Authors: Ben Kane
Within the space of a hundred heartbeats, the enemy attack on the Twenty-Eighth had come to a standstill. Romulus could see that the Caesarean standards were all still roughly in a line, which meant that the Fifth’s cohorts were achieving the same results. Pushing in behind came the other three units, which kept up their momentum. Exhilaration filled Romulus. After all the fear and setbacks of the day, it seemed that courage and determination were being rewarded at last. Already many of the horsemen were looking to the rear. All they had to do was keep up the pressure, and the Numidians would break and run.
Of course there were always leaders who could pull the fat from the fire. Screaming orders at his riders, an officer clad in Roman army uniform on a fine white stallion managed to drag the Numidians’ rear sections away before the Twenty-Eighth had reached them. Galloping back three hundred paces, he rallied the panicked tribesmen before leading a stinging attack on the side of Atilius’ cohort. Riding in at speed, the whooping cavalry threw their javelins in a thick shower and retreated, as they had all day.
The volley caused heavy casualties among the unprepared legionaries, whose shields were raised against attack from the front, not the side. At once the tactic was repeated, with similar results. Dozens of men were down now, and fear was mushrooming in the rest. It was a shining example of how the course of a battle could be turned around. Romulus watched the scarlet-cloaked Roman officer directing operations and cursed. If this went on, all their efforts would have been in vain.
‘I know him,’ shouted Sabinus. ‘It’s Marcus Petreius, one of Pompey’s best generals.’
Romulus watched Petreius gallop off to the far flank, no doubt to emulate his success here. ‘The bastard’s got to be stopped, or they’ll turn us over.’
‘What can we do?’ Sabinus retorted. ‘He’s out on the open battlefield on a damn horse and we’re on foot.’
Romulus didn’t answer, but a daring idea was coming to mind. Breaking rank, he trotted over to Atilius, who was directing sections of legionaries forward into the Numidian lines. ‘A word, sir,’ he shouted.
The senior centurion looked around, surprised. ‘Make it quick.’
‘Did you see the attack on the cohort’s right flank a moment ago, sir?’
‘Of course I did,’ scowled Atilius. ‘Now the prick has gone off to repeat the same with the rest of his cavalry.’
‘I’ll kill him, sir. Just give me two men,’ Romulus pleaded.
He had all of Atilius’ attention now. ‘What will you do?’
‘Make our way through the mêlée,’ Romulus explained. ‘Pick up some enemy javelins on the way. Somehow get close enough, and bring him down.’
‘Causing panic in his men,’ muttered the senior centurion. ‘With luck, they’d flee.’
Romulus grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’
Atilius scanned the open ground to their right. Apart from a few scrubby bushes, there was hardly any shelter. Waves of Numidian cavalry were sweeping back and forth across it to attack the Twenty-Eighth. ‘It’s a suicide mission,’ he said.
‘Maybe it is, sir. But if someone doesn’t stop the whoreson, they’ll soon break our attack.’
‘True.’ Atilius thought for a moment. ‘Three men less in the cohort won’t save our skins either. Do it.’
Romulus could hardly believe his ears. ‘Sir!’ He snapped off a crisp salute and pushed his way back through the press to Sabinus’ side. Quickly he filled the dark-haired soldier in on his plan.
‘Been praying to Fortuna?’ Sabinus asked sarcastically. ‘We’ll need her guiding every step of the way to stay alive.’
‘Are you with me or not?’ Romulus demanded. ‘We’re defending the rest of the column, remember?’
Sabinus spat a curse and then nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘I heard what you said, comrade. Count me in too,’ said a thick-set legionary wearing a bronze helmet with its horsehair crest missing. He stuck out his right arm. ‘Gaius Paullus.’
Romulus grinned and accepted the grip. ‘Let’s go.’ Shoving through the ebbing and flowing ranks of legionaries, they soon reached the edge of the cohort. Injured men were everywhere here, screaming at the iron-tipped javelins which had struck them in their arms or legs. Those who had been hit in the neck or face sprawled uncaring on the ground, forcing Romulus
and his two comrades to step over them. Mentally, he asked their forgiveness. It helped – a little.
Once in the outermost rank, Romulus took in the situation at a glance. There was no sign of an
optio
or centurion here, which meant that they’d been killed. The Numidian attacks had already left huge gaps in the side of the cohort. It would not be long before the beleaguered legionaries were either overwhelmed or ran away. Time was of the essence, but they also had to wait until Petreius returned from the left flank.
Ducking down behind their
scuta
, the trio weathered a number of Numidian attacks. There was no chance of defending themselves, just the ignominy of hiding away from the enemy javelins. Eventually, though, Romulus saw the distinctive white stallion reappear behind the regrouping cavalry. ‘There he is,’ he muttered, pointing.
‘It’s about three hundred paces,’ muttered Sabinus.
‘A long way,’ added Paullus.
A strange calm fell over Romulus. ‘Leave your shields. Helmets too,’ he ordered. Wiping his bloody blade on the bottom of his tunic, he sheathed it. ‘Take off your mail shirts.’
The other two stared at him as though he were raving mad.
‘We stand out a mile in our gear,’ Romulus hissed. ‘It’s also damn heavy. Without it, the Numidians might think we’re riders whose mounts have been killed.’
Understanding blossomed on their faces and they began to obey. The dazed soldiers nearby looked on uncomprehendingly as the three stripped themselves of all their equipment. Underneath their thigh-length chain mail, their padded russet jerkins were saturated in sweat.
‘Gods, that feels good,’ said Paullus with a grin.
A shower of enemy javelins came scudding overhead and the smile disappeared from his face.
Swiftly they lifted their shields again until the attack had ended. Reaching out carefully, each man picked some Numidian light throwing spears from the dozens which lay scattered amidst the bodies.
Romulus waited until the enemy horsemen had turned around. ‘Now!’ he hissed. ‘After them!’
The trio shot forward like Greek sprinters at a games. The retreating tribesmen did not look back and, as Romulus had hoped, their mounts
concealed the trio from the Numidians who were waiting to move forward. The crucial moment would be when the two lines met, and the new wave of attackers rode out.
They had covered about half the distance when Romulus saw horses’ heads appearing in the gaps between the retreating cavalry. ‘Down on your bellies!’ he shouted.
Sabinus and Paullus understood now.
All three threw themselves headlong to the hard ground. Pressing their faces into the dirt, they lay like dead men. Soon they could feel the earth shaking from the cavalry’s approach. Romulus’ heart was hammering in his chest, and he had to stop himself from trying to see what was going on.
An instant later, dozens of Numidians rode past at the canter. Shouting to each other in their own tongue, they didn’t even look at the soldiers: just three more bodies on a littered battlefield.
Sabinus made to get up, but Romulus grabbed his arm. ‘Stay put,’ he whispered. ‘The others will see us. We wait until the first lot pull back, and then do the same again.’
Fear mixed with determination in Sabinus’ face. ‘What then?’
‘Get in between their horses,’ said Romulus with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘Make a beeline for Petreius.’
‘And pray,’ muttered Paullus from his other side.
‘If we’re successful?’ asked Sabinus.
‘Head for our lines,’ Romulus replied. What chance will we have? he wondered. Little to none. The reality of their plight sank in. They’d committed themselves, though, and their comrades were depending on them.
The end of the Numidian attack was marked by a chorus of screams from the legionaries who’d been injured. Soon after that, the pounding of hooves shook the ground again as the light cavalry pulled back. Romulus waited until the last of the riders had gone past. ‘Now,’ he cried. ‘Run as if your life depended on it.’
Jumping up, they tore after the Numidian horsemen. This time, they were closer behind the enemy, and once again none of the stationary riders saw them. Romulus counted his steps as he ran. Thirty paces, then forty. Fifty. Sixty. Still no one cried out or threw a javelin. Craning his head this
way and that, he looked frantically for Petreius’ scarlet cloak amid the press.
‘There,’ shouted Paullus, pointing to their right.
Romulus stared into the confusion of horses and riders, seeing nothing. Then his vision cleared, and he recognised the Roman general about a hundred paces away. Petreius was surrounded by a group of officers and, like Caesar on the opposite side, he was pointing and gesticulating at his enemy’s lines. A dozen guards on horseback ringed him, their spears at the ready.
Mithras help me now, Romulus prayed. I do this for all my comrades. He glanced at the other two. ‘Ready?’
They each gave him a grim nod.
‘Don’t say a word if you’re challenged. Just keep moving.’ Angling himself straight at Petreius, Romulus increased his speed. Within twenty steps, they had reached the ranks of the Numidian cavalry. It was a perfect example of chaos, thought Romulus, so unlike a Roman cohort. Fresh riders were making their way through to the front, cheering and laughing with the tribesmen who had just returned. Men were dismounting to check their horses’ hooves or to urinate on the dry ground. There were shouts and cheers and water bags were being handed around. No one even gave them a second glance.
‘Stop running,’ Romulus hissed. ‘Act like one of them.’
At once his companions slowed to walking pace. Covered in sweat and blood, and wearing tunics not dissimilar to the Numidians, the three deeply tanned legionaries could pass an idle glance. A sudden jolt of fear hit Romulus as he looked down. The
gladii
on their belts were a dead giveaway. His pace faltered for a moment. Keep moving, he told himself. They’re not looking. We have not been seen.
He was right. No one confronted them as they worked their way through the mass of men and horses. One Numidian even nodded at Romulus, who grunted in reply and moved on before the warrior could ask him something. Soon they were nearing the back of the formation, and Petreius’ group of officers and sentries. This party was a different prospect.
‘We’ll never make it to his side,’ Romulus muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘Those bastards are too alert. Are either of you good at long spear throws?’
Sabinus shook his head.
‘Not me,’ Paullus answered ruefully.
Romulus sucked in a nervous breath.
‘It’s down to you then,’ said Paullus. ‘We can bring down a few of his guards. Protect you while you take aim.’
Romulus counted their light throwing spears. He and Paullus had two each, while Sabinus had three. Seven in total. It wasn’t enough, but would have to do. Then Romulus looked at the collection of enemy riders they were about to take on and his courage began to falter. ‘Come on,’ he hissed, moving into the open before fear made him freeze on the spot.
To their credit, Sabinus and Paullus were only a step behind. Fanning out on either side of Romulus, they readied their spears.
Romulus was so near Petreius that he could hear what the general was saying. Cocking back his right arm, he drew a bead on his target’s chest. At this short distance, his iron-tipped shaft should penetrate the gilded breastplate that Petreius was wearing.
Ten steps away, one of the guards glanced uninterestedly at the trio. Then he frowned. Something wasn’t right here. His gaze turned back and at once his mouth opened to shout an alarm. Before he could, Paullus’ first spear took him in the chest. Without a word, the Numidian toppled backwards off his horse. Another looked around in surprise. In a heartbeat, he’d noticed the wooden shaft sticking from his comrade’s chest and the trio of ragged-looking men just in front of him. A loud cry left his lips and he prepared to throw his javelin.
‘Quickly!’ cried Sabinus.
Things started to happen very fast.
Romulus threw his first spear just as one of Petreius’ officers unintentionally moved his horse forward a step. The weapon flew through the air, punching into the Numidian’s belly with a gentle soughing sound. With a loud scream of pain, the man fell sideways to the ground. Petreius looked around, and realised what was going on. His face twisted with fear and rage, and he pulled his horse’s head around to ride away. Romulus spat a curse. The Pompeian general knew that his life was worth more than staying to fight these assassins.
As he prepared to throw his second shaft, Paullus gave a surprised cough. Romulus looked around in horror to see a javelin protruding from the
right side of the thickset legionary’s chest. With no mail to stop it, the shaft had slid past his ribs to puncture the lung. It was a death wound. As if to confirm this, a stream of bloody bubbles was already leaking from Paullus’ lips.
Yet he still had the strength to point urgently at Petreius before he collapsed.
Romulus spun back. Petreius was riding away, taking two guards with him. A moving target, with men milling around between Romulus and it. He had to take a shot, though, or the whole mission would be a failure. Paullus would have died for nothing. Romulus took a deep breath and lobbed the spear up in a curving arc, over the officers and guards. Swift as an arrow, it turned and came back down, striking Petreius in the left shoulder. The impact threw him sideways in the saddle, but he did not fall. Immediately one of his men rode in alongside to lend him support and together they cantered off.
Romulus’ spirits plunged. He’d failed. Petreius wouldn’t die from an injury like that.
A sword swept through the air, held by a Numidian officer. ‘Roman scum!’
Romulus ducked, narrowly missing losing his head. Moving back a step, he pulled his
gladius
from its scabbard. He parried the next blow, and the next, but his opponent was on horseback, which made defending himself much harder. The next time the Numidian slashed at him, Romulus took a different tack, darting round the other side of his mount to plunge his sword into the man’s thigh. There was a muffled cry as the officer went down.