‘Back to the beach and we stop for nothing. Anyone wounded is to be left.’
‘What about the stuff he’s carrying?’ asked a voice in the dark.
‘That will just have to be left with him. You might just have time to put him out of his misery and say a prayer for him. After what we’ve done tonight, I wouldn’t want anyone to fall into the hands of the men who know we despoiled their sacred temple. Whoever does will end up on that altar, wide awake, while they slowly cut out his heart.’
The sky was tinged with grey and the sun was about to rise, so they had stayed there far too long already, and it was long past the time to go, so they set off at a steady trot, the laden legionaries following in single file. Marcellus had stood to count his men, tallying them off as they ran past him, when he first saw the pursuit. The glint of the rising sun, flashing off metal spear tips caught his eye, making him stare harder at the ridges on either side of the long broad valley. The movement of the tiny figures became apparent, riding at a steady pace on small ponies, easily overhauling his foot-slogging legionaries. He tried to calculate how far they had come, what the chances were of reaching the beach before these horsemen caught up with them; indeed, whether it would be better to stand and fight.
His mind was made up by what he saw next: Lusitani on foot, so numerous he could not count them, pouring over one of the ridges and running to catch them. They were a long way away, but those horsemen had been sent to cut them off from their escape route, so that together they could overwhelm his small force. Marcellus threw off most of the things he was carrying, keeping only his weapons and those precious objects that they hacked off their wooden poles. He ran up the line, ordering his men to do the same, to drink their water and cast aside what they could not consume, to throw away their sacks of polenta, salt and bread and to run, each man at his own pace. He kept looking back, sure that the tribesmen on foot were not gaining, but the horsemen were already abreast while they were still a long way from the beach and the safety of their ship.
Running alongside Regimus, he saw that the older man was puffing hard, his legs being more accustomed to the deck of a ship than this exertion on dry land, while in his mind he ran through various options. The horsemen would get ahead of him, he had no doubt of that, and they would have to break through or face a horrible death, quite possibly, as he had already said, strapped to that sacrificial altar. They could break into smaller groups and try to escape over the more broken ground of the rock-strewn hillsides, but then the other warriors behind them would have the advantage of level ground, which would bring them on much faster.
By the time these thoughts had crystallised, the horsemen were past them and he saw the lead riders on each side turn their ponies’ heads and descend from the ridges, followed in single file by the rest. From that vantage point they would have picked their spot to halt the Romans and they would assume, from their own experience, that the legionaries would form up in a defensive line to face cavalry, just as he knew that ultimately that would suit their purpose.
‘Phalanx!’ he shouted to Regimus.
The older man looked at him wild-eyed, as though he had no notion of what his leader was saying, till Marcellus grabbed his arm and slowed him, holding up his other hand to halt the rest. It was quite possibly a mad idea, since Roman javelins were nothing like the fearsome spears of Alexander’s Macedonian infantry, but it had the single virtue as a tactic that the Lusitani would not expect it, and quite possibly confused, they would yield before a determined charge by a solid triangle of spears.
There was no time for neatness, no time even to attempt perfection, and he did his best to impart the theory of this strange manoeuvre to his men as he pushed them into place, telling them to cover their heads with their shields and point the spears out at the same angle to the man in front. Then, raising his voice to the loudest tone of command, he ordered them to move, taking the point of the triangle himself so as to regulate the pace. The horsemen were strung across the broad valley floor, more numerous in the middle than they were on the flanks. Marcellus, spear pointed straight forward, turned slightly to the right as they came within casting distance, away from the heaviest concentration of his foes.
Sweat was running in his eyes, making it hard to see properly, but he felt that his tactic had them confused. The men in the centre, seeing him turn a flank to them, did not wait to find out what would happen next but charged at the array of spears. Marcellus turned again to face them, aiming for the dog-leg gap that had opened up between those who had charged and the others, on his right flank, who had held their ground. As the galloping horsemen swerved to engage, it was like the meeting of two irresistible forces, the Romans, to a man, knowing that they would all die if they even paused. The Lusitani horsemen at the front of the charge were pushed onto the Roman spears by those behind and there was a moment, brief but frightening, when Marcellus thought that their forward movement had been arrested.
But the legionaries, with the single order to close up to the soldier in front and to keep going at all costs, managed to maintain some momentum. In this they were aided by the Lusitani horses, which tended to shy away from the unbroken line of spears. Those on the flanks were now charging to close the gap, but before him he could just see the silver glint of the sea at the point where the valley met the beach. His ships, he hoped, were out of sight below the rise. If they had their corvii out and they could keep moving, his troops had a chance; if they had decided to stand off for safety’s sake, then he and his men were doomed.
The improvised phalanx was no triangle now, it was a knot of men jabbing and running at the same time, each one trying to fend off an attacking horseman. The Lusitani swung their great swords, lopping off arms with spears still in the hands, getting under the raised shields to decapitate those who had dropped their guard. Men stumbled and fell, bringing down the unwary to their rear, the heaps of bodies quickly surrounded, to be remorselessly speared by screaming tribesmen, but at the head of that mass they were through, though the earth beneath their feet worked against them as it turned to soft sand.
Marcellus, head down, sweat dripping from his forehead, watched as the mixture changed, losing the colour of burnt earth, until his feet, seemingly weighed down by heavy stones, rose and fell on the clinging fine sand of the golden beach. Lifting his eyes he saw his ships, bridges down, with the men who manned the oars rushing to their stations. Those marines left to guard the ships were armed and they rushed down the corvus and formed up in a defensive ‘V’ to receive their fleeing companions.
Marcellus, aware of his duty as much as he was of the knot of terror in his stomach, dashed to one side, hoarsely urging his men up the ramp. He could scarcely breathe from the heat and the weight of his helmet, so he tore it off his head and threw it into the ship, immediately feeling the welcome wind on his sweaty face. His sword was out, whipping the back of his men if they showed the slightest intention of delaying.
The Lusitani horsemen, several with Roman heads impaled on their spears, had formed up to charge the puny line of marines. Marcellus yelled an order, fearing that his voice would not work and the instructions would not carry, but a marine beside him, wiser than his fellows, bellowed out the instructions in a fresh, full voice as the Lusitani charged. From the line on the beach to every man on the ships who could find the space, a wall of javelins hit the charging horsemen. Animals went over, riders thrown forward into the sand. Those behind fared little better, their forelegs taken by the horses in front, struggling to rise in the sucking, awkward ground.
Marcellus ordered his men up the ramps at the double, waiting till all were aboard before himself walking slowly up. He gave the orders for the corvus to be raised, for the pole-men to fend off, and felt relieved as the oars bit and the ships began to move till they pulled away from the beach. A vast array of Lusitani infantry, all screaming at the departing Romans, mounted the ridge that formed the barrier between the valley and the beach.
‘Bring those poles,’ Marcellus called to the men who had pushed them off the beach. He called for ropes and ordered the sacred objects they had taken from the grove to be tied to the poles, and at his command they were all raised at once, these sacred symbols. A huge cry, more like a collective moan, filled the air as the Lusitani saw the ancient totems of their faith glinting and flashing in the hands of their enemies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marcellus was tired, with every bone aching from battle and lack of sleep. The Lusitani had overrun everything but the final wooden palisade that marked the boundary of his stockade. Most of his stores had been loaded overnight, between assaults, and after the last attack so had the majority of his surviving men, so it was only the rearguard who needed to get aboard before he fired the huts and barracks. Grimly he watched as the sun rose, knowing his enemies would attack again with that behind them, as they always did, but this time they only
