Sword of Rome(2)

‘Form line,’ he roared. ‘Serpentius? With me in the centre. Two men to guard the governor.’ The field was heat-baked, as flat as a legionary parade ground and three hundred paces wide. By now the enemy horsemen – Batavian auxiliaries, judging by their war gear – were a quarter of the way across, but Valerius took the time to issue precise orders. He rapped out the commands, roaming the line as he shouted each word in their faces. ‘Swords only.’ The long, razor-edged spathae hissed from their sheaths. ‘Straight to the charge. Stay tight with me. We hit them once and we hit them hard. Leave them screaming and bloody then circle back to cover the governor. Understand?’

The decurion commanding the Vascones grunted his acknowledgement and barked an order to his men, at the same time urging his mount out of cover and into the sunlight. Valerius was already in motion. After the months spent in the saddle with Corbulo’s cavalry the roan might have been a living extension of his body. He felt the comforting presence of Serpentius, his Spanish freedman, pull up to his right knee. Their eyes met for an instant, and Serpentius nodded. No need for spoken orders. Valerius reached across his body and slid the long blade of his spatha from its scabbard on his right hip. Neither man carried a shield, though each of the cavalry troopers held the light leather roundel the auxiliaries favoured. He checked his horse to allow the Vascones to form on him and looked up just as a slight stutter in the Batavian ranks and the strident cry of urgent orders confirmed what he had suspected. He felt a savage heat well up inside him. The Batavians had seen a small huddle of mounted men amongst the bodies of the villagers they had themselves slaughtered, and marked them as local lords or magistrates, rich pickings compared to the farmers and tanners who lay bled out among the stalks. When they had launched their surprise attack from the woods the last thing they had expected was to be confronted by a full troop of cavalry. Now they must face a fight they hadn’t bargained for or break away, leaving their flank exposed to the rampaging Vascones, already screaming their war cries as they pounded over the dry earth.

Valerius saw the enemy come on, confirming that the Batavian commander had made the right choice. But that still wouldn’t save them.

Three hundred paces separated the converging forces and they closed at a rate that would have terrified and bewildered a foot soldier. Valerius’s mind was that of a veteran cavalryman, effortlessly judging angle, distance and speed. He sensed fear and confusion in the enemy ranks and that awakened the killer inside him. All the long months of frustration and fear as he and Serpentius had stayed one step ahead of Nero’s assassins were condensed into a ball of fire at his core. He wanted to slaughter these cocky German bastards.

‘Close the ranks,’ he roared. ‘Hold the line.’ The order was echoed by the curved trumpet of the unit’s signaller. It was a question of nerve. When cavalry met cavalry the accepted tactic was to charge in open order, to avoid individual collisions that would cripple man and horse, but Valerius was inviting just that. His racing mind took in every detail of the enemy. The thunder of hooves pounded his ears and the Batavians were a sweat-blurred wall of horses and men that surged and rippled, the gaps opening and closing as each rider attempted to keep station on the next. Lance tips glinted in the sun. Had he miscalculated? Would their leader order a volley? He imagined the chaos if the spears arced into the close-packed ranks. No, they were closing too fast. If they waited to get within throwing range they wouldn’t have time to draw their swords and no man willingly went into battle defenceless. Instinct told him to pick a target, but it was still too soon. Think. Stay calm. You command. Today he must suppress the battle madness that made war a joy. Gaps opened in the Batavian line as countless hours of training prevailed and they resumed their natural formation. The enemy horse overlapped the Vascones by eight riders. Logic dictated that when the two lines met and the Vascones were checked, the Batavians would wrap around Valerius’s flank and the slaughter would begin. But Valerius didn’t intend to be checked. His plan was to smash through the Batavian centre. But first something had to break.

Seventy paces.

The faceless mob took shape as a line of glittering spear points and glaring-eyed, bearded faces, lips drawn back and teeth bared. A wolf pack closing for the kill.

Fifty.

It must be soon. But not yet. Patience.

Thirty.

‘Boar’s head,’ Valerius screamed, and his command was instantly repeated by the signaller’s insistent call.

At his side, Serpentius effortlessly switched his sword from right hand to left and put the reins in his mouth. The Spaniard reached to his belt and in a single smooth movement drew back his arm and hurled one of the two Scythian throwing axes he always carried. The spinning disc of razor-edged iron took the centre horse of the Batavian line in the forehead and the beast reared and swerved, setting off a chain reaction as riders hauled their mounts aside to avoid a bone-crushing collision. For the space of two heartbeats the centre of the disciplined Batavian attack splintered into chaos. It was long enough. Valerius nudged his mount right and the Vascones automatically followed. The boar’s head was predominantly an infantry tactic, a compact wedge designed to plunge like a dagger into the heart of the enemy, but every Roman cavalry unit practised the manoeuvre. At Valerius’s command the auxiliaries had moved seamlessly from line into an arrowhead formation, with Valerius, Serpentius and the signaller at the tip, aimed directly at the point where the stricken horse had swerved aside. Valerius hit the gap as the Batavian to his left tried to close it. He was already inside the rider’s spear point and he could smell the fear stink on the man’s wool over-tunic as his spatha swung in a scything cut that split ribs and breastbone, jarring his wrist and drawing a shriek of mortal agony from the other man. The dying Batavian reeled in the saddle even as Valerius’s angle of attack slammed his horse aside, creating more space for the rank behind. A simultaneous scream from his right told him that Serpentius had drawn blood and then they were through and clear. There was barely time to take a breath before he shouted his next orders.