Vespasian: Tribune of Rome (32 page)

Vespasian watched as Corbulo and Gallus raced around trying to restore order to the crossing, but his attention was soon drawn away by the mounting noise of his men and their opponents. The Thracians were only two hundred paces away. With Corbulo busy down at the crossing it would now be down to him to issue the signals. He knew the theory from his lessons with Sabinus, all those months ago. He had seen them work in training on the march from Italia, but he had never seen them given for real. He knew that the timing was everything.

The archers to their front let off three quick long-range volleys bringing down nearly eighty of the tightly packed war band, but doing nothing to halt their advance.

‘Open ranks!’ he shouted at the cornicen. The low notes of the G-shaped instrument rumbled over the field, its deep tone audible
to all over the din of battle cries. Immediately every other man of each century stepped behind his comrade to the right, creating passages for the now retreating archers to run through.

‘Close ranks!’ The cornicen sounded a different call and the manoeuvre was reversed.

Unencumbered by body armour the Thracians increased their speed steadily. They were a hundred paces out. Vespasian knew it would come soon.

‘Shields up!’ Again the cornu sounded. The rear three ranks raised their semi-cylindrical rectangular shields and stepped forward to hold them over the heads of the men in front of them. They created a patchwork roof that, if firmly supported, would keep those beneath safe from javelin, arrow or slingshot.

At forty paces from the Roman line the Thracians let out a huge roar and hurled their javelins. Hundreds of the iron-tipped missiles soared into the air and then arced down towards the three centuries and the cavalry to their flanks. With a thunderous clatter, like hail on an ox-hide drum, they rained down on to the waiting shields of the legionaries, thumping into the leather-covered two-inch-thick wood. The temporary roof held firm, with only the occasional scream indicating the inexperience of some rookie who had fatally let down his comrade to the front. The few gaps were immediately closed.

‘Shields down!’ Another blast from the cornu and the men lowered their shields, snapping off any javelins still embedded in them.

‘Pila ready!’ Shields and left legs went forward; right arms flew back with hands gripping the smooth wooden shafts of the lead-weighted pila.

On either side the cavalry commanders had both timed their charges to perfection. Giving the order on the release of the javelin volley they charged underneath it. They had smashed through and
cut off the disordered flanks of the Thracians, who had not had the time to rearm themselves with their most fearsome weapon, the
rhomphaia
: a sleek three-foot-long iron blade, razor sharp and slightly curved back at the tip, attached to a two-foot, ash-wood handle.

With both flanks now isolated and fighting their own private cavalry–infantry battles, the main body came on, throwing down their shields; they would be of no use to them now for what they had in mind. Each man reached behind his head and with a sweeping movement unsheathed his rhomphaia, The Thracians broke into a reckless sprint wielding these terrifying weapons with both hands above their heads. Maddened by battle lust they screamed as they charged, bearded faces contorted with rage. Long cloaks billowed out behind them; heavy calf-length leather boots pounded down the grass.

Trying to remain calm Vespasian watched the approaching surge of hatred, counting to himself. This was the most crucial order and it had to be timed to perfection.

With twenty paces to impact he bellowed, ‘Release pila!’

The cornu sounded. The Thracians had travelled another five paces by the time the legionaries responded to the signal. As one, the three centuries hurled their heavy weapons at a low trajectory towards incoming wall of unprotected flesh. At the moment of release each man drew his gladius from the sheath on his right side and then put his weight on to his left leg and crouched behind his shield. Those in the rear ranks pressed their shields on to the backs of their comrades in front. They braced for impact.

Ten paces from the Roman line more than two hundred pila slammed into the howling stampede. Men were thrown backwards as if yanked from behind by an invisible rope. The barbed points of pila passed clean through their ribs, hearts and lungs, bursting out through their backs in sprays of hot crimson blood. Faces disintegrated as the lead balls at the base of the shafts punched holes
through heads, exploding grey matter over the already blood-spattered bodies of those following behind.

But still they came on, leaping over their dead or wounded comrades, heedless of their own safety. Screaming their defiance at their iron-clad adversaries, they hurtled towards the rigid wall of shields, bringing the blades of their
rhomphaiai
hissing down through the air, trying to slice through the helmets of the men behind.

At the point of impact the Roman front rank pushed their shields forward and up. The bronze-reinforced rims took the impact of the rhomphaiai, snapping handles and notching blades with clouds of sparks. Iron shield bosses thumped into the chests of the warriors as they crashed into the solid Roman line, winding some and throwing others off balance.

The line held.

Then the short pointed swords, designed to stab and gut, thrust out from between the shields at groin height and commenced their lethal work. The bellows of rage turned into shrieks of pain and anguish as the iron blades pushed up through the vitals of the now stationary Thracian front line. Bellies split open, spilling their steaming contents over the feet of both attacker and defender alike. Genitals were severed, arteries opened and blood flowed freely.

The press of their rear ranks prevented the Thracians from using their rhomphaiai to full effect. They were used to more open combat, typical of their inter-tribal battles, where there was room to swing the weapon, lopping off the heads and arms of their opponents, or sweeping the legs from under them. Here they were of little account.

The battle turned into a scrum of pushing and stabbing. A couple of the inexperienced legionaries stabbed too far and felt an icy flash of pain. They quickly withdrew their arms to find only a blood-spurting stump, and went down screaming. The men behind
trampled over them knowing that to leave a gap would be fatal for them all.

And still the line held.

Unable to make headway the Thracians started to spill around the unguarded flanks of the two outermost centuries; legionaries began to fall, heads and limbs missing. From his vantage point Vespasian was aware of the danger.

‘Fourth and sixth centuries advance!’ he yelled.

The cornu blared and the two centuries on the flanks of the second line moved forward at a jog, increasing their speed as they closed with the enemy. Their centurions ordered their charge. In the wake of a volley of pila they hit the side of the encircling Thracians, punching those still standing off their feet with their shields and then despatching them on the ground with firm thrusts of their swords.

The Thracians started to fall back; the encircling manoeuvre having failed, they had, for the time being, lost heart. As they disengaged the severity of their casualties became apparent. More than four hundred of their dead and dying littered the bloody ground in front of the legionaries and the hillside beyond.

A massive cheer rose from the newly blooded recruits as they watched their opponents retreat. A few of the more hot-headed made to follow them only to be bawled back into line by their centurions, who knew only too well the folly of an undisciplined pursuit.

Corbulo arrived at Vespasian’s side.

‘We’ve beaten them, sir,’ Vespasian said with some pride, although fully aware that his gladius remained in pristine condition in its sheath.

‘You’ve beaten them off more like, but they’ll come again. Savages like these have more bravado than sense. It’s time we got out of here. Cornicen, sound “Withdraw facing enemy”.’

Corbulo then turned to the centurion of the unused fifth century. ‘Send out a party of men to bring in our wounded and finish off those who won’t make it. We will leave none of our men behind to amuse those barbarians.’

Steadied by the shouts of the centurions in the front rank and the optiones in the rear, the centuries began to pull back, step by step, in time to the beat measured out by low blasts from the cornicen.

The cavalry disengaged from their private battles and galloped back to cover the infantry retreat. They saw off the sorties of small groups of impetuous Thracians who attempted to disrupt the retrieval of the Roman wounded with javelin volleys.

Slowly the Roman line fell back the hundred paces to the river. In front of them the Thracian warriors had retrieved their discarded shields and rearmed with javelins. Again they began to work themselves up into a frenzy.

‘It won’t be long before they pluck up the courage to have another go,’ Corbulo said. ‘Vespasian, get the rear three centuries and the wounded on to the ropes.’

The last of the archers was crossing as Vespasian ordered the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries on to the three remaining ropes. The men, having retrieved their packs, didn’t need to be told the urgency of the situation and leapt into the water. Behind them the three remaining centuries formed a convex wall, shielding the ropes from the enemy.

As the last men of the rear centuries clambered into the water another great roar went up. Vespasian spun his horse round; six hundred paces away up the hill the Thracians started to move forward slowly.

Magnus appeared at his side. ‘Now we’re for it.’

‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the baggagecarts?’

‘Since when was I baggage?’

‘Since Corbulo put you in charge of it.’

‘As you said, I’m not under military discipline and I ain’t going across until you do.’

Corbulo came striding up to them. ‘We won’t have time to get all the men over before they’re on us. Tribune, get the third century across on all three ropes. I’ve sent the cavalry to try and delay the attack. And you,’ he said, looking at Magnus, ‘tell the baggage to get out of the river, then find yourself a shield and helmet. I imagine you’ll disobey me if I tell you to cross with it.’

‘Sir!’ Magnus hastened off as Vespasian dismounted.

The first and second centuries stood grimly watching their cavalry’s efforts to slow the advancing Thracians. Beaten off by volleys of javelins from the tightly packed horde, they turned and fled, back to the river.

‘Caepio, get your men across,’ Corbulo screamed. ‘There’s nothing more that you can do here.’

The thankful Gauls and Thessalians plunged their already tired horses into the river and began to wade to the far bank; a harder task now that the temporary barricade of wagons was no longer stemming the flow. The men of the third century were also struggling and the crossing had slowed to a snail’s pace. Their comrades, formed up on the far bank, called out encouragement but the quicker pace of the river took its toll. As Vespasian turned to join Corbulo with the remaining men he saw two legionaries being swept away, their heavy armour dragging them under. He knew it would take a miracle for them all to cross now.

The Thracians were less than three hundred paces off and had broken into a jog, gathering momentum for the final charge.

‘Well, tribune, let’s make sure that not all these men’s first action is their last,’ Corbulo said, turning to Vespasian. ‘We’ll take the impact of the charge and hold them; once we’re steady the rear rank can peel off to the ropes.’

‘What about the rest, sir?’

‘They’ll need to fight like lions. We have to make the enemy disengage, and then we run for the ropes. When the last men are on we cut the ropes and pray that we can hold on as the river swings us across.’

Magnus came puffing up the bank towards the two officers with a shield and helmet. He had a mule cart in tow.

‘Looks like we need to beat them pretty decisively to stand any chance here, hopefully these will help.’

‘What have you got there? I told you to get all the baggage across,’ Corbulo shouted, furious that his orders had not been obeyed to the full.

‘Pila, sir.’ Magnus pulled the leather cover off the cart.

A spark of hope kindled in Corbulo’s eyes. ‘What are you waiting for, man? Get them distributed.’

Quickly they ordered the men of the rear rank to grab four pila each and pass them up the files. The men’s morale was lifted by the weight of a pilum in their hands, and they started to beat them against their shields. From behind them their comrades on the far bank did the same. The noise made the Thracians pause. They had reached the long heap of mangled bodies that denoted the line of the last engagement, and were close enough now to see the new pila in their foes’ hands. They had already experienced at first hand that day the destructive power of the weapon, and even at odds of nearly ten to one they needed to boost their confidence. They started another round of jeering and cheering, working themselves up into battle fever.

‘We should go now, sir, whilst they’ve stopped. We could make it, surely?’

‘No, they’ll pick us off in the river with javelins; we need them to fire that volley at us whilst we’re shielded. Come, tribune, it’s the front rank for us. No doubt your insubordinate freedman will wish to join us?’

‘That is a very kind invitation, sir,’ Magnus said politely. ‘I’ll be a lot more use there than skulking around in the rear.’

Corbulo grunted and pushed his way between two files to the front.

Vespasian stood between Magnus and Corbulo at the centre of the Roman line, watching the Thracians getting their bloodlust up. They had found a wounded Thessalian who had been too far away for the retrieval parties to bring in. The hapless prisoner had a ropes tied around his wrists and was being stretched upright in the crucifix position by two men pulling on each arm. Around him danced a swarm of howling warriors brandishing their rhomphaiai.

‘Do not look away, lads,’ Corbulo bellowed. ‘Watch this and remember what they do to prisoners.’