It seemed like an age since Atius had last stood in a battle line. Not since his time in Britannia had he waited, shoulder to shoulder with legionaries on either side. Technically, Atius was not a legionary, having been promoted via the auxiliaries, but the men to his left and right seemed more than happy for an Arcanus with the rank of centurion to be fighting alongside them. Even if there was something a little wild in his eyes.
They rested their spears on the top of their shields, ready for the order to throw, after which they would draw their gladii and brace for the impact of the charging warriors. He could see them now, racing forward, the Roman cavalry and missile auxiliaries scattering before them. The artillery had stopped firing, as the Germans came too close to be sure the bolts and stones wouldn’t hit their own men. A sudden panic gripped Atius, taking him by surprise. His heart started to race, his skin became clammy and cold, and his bowels attempted to loosen. He had to squeeze his buttocks to stop from soiling himself.
He had thought himself immune to the fear. After all he had been through, the danger, the killings, the captivity, the torture, it had almost been a relief to return to the familiarity of a legion. An impregnable mass of muscle, shield and armour, edge and point. What a fool he was. Imminent battle scared even the most hardened warriors. It was some small comfort to know that everyone around him was feeling exactly the same.
For a moment he felt like he was standing apart from himself, looking down from above on his own body. So small, insignificant, among the huge mass of Roman and German infantry. So fragile. He inspected himself, like a philosopher examining an interesting insect on the tip of his finger. His detachment felt emotional as well as physical. From this distance, it felt like none of it really mattered. Not victory. Not even his survival.
‘Spears ready!’
The centurion’s command snapped Atius out of it. Back into his body, with all the churning terror and excitement. He hefted his weapon, drew his arm back. He gripped so tight the shaft vibrated and the tip shook like a leaf in a stiff breeze. He could hear the thunder of German feet now, as the charge approached. Their battle cries became clear, the general swell of noise resolving into individual shouts, challenges and curses. He gritted his teeth. Had something happened to the centurion? They were getting too close. Why wasn’t he giving the order?
‘Throw!’
As one, the legionaries hurled their spears. They arced up, and back down into the onrushing barbarians. Many in the front rank checked their charge, ducked, weaved. Some fended the spears off with their shields, then had to discard their shields, weighted down with the missiles so they became a useless encumbrance. A few fell, stuck through in more or less vital parts of their bodies.
It wasn’t nearly enough to make a difference.
The first Germans smashed into the Roman shields. Atius felt the impact like he had been hit by a charging bull. The only reason he wasn’t knocked flat on his back was the legionaries behind him, bracing him. But of course that meant he was squashed from both front and back, and all the breath whooshed from him.
As he struggled to get air into his winded, compressed chest, the braced legionaries were forced back one step, two. Then the men of the second and third lines dug their heels in, pushed back, and the front stabilised. More Alamanni ploughed into the back of their own compatriots and the battle degenerated into a shoving match. Those in the fore found themselves crushed between their own men and the enemy, gasping like beached fish, while they fended off attacks with sword, axe and spear, at the same time stabbing forward over and between their shields.
The thrill of battle banished Atius’ fear, and he thrust, twisted, withdrew, over and over. He felt, rather than saw, the blade strike home, find resistance, sometimes soft flesh, sometimes hard bone, and the accompanying screams gave him a warm sense of satisfaction. He imagined his opponent was Wigbrand the Chatti chief, or Romilda the priestess, even though these were not Chatti, and the priestess was already dead. The thought gave strength to his arm, and he fought with a fury that had his comrades casting sidelong glances at him, making sure to stay out of his reach in case they became accidental casualties.
But the energy that comes from battle lust can only take one so far. Quicker than he expected, he began to fatigue. He was nowhere near back to his full strength after the deprivation, maltreatment and inactivity of his captivity. And soon it told.
An axe came over the top of the shield, descending towards him. He swept his gladius upwards, but his counter was too weak. The axe deviated slightly from its path, so instead of cleaving his head in two, it glanced off the edge of his helmet. Still the blow was enough to stun him. He fell heavily onto his backside, then felt strong hands drag him unceremoniously back. He was dimly aware of someone stepping over him to take his place in the line, then the world, suddenly dotted with flashing lights, began to spin around him, and he collapsed backwards.
Silus watched the battle in frustration and anxiety. Part of him, maybe the larger part, felt he should be down there, standing shoulder to shoulder with Atius, the two friends protecting each other while they fought for Rome. All those other men too, putting their lives on the line for Emperor and Empire, while he sat on horseback, watching it all unfold like a gladiatorial fight, or a play at the theatre.
But the other part of him felt sympathy for the Alamanni, who were clearly the wronged people. Even from this distance, their righteous anger was palpable, and the fury with which they fought underlined the fact that they were struggling for their very existence.
Silus winced as the front lines crashed into each other, and found that he had been clenching his fist so hard as he watched the first few moments play out that his fingernails had dug half-moons into his palm. He consciously willed his hand to relax, then looked around him. No sign of an enemy flanking force. They had obviously decided to keep it simple. Use their superior numbers to overwhelm the Romans. Slaughter them as rapidly as possible, before reinforcements could arrive. They must be aware that this wasn’t the full extent of the Roman forces in Germania, but they also knew that the Emperor was with this army. It took no great strategist to know that if you cut off the head of the snake its body was no longer a threat. Even Caledonia had been saved from complete destruction by the death of Severus, leaving his sons to race back to Rome to consolidate their power.
He looked back to the fight, then a movement in the corner of his field of vision caught his attention. A rider. Coming towards him along the hillside from the German side. Solitary. So a scout, like him, he supposed. He put his hand on the hilt of his gladius and waited for the man to approach. As the figure drew nearer, he saw that man barely fit the description. A slender individual, little more than a boy. Just like…
Oh no.
But of course. It was no coincidence. He should have been prepared for this. Odo was a scout, just like Silus. That was why he had been chosen to help Silus rescue Atius in the first place. It was only natural that he would be sent here, up the hillside to warn against surprise flank attacks from the Romans. That neither side had planned such a stratagem meant that Silus and Odo now sat on horseback, half a dozen yards apart, looking at each other with eyes full of sadness.
For a long while, neither spoke. Then Silus, said, ‘Ride away.’
Odo shook his head.
‘Turn around,’ said Silus. His voice was pleading. ‘Go. Tell your superiors that there was nothing to see.’
‘I’m not going to do that, Silus,’ said Odo. His voice was so flat, so distant. So unlike the cheerful companion whose company and hospitality Silus had enjoyed so recently.
‘Please. This will only end one way.’
‘I could have saved him. My father.’
‘It was hopeless. You would have died alongside him.’
‘You denied me that chance. You lied to me, tricked me.’
‘To save you!’ Silus was exasperated. ‘Please believe me, I only found out when it was too late to stop it. I could do only one thing. Make sure you lived.’
‘At what cost?’
Odo slowly dismounted, and drew his sword, a short Roman gladius, maybe given to him when in service to Rome, maybe looted from a dead legionary. Silus hesitated, then swung down from his own horse.
‘I can’t fight you. Not after everything,’ said Silus.
‘I’m not giving you the choice. Look down there.’
Silus glanced down at the battle. The Romans were sorely pressed, giving ground as wave upon wave of Alamanni fell upon them. The Roman reserves were being thrown into the gaps in their defensive line as men fell. Maybe Atius was one of those fallen. Maybe he was dead already. After all they had been through together, wouldn’t Silus feel something if Atius had died?
‘I’m not naive. If we lose this battle, the Alamanni are finished, for a generation or more. But if we win, if we defeat your Emperor, even kill him, then the retribution of Rome will be as bad, if not worse. There is no hope for us now. What have I to live for?’
‘There is so much…’ began Silus.
‘No.’ The single word was like a descending axe, cutting the sentence short. ‘But I can die with honour. Defend yourself, Silus.’ He stepped forward.
Still Silus did not draw his sword. Odo hesitated, clearly unwilling to cut down an unarmed man. Emotions warred in his eyes. Then he let out a howl of anguish and despair and swung his gladius two-handed at Silus’ neck.
Instinct took over then. Whether a rational Silus, given time to think, would have accepted the blow, rather than be forced to fight back and kill his friend, he would never know. Because the animal was at the fore now, the predator, the prey. Kill or be killed.
He ducked under the blow, rolled across the damp, grassy earth and came back to his feet with his sword already in his hands. Odo pressed forward, swinging left to right, right to left. Silus dodged, parried, ducked again. Still he retained enough control, his human mind ruling the animal just enough to stop him striking back. Maybe he could disarm Odo, force him to surrender.
But Odo had given himself to a battle fury that Silus had never seen before in the youth. He howled and spat and cursed as he hacked and slashed. And then the moment came, when Odo over-extended his reach, lost his balance.
The animal Silus struck. Before he even knew it had happened, he thrust his sword into Odo’s abdomen, twisted, pulled. A gout of blood came out with the blade, and Odo fell to his knees, dropping his sword, mouth open in shock and pain.
Silus was instantly by his side, his own sword discarded. As Odo tumbled backwards, he caught him, cradled him in his arms.
Odo looked up at him, spittle on his chin, tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes.
‘Oh. Silus, it hurts.’
Silus looked down at the lad, his own tears flowing freely now.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Odo. ‘The gods willed we should be enemies. You know…’ He coughed, and red-brown blood spewed out of his mouth. Silus wiped his face clean with the sleeve of his tunic, and Odo breathed heavily for a few moments, before summoning up the strength to speak again.
‘You know, I would have been proud to call you brother.’
Silus frowned. The comment seemed incongruous.
‘And I know you would have made my sister happy.’
Comprehension rolled over him. Oh.
‘You knew?’
Odo tried to laugh, coughed again. More blood. When he was able to speak again, his voice was noticeably weaker, and all colour had left his skin, his boyish red pimples vivid against the pallor of his face.
‘I told you. I’m young, but I’m not naive. I saw the way you looked at each other. But now, I think my sister would find it hard to love the man who killed her brother.’
Silus thought of his strange love-hate paternal relationship with Tituria, whose family he had murdered. He thought of Caracalla’s relationship with his stepmother, whose son, his half-brother, the Emperor had killed. And he felt suddenly so exhausted. Odo was right. Ima would not love him. But nor would he put himself through the pain of loving her. Not with Odo’s eyes staring out of hers accusingly, every time he looked at her.
‘Odo. I would have been proud to call you brother, too.’
Odo nodded and closed his eyes. Silus stayed with him, holding him, as his breathing became deeper, more irregular. He didn’t know at what point the boy lost consciousness, but he knew, when the breathing stopped, the body stiffened, the point at which he died. He hugged the young Alamanni against him, and he shook as he wept.
Below him, the battle raged on.
Atius lay in a damp puddle. The earth rocked like he was on a boat in a rough storm, and he put a hand down to try to steady himself. The puddle was strangely warm and sticky, and when he lifted his palm to his face he saw it was covered in congealed blood. He thought, with a strange sense of detachment, that the blood must be his, until he turned his face sideways and found himself looking at a headless corpse, still oozing from the severed vessels.
The shock made him sit up, and though his head spun, he did not pass out again. Though he had been dragged back from the front of the battle when he was struck, the front line had retreated back to him, and he was in danger of being trampled by the hobnailed boots of his own side as they took step after step in reverse.
He shuffled backwards on his seat, then cautiously levered himself upwards. He had lost his sword and shield, but the decapitated soldier beside him still clutched a gladius and his shield lay nearby. Atius pried the surprisingly strong grip off the hilt and swung the sword experimentally twice, to test its weight. A gap opened in the lines a couple of feet in front of him as a legionary toppled sideways when an axe bit into the angle between neck and shoulder.
Atius grabbed the discarded shield and stepped into the lacuna. A spear thrust over the top of his shield nearly went through his forehead, but Silus was able to sway to his left just enough for the tip to pass harmlessly past his right ear. He thrust his gladius through the tiny gap between his shield and his neighbour’s and was rewarded with a soft resistance, and a low gasp of pain. He shoved forward with his shield, the boss crunching into something bony, and his attacker fell away.
Another appeared instantly in his place, and Atius shoved with his shield again. This one was armed with a stabbing sword, and he used the Roman tactic of thrusting through gaps, rather than swinging, clubbing and bludgeoning, which was less effective in the closely packed ranks. Atius had to gyrate his body to avoid a blade in his guts, and his own counter-thrust was ineffective. The Alamanni warrior snarled at him, cursed him in his guttural language as he stabbed again, and this time the attack found Atius’ midriff, even as he twisted away.
Fortunately, Atius’ desperate evasion attempt changed the angle of attack just enough that his armour deflected the blow. The armour parted around the sharp iron, and the edge sliced his skin, but the point did not find its target, his soft innards.
But Atius was off balance now, and slow from the head injury and his general poor state of fitness. The warrior withdrew his sword and prepared for a thrust to Atius’ face over the top of the shield, and though Atius brought his own blade up to counter, he knew he was going to be too slow.
The legionary to Atius’ right saw the threat, and stabbed hard in the direction of Atius’ opponent. The gladius tip went into the soft temple, and the barbarian’s eyes rolled up into his head as he died instantly.
Atius turned to thank his comrade, only to see a spear skewer his neck from front to back. The legionary sank to his knees, clutching at the spear and yanking it from his killer’s hands. Atius stabbed out, and his neighbour’s assailant staggered back.
For a moment, Atius found himself unopposed in the line, and he was able to take stock. All the Roman reserves had been thrown forward down, to shore up holes in the defences, or reinforce parts of the line where the defenders were looking shaky. Even Caracalla was in the action with his Praetorians, some way down the line from Atius. He had charged into a breakthrough on the left, his Praetorian cavalry with him, and thrown back the attackers forcefully. Now he was swinging around him with a long spatha, hacking down any who came near.
It was obvious from his luxurious and highly polished attire that he was important, and it didn’t take much guesswork to conclude this was the Emperor. Consequently, the Alamanni leaders directed their reserves in his direction, hoping to bring the battle to a swift conclusion. But the Praetorian cavalry and the Emperor’s bodyguard fought like lions. Arrows arced towards him but were swatted away by his companions’ shields. Spears thrust out but were knocked aside or cut in two with sharp blades. Axes were swung or hurled, but their wielders were cut down.
Caracalla made no headway into the mass of warriors, but his mere presence drew swarms of Alamanni towards him like wasps attacking honeycakes, and that alone relieved the pressure elsewhere. But even that was not enough. The Alamanni were just too many. And with the reserves used, when defender was cut down, there was no one to step up to plug the leak. At first a trickle, and then like a dam breaking, the Alamanni burst through. Now the defending legionaries were beset not just from the front, but from behind as well.
The structured formation of the Romans broke down, and suddenly it was every man for himself. Atius found himself back to back with another legionary, fighting for their lives. Exultant Alamanni swarmed around them, crying out in victory, waving their weapons in the air as some made for the baggage carts to begin looting, while others, the more disciplined, pressed their advantage home.
For the Romans were not yet done. Though they no longer fought in the protection of their close-packed ranks, they still had months and years of training. They had strength and stamina, their swords were like extensions of their arms, and now, as the Alamanni had been at the start of battle, they were fighting for their very survival. They expected no mercy from these people whose unarmed kin they had so recently slaughtered.
So the fighting continued, with no let-up. In the end it came down to stubbornness. Atius was not willing to give up, not ready to die, not after he had stayed alive against all the odds so far. Though he could barely lift his sword, though his shield sagged, though his comrade behind him stiffened, gurgled, died, Atius fought on.
And when he finally felt the end nearing, the last reserves of his energy gone, he heard the sound of bucinators blaring their sweet trumpet notes across the valley. He was unable to turn to see the source of the noise, but it was unmistakable, and if he had had any doubts, the thunder of horse hooves dispelled them immediately. The Alamanni heard the sound too, stepped back from the fight, turned their heads in fear.
Now Atius could look, and his heart lifted at the sight of a wedge of a hundred heavily armoured Roman auxiliary cavalry charging down the hillside to take the Alamanni in the rear. Behind them, preparing their charge as soon as the cavalry had struck and retreated, were the infantry, three legions, a little fatigued from the forced march, but fresher than any man on either side on that battlefield.
Half the Alamanni were skirmishing against pockets of resistance while the others raided the meat and beer wagons and looted the dead. The cream of their leadership dead in the massacre, the remaining nobles and chiefs had no control over their men, and when the cavalry struck, there was no defence.
The Alamanni scattered in panic, but the Romans were quickly on them. Those that were outright fleeing were easy fodder for the short lances and long spathas of the cavalry, who speared them like fish in a pond. Those that stood and fought faced the full force of the legionaries.
It was no contest. Barbarian disorganisation and fatigue fought Roman energy and discipline. All Alamanni resistance disintegrated, and then the slaughter began, no less bloody or complete than the previous massacre, for all that these barbarians were armed and prepared for a fight.
Atius’ attackers melted away, and with disconcerting abruptness he found himself all but alone. Around him lay a circle of dead and dying, Roman and German. The focus of the battle rolled off into the distance, like a thunderstorm passing from overhead to somewhere far away. His hands dropped to his sides, the last of his strength deserting him with the fading of the danger. His shield and sword dropped from numb fingers. Though they crashed to the ground, he didn’t hear them.
A sudden thought occurred to him. He looked up towards the hill crest, where Silus had been stationed. He could see two figures there, one kneeling, one lying, but he could make out no more than that. He feared for Silus, but as he looked around him at the battlefield strewn with dead and dying, he could summon no emotion. He tried to pray, but even that was beyond him. Was this his retribution? Was he healed? Sated?
He sat down heavily, hugged his knees to his chest, and rocked back and forth, trembling violently.