embedded in them.
‘Pila ready!’ Shields and left legs went forward; right arms flew back with hands gripping the smooth wooden shafts of the lead-weighted pila.
On either side the cavalry commanders had both timed their charges to perfection. Giving the order on the release of the javelin volley they charged underneath it. They had smashed through and cut off the disordered flanks of the Thracians, who had not had the time to rearm themselves with their most fearsome weapon, the rhomphaia: a sleek three-foot-long iron blade, razor sharp and slightly curved back at the tip, attached to a two-foot, ash-wood handle.
With both flanks now isolated and fighting their own private cavalry-infantry battles, the main body came on, throwing down their shields; they would be of no use to them now for what they had in mind. Each man reached behind his head and with a sweeping movement unsheathed his rhomphaia, The Thracians broke into a reckless sprint wielding these terrifying weapons with both hands above their heads. Maddened by battle lust they screamed as they charged, bearded faces contorted with rage. Long cloaks billowed out behind them; heavy calf-length leather boots pounded down the grass.
Trying to remain calm Vespasian watched the approaching surge of hatred, counting to himself. This was the most crucial order and it had to be timed to perfection.
With twenty paces to impact he bellowed, ‘Release pila!’
The cornu sounded. The Thracians had travelled another five paces by the time the legionaries responded to the signal. As one, the three centuries hurled their heavy weapons at a low trajectory towards incoming wall of unprotected flesh. At the moment of release each man drew his gladius from the sheath on his right side and then put his weight on to his left leg and crouched behind his shield. Those in the rear ranks pressed their shields on to the backs of their comrades in front. They braced for impact.
Ten paces from the Roman line more than two hundred pila slammed into the howling stampede. Men were thrown backwards as if yanked from behind by an invisible rope. The barbed points of pila passed clean through their ribs, hearts and lungs, bursting out through their backs in sprays of hot crimson blood. Faces disintegrated as the lead balls at the base of the shafts punched holes through heads, exploding grey matter over the already blood-spattered bodies of those following behind.
But still they came on, leaping over their dead or wounded comrades, heedless of their own safety. Screaming their defiance at their iron-clad adversaries, they hurtled towards the rigid wall of shields, bringing the blades of their rhomphaiai hissing down through the air, trying to slice through the helmets of the men behind.
At the point of impact the Roman front rank pushed their shields forward and up. The bronze-reinforced rims took the impact of the rhomphaiai, snapping handles and notching blades with clouds of sparks. Iron shield bosses thumped into the chests of the warriors as they crashed into the solid Roman line, winding some and throwing others off balance.
The line held.
Then the short pointed swords, designed to stab and gut, thrust out from between the shields at groin height and commenced their lethal work. The bellows of rage turned into shrieks of pain and anguish as the iron blades pushed up through the vitals of the now stationary Thracian front line. Bellies split open, spilling their steaming contents over the feet of both attacker and defender alike. Genitals were severed, arteries opened and blood flowed freely.
The press of their rear ranks prevented the Thracians from using their rhomphaiai to full effect. They were used to more open combat, typical of their inter-tribal battles, where there was room to swing the weapon, lopping off the heads and arms of their opponents, or sweeping the legs from under them. Here they were of little account.
The battle turned into a scrum of pushing and stabbing. A couple of the inexperienced legionaries stabbed too far and felt an icy flash of pain. They quickly withdrew their arms to find only a blood-spurting stump, and went down screaming. The men behind trampled over them knowing that to leave a gap would be fatal for them all.
And still the line held.
Unable to make headway the Thracians started to spill around the unguarded flanks of the two outermost centuries; legionaries began to fall, heads and limbs missing. From his vantage point Vespasian was aware of the danger.
‘Fourth and sixth centuries advance!’ he yelled.
The cornu blared and the two centuries on the flanks of the second line moved forward at a jog, increasing their speed as they closed with the enemy. Their centurions ordered their charge. In the wake of a volley of pila they hit the side of the encircling Thracians, punching those still standing off their feet with their shields and then despatching them on the ground with firm thrusts of their swords.
The Thracians started to fall back; the encircling manoeuvre having failed, they had, for the time being, lost heart. As they disengaged the severity of their casualties became apparent. More than four hundred of their dead and dying littered the bloody ground in front of the legionaries and the hillside beyond.
A massive cheer rose from the newly blooded recruits as they watched their opponents retreat. A few of the more hot-headed made to follow them only to be bawled back into line by their centurions, who knew only too well the folly of an undisciplined pursuit.
Corbulo arrived at Vespasian’s side.
‘We’ve beaten them, sir,’ Vespasian said with some pride, although fully aware that his gladius remained in pristine condition in its sheath.
‘You’ve beaten them off more like, but they’ll come again. Savages like these have more bravado than sense. It’s time we got out of here. Cornicen, sound “Withdraw facing enemy”.’
Corbulo then turned to the centurion of the unused fifth century. ‘Send out a party of men to bring in our wounded and finish off those who won’t make it. We will leave none of our men behind to amuse those barbarians.’
Steadied by the shouts of the centurions in the front rank and the optiones in the rear, the centuries began to pull back, step by step, in time to the beat measured out by low blasts from the cornicen.
The cavalry disengaged from their private battles and galloped back to cover the infantry retreat. They saw off the sorties of small groups of impetuous Thracians who attempted to disrupt the retrieval of the Roman wounded with javelin volleys.
Slowly the Roman line fell back the hundred paces to the river. In front of them the Thracian warriors had retrieved their discarded shields and rearmed with javelins. Again they began to work themselves up into a frenzy.
‘It won’t be long before they pluck up the courage to have another go,’ Corbulo said. ‘Vespasian, get the rear three centuries and the wounded on to the ropes.’
The last of the archers was crossing as Vespasian ordered the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries on to the three remaining ropes. The men, having retrieved their packs, didn’t need to be told the urgency of the situation and leapt into the water. Behind them the three remaining centuries formed a convex wall, shielding the ropes from the enemy.
As the last men of the rear centuries clambered into the water another great roar went up. Vespasian spun his horse round; six hundred paces away up the hill the Thracians started to move forward slowly.
Magnus appeared at his side. ‘Now we’re for it.’
‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the baggagecarts?’
‘Since when was I baggage?’
‘Since Corbulo put you in charge of it.’
‘As you said, I’m not under military discipline and I ain’t going across until you do.’
Corbulo came striding up to them. ‘We won’t have time to get all the men over before they’re on us. Tribune, get the third century across on all three ropes. I’ve sent the cavalry to try and delay the attack. And you,’ he said, looking at Magnus, ‘tell the baggage to get out of the river, then find yourself a shield and helmet. I imagine you’ll disobey me if I tell you to cross with it.’
‘Sir!’ Magnus hastened off as Vespasian dismounted.
The first and second centuries stood grimly watching their cavalry’s efforts to slow the advancing Thracians. Beaten off by volleys of javelins from the tightly packed horde, they turned and fled, back to the river.
‘Caepio, get your men across,’ Corbulo screamed. ‘There’s nothing more that you can do here.’
