destroying all before it. He killed again and again with ease; he killed so that he and his comrades could remain alive.
Suddenly a shock wave swept through the Thracian line from right to left. Another threat had slammed into it from the east.
‘Mauricius!’ Corbulo shouted. ‘The gods be praised.’
With the unlooked-for arrival of their Gallic auxiliaries the legionaries’ hearts soared. These young men who had woken up in the morning as unblooded rookies now had the confidence of a unit of hardened killers. They set about their work with renewed vigour, blades flashing, shields punching, slaying everything in their path, pushing their opponents slowly back up the hill, whilst their Gallic allies rolled up the left flank, slashing down on their enemies with their long cavalry swords.
From behind them a massive cheer erupted from the second cohort. They pointed to the sky. Above, the ominous flock of rooks that had so disconcerted them that morning was heading back east, pursued by the two eagles. For a moment everyone paused and looked up as the chasing birds swooped down on their prey, plucking two out of the air with their claws. They rose back up, shrieking as they went, and released their victims in a flurry of feathers on to the melee below.
The Thracians turned and fled. The cavalry started to pursue them.
‘Hold!’ Corbulo cried. ‘Let them run. Mauricius, cover our withdrawal. And don’t ever turn up late again!’ Corbulo smiled with relief at the cavalry prefect, who grinned in return and then started to marshal his eighty or so remaining troopers; they too had had a hard day of it.
Vespasian sucked in a deep breath and then bellowed a victory cheer with his comrades.
‘That was more of a fight than we used to get in the Urban Cohort,’ Magnus puffed at his side.
‘That was the sort of fight that I could get to enjoy,’ Vespasian replied. His round face was flushed with excitement and blood. ‘If that is how a newly trained cohort fights then we may well have the gods on our side.’
‘The gods be buggered, it was-’
Corbulo’s shouting cut Magnus off.
‘Second century’s to cross next. First century’s to form up to their front.’
The light was starting to fade as the men of the second century waded out into the river with Corbulo and their centurion and optio all bellowing at them to get a move on.
A grim-faced Faustus reported to Vespasian, who stood with Magnus looking up the hill. Beyond the heaps of bodies in the pale light the Thracians were still there and had again started their pre-charge ritual.
‘That’s all the wounded taken care of, sir, twelve in total plus seven dead outright.’
‘Thank you, centurion. Have the men collect their packs.’
‘Sir!’
‘First century to the ropes; Vespasian, Faustus, take a rope each,’ Corbulo ordered as the last of the second century struck out into the river. ‘And, Mauricius, start crossing upstream of us, it will help ease the current.’
As the cavalry splashed in past the legionaries, a roar went up from the Thracians. For the third time in the day they started to tear back down the hill.
Panic spread through the legionaries; to have achieved so much in the past few hours only to be caught so close to safety seemed to be against the will of the gods. They started to push and shove to try to get on to a rope.
‘Easy lads, easy!’ Faustus roared at the downstream station, cuffing a few round the ears. ‘Don’t lose your discipline now.’
Vespasian looked behind; the Thracians were halfway to them, and there were still at least fifteen men to get on each rope.
‘When I give the order, cut the ropes,’ Corbulo shouted.
The men pulled themselves out into the river; arrows flew over their heads from the archer support on the north bank. With the Thracians fifty paces away it was apparent that they would not all make it.
‘Cut the ropes!’
Vespasian realised that Corbulo was right; it was more important to deny the Thracians the means of crossing than to save the last ten or so men, including himself. So much for fate; it was to be a death at the hands of these savages after all. He knew his duty was to the greater good and not to himself. He slashed down with his sword on the hemp rope; it parted, swinging its passengers out into the current. He then turned to face the enemy. They had stopped ten paces from them.
‘To me, to me,’ Corbulo shouted from the middle station, where he stood next to two terrified-looking young legionaries. Vespasian ran to his side with Magnus and the two men that had been left at his station. Faustus and three others joined them.
‘Right, lads,’ Corbulo said grimly, ‘we’ll sell our lives dearly.’ He charged. The others followed. They swept into the Thracians slashing and stabbing, but received no counter-strikes, just blows from the wooden handles of rhomphaiai. As he went down and blackness enveloped him Vespasian realised that this time the Thracians had not come to kill. That would come later.
CHAPTER XXII
Vespasian came to. It was dark. He felt a sticky substance in his eye and went to rub it away but found his hands firmly tied behind his back. Then he remembered the blow to his head that had felled him. Blood, he thought, blood from the wound.
His throat was dry and his head ached; in fact, his whole body ached. He groaned as his consciousness cleared and the pain started to register.
‘Welcome back, sir, although I don’t think that you’ll be very pleased to be here. I certainly ain’t.’
Vespasian turned his head. Next to him was Magnus.
‘Where are we?’ It was a stupid question; he already knew the answer.
‘Guests of the Thracians; and after what we did to them not very welcome ones, I should imagine.’
Vespasian’s eyes started to clear. All around small orange glows started to come into focus: campfires. In their light he could see huddled figures sleeping on the ground. His eyes gradually got used to the light. Closer to him, in the gloom, he saw a mesh of poles; he looked above him, the same, they were in a wooden cage. There were two others in there with them. He squinted and made out the uniforms of Corbulo and Faustus, both still out cold.
‘Where are the others?’ he asked, wondering about the remaining legionaries.
‘I don’t know. I only came to a short time before you, I haven’t had time to have a wander round and suss out the accommodation arrangements.’
Vespasian smiled; Magnus had not lost his humour.
‘Get some rest, sir, there’s nothing we can do at the moment. The ropes are well tied; I’ve been trying to loosen them but have only managed to rip the skin off my wrists. We’ll have to wait until our hosts untie them for us, then we’ll need our wits about us.’
Vespasian knew Magnus was right – if they were untied he would need to be fresh and alert. He closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep.
At dawn the camp stirred. Vespasian woke to find a Thracian in the cage giving sheep’s milk to his fellow captives. He waited his turn and when it came sucked the warm liquid in gratefully, overcoming the disgust that most Romans felt for milk in its natural form. He felt it filling his stomach and realised that he hadn’t eaten since the midday break the day before.
‘If they’re bothering to feed us they can’t be planning on killing us immediately,’ Corbulo observed. His hair was matted with dried blood and his right eye swollen and dark blue.
‘We kill you when we ready,’ the Thracian growled in broken Latin as he secured the cage’s gate.
‘What charming hosts,’ Magnus muttered. The Thracian glared at him and then walked off, leaving three others, armed with spears, to guard them.
‘Tell your man not to antagonise them, Tribune,’ Corbulo hissed. ‘If we’re to keep our strength for an escape,
