Enemy of Rome (14 page)

Primus shrugged, but his smile was almost companionable. ‘Life without danger is a life only half lived. You of all people should know that. I will be safe enough, Gaius Valerius Verrens,’ the big moon face split into a grin, ‘for you will ride at my side and advise me, after which your insubordination may make you expendable and I’ll give you the opportunity for a glorious end.’ When Valerius didn’t rise to the bait he continued: ‘How far to the battlefield?’

‘Perhaps half a day’s ride. Closer to Cremona than to Bedriacum. The fighting spread across a wide area on both sides of the road.’

‘When we reach the site you will tell me exactly how it happened.’

Primus’s reconnaissance in force consisted of four cavalry cohorts. Two cohorts rode in columns of fours on the Via Postumia while the others took up positions on the flanks, providing outriders and scouts. Every trooper was protected by a vest of chain link armour that hung to the waist, over a leather shirt and woollen tunic, and wore an iron helm of the style traditionally favoured by his tribe. Unlike the legionaries’, their legs were covered by trews, for that was the preference of the northern tribes. They carried seven-foot iron-tipped spears and the heavy
spatha
, the standard weapon of the auxiliary cavalry.

Riding at the centre of a cavalry column produced a mesmerizing effect, even in the midst of a war zone. The constant movement of the horse and the familiar jingle of brass and harness competed with the scuff of hooves on the gravel surface of the road to lull the brain. Occasionally a trumpet sounded in the distance and heads would come up, but there was no sense of urgency. Valerius preferred to be up ahead where Arrius Varus had nominal command of the expedition and he could see the horizon. Instead, Primus had insisted they ride in the centre of the column with his headquarters staff. The one-handed Roman found himself hemmed in by the bodyguard section and unit standard-bearers, their brightly coloured banners twitching with each step. They passed through a village with a small shrine to the twins Castor and Pollux.

Valerius moved to the general’s side and explained how Otho’s senior commander, Suetonius Paulinus, had wasted the opportunity to gain a decisive victory against Caecina. ‘You spoke of Ad Castores? I was not present during the fighting, but the way it was told Paulinus had the Vitellians surrounded. If he’d used his reserves he could have annihilated them. Instead, they were allowed to retreat back to Cremona at their own pace. If Paulinus had attacked, Caecina would never have ventured from Cremona, your Pannonian and Moesian legions would have reached Otho in time and the whole outcome would have been different.’

‘So Paulinus was too cautious,’ Primus said pointedly.

Valerius nodded. ‘Otho thought so.’

‘You liked him?’

Valerius felt a twinge of regret as he remembered how Otho had changed in a few short months from a young man tortured by ambition to a wise one wearing the purple. ‘He was certain of his right to rule. A man who didn’t fear difficult decisions. But he didn’t have the heart for this.’ Valerius waved a hand to his right, where columns of smoke from burning farms dissected the horizon. ‘I think if he’d known how much blood would be spilled in his name he would have handed the throne to Vitellius and gone into exile.’

Primus shot him a look of amused disbelief that any man, let alone a Roman patrician, would give up power out of conscience.

From Bedriacum to Cremona the Via Postumia ran arrow-straight on a raised causeway over land that had been a swampy quagmire until the Gallic ancestors of the region’s inhabitants drained it for agriculture. Now it was rich and fertile, and provided the people with a good living – until the armies came. Armies had been coming this way for centuries. The Carthaginian Hannibal, with his elephants, from the west. Wild Raetian hillmen from their mountain fastnesses in the northern Alps. And, in the distant past, the forefathers of the Pannonian and Moesian auxiliaries who accompanied Primus had raided far into Italia along this very route. As Valerius surveyed the road ahead he experienced a moment of revelation, as if part of him had separated and was looking down upon his own body from above. Broad ditches flanked the road and he pulled his horse to the left, down the slope and up the slight incline on the far side. When he reached the rough fields he drew up and looked back to where Primus was staring at him with a look of bewilderment.

‘You wanted to know about the battle?’ he shouted. ‘This is the best position from which to see the field.’

The general kicked his horse into a trot and rode to join the younger man. Serpentius and a bodyguard squadron of cavalry followed, but Primus ordered the decurion in charge of the escort to take his men out on the left flank towards the grey line of distant trees that marked the Padus. Serpentius ignored the order and rode up to take station at Valerius’s shoulder, but the general didn’t object.

Valerius studied the terrain ahead. Directly to his front, perhaps eight miles distant, lay Cremona, and he couldn’t understand why the column’s scouts hadn’t yet clashed with patrols from the city. The bulk of Primus’s gaudily clad auxiliary cavalry were massed on the Via Postumia’s hard-packed gravel surface, their ability to manoeuvre constrained by the ditches. On the road’s southern flank, where Valerius and his companions rested their horses, a flat expanse of fields stretched into the distance. Valerius pointed to where the escort cavalry were galloping along the line of the Padus.

‘Between here and Cremona a maximum of four miles separates the river from the road,’ he informed Primus. ‘You can’t see them, but these fields are cut by streams and man-made irrigation channels. The land to the north of the road is much the same, except it’s also covered in olive trees strung with grape vines. Marcus Salvius Otho’s greatest mistake,’ Valerius’s voice contained a cold edge that told of the dark memories this place held, ‘was to put his generals in a position where they were forced to fight three separate battles, and only one of them with any room for manoeuvre. On the right, Aquila and the Thirteenth faced the elite of Fifth Alaudae, but could make no use of their artillery. It was less a battle than a mass brawl and the officers lost control of their men among the trees. In that kind of fight every soldier must be his own general, but for legionaries trained to instant obedience it was the worst kind of nightmare.’ He directed Primus to the causeway. ‘In the centre, six Praetorian cohorts softened by garrison duty in Rome met the entire First Italica. Only the stronger would prevail because their movements were restricted by the ditches.’

He nudged his mount through the long grass and the spindly growth of plants and weeds that no farmer should ever have allowed to flourish in this rich earth. The reason became clear to him a few moments later. These fields weren’t harvested because the local people feared the spirits who inhabited them. Marcus Salvius Otho’s defeated legionaries still lay where they had fallen. Shattered skulls grinned ghostly pale out of the red earth and bones, thousands of them, littered the flat ground. Grass and weeds sprouted through the bleached ribcages of man and mount alike. Valerius guided his horse through the carpet of white and green. Let Primus make what he would of the First Adiutrix’s battle. Here they had stood and died. He noticed a pile of bones that seemed larger than most, the head missing. Was this Juva, the giant Nubian,
optio
of the first century, Fifth cohort, the man who had broken the ring of spears to take a legion’s eagle? He lay somewhere out here, along with the crew of the
Wavedancer
who had volunteered to serve Otho. And old Marcus, the
lanista
who had taught Valerius to fight like a gladiator. Did he not deserve a better memorial than a bunch of stinging nettles? They sat there for a moment, Valerius lost in his own memories and Primus pensive and thoughtful. The only sounds were the wind whistling through the grass and the distant cry of a soaring buzzard.

Serpentius finally broke the silence. ‘They’re among friends and they died with a sword in their hand. What more could a man ask?’ He looked up sharply, disturbed by something carried invisibly on the breeze. ‘Like as not we’ll be joining them soon enough.’

A moment later Valerius and Primus noticed a dust cloud in the far distance and the tiny figure of an auxiliary messenger driving his horse up the flank of the cavalry column. Without a word, Primus kicked his mount back towards his headquarters in the centre of the four cohorts. The enemy was coming, and, in his eagerness for action, Marcus Antonius Primus had become separated from his army.

‘Auxiliary cavalry approaching fast, sir, on the open ground south of the causeway.’

Valerius heard the rushed conversation between the scout and Primus as he urged his horse to the legate’s side.

‘Numbers?’ the general demanded.

‘Only two cohorts visible,’ the man frowned as if he wasn’t certain of his information, ‘but my commander believes their aggression indicates they expect to be reinforced.’

‘You should return to the safety of the camp, general.’

Primus’s square jaw came up at Valerius’s suggestion, but he saw the expressions on the faces of his staff officers and reluctantly conceded. ‘Very well,’ he snapped, ‘but we will withdraw with the bulk of the cavalry and not before.’ He turned to a junior tribune. ‘Order Aquila and Messalla to bring their legions forward in battle formation as we discussed. We will brush these irritants aside and continue the march on Cremona.’ As the officer rode off Primus turned to Valerius. ‘Inform Varus that he is to take a single wing and make a display that will slow the enemy. He is not to engage, but to delay them and follow at his best pace.’

The one-handed Roman saluted and turned to go, but a shout from one of the other aides froze him in place. ‘What’s he doing?’

Valerius looked towards the front of the column. A flurry of movement indicated where Arrius Varus, commander of Primus’s cavalry, had sent his leading squadrons galloping to the left of the road. As he watched, the young prefect formed line with half of his thousand-strong unit and set off directly for the approaching Vitellian cavalry. Valerius waited for the auxiliary prefect to wheel his troopers to right or left and threaten a flank attack, but gradually it became clear this was no demonstration.

‘Verrens,’ the legate’s voice was a full octave higher than normal. ‘My orders to the prefect remain the same, but you will take the rest of his wing to cover his withdrawal if he has not already ordered that. Do you understand?’

‘Sir!’ Valerius was already on his way. He heard another horse close behind him and glanced across his shoulder. ‘Get back, you fool,’ he rasped. ‘A cavalry charge is no place for a gladiator, especially one as old as you.’

Serpentius’s face twisted into a wry grin. ‘You didn’t say that at the Cepha gap when I kept the Parthians from skewering your liver.’ His expression turned sober. ‘Let’s face it. This cavalry charge is no place for any man who likes the fit of his own skin. There are thousands of the bastards out there.’

They galloped along the left flank of the remaining squadrons of auxiliaries until they reached the leading ranks. A confused decurion watched the diminishing backs of his comrades with an expression close to panic. His face changed to relief when he recognized Valerius’s white cloak.

‘I was given no orders, tribune. I …’ He slapped his fist against his chest in salute. ‘Tiberius Simplex at your command.’

Valerius studied the dark line on the horizon that marked the Vitellian cavalry and made his decision. ‘Squadrons to form line three deep south of the road. We will follow your prefect at the canter. Be ready to wheel left at my command.’

‘Sir!’ The officer saluted and rode off shouting his orders.

Serpentius continued to gaze at the five hundred men bearing down on a force four times their number. ‘Is he trying to commit suicide?’

Valerius rode out into the open ground towards the river with the Spaniard at his side. ‘He’s gambling that the commander of those men will think he’s the bait in a trap and hesitate before attacking him.’ The movement of the horse made talking awkward and his words came in bursts driven from his chest. ‘That would give Varus the chance to escape without a fight like the little boy who tweaks a chained bear’s nose and runs away.’

‘So he’ll have the glory without the pain.’ The Spaniard nodded approvingly.

‘But what he doesn’t know,’ Valerius continued, ‘because he was too impulsive to wait for the scout’s information, is that those two cohorts of cavalry are just the vanguard and they’re probably about to be joined by at least the same number again.’

‘And that will make their commander a lot braver.’

Valerius turned in the saddle to check the twelve squadrons of cavalry moving into formation behind him. ‘He won’t be worried about the trap, because he knows reinforcements are on the way, and he’ll be able to gobble up the bait before any trap could close.’

‘Only there’s no trap. Only us.’

‘That’s right. Sound the advance.’ Valerius snapped the order to the young signaller who had just arrived at his side. The familiar blast rang out from the curved
lituus
the auxiliary carried, and five hundred horses moved to the walk, then the trot. Valerius gentled his mount into a steady, unhurried stride and tried to calculate the distances between the forces. Arrius Varus was already more than five hundred paces ahead, with the Vitellian cavalry something like a mile beyond, advancing at the trot in their familiar open squares. Surely Varus must realize by now that the enemy wasn’t going to stop. But the Flavian commander showed no sign of hesitation. Valerius considered his options as the gap remorselessly closed. A messenger would never reach Varus in time. If it came to a fight their only hope was to reach the point of collision soon enough to support the auxiliaries before they were swamped. On the other hand, Valerius couldn’t afford to push his horses too hard or the enemy would ride them down during the retreat. If they ever got the chance to retreat.

He shouted to the trooper with the
lituus
. ‘What’s your name?’