Текст книги "Swords of Rome"

Автор книги: Christopher Buckner

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Gaius was in near panic as he looked back towards the trees. Only now did it seem the weather was lifting, as if the attackers had the power to control nature.

He gazed upon thousands of murderous savages, many of them bare-chested, painted with bold blue patterns on their bodies – others covered in head-to-toe in the furs of wild animals. They bashed their assortment of weapons against their small wooden shields, as they bellowed loudly in their barbaric tongue.

Gaius was panicked by the sight of the demon-men, all of whom seemed larger than the greatest gladiator in the arena. He wanted desperately to run, even risk freezing in the river, as long as he escaped. And as he glanced around him, seeing the same fear in his men’s eyes, Gaius knew he had to take charge. He was a centurion and the Wolves never turned their backside to the enemy.

“Hold your formation and wait for these bastards to come to us!” Gaius yelled as loud as he could, surprised even by his own voice and the renewed confidence in it.

“We are Wolves, and these men are only sheep. Show them what Roman iron can do!” he added, which brought a joyful boom from his men as they cried out his sentiment, challenging the Gauls to test them.

Further commands from other centurions and less important officers carried across the whole Roman formation, as the Sixth and its escorted auxiliaries knew what their duty was. They had all trained for war, young and old alike, and while individually a Roman was marginal to a Gaul in a straight fight, as one, they were a machine created for one purpose, and that was to destroy anything that was before it.

Another volley of arrows shot from the trees, only this time the Romans were prepared for the attack, as hardly a whimper was heard from the lines, as an arrow struck against the harden Roman shields, deflecting harmlessly to the snow-covered ground.

And then, with one last monstrous war cry, thousands of Gauls charged down the steep embankment.

Gaius waited, his eyes just over the brim of his shield, holding firm as his grip on his shield with one hand was strong, equaled by his hold on the hilt of his sword. He could hear, feel and see the breaths of the men beside and behind him, as the soldiers of the Sixth waited for the oncoming charge, which rolled down the hill like a juggernaut, bent on one task alone – to spill Roman blood.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Pilums, let fly!" Gaius cried out, as seconds later the men behind him unleashed their devastating iron-tipped spears at the charging Gauls.

Screams of barbarian foreigners blossomed as the triangle-shaped tips of the javelins tore through flesh and bone, wood and armor alike as hundreds of men were struck by the heavy Roman weapons.

There was no time for a second volley to be ordered. On open ground, the Romans might have gotten three or four attempts to weaken the enemy formation, but with the narrow terrain and rushing river behind them, it did not take long before the first wave of Gallic warriors collided against the Roman shields, like water against rock.

Gaius had never felt such power before as dozens of screaming, spitting, and enraged men fell against his shield. He and the whole line slid several inches back as the hard-packed snow was quickly being chewed into mud. However, the line held as the shield wall, proven time and time again in battle, could not be broken, regardless of the determination of the opponents.

“Push them back!” Gaius bellowed, unsure if his voice could be heard by his men. As instructed the men in the rear pushed against the men in front of them. A moment later the minuscule ground the Gauls had gained, was again reclaimed.

Gaius had often wondered if his training would indeed become second nature to him. He heard stories from the veterans that a soldier acts on instinct, losing himself in the battle as a strange sense of calming peace overtook them. Others had said the opposite – battle was chaotic, frantic and loud, that a man, regardless of how many years he had to his name, was an enraged beast, hacking and slashing to stay alive, and that all the Roman discipline counted for shit.

Gaius found that the former was true, at least for him. The fear and panic that had gripped him moments ago vanished. He responded as if his actions were not his own as ten years worth of drilling – the memory of Centurion Quintus’ vine-cane against his back, pushed Gaius forward. Lost into himself, his mind hardly recognized the first man he killed.

The moment came quickly and unceremoniously. A screaming Gaul with long brown hair, matted and caked with dirt and grit, a bright painted face, rotting teeth and thick wooly beard, the barbarian could have been twenty, but looked decades older under so much hair. He squared himself against Gaius’ shield, brandishing his small axe, which he held in his right hand – a tiny wooden shield in the other. He cursed Gaius in his native language, which Gaius understood enough of the Celtic tongue from his father’s teachings years before.

The barbarian tried desperately to get his axe-head over the brim of Gaius’ shield, wailing frantically, but Gaius was taller and protected by the well-crafted iron helmet that covered his head, and the wide shield he held tightly in his grip.

The act of killing the man came quickly, within the first few seconds after the Gallic horde had crashed headlong into the Roman formation, as Gaius rose up, peeking for just an instant over the top of his shield, and struck.

The short Roman sword, a gladiuswas a faultless weapon in Gaius’ trained eyes. While it wasn’t too good at slashing or bashing at an opponent, it was flawless for thrusting. Its narrow, but sturdy iron blade rested comfortably in his striking arm, precisely balanced. The ivory grip, showing wealth beyond Gaius’ station once belonged to his father – the engravings of the pack of wolves, carried the lineage of the Sixth Legion.

As the Gallic warrior screamed, his deep-blue eyes blazing with rage, Gaius thrust his sword neatly over the brim of his shield, and plunged the tip into the man’s mouth. His expression changed suddenly with the realization that, despite his, many years as a proud warrior, and the victories he must have achieved, meant nothing when his end came quickly, and without proper challenge.

Gaius felt the faint resistance as his sword struck flesh. He pushed with short-lived effort, forcing the blade, now caked with blood and little pieces of flesh, out of the nap of the man’s neck.

Gaius withdrew his sword a fraction of a second later, pulling with it a spray of crimson mist and teeth. The whole action lasted less than a fraction of a second before Gaius ducked his head back down under his shield, trusting his capable helmet to keep him safe from counter attack.

The Gaul’s feet buckled out from under him. He was dead without another sound uttered. It did not take, but a second before a new opponent took up position, as a taller barbarian drove his sword down toward Gaius’ head. The shield took the brunt of the attack, denting where the hard iron blade struck, which forced Gaius’ to lose his position for a moment as his shield dropped a few inches.

The second Gaul was worse than the first: massive broad shoulders, extending down into muscles that seemed forged in fire. This man had blonde hair, better cut and a neatly trimmed beard, which was braided. He too was bare-chested; something that marveled Gaius as, he and many Romans didn’t seem able to adjust to the bitter cold. The man’s chest featured a looping blue marking, extending from the left shoulder and wrapping around his back. He wielded no shield, only the long two-handed iron sword, which he raised over his head and drove it down once more, like a huntsman rooting a tree.

Gaius, even as large, young and strong as he, faulted for a moment when his shield received the blow. His arm which held it, felt like mush under the assault, but he again managed to hold his position.

Gaius reached his sword up once again as the large barbarian pulled back to attack once more. However, his aim was not true as the blade only cut across the man’s left cheek – deeply, drawing a torrent of blood, but not enough to sway the man from rethinking his attack.

Once more, a third blow came, a bit more off centered, which did nothing to compromise Gaius’ defense. However, now, the man used the length of his weapon to his advantage, pulling back far enough that Gaius could not strike again with his gladius.

He did not have too as the large Gaul was struck dead-center by a javelin, which was tossed by the legionnaire behind Gaius, when opportunity presented itself.

The Gaul looked dumbfounded for a moment, and then his eyes filled with a sudden rush of anger as he grabbed the wooden shaft of the javelin, and forcefully tried to remove it. This caused him obvious pain, more than any man seemed capable of dealing with. Even so, despite the man’s strength, the triangle-shaped iron head could not be easily pulled from his flesh, as only the loose wooden base broke free.

Regardless of the two-foot iron shaft sticking out from his chest, the Gaul roared with unequaled anguish as he charged forward – blood already beginning to seep from the corner of his mouth.

Gaius did not wait till the man to bore down on him. He plunged his sword forward. Its tip caught the man’s throat, tearing easily through the soft flesh.

Gaius twisted the blade as he had been trained, before he withdrew it. The gash widened with the action, drilling a hole through the man’s neck as blood oozed like water from a spick.

Still, even with the killing blow, the Gaul attempted to advance, but now as life-given blood poured from his wounds, his strength left his arms as the heavy sword fell to the rocky ground.

Gaius attacked again, slashing this time. The bloodied tip of his sword sliced across the barbarian’s face, carving across his right cheek in an upward arch, tearing through his noise and rupturing his left eye, before it cut through the white bone of the man’s skull.

Even before his body dropped onto the ground, another man’ took his place. Gaius could hardly fathom the relentless onslaught. His men, his cohort and the auxiliaries they protected were in formation, ready for the attack. And despite early loses, they held firm. However, he couldn’t imagine what the rest of the legion was going through. Sempronius obviously did not heed Valerius’ warnings of a possible ambush. Unable to form ranks and properly defend their position, even the well trained Roman discipline could do nothing against the brutality of the Gallic horde. Man-for-man the barbarians from the north were stronger fighters: raised from childhood to be warriors and hunters. They knew no fear, and welcomed death. The Romans weren’t seasoned soldiers, nor was their commitment completely given to the legions. They were called upon by the Senate: farmers, freedmen, craftsmen, fishermen, poor and the rich alike. Gaius and the Sixth, among a few other legions across the Republic, practiced soldiering as their livelihood. Still, unlike the restless tribesmen from the north, warfare was not a daily exercise for the men of Rome. Like Gaius, the majority were untested and unprepared for the reality of war, no less facing an enemy that craved their lives – coveting every head like trophies.

Gaius felt a wetness growing at his feet. At first, he feared the river might have risen, but upon careful glance downward, he saw that much of the snow had turned bright red as blood pooled from the hundreds of bodies that fell before the Roman wall. It drizzled into the water behind the Roman lines and joining the clear stream, which soon ran crimson as the first signs of Roman dead floated downriver.

Gaius reacted again, this time feeling a sharp sting against the side of his brow. Something grazed him, what it was, he did not know. In response, he instinctively thrust his sword forward blindly. Once more, he felt the touch of human flesh against the cold iron of his sword, and again, he pushed, sending the tip deeper into whoever had wondered before the gladius.

He lost track of time. Had minutes gone by, or hours? There was no way of telling. However, his arms and legs began to strain. He was as fit as any man could be, and he was still young, in his prime, yet he felt old and tired with the weight of his sword and shield feeling like raw iron. It was then in the back of his mind he thought he heard the sound of a loud whistle, which blew in a preordain pattern.

Without even thinking, before his mind processed what the call meant, the moment a hand touched his right shoulder Gaius withdrew from his guarded stance, and turned his body as the man behind him rushed forward. This action was repeated by every Roman soldier who held the frontline, which were replaced by the man behind them.

Gaius collapsed onto his knees as he was pulled to the back of the formation, as did many other legionnaires, who ignored the cold rushing water, which provided the only solid ground for them to rest on without fear of attack.

Gaius’ body looked as if he had been working in a butcher's shop after fresh game had been brought in. His head and lower half, from his knees to his feet were plastered in bright red, which dripped from the brim of his helmet. It was only then that he seemed to notice the fowl coppery taste of Gallic blood that has washed into his mouth. He couldn’t help but swallow it during the battle, which now he threw up, which included everything he had eaten this morning. He was not alone in this action as dozens of other soldiers did the same.

It was then that a boy ran up to him – another dozen dispatched to other soldiers. Each of them carried water-skins, which they handed to the legionnaires who had been retired from the frontline.

Gaius took several long swigs, spiting the first mouthful out as he tried to rinse the taste of blood from his throat, to no avail.

He stared down for just a moment at the boy, no older than fourteen. He was a servant of the legion; destine to wear the armor in a few short years, if he lived long enough. The lad’s face, ripe with youthfulness, bared eyes of terror and panic. However, the boy did his duty where he was asked without question. Gaius couldn’t help but pity him for having to see this day, so young, but he figured it was best to get it over with now than later. At least, he would know what to expect when he took up the shield and sword.

By now, some sense had returned as Gaius turned and looked upon his cohort, which continued to fight. The clattering of swords and the cries of wounded and dying men filled the pristine morning. He collected himself, quickly falling back in line behind the ranks. He would yell encouragements to the men before him, barking orders of support, and issuing men to plug holes where dead Romans eventually fell. And then, how much time, he did not know he was back in the front as the ranks continued to shift, to allow rested men to again reform the shield wall – fighting the ceaseless wave of barbarian Gauls.

By this time, Gaius’ actions were mechanical. The fear he felt when the battle started was drowned out by his will to survive. Eventually, the ground became littered with fallen Gauls, which further waves of attackers were finding it increasingly difficult to advance through.

Another whistle blew, but this wasn’t a signal for Gaius to be replaced, but orders from the commander to advance. At the moment, the barbarians seemed lessened; their formation now tattered as their numbers dwindled. Those who still fought weren’t as brazened as their seasoned warriors who fell against the Romans when the fighting began. At the moment, stricken by fear, they began to panic as the Roman line advanced with deadly rhythm. Those that did not flee, attempting to run back up the slippery slope, which was now caked in churned mud, were cut down without mercy by the machine that moved effortlessly towards them, while those wounded upon the ground were either trampled to death by the steady Roman march, or impaled where they lie.

When Gaius could advance no further, as the rise of the landscape prevented him for advancing, the only vestiges of enemy warriors who remained, fled through the trees, protected by the layers of mist and snow, which still drifted lazily down over the battlefield.

A cheer ran throughout the Roman formation, but any sentiments of victory were quickly dashed as fighting could still be heard further upstream. Gaius knew, without having to see that the men under the command of Sempronius were being slaughtered. The river of blood that flowed behind him was evidence of the massacre.

A horn blew; not Gallic, but Roman as the call for retreat was signaled from Gaius’ cohort. Soon, officers began ordering everyone back into ranks, and the wounded Romans collected while there was a lull in the fighting.

It was then that Gaius saw Valerius, still alive, thank the gods. He, like every legionnaire was covered in blood. He too had sustained a number of cuts, as fresh blood drizzled from a gash to the old veteran’s upper left arm, and a small nick to his neck. In the bank of the river, nearly submerged in bloody water, Gaius saw Valerius’ horse, dead, with numerous spears and arrows sticking out from its body. He was amazed that the legate had survived at all, as he was the obvious target of the Gauls, as was any officer of note.

“Valerius, what of Sempronius?!" Gaius called out as he moved to join the legate, who rallied his men to make a quick and effective retreat.

“There is nothing I can do for the fool. He’s damned this army. I’ve got to save what I can,” Valerius replied. Gaius wasn’t even sure if the old man recognized him with all the blood and filth that covered him, believing he was just speaking to any number of centurions who were under his command.

“Let me take a detachment and force our way to him. The consul might still be alive,” Gaius suggested, determined to salvage the day anyway he could. He was perhaps too young to recognize defeat, despite the number of barbarian dead that coated the earth around him. While the Sixth had found some measure of victory, it was a pinprick against the mammoth that had trapped his countrymen this day.

“The battle is lost, and so will we if we don’t take advantage of this moment and pull back, now!” Valerius reiterated.

Valerius grabbed hold of Gaius’ shoulder, pulling him closer to him and spoke, “There will be other days that we can avenge our fallen. However, this is not one of them. Now, form you men and cover our withdraw!”

Gaius did not argue further. He did as he was ordered; grabbing those he could find that still had enough fight left in them to stand if challenged. Nevertheless, thankfully, those Gauls who had lived soon realized that the Romans upstream offered less resistance.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Gaius stared without blinking as several bodies floated by him as he knelt down on the edge of the partly frozen Trebia River. The bodies hadn’t stopped drifting downstream even though the battle had ended five hours ago. Only now did the clear water seem to be restored, as for a long while it ran bright red. Still, trickles of the crimson gore drizzled downstream from time-to-time. Now, however, the quiet stillness of the country returned.

This army, what was left of it, was broken. At present, behind enemy lines, within their own country, what remained of Sempronius’ legions had to move quickly, gathering what survivors they could find, and mustering what was left of the supplies before marching south, back towards Rome. The future was uncertain, more so now than it had been before. Hannibal had won a great victory, not against one legion, fought on equal terms on the field, but against a superior force, outsmarted, ambushed and slaughtered like no force Rome had ever assembled before. Now, what was Rome to do? How would the people react? How far would Hannibal go, now?

Gaius rubbed his hands into the water as he had continued to do so for the past twenty minutes, watching the dead drift by. His hands and much of the rest of him was clean from the blood that had been spilled during the battle. He survived, and had taken lives, for the first time. His mind, however, was nottrapped on what he had done, but what he had heard, seen and experienced: screaming, terror, the sound of flesh and blood, and the horror in a man’s eye when he felt death’s grip – the easy act of pushing iron through a man’s body. But, the most troubling thought that haunting him now was, why had he been spared? If it had not been for the image of the white wolf, and the warning, he concluded from it, he would have shared the same fate as those legions under Sempronius’ command.

Why had no one else seen it? Why couldn’t it have shown itself to Sempronius? The damn fool. Why me?

The snow crackling under someone’s foot indicated to Gaius that someone was walking up behind him. A moment later, the voice of Valerius told him who it was.

“We’ll be moving soon,” Valerius said. There was no real reason why he needed to come down to the river personally, not when any number of runners could have done the job, but Valerius’ voice echoed a deep question, one which he wasn’t sure how to ask, how did you save us?

Gaius did not give Valerius a reply, or showed that he was listening, even though there was no way he could not hear him. His attention was still fixed on the bodies that drifted down the river, most of them Roma, but barbarian Gauls as well.

Valerius sighed as he stepped closer.

“Whether you want to see it or not, you saved a lot of lives today, Gaius.”

Gaius tilted his head up, looking over his shoulder toward Valerius and replied, “I did not save enough.”

Gaius threw a rock into the river, breaking a chuck of ice from the edge as he stood back to his feet.

“Why didn’t that fool listen to me, you, or any of his officers? We shouldn’t have been on the banks along the river? We shouldn’t have been marching in the storm? Sempronius is a bloody fool,” Gaius remarked bitterly.

“Sempronius was a fool – he is dead.”

Gaius just glanced at Valerius.

“We found his body, or what was left of it, along with the other ranking officers, each missing their heads,” Valerius reported.

“Too bad Sempronius only had one life to give,” Gaius utter with a viper’s tongue. “And how many of our brothers did he take with him?” he then asked.

“By my estimate, at least fifteen to twenty thousand.”

“What will we do now?” Gaius pondered; a question more for himself than in regard to Rome.

Valerius stood beside him, watching the sadden sight of his comrades drift by.

“I am proud of you, Gaius. You fought well, but more importantly you listened to your gut, regardless of the consequences. Those are merits for a true leader, one who seeks the well-being of his men, and not attaining glory; a rare virtue, I’m saddened to say.”

Gaius just looked over at his mentor’s tired eyes. He did not know what to tell him, about what he had seen, and why it compelled him to demand the army to halt. Even he did not understand it, and he doubted he ever would.

“Was it enough?” Gaius asked, his question pertaining to many things.

“We shall see. However, Rome is not out of this fight, just yet. I assure you that much. In the meantime, I have a new task I need of you and your century.”

“What do you request of me, sir?” Gaius asked as he was starting to regain himself.

“Come, we have planning to do.”