Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(90)

As Marcus faced the enemy, he tried to blot out all around him, listening only to his heartbeat and his breathing. He inhaled and exhaled evenly, remembering his advice to the young hoplite. Nerves give birth to courage. Great Mars, let it also be true for him today.

He concentrated on the Etruscan armies opposite. Their phalanxes also stood with spears leveled. Compared to the conical, leather helmets of the Romans, the enemy’s bronze headwear boasted crests of horsehair or feathers.

He counted the depth of their ranks. Ten phalanxes were lined up to match the Romans, but instead of standing eight deep there were twenty rows of hoplites in each company. And behind each phalanx was another phalanx. And another. A seemingly inexhaustible reserve of men.

Marcus checked their standards. He could see the bull insignia of the Veientane king and the badges of Falerii and Nepete. There were also standards of three northern Etruscan armies. Marcus frowned, expecting to count more. Those of the far northern League cities were missing. The Roman army would not meet the titan it expected.

Marcus waited with his brigade on one side of the regiment, Sempronius’s knights on the other. The tribune felt reassured that Tatius’s squadron flanked him, confident of its prowess.

The horses were skittish, pawing the line, impatient to engage. He studied the opposing cavalry. The manes of the Etruscans’s long-legged steeds were plaited, their collars and body armor studded with terra-cotta medallions. The cured bull hide pectorals on the Roman horses were plain in comparison. Again he assessed the numbers. The contingents of enemy knights were in the hundreds, and protected the weak left flank of their phalanxes. He swallowed hard at the thought of the charge. Given the depth of the opposing force, it would be a long, frightening ride. Any hope that his brigade might reach the rear to force a rout seemed impossible.

The war horns sounded. Blasting and strident. Mastarna was impatient.

Marcus’s horse snorted and tossed its head. The tribune steadied it as he called to his knights above the baying of the war hounds. “Wait for my command.”

The din of war erupted. Thousands of men on either side thumped their spears against the front of their shields or banged the clappers on the bosses. The bombardment of sound was as much a weapon of terror as any sword or spear.

The Aemilian braced himself for the Etruscan war cry. The last time he’d heard it was at the Battle of Blood and Hail. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the shrieking ululation bore into his brain. Around him, the horses whinnied and shifted at the screeching. The Roman regiment roared a response, but there was wavering morale in their reply.

Javelins sailed through the air. The Etruscans had begun their attack. Marcus signaled the leves and skirmishers forward to fill the space between the opposing phalanxes. A salvo of spears and slingshot exploded, the air thick with wood and stone. The dogs bounded into the fray, bringing down prey and savaging them, yelping in pain when they were stabbed.

Hurling their slings twice around their heads, the slingers let loose shot that stove in skulls and sent bone splinters and brains flying. Then a volley of arrows blackened the sky. Marcus grimaced, regretful Rome disdained using bowmen. The Etruscans did not consider it beneath them to employ any means to soften up their foe. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the foe to run out of ammunition.

Above the tumult, an Etruscan tuba blasted a series of short, sharp notes. Suddenly the fusillade ended. All the skirmishers and leves retreated, taking their places at the sides of the field. Bodies of axemen, spearmen, and slingers littered the ground, the wounded groaning. Marcus winced to think those who could not crawl out of the way were destined to be trampled.

He scanned the line of Roman phalanxes. Only a few young hoplites had been killed, their bodies dragged to the side, and the men behind them taking their place. The smell of shit wafted on the breeze, a combination of fear and waiting in formation.

The Etruscan trumpet call ascended in pitch. To Marcus’s surprise, the cavalrymen opposing his brigade wheeled their horses around and rode to the far side to join the knights facing Sempronius. The vulnerable left side of the Etruscan phalanxes at the edge of the battlefront was now exposed to attack. Marcus scanned the companies immediately in front of him. The standard of the Veientane bull was prominent. His battalion would face Vel Mastarna’s troops. The king’s taunt was clear. He did not fear the puny attempts of Marcus’s cavalry would make an impact.

Tatius shouted to the tribune, “What are your orders, sir? Do we help Sempronius?”

“No, there would only be confusion if we tried to change our formation. Concentrate on attacking their hoplites from the side, or head to the rear. Kill any who are separated from their companies. Cut down those who are fleeing. Tell your men not to stop until I order them. No man must fail to steep his spear in blood.”

Roman trumpets sounded. General Aemilius had signaled to advance. Marcus barked at Tatius to return to his turma, then rode to the head of the battle line to encourage his hoplites. He shouted, “Death to Mastarna! Death to Mastarna!” His troops took up the war chant. He returned to the rise to view the battle, buoyed by the barrage of Roman voices.

With a slow, steady pace, the enemy phalanxes advanced toward each other: a clanking, thudding march of two monsters. The stomping pace quickened. The foes drew closer and closer.

The collision of the line of opposing metal-clad beasts was monumental. Marcus steadied his stallion at the booming clash. And then there was only fury and effort and gore. Each hoplite aimed his spear at his rival, stabbing through the gaps in the wall of shields to pierce gullet or neck, armpit or groin. No room to duck behind shields. Only a small chance to move the head to the side. Men fell and were flattened, the man behind stepping up, then the third. The two sides pressed forward, a scrum of enormous power, as each vied to push the other back and break the pack.