Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(91)
Marcus watched the nearest phalanx. The Romans strained to resist the force of the Etruscans’ extra ranks. Some young hoplites were suffocating, caught between the pressure of the enemy’s weight and the force of their own veterans shoving them forward. Chests were pressed against their own spears and shields, backs crushed by the shields of those behind. Trapped by their own momentum, there was not enough space for the dead to fall, their comrades holding the corpses upright. A ghastly host of living and dead were now locked in combat.
The impetus of the Etruscans was too great. With a roar, the enemy gained the advantage. Those on the vulnerable left side of the Roman phalanx, which was already drifting backward, floundered. Marcus could see the heads of the hoplites turning in bewilderment and alarm. The phalanx collapsed. Isolated groups merged and then parted.
The men of the splintered companies now faced hand-to-hand combat as personal duels ensued. Marcus watched as, down the length of the battlefield, he saw other phalanxes also break apart.
The time had come to charge.
Armed with fresh lances, his contingent of leves stood ready to attack. The cavalry and light infantry might yet be able to forge channels through the foe’s lines and harry the Etruscan hoplites: the swift against the slow, the light against the unwieldy.
The warhorses tossed their heads, shifting and rearing, champing at the bit. The knights shortened the reins, controlling the equine warriors by heel and hand.
Marcus held his lance aloft, kicking his stallion’s sides to gee him. His throat tore as he screamed a fresh war cry, his yell spurring the cavalry and leves as they rushed forward into battle.
Time and distance expanded. Marcus felt like his horse pounded for miles toward the foe, each hoofbeat competing with the thumping of his heart.
Time shifted again. Shortening. He made his first kill, thrusting through the neck of a man with his spear. He had no time to savor it. Instead he began a rotation of slaughtering. Sweat streamed down his face. He didn’t attempt to wipe it away, shaking his head instead, flicking it from his eyes.
An Etruscan tuba blasted three times. Suddenly a nearby group of Veientane hoplites created a small phalanx again and faced Marcus’s men. The horses whinnied and reared backward, terrified by the wall of spears. The tribune turned to scan the rise for his father, but Aemilius was nowhere in sight. No war horn sounded a retreat. He must continue to lead his men into a bloodbath.
Knowing that remaining on horseback was of no use, he called to the brigade, “Dismount and beat them back with shield and sword.”
He vaulted from his horse. The other knights did the same, discarding spears and drawing swords from scabbards as they formed a line. Marcus counted heads. Only twenty cavalrymen remained.
The enemy tuba sounded another tune. An airborne message far more complex than any Roman call sign. To Marcus’s horror, another group of Veientanes formed a phalanx behind his horsemen. Mastarna had closed a net around them.
In the distance, he heard the legion trumpeter’s frenzied notes. Aemilius was ordering all to retreat.
Pandemonium erupted. Turning on their heels, the Roman hoplites lumbered toward camp, but the heavy armor that protected them in the scrum now hampered their speed.
Marcus surveyed the battlefield. Horses were squealing, struggling to rise on broken legs or lying on their sides. The grass was torn up by hundreds of boots and hooves. And everywhere lay a gruesome expanse of the wounded, body parts, and corpses.
Hemmed in by the two Veientane phalanxes, Marcus cursed. The call had come too late.
Next to him, Tatius spat a great gob onto the ground. “No surrender then, sir?”
“No surrender. Let’s take as many as possible to the grave before we’re killed.” Then he yelled. “Form a circle!”
In a paltry imitation of their hoplite brothers, the knights shuffled together to stand shoulder to shoulder. Small, round shields overlapping, their palms slippery with sweat, they gripped the hilts of their weapons. The enemy warriors leveled their spears, ready for the final kill.
Another tuba sounded. He braced himself for the assault. In his last moments, he would understand what it was to be an infantryman, crushed and impaled by a barrage of spears. “Stand fast. Die well. Rome will remember us.”
The enemy remained poised.
There was no advance.
The phalanx in front of Marcus parted to reveal two riders. The Etruscan horsemen trotted toward the circle of Romans with the confident gait of the triumphant. One knight sat astride a great gray horse. A spiral decorated the man’s cuirass, a bull’s head boss upon his shield. He wore a purple tunic and cloak, a blue horsehair crest atop his helmet. His young comrade, one side of his face bleeding, held aloft the standard of the Legion of the Wolf. Marcus felt sick to see the proof of his regiment’s defeat. He clamped his jaw, determined more than ever he would never surrender to Vel Mastarna.
FORTY-ONE
The Veientane king ordered his hoplites to lower their weapons as he guided his horse to stand in front of the Roman tribune. He said nothing, scrutinizing the circle of men from the height of his stallion, his hard coal-black eyes staring from between the hinged cheek pieces of his helmet.
“We meet again, Marcus Aemilius Mamercus,” Mastarna said in his accented Latin. “Only this time my troops hold the advantage. What do you suggest I do with you?”
Marcus kept his eyes level, not prepared to look up to a foe as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Tatius and the soldier on the other side of him. “We’re prepared to fight until none remain standing.” His throat was hoarse from yelling.