Sword of Rome(30)

Servius Sulpicius Galba’s certainty that he had won over the sailors and marines made the change in mood all the more shocking and his mind fought to comprehend what was happening as the mass of men pressed his escort more tightly around him. He felt the first rise of panic in his ancient patrician breast.

‘This is an outrage,’ he spluttered. ‘Clear them away.’

The commander of the escort leaned forward to advise him against such a drastic move. He had dealt with crowds like this before and he judged that the men were motivated more by enthusiasm than by anger. Give them time and they would disperse. But before he could say anything the swords appeared. ‘Charge them!’ The Emperor would never be certain he gave the command, but in three swift movements the advance escort disengaged from the crowd, re-formed and charged.

There were a hundred and fifty men in two ranks. If they had been the Batavians of the Imperial Guard, whose duties as part of the Emperor’s personal guard included crowd control and dealing with bread riots, the casualties might have been limited to a few cracked heads and broken bones. But these men were the wild Spaniards of the Vascones who had escorted Valerius into war-ravaged Gaul and they knew only one way to treat an enemy.

Spears first; men spitted like pigs as they cowered away from the charging horses and the screaming bodies flipped clear of the long iron-tipped lances with a trained lift of a powerful arm. Galba’s personal escort hustled the Emperor away to the rear of the column, leaving a gap for the following cavalry wing to form up. The prefect commanding the Batavians might have hesitated, but Galba howled at him to ride the agitators down. He formed his men into four ranks and gave the order. ‘Draw swords. Advance.’

This time there was no charge. Instead the cavalry pushed forward in a steady, relentless line, the heavy cavalry spathae chopping down on head and shoulder, splitting skulls in two and carving great chasms in flesh and bone. Blood spurted shoulder high, screams split the air and soon every sword dripped red. The cavalry horses were trained for this work and as they shouldered their way into the mass of terrified, unarmed sailors they snapped with yellowing teeth at faces and the hands raised to protect them. A man could take a sword cut and laugh about it five years later. A man whose face has been torn off by a horse must live in darkness for ever. The Batavians soon realized that their opponents were unarmed and the rhythm of the blows slackened, the strength going out of the cuts. But it is the nature of war that if one side weakens the other will take advantage. In the respite, powerful arms hauled one of the leading cavalrymen from his saddle. In seconds he was stripped of his weapons and uniform and his naked body battered by fists and feet until he was broken bone and bruised and bloody meat. His comrades saw, and resumed their carnage with renewed effort. There would be no more mercy. Not far away, the three centuries of the Praetorian Guard securing the bridge were caught in the midst of a thousand men fighting for their very survival. A few guards dropped their weapons and were ignored, but others were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of men. Somehow their commander managed to form the majority into a defensive circle round which the sailors surged and swirled as the cavalry compressed them from two sides. Those trapped on the road closest to the bridge made to escape the relentless carnage in a panic-stricken mob, but the span was only wide enough to take a single cart and dozens were crushed when one man fell, bringing down those behind.

Valerius felt as if he was drowning amid a sea of legs and his dazed mind told him that if he didn’t get up he would never rise again. He forced himself on to his stomach, but his arms seemed to have lost their strength and when a heavy foot crashed into his back he knew he was finished. A wave of bodies flowed over him as the defenceless seamen fell back to escape the swords and spears of the cavalry. From nowhere, heavy, dark-skinned legs appeared to plant themselves on either side of his body like a bulwark against the tide. He felt himself being lifted to his feet.

‘To the river. It is our only hope.’ Juva had to shout to make himself heard above the tumult. His voice was steady enough, but the wide eyes told their own story and Valerius could see the Nubian was on the verge of panic.

‘Wait.’ Valerius took a moment to allow his senses to clear. He knew what could happen when an infantry formation broke in front of cavalry and it was clear the sailors must break soon or be massacred to a man. To his front he could see the mounted Spanish spearmen. They had been slowed by the mass of bodies in front of them, but the long lances continued to do their work. To his right a pink haze marked the harvest of the Batavian swords. Milo, the marine who had negotiated with the Emperor, rushed up to join them, his face pale with shock.