The Field of Swords Page 47

  The words came easily in front of the legions. He knew them all and a thin cheer began as they gazed up at the scarlet-cloaked figure. He could not have explained the bond to a stranger, but that had never been necessary. They knew him for what he was. They had seen him injured with them and exhausted after a march. Each man there had a memory of when he had spoken to them that they treasured more than the silver coins they were paid.

  “I will not ask you to fight this last time for Rome. I will ask it for me,” he said, and they lifted their heads higher to hear him, the cheering swelling in the ranks.

  “Who dares to call themselves Rome while we live? The city is just stone and marble without us. We are its blood and its life. We are its purpose.” Julius swept a hand out to the massed hordes of the Gaulish army.

  “What an honor it is to have so many come against us! They know our strength, my legions. They know we are unbreakable in spirit. I tell you, if I could change places and be out there, I would be afraid of what I see before me. I would be terrified. For they are not us. Alexander would be proud to walk with you as I do. He would be proud to see your swords raised in his name.” He looked down at the crowd and saw Renius there, staring at him.

  “When our hearts and arms are tired, we go on,” Julius roared at them. “When our stomachs are empty and our mouths dry, we go on.”

  He paused again and smiled down at them.

  “Now, gentlemen, we are professionals. Shall we cut these bastard amateurs to pieces?”

  They clashed their swords and shields together and every throat bellowed their approval.

  “Man the walls! They are coming!” Brutus shouted, and the legions ran to their positions. They stood straight as Julius climbed down and walked amongst them, proud of them all.

  Madoc felt a touch of fear as he saw the full extent of the Roman lines around Alesia. When he had escaped only a month before, the first trenches were being dug into the clay, and now the walls were solid and manned with soldiers.

  “Light torches to burn their gates and towers!” he ordered, seeing the lines of light spring up amongst the tribes. The crackle of flames was the sound of war, and he felt his heart race faster in response. Still he worried as he looked over the vast fortifications that crouched on the land and waited for them. The speed of the Gaulish horses would be wasted against such a barrier. If the Romans could not be tempted out, Madoc knew each step would be bloody.

  “Spears ready!” he called down the line. He felt thousands of eyes on him as he drew his long sword and pointed it at the Roman forces. His beloved Arverni were ready on the right flank, and he knew they would follow his orders. He wished he could be as sure of the others in the heat of battle. As soon as they began to die, Madoc feared they would lose what little discipline he had been able to impose.

  He raised his fist and brought it down in a sharp movement, kicking his horse into a gallop to lead them in. Behind him came a thunder that drowned out all other sound, and then the Gauls roared. The horses flew toward the walls and every hand held a spear ready to throw.

  “Ballistae ready! Onagers, scorpions ready! Wait for the horns!” Brutus shouted left and right. They had not been idle in the dark hours and now every war machine they possessed was facing outward to smash the greater enemy. Every eye on the walls watched as the horde galloped toward them, and their faces were bright with anticipation.

  Huge logs soaked in oil were lit and gave off a choking smoke that did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of those who were ready to smash them down onto the heads of the Gauls.

  Brutus nodded as he gauged the range, and tapped the nearest cornicen on the shoulder. The man took a deep breath and the long note sounded, almost swallowed in the release of hundreds of massive oak arms slamming into their rests. Stone and iron flew through the air with a whining sound, and the Romans showed their teeth as they waited for the first touch of death.

  Madoc saw the launch and for a moment he shut his eyes and prayed. He heard the cracks and thumps of missiles all around him and dwindling screams that he left behind. When he opened his eyes, he was amazed to find himself alive and whooped aloud for the sheer pleasure of it. Gaps had been broken open amongst the tribes, but they closed as the distance to the legions shortened and now their blood was up.

  The Gauls released their spears with all the fury of men who had survived the Roman machines. They arced up and over the walls, and before they could land, Madoc had reached the wide pits that ran along the edge of the Roman walls. Thirty thousand of his best men vaulted from their saddles and began to scramble up, digging their swords into the earth to climb over the spikes meant to hinder them.

  Madoc saw the legionaries above in a glimpse as he climbed, and without warning the earth gave way and he dropped down at the base. He shouted in anger and began the climb again, but he heard the crackle of flames and saw a group of Romans lever something massive over the edge and drop it toward him. He tried to leap away, but it hammered him down in a splinter of bone and blackness.

  From the walls, Julius watched as the first attack was sent reeling. He ordered the war machines to fire again and again, using logs and stones that broke the legs of horses as they rolled amongst them. The gates in the walls were burning, but it did not matter. He did not intend to wait for them to fall.

  All along the miles of fortifications, the Roman legionaries were battering those who reached them, using shields and swords in a frenzy. The bodies began to pile at the foot of the wall, and Julius hesitated. He knew his soldiers could not fight at such a pace for long, weak as they were. Yet the Gauls seemed intent on a direct assault, throwing their lives away on Roman iron.

  The vast bulk of the horsemen had not even been able to reach the Roman lines through their own people, and Julius feared that if he sent the legions out, they would be engulfed. His face hardened as he made the decision.

  “Octavian. Take the extraordinarii against them. My Tenth and Third will be behind you, just as we were against the Britons.”

  Their eyes met for an instant and Octavian saluted.

  Ropes were attached to the gates to pull them inward, once the great iron bars had been removed. The wood was burning well by then and when the gates fell the rush of air made the flames leap. The extraordinarii galloped through the fire to smash the enemy, their hooves clattering on the gates as they passed over. They vanished into the smoke and the Tenth and Third poured out after them.

  Julius saw teams beat out the flames and heave the gates back into position before the Gauls could take advantage of the breach. It was a dangerous time. If the extraordinarii could not force the Gauls back, those legions ready to charge out and support them would not be able to move. Julius squinted through the smoke, following a legion eagle as it pounded through the boiling mass of tribesmen. He saw it fall and be dragged up by an unknown soldier. The Twelfth Ariminum were ready to go out, and Julius did not know what they would find.

  He glanced up at the forts of Alesia and the men he had permanently watching for them to attempt an attack. How many could he leave as the reserve? If Vercingetorix broke out, Julius was sure his legions would falter at last, hammered on two sides. It must not be allowed to happen.

  Renius caught his eye as the distinctive figure hovered near him with a shield ready to hold over Julius’s head. Julius smiled briefly, allowing him to stay. The gladiator looked pale and old, but his eyes scanned the field ceaselessly to protect his general.

  Julius saw a clear space appear on the bloody ground, covered in feebly moving bodies and the dead. Some of them were Roman, but the vast majority were the speared and crushed enemy. A huge arc was opening in the press as the Tenth heaved them back and walked over flesh with a barrier of their shields. Julius saw the last spear throws disappear into the Gauls and he judged it was time.

  “Twelfth and Eighth in support!” he called. “Bring down the gates!” Once more the ropes were yanked taut and ten thousand more rushed out to replenish those who had gone bef
ore.

  The war engines were silent then, as the legions carved their way through the Gauls. The tight squares were engulfed and lost to view, then appeared like stones in a flood, still surviving, still solid as they disappeared again.

  With four legions in the field, Julius sent one more to follow them, keeping barely enough men to hold the walls and watch the forts at their backs. The cornicens stood waiting at Julius’s shoulder and he glanced at them, his eyes hard.

  “On my word, sound the recall.”

  He gripped the edge of his cloak with his free hand and twisted it. It was hard to see what was going on, but he heard Roman voices shout orders and all along the walls the Gauls were falling back to meet the threat that had come out to take them on. Julius made himself wait.

  “Now blow the horns. Quickly!” he snapped at last, looking out onto the battlefield as the long notes wailed over it. The legions had gone far and fought on all sides, but they would not allow a rout, he knew. The squares would retreat step by ordered step against the horsemen, killing all the time.

  The Gauls moved like bitter liquid in swirls of screaming, dying men as the legions fought their way back. Julius shouted wildly as he saw the eagles appear once more. He raised his arm and it trembled. The gates came down and he saw the legions stream in and rush back to the walls to shout defiance at the enemy.

  The Gauls surged forward and Julius looked to the teams of ballistae men, waiting with desperate impatience. The whole of the Gaulish army was rushing in then and the moment was perfect, but he dared not order them to fire without knowing his legions were safely back.

  He barely saw the launch of spears, but Renius did. As Julius turned away, Renius threw up the shield and held it against the numbing impact of the whining heads. He grunted and Julius turned to acknowledge the act, his face going slack as he saw the bloody ruin of Renius’s neck.

  “Clear! All clear, sir!” his cornicen shouted.

  Julius could only stare as Renius fell.

  “Sir, we must fire now!” the cornicen said.

  Barely hearing him, Julius dropped his arm and the great ballistae crashed their response. Tons of stone and iron sliced through the horsemen of Gaul once more, cutting great swaths of empty space on the field. The tribes were too closely packed to avoid the barrage, and thousands were mown down, never to rise again.

  A powerful silence swelled as the tribes pulled back out of range. Dimly Julius heard his men cheering as they saw the numbers of dead left behind on the field. He went to Renius’s side and closed the staring eyes with his fingers. He had no more grief left in him. To his horror, his hands began to shake and he tasted metal in his mouth.

  Octavian trotted through the legionaries to look up to where Julius knelt, chilled in sweat.

  “One more, sir? We’re ready.”

  Julius looked dazed. He could not have a fit in front of them all, he could not. He struggled to deny what was happening. The fits had been quiet in him for years. He would not allow it. With a wrench of will, he stood swaying, forcing himself to focus. He pulled off his helmet and tried to breathe deeply, but the ache in his skull built and bright lights flashed. Octavian winced as he saw the glazed eyes.

  “The legions still stand, General. They are ready to take the battle to them once more, if you wish it.”

  Julius opened his mouth to speak, but could not. He crumpled to the ground and Octavian leapt from his saddle, scrambling up to hold him. He barely noticed the body of Renius at his side and shouted to the cornicen to fetch Brutus.

  Brutus came at a scrambling run, paling as he understood.

  “Get him out of sight, quickly,” he snapped to Octavian. “The command tent is empty. Take his legs before the men see.” They lifted the twitching figure that had been lightened by the months of starvation and war, dragging him into the shadowed interior of the command post.

  “What are we going to do?” Octavian said.

  Brutus pulled the metal helmet from Julius’s rigid fingers and lifted it.

  “Strip him. Too many men saw us take him in. They must see him come out.”

  The men cheered as Brutus strode into the weak sun, wearing the full helmet and armor of his friend. Behind him, Julius lay naked on a bench, with Octavian holding a rope of twisted tunic between his teeth as he writhed and shuddered.

  Brutus ran to the wall to assess the state of the enemy and saw they were still reeling from the second smashing attack of the ballistae. In the darkness of the tent, it had seemed longer. He saw the legions look to him, waiting for orders, and knew a moment of the purest panic. He had not been alone in command since setting foot in Gaul. Julius had always been there.

  Behind the mask, Brutus looked out desperately. He could think of no stratagem but the simplest of all. Open the gates and kill everything that moved. Julius would not have done it, but Brutus could not watch from the wall as his men went out.

  “Fetch me a horse!” he bellowed. “Leave no reserve. We are going out to them.”

  As the gates reopened, Brutus rode through, leading the legions. It was the only way he knew.

  As the Gauls saw the full force of legions coming onto the field, they milled in chaotic fear, wary of being drawn in again to be crushed by the war engines. Their lines were in disarray without the leaders who had been killed in the first attacks.

  Brutus saw many of the lesser tribes simply dig in their heels and ride from the battlefield.

  “Better that you run!” he shouted wildly.

  Around him, the extraordinarii forced their mounts into a gallop, their bloody weapons ready. The legions roared as they accelerated across the plain, and when they crashed into the first lines, there was nothing to hold them.

  CHAPTER 44

  _____________________

  By nightfall, those Gauls who survived had left the field of battle, streaming back to their homes and tribal lands to carry news of the defeat. The Roman legions spent most of the night on the plain, stripping corpses and rounding up the best of the horses for their own use. In the darkness, the Romans separated into cohorts that roamed for miles around Alesia, killing wounded and collecting armor and swords from the dead. As another dawn approached, they returned to the main fortifications and turned their baleful gazes on the silent forts.

  Julius had not surfaced from tortured dreams before sunset. The violence of the fit had racked his wasted body, and when it left him, he sank into a sleep that was close to death. Octavian waited with him in the tent, washing his flesh with a cloth and water.

  When Brutus came back, spattered with blood and filth, he stood looking down on the pale figure for a long time. There were many scars on the skin, and without the trappings of rank, there was something vulnerable about the wasted figure that lay there.

  Brutus knelt at his side and removed the helmet.

  “I have been your sword, my friend,” he whispered.

  With infinite tenderness, he and Octavian exchanged the battered armor and clothing until, once again, Julius was covered. He did not wake, though when they lifted him, his eyes opened glassily for a moment.

  When they stood back, the figure on the bench was the Roman general they knew. The skin was bruised and the hair was ragged until Octavian oiled and tied it.

  “Will he come back?” Octavian murmured.

  “In his own time, he will,” Brutus replied. “Let’s leave him alone now.” He watched the faint rise and fall of Julius’s chest and was satisfied.

  “I’ll stand guard. There will be some who want to see him,” Octavian said.

  Brutus looked at him and shook his head. “No, lad. You go and see to your men. That honor is mine.”

  Octavian left him as he took position outside the tent, a still figure in the darkness.

  Brutus had not sent the demand for surrender to Vercingetorix. Even in the armor and helmet, he knew Adàn would not be fooled for a moment, and besides, that honor belonged to Julius. As the moon rose, Brutus remained on guard at the tent,
sending away those who came to congratulate. After the first few, the word spread and he was left alone.

  In the privacy of the silent dark, Brutus wept for Renius. He had seen the body and ignored it while he and Octavian were heaving Julius’s body into the tent. It was almost as if some part of him had recorded every detail of the scene to be recalled when the battle was over. Though he had only glanced at the old gladiator, he could see his cold corpse as if it were daylight when he shut his eyes.

  It did not seem possible that Renius could not be alive. The man had been the closest thing Brutus had had to a father in his life, and not to have him there brought a pain that forced tears out of him.

  “You rest now, you old bastard,” he muttered, smiling and weeping at the same time. To live for so long only to die from a spear was obscene, though Brutus knew Renius would have accepted that as he accepted every other trial in his life. Octavian had told him how he had held the shield for Julius, and Brutus knew the old gladiator would consider it a fair price.

  A noise from the tent told him Julius had woken at last before the tent flap was thrown back.

  “Brutus?” Julius asked, squinting into the darkness.

  “I am here,” Brutus replied. “I took your helmet and led them out. They thought I was you.”

  He felt Julius’s hand on his shoulder and fresh tears wound down the dirt of his face.

  “Did we beat them?” Julius asked.

  “We broke their back. The men are waiting for you to demand a surrender from their king. It’s the last thing to do and then we’re finished.”

  “Renius fell at the last. He held a shield over me,” Julius said.