The Road to Rome (14 page)

Romulus shouted with joy. ‘I was sure you were dead.’

‘Fortuna might be a capricious old whore,’ laughed Petronius, ‘but she’s in a good mood with me today.’

They looked behind them. The chariot which had just cut men apart had come to a complete halt, the depth of the Roman formation finally using up its momentum. Like starving wolves, the nearest soldiers swarmed forward, desperate to kill man and beast. The horses were cut down, stabbed in their bellies or their hamstrings cut. Their unfortunate charioteer was no coward. Instead of trying to surrender, he reached for his sword. He didn’t even get to pull it out of the scabbard. Instead, four or five screaming legionaries buried their
gladii
in his neck and arms. As the blades were withdrawn, the charioteer’s body toppled to one side. He was not finished with yet, though. Still filled with the terror of what the scythes might have done, one of the soldiers swept his sword down, decapitating his enemy. Blood sprayed all over his legs as he stooped over the head. Ripping off the helmet, he held aloft the dripping trophy and bellowed a primeval cry of rage, which was echoed by all those who saw.

The charioteer’s face still bore a grimace of surprise.

Despite causing heavy casualties, the chariots had not broken apart the Roman formation. Large holes gaped where men had fallen: serious damage to the shield wall when the battle had only just commenced. Although the gaps could quickly be filled, the legionaries’ relief did not last. A new sound filled their ears. It was more horses. Bitter curses rang out.

Through the back ranks, which were facing the opposite direction, Romulus and his comrades saw the Pontic cavalry. It had ridden around the Twenty-Eighth’s flanks and was now about to fall on its ill-prepared rear. Even in the best of circumstances, it was almost unheard of for infantry to stop a charge by horses. At Pharsalus, specially trained legionaries had managed it, stabbing at the enemy riders’ faces with their
pila
and panicking them into flight. The Forgotten Legion had also done it with specially forged long spears which horses would not ride on to. Neither option was available here today, and, fully aware that they had only their javelins to throw before they were ground into the dust, the soldiers at the rear cried out in fear.

They were not the only men with death staring them in the face, thought Romulus, remembering the infantry running behind the chariots. The surviving centurions were of similar mind. ‘About turn. Re-form your ranks,’ the nearest one cried. ‘Quickly, you useless bastards!’

Romulus spun around at once. He wished he hadn’t.

Waving their swords and spears, the peltasts and
thureophoroi
were closing in fast. Battle cries and screams rose as they came. The Roman shield wall was still in disarray and many legionaries flinched. Memories of these men’s ferocious kinsmen in Alexandria were still strong. With the cavalry closing in from behind, and a horde of fierce infantry about to attack the gaps in their line, their doom seemed certain.

Romulus felt like a piece of metal lying on an anvil with the smith’s hammer raised high above him. When it came down, he would be smashed into smithereens. Despairing, he raised his eyes to the clear blue sky. As usual, he saw nothing. Since having a terrible vision of Rome when in Margiana, Romulus rarely tried to use the soothsaying skills which Tarquinius had taught him. On the rare occasions that he had, the gods seemed to mock him by revealing nothing. Damn them all, Romulus thought. Who needs to divine now anyhow? A fool can see that we’re going to die.

Whether they thought the same or not, the centurions did not panic. Veterans of numerous campaigns, they were the epitome of discipline, and the backbone of the legions at perilous times like this. Chivvying the men together, they closed the gaps left by the chariots. Romulus swore aloud with relief as he understood their purpose. The centurions had realised that one tiny crumb of advantage remained to the Twenty-Eighth: that of height. It gave them a little time. Because the enemy foot soldiers had to run uphill, their charge was a lot slower than the chariots had been.

Romulus’ resolve stiffened, and he glanced at Petronius.

The veteran gave him a clout on the shoulder. ‘This is what it’s about, lad,’ he growled. ‘Backs to the wall. About to die, but with our comrades around us. Can’t ask for more than that, can we?’

There were fierce nods from the men who heard his comment.

Their acceptance brought tears of pride to Romulus’ eyes. None knew his history as a slave, but they had seen his courage at first hand and now he was one of them. The rejection that he and Brennus had suffered at the hands of other legionaries in Margiana had left a deep scar on his soul. Here on a barren Pontic mountainside under the hot sun, the soldiers’ recognition was a powerful and welcome balm. Romulus’ chin rose with new determination. If he had to die, then he would do so among men who took him for one of their own.

‘Elysium awaits us,’ shouted Petronius, lifting his
pilum
high. ‘And we die for Caesar!’

A loud, defiant cheer followed his cry. The word ‘Caesar’ was repeated along the line like a mantra. It visibly strengthened the shield wall, which had been wavering before the crushing numbers of enemy troops rushing up the slope. Even the legionaries who were about to be struck by the Pontic cavalry joined in.

Romulus’ spirits were deeply stirred. Since being press-ganged into the Twenty-Eighth, there had been no real chance for him to gain an understanding of the soldiers’ unswerving devotion to their general. He knew that Caesar had earned his troops’ loyalty the hard way – by leading from the front, by sharing their hardships and rewarding their fealty well, but he had not really seen it for himself. The night battle in Alexandria had been a shambles, and the decisive victory over Ptolemy’s forces soon after had not been a hard-fought struggle. Romulus had heard over and over how amazing a leader Caesar was, but neither of these clashes had provided him with the evidence that he desired. If he was to serve in one of the general’s legions for the next six years or more, then he wanted to believe in him. Now, that conviction was taking seed in his heart. To see that men retained faith in Caesar as their death approached was truly remarkable.

All chance of thinking disappeared as the peltasts and
thureophoroi
rushed in. Romulus had not really appreciated the variety of nationalities which made up Pharnaces’ army until that point. Unlike the Roman legionaries and Deiotarus’ men, who armed and dressed in much the same manner, no two of the warriors charging uphill looked alike. Attracted by mercenaries’ high wages and the chance of plunder, they had come to Pontus from far and wide. There were Thracian peltasts like those Romulus had seen in Alexandria: unarmoured and carrying long-bladed
rhomphaiai
and oval shields with spines. There were different varieties of peltast too – men armed with javelins and curved knives. Some individuals wore padded linen armour while others carried round or crescent shields made of wicker and covered in sheepskin. A few, no doubt the wealthier men, had shields with polished bronze faces.

Plenty of the approaching infantry were
thureophoroi
from Asia Minor and further west. Bearing heavy oval or rectangular shields faced with leather, they had Macedonian crested helmets with large cheek pieces and
rounded peaks over the eyes. Like the peltasts, few wore any armour, just simple belted tunics in an array of colours – red-brown like the legionaries, but also white, blue or ochre. Most carried javelins and a sword, but some were armed with long thrusting spears.

The enemy’s left flank was made up of thousands of Cappadocians, fierce bearded tribesmen in pointed fabric hats, long-sleeved tunics and trousers, and carrying hexagonal shields. They bore longswords similar to that which Brennus had owned, as well as javelins or spears.

On their own, none of these variety of troops would have caused a Roman legion much difficulty. The trouble was, thought Romulus, there were just too many of the whoresons. Even with the rest of the army, any victory would be hard won. The fate of the Twenty-Eighth was sealed, but afterwards how could even Caesar prevail?

Petronius laughed, startling him. ‘We’ve got two things to be grateful for,’ he said.

Romulus strained to read his mind. ‘They’re sweating their guts out to reach us, while we just stand here waiting?’

‘And our
pila
will be far more effective thrown downhill.’

The enemy officers were thinking the same thing. While they had to hit the Twenty-Eighth before the remainder of the legions emerged, there was little point throwing winded soldiers at a rested foe. They halted their men a hundred paces away, well outside
pilum
range. All the legionaries could do was mutter prayers and try to ignore the terrible sounds from the rear as their comrades battled to hold back the Pontic heavy cavalry. The more inventive officers there were ordering their men to stab their
pila
at the enemy riders as had been done at Pharsalus, but the ploy was only partially working. Holes were being punched in the Roman ranks, which threatened to split the Twenty-Eighth apart. If that happened, Romulus thought, they’d all be dead even sooner than he’d imagined.

Acid-tipped claws of tension were now gnawing away at his belly. Thankfully, he would have no time to brood. The approaching peltasts and
thureophoroi
would reach them soon. Despite the agonising effort of climbing the hill, the enemy infantry regained their wind fast. Perhaps twenty heartbeats went by before they charged forward at the Romans like hunting dogs. There was no tight shield wall like the legions used, just a heaving mass of screaming men and weapons. The eager Cappadocians were a few
steps ahead of the rest of the Pontic troops, but it would only be moments until battle was joined all along the front. A few fools threw their spears as they ran; they barely flew more than fifteen paces before skidding on to the rough ground, harming no one. Obviously following orders, most held back until they were much closer.

The centurions had no such compunction. With the steep slope affording their
pila
extra distance, they had to cause the maximum number of casualties before the Pontic infantry hit. ‘Ready javelins!’ came the order when the enemy was about fifty paces away. ‘Aim long!’

Closing his left eye, Romulus focused on a bearded peltast who was slightly ahead of his companions. Carrying an oval shield which had been painted white, he bore a larger than normal
rhomphaia
, and looked well able to wield it. Remembering the man he had fought in Alexandria, Romulus could imagine the injuries the warrior might cause. Gripping his
pilum
hard, he drew back his right arm and waited for the command.

Every man was doing the same.

‘RELEASE!’ bellowed the centurions in a loud chorus.

Up went the javelins in a dark shower of metal and wood. With the steep drop of the slope offering only blue sky behind them, they looked quite beautiful flying through the air. The Pontic infantry did not look up, though. Determined to close with the legionaries, they broke into a sprint.

Romulus studied the peltast he had aimed at, wondering if his aim had been true. An instant later, the man went down with a
pilum
through the chest, and he cheered. There was no way of knowing, but Romulus had a strong feeling that it was his hit. Packed as dense as a shoal of fish, the enemy were running without their shields raised, which meant that every javelin struck down or injured a warrior. They were so numerous, though, that a couple of hundred fewer made little difference. Even when a second volley of
pila
had landed, there were few discernible gaps in their lines. This made Romulus feel incredulous, and fearful. Now it was down to the
gladii
that he and his comrades all carried. That, and their Roman courage.

He began to beat his sword off the side of his
scutum
.

Grinning, Petronius did the same. Others emulated them, drumming their iron blades faster and faster to create a terrifying din for the Pontic troops to approach.

‘Come on, you bastards!’ Romulus screamed, desperate to come to blows with their foes. There had been enough waiting. It was time to fight.

Every centurion who wasn’t facing the enemy cavalry was in the front rank. Twenty steps from Romulus and Petronius, so too was the
aquilifer
. Atop the wooden staff he bore was the silver eagle, the legion’s most important possession, and a symbol which encapsulated the unit’s courage and pride. With both arms holding up his standard, the
aquilifer
could not defend himself, which meant that the legionaries on each side had to fight twice as hard. Yet their positions were highly sought after. To lose the eagle in battle was the greatest disgrace any legion could suffer, and men would perform heroic acts to prevent it. For the legate to place it in such a position showed how desperate the struggle would be. Although Romulus had been forced to join the Twenty-Eighth, he too would shed every last drop of his blood in its defence.

‘Close order!’ roared the officers. ‘Front ranks, shields together! Those behind, shields up!’

Shuffling together until their shoulders nearly brushed, the legionaries obeyed. They had done this so many times: on training grounds and in war. It was second nature. Clunk, clunk, clunk went their
scuta
, a metallic, comforting noise. Their bodies were now covered at the front from their heads to their lower calves. All that projected forward from the solid wall were the sharp points of their
gladii
. The soldiers behind were also protected from enemy missiles by the wall of raised shields.

The Pontic infantry were almost upon them. It was time for their javelins. Hurled indiscriminately, the enemy missiles filled the air over the two sides for an instant before landing among the legionaries with a familiar whistling noise. Thanks to the strength of their shields’ construction, few men were hurt. Their
scuta
were peppered with spears, though, which rendered them impossible to use. Frantically, they ripped at the wooden shafts in an attempt to dislodge them. It was too late. With an almighty crash, the two sides met.