better than the Steppes ponies of the Huns and other tribes and fitted well with our excellent cavalry.
In barracks, our troopers lived in the same building as the stables, their quarters backing onto the horse stalls at ground level while the servants and grooms lived in
attics built above the stalls – and smelly, smoky places they were, too. I’d remarked on it during inspections: the grooms always stank of ammoniac horse urine and smoke from the troopers’ fires. It was a standing joke about the grooms’ stink, and some regarded it as a badge of honour because it showed how devoted they were to their charges.
The troopers were even closer to their mounts, which they trusted with their lives, and almost all spent far more time than necessary tending to the beasts’ needs and training. That included teaching the horse to bite and flail with his hooves at an infantryman, to leap and kick backwards at any attempt to hamstring him, to turn and wheel on commands which were transmitted by knee pressure so his rider’s hands were free for weapons, and to perform other movements of both attack and defence.
The Romans themselves were not great horsemen, preferring to rely on their armoured infantry to grind enemies under, and they usually employed auxiliaries for cavalry duty, but the Celts and Britons were highly regarded as equestrians and with reason. For myself, I prized our cavalry and knew the value of having the biggest, heaviest horses, as they could intimidate as well as carry better armour. In the battle ranks, Grabelius allocated a space of about three feet by eight to each mount, and the Frisians were easy to find. At 15 handspans tall at the withers, or about a half-head shorter than a man’s height, they towered over the usual pony-sized cavalry mounts whose riders’ feet could often touch the ground whilst in the saddle.
Yet even the pony soldiers could do great damage to an infantry line. The Parthians used horse archers to skirmish with enemy formations to loosen them, then sent in heavily-armoured shock cavalry armed with lances to shatter the disjointed enemy ranks. Another Caspian tribe, the Roxolani protected their horses with mail coats or horn scale armour, and their riders carried wicker shields and wore protective corselets of raw oxhide. Some opted for leather bands like hooped segmentata armour as reinforcement over leather backing, and sometimes continued the leather
, apron-like undergarment down as a skirt that helped protect their horse, too.
I had studied their war gear and concluded it offered less protection than Roman segmentata, but the small size of the Roxolani ponies meant they were unable to carry fully-armoured riders. This, I felt, was the key. Big horses could carry well-protected men. Speed was not really needed. No horse would charge fully into a standing line of spears, so most ‘charges’ were made at a moderate pace and the lancers would halt just short of the enemy ranks and engage the opposition from above, with longer-reaching weapons than the enemy infantry possessed.
I sat my big war horse Corvus, who was as black as the raven for which he was named, and watched the cavalcade pass. After the skirmishers and scouts, after the Sarmatians on their fine heavy horses came the Britons, my warriors of the chevron, on their huge Frisians, and my heart warmed to see them.
Grabelius was acting under my specific orders for this critical march. We had much travel ahead of us and we had to make time on Constantine though we would be moving through a land riven by civil war. Two columns, I thought, would be best, and would facilitate deployment to a flank, or even to echelon if attacked. “We’ll need all the usual security: advance guards, covering detachments, flank and rear guards. The men are to be instructed that anyone who drops out must not do so alone, and should continue to march during the five minutes per hour rest periods to make up distance lost to his unit,” I told my commanders.
I expected to cover 35 miles a day, and laid down specifics to sustain the pace so the condition of both men and horses would be maintained. The beasts were to be walked at not more than four miles per hour, trotted at no more than eight, and there would be no galloping unless a tactical situation demanded it. Unsound animals, either by reason of age or incapacity, were to be left at a mansio en route, as they would slow the entire column.
We would be on good roads almost the entire way, and would use the cool of early morning and evening to avoid the late summer’s heat, but troopers should use horse covers to keep their animals from chilling when halted.
There was a litany of other orders, including a critical one: watering the horses may be necessary during the day’s heat. The animals can go all day without water, but in dusty, hot conditions, we must water them every few hours. However, if the water facilities are small or congested and could cause long delays, they should only be used when the animals are in extreme need.
“These orders may seem like a concentration on minutiae, gentlemen,” I told my officers, “but we must make very good time on this march, we must remain secure and I want every man and horse to arrive in excellent condition and ready for combat if required.” For I guessed, though I had not spelled it out, that Constantine wanted my presence with my elite cavalry to show what Christian armies he might command. That would be a powerful token in the game of dice he was throwing with his rival.
If Constantine could demonstrate that his ally was the Emperor of Britain who had formed the Christian army that defeated Maximian, he might sufficiently impress Maxentius to ascend to the imperial throne without bloodshed. I had to admire the man’s political brain even if I was being used as a playing piece in his game.
We rode into Constantine’s meticulously-ordered marching camp in time to join the battle, and the emperor himself strode out of his campaign tent to greet me. I slid down from Corvus and we grasped forearms, old style. “Welcome, Emperor of Britain,” he greeted me, graciously I felt.
“Lord,” I murmured, bowing my head. I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. This man was the master of the world, once he’d disposed of Maxentius and one or two other nuisances.
“In here,” he gestured, striding into his pavilion tent. “Let me give you a briefing, quickly, so we understand each other.” I nodded, appreciating his directness. “We’ve had too much civil war, it’s time for one strong man to rule Rome. My rival Maxentius has recognised, as I do, the value of the Christians, he’s even appointed another Eusebius, of Caesarea, as bishop of Rome, but he’s not doing much more. We have to give them full recognition, they’re too many to ignore. You’ve learned that.”
It was a shrewd observation, and I squirmed a little. I’d publicly adopted the Christian god and had led a so-called Christian army to victory but I
, myself and many of my warriors, were private pagans. I nodded.
“When I’m in sole command, their religion will unite the entire empire, I’ll see to that. We have to have the Jesus followers inside the tent pissing out, not outside pissing in. At this time, I’m in full charge of my father’s army and territories, but Maxentius has bought up a lot of troops, including Severus’ entire army, the Praetorians, Galerius’ men, the imperial horse guard and the African forces, which ensure his grain supplies.
“Now, I’ve had some success here in the north and I have a policy of not burning or looting, which meant that Turin refused to let Maxentius’ people in after I defeated them, but opened the gates to me instead. The same went for Milan. I want you to know this, and to inform your troops. We need the populace’s cooperation. Execute all looters and rapists, understand?”
I’m a big man, a professional soldier and the ruler of Britain, but there was no withstanding this man’s force, and anyway, it made sense. He didn’t wait for my grunt of acquiescence, he took it for granted. He was in command, as always.
“Take a look at the situation here,” he said, spreading a scroll on a camp table. “This is Verona. It sits in a loop of this river, which is too fast for us. The usual way in is over this peninsula to the west and they’ve reinforced that neck of land, as you’d expect. It’s a tough nut, but I’ve got them besieged at present, and I’m told there is a ford which we can use to attack from two sides. This would let us cut their supply line, too. I have scouts checking it as we speak.”
The emperor straightened up and grinned with big
, yellow teeth. I understood he was impatient to send me on my way, he wasn’t going to ask me for anything, he simply expected my cooperation. I gulped. This, if ever, was the time. “About your father,” I began. “It was necessary.” It had been necessary, too. I’d personally executed the Caesar Constantius Chlorus after defeating his invasion. Left alive, he would have simply tried again, until he executed me. His son gazed at me thoughtfully.
“You did,” he said. There was a pause as if he’d forgotten what I had done, until now.
“Yes,” he said. “You did what you had to do. He would have taken your head in the same circumstances. At least he died cleanly. I bear you no grudge. I hardly knew the man myself, and my mother disliked him intensely.” I think I let out a gust of breath I did not know I had been holding. Constantine showed me his yellow teeth again, but there was no humour in his face. “You do what you must, in war,” he said, and I knew he’d kill me if it was expeditious. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m married to Fausta, and she is Maxentius’ sister. I’m at war with my own brother-in-law. It’s not personal, it’s just military matters. Now, look, go and see what we’re doing about this siege. I’d guess we’ll get them outside their walls at some stage, and you might as well check the ground. I want you to use your cavalry to advantage.”
Outside the pavilion, a tribune took me to view Constantine’s preparations. He’d mounted a full, formal siege and my heart sank. It could take months. As the Fates had it, it did not.
Over the next week, the hidden ford allowed Constantine’s men to mount some fierce, simultaneous attacks on two sides of Verona’s walls, so threatening that the defending general, a praetorian called Pompeianus, sallied out with a strong force to repel the attackers. He failed. Constantine’s armoured ranks drove the besieged back inside their castrum and the big siege engines began their constant pounding again, hurling missiles, blazing firepots and rocks at the fortifications; a pontoon bridge was thrown across the river so we could roll siege towers up to the walls and a half-cohort of sappers began burrowing to undercut a corner tower.
*
Pompeieanus took advantage of a moonless night and his determined cavalry squadrons and broke out to seek reinforcements. A mere week later, he was back with a new army sent from the south, and for the first time, Constantine openly called on me and my heavy horse to fight for him.
“We’ll have to face them on two fronts,” Constantine said cheerfully. “I’ve got the engineers throwing up an extra palisade across the peninsula, so we can bottle them up inside their own walls, and we’ve built a strong point to hold the ford, too. We’ll throw what we have at Pompeianus before he gets too close.”
I have to admit, Constantine was a brilliant general. He sent a screen of horse archers out to harry the enemy ranks, hurled an ironclad infantry wedge right through their centre and deployed me and my heavy cavalry to thunder into the enemy’s left flank. The foot soldiers broke into fragmented ranks, the horsemen rolled them up from both ends and the carnage was both swift and total. Even the losing general Pompeianus died in that afternoon’s welter of blood and iron. As the late summer shadows lengthened, the killing ground was littered with dead and dying, and not one soldier had been able to sally out from the enemy oppidum to help.
The victory was so shockingly complete it utterly demoralised the watching garrison and two days later they surrendered. Several days later, as we were finishing the burials, envoys arrived from Etruria and Umbria to declare that their cities cast their lot with the emperor. The conquest of Verona had not gone unnoticed. Constantine discreetly abandoned his own claims to divinity, and swiftly made a public announcement that he was God’s envoy on earth, and that Christianity would be his state cult.
He was, he pointed out, by ancient prophecy under the protection of the Christian god because he had a portion of the Holy Nail of Christ’s death incorporated into his war helmet. This, and the sacred red cross of the Christians that the army now carried on their shields (“So that’s what it is,” soldiers nudged their companions) guaranteed, absolutely guaranteed victory against the ungodly.
“It was probably an error to persecute the Christians,” he confided to me during a rare drinking session together. “It’s a bit of a revolution to bring them inside the tent, but we need their numbers, and I suspect their young god is more powerful than the old, enfeebled gods of our fathers. They are mostly impotent now, I think. Why else would Rome be in such sharp decline?”
I muttered something or other, secretly fingering the small hammer of Thor that is concealed at all times under my tunic. I was still searching for my own ways to restore Britain, still puzzling over what could bring back the old gods of my country. A week later, my problem still unsolved, we turned our horses’ heads south. We were headed for Rome and the greatest battle of them all.