Emperor's Spear Read online

  Eventually, Chlodulf or someone else in the Alamanni command must have tired of the display. As he returned back to the centre, their line suddenly split apart. Three riders charged out at breakneck pace, their heads down, each holding a spear, ready to throw.

  Caracalla’s heart skipped a beat and he cursed his complacency. Of course they would respond. He shouldn’t have stayed so close.

  But Pandion had been ready, and reacted instantly. He spun the horses back towards the Roman lines, flicked the reins, and threw the horses into a full gallop. Caracalla had to hang on tight as the chariot lurched, cornering on two wheels, before settling back down with a heavy thump. It took all his considerable strength to hold himself in the chariot with one hand while keeping his grip on his sword with the other.

  But despite Pandion’s quick reactions, the pursuing riders had already got up speed, and they were unencumbered by the chariot. They quickly gained on Caracalla, and when the first was ten yards behind, he drew back his arm and hurled his spear. Caracalla watched it come, headed straight and true for his chest.

  Pandion flicked his reins, the horses leapt sideways, the chariot jinked, and the spear flew harmlessly past Caracalla’s left side. Caracalla laughed aloud in exhilaration. This was living!

  The second rider came closer. Caracalla looked down. There was a spear in the front of the chariot, and he picked it up, hefted it to assess its weight, then gripped it firmly two-thirds of the way down the shaft. The second rider drew back his spear and threw at exactly the same time as Caracalla. Again Pandion made a swift evasive turn, and Caracalla tumbled against the side of the chariot. The spear flew past the back of his shoulders, close enough that he could feel the wind it created.

  He looked around to see the effects of his throw. The second rider was lying some distance behind now, flat on his back with the spear in his chest, while his horse carried on its headlong charge, directionless. The first rider, holding an axe in one hand now, closed with them. Caracalla wished he had another spear, and clutched his sword, preparing to fight.

  He knew the Alamanni had a reputation as skilled horsemen, but he was still impressed when the rider positioned himself with two feet on the saddle in a low crouch, perfectly balanced. When he was close enough, the young warrior leapt across the gap between the horse and the chariot, swinging his axe down as he descended.

  Caracalla caught the axe across the shaft with his sword and diverted the blow. The head crunched into the chariot, sending splinters of wood flying. Both weapons momentarily out of action, the warrior shoved Caracalla hard with his shoulder. Caracalla rocked back against the far edge of the chariot, felt himself falling backwards. He flailed, and his sword flew free and disappeared over the side. He realised that falling could mean the end of him. Out here between the armies, unmounted, the Alamanni riders could finish him off with spears and arrows before his own men could reach him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the ground rushing past, alarmingly close.

  Pandion reached out with one hand, the other still steering the horses. He grabbed a strap on Caracalla’s cuirass and pulled hard, yanking him back into the chariot. The warrior was instantly on him again, trying to bring his axe to bear. Caracalla grabbed his wrist with both hands, squeezed hard.

  The Alamanni, like all Germans, were generally bulky and tall. But this young rider was lean and lithe, his lesser weight giving him greater manoeuvrability on horseback. Caracalla, by contrast, was short and muscular. When he had regained his balance, when it was hand to hand, strong arm against strong arm, it rapidly became no contest. Caracalla slammed the warrior’s forearm against the edge of the chariot, snapping it like a dry twig. He cried out and his hand went limp, the axe falling to the ground. Caracalla butted him hard in the centre of the face, and as the warrior reeled back against the front of the chariot, Caracalla put a hand between his legs and lifted him bodily over the edge. He fell with a cry that was cut off abruptly as his body was crushed by the wheels. Caracalla felt the jolting impact, and once more had to hang on as the chariot bucked.

  That motion saved his life. The spear from the third rider had been heading straight for him. When the chariot tipped sideways as it ran over the unfortunate warrior, the spear that would have taken him in the back instead passed under his armpit.

  It hit Pandion in his right shoulder, and the charioteer slumped forward with a cry, dragging the reins to the left as his right arm went limp. The horses swung left, and the chariot tipped violently to the right. Caracalla was hurled over the side.

  He reached out with one hand and gripped the edge of the chariot. His legs trailed in the dirt as the chariot threatened to topple over entirely.

  Pandion yanked the reins to the right with his good arm, and the chariot righted itself. Caracalla grabbed hold with his other hand, and hauled himself back inside, panting heavily. He turned back to see the last rider had pulled up, and when he looked around he saw that he was nearly back to the safety of his own lines. Half a dozen cavalry had raced out to meet him.

  He gently took the reins from Pandion and eased to the floor of the chariot, then guided the horses to a halt in front of his men. The Roman soldiers, who had witnessed the whole drama, erupted into cheers of adulation, and they chanted his name. He gave them a wave of acknowledgement, then directed the cavalry to take care of Pandion.

  Behind him, the Alamanni began their advance.

  * * *

  Silus sat on horseback on the crest of the hill that overshadowed the left wing of the Roman army. Horses were not his preferred mode of transport, but then neither was boat, chariot or donkey cart. He only really trusted his own two feet. But as a scout, whose job it was to give the legions early warning of a surprise enemy attack on the flank, he accepted that he needed to be able to get away from enemy riders and get back to his own side as quickly as possible. And that meant riding.

  He wiggled his backside uncomfortably in the saddle, and the horse sensed his unease and shifted nervously from foot to foot. He looked down at the valley that was soon to become a battlefield. A peaceful-looking place, with gentle undulations and a stream in the centre. It seemed incongruous that it would soon be filled with the cries of dying men, the stream running red.

  The Roman forces were drawn up into a hollow square. In the centre of the square was the baggage and artillery, the sick and wounded, as well as the artillery – a couple of small ballistae and bolt-throwing scorpions – and the reserves. Light auxiliaries armed with slings and bows screened the front line of legionaries, and before them, and to the flanks and rear, was a thin layer of light cavalry. The formation was like a mobile marching camp, the important, vulnerable elements of the legion protected in the centre by a tough outer fence.

  By contrast the Alamanni had no real structure. Just line after line of angry barbarians, eager to charge into the fray. From his knowledge of the relative strengths and fighting abilities of the two sides, he couldn’t call the result one way or another. The Romans would fight smarter, but there were so many of the Germans.

  He kept an eye on his surroundings, alert for the approach of any forces or enemy scouts, but was able to watch the events playing out below him. He watched the bizarre scene of Caracalla in his chariot, parading around in front of the Germans. Barely breathing, he watched Caracalla chased back to his own lines, the struggle in the chariot, the wounding of his charioteer, his narrow escape.

  Then he watched the Alamanni begin their advance, and he felt like weeping. He strained his eyes, trying to see if any of the Alamanni was Odo, but he knew there was no hope, they were way too far away for him to make out any individual faces. He just hoped that Odo was safe at home, maybe recovering from a chest brought on by his plunge into the cold river.

  The Roman front lines harried the advancing Germans. First the light cavalry hurled javelins, then retreated. Then the auxiliaries loosed a volley of arrows and bullets from their slings. Alamanni fell, some screaming and clutching wounds, others still, dead before
they had swung an axe or sword in anger.

  But the casualties were few, and when the Alamanni were within a score of yards, they burst into a charge with a roar that echoed around the valley. Silus could make out Atius no better than he could have seen Odo, but he imagined him there in the front line, and he hoped that his Christos was looking out for him.

  Then, with a noise that was made of the dull thump of German bodies against Roman shields, mixed with the clash of weapons and the battle cries of the belligerents, the Alamanni crashed into the Roman front line.

  Chapter Seventeen

  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 sup
eriors 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.