Free The Road to Rome by Ben Kane Page A

clench.
    ‘Front rank, on your knees!’ shouted the officers. ‘The rest of you, shields up!’
    Hundreds of scuta banged off each other as men rushed to protect themselves. Those at the very front, including Romulus and Petronius, did not do the same. Instead they dropped to the ground, allowing their shields to cover them completely, while the men in the second row angled theirs obliquely before them. Those further to the rear held their scuta directly over their heads. This was a method used by the Forgotten Legion to withstand Parthian arrows, and Romulus was pleased to note that Caesar used it too. The normal deployment – with the front row remaining on their feet – allowed many soldiers to suffer injuries to their lower legs from well-aimed shafts.
    There was a heartbeat’s delay, and then the air filled with gentle whirring sounds as the arrows came down to earth. An instant later, loud crashes announced the stones’ arrival too. His muscles tight with tension, Romulus waited, knowing what the next noise would be. He hated it as much as the first time he had heard it. Listening to men scream was much harder to do now than during the rage and immediacy of one-on-one combat, when it became part of the red-hot blur of battle.
    Sure enough, strangled cries of pain broke out everywhere. Soldiers collapsed, thrashing at the shafts which had found the gap between shields to pierce their flesh. Others had gained enough momentum to drive through the legionaries’ scuta and into their arms and faces. Fortunately, most of the stones just clattered off the shields and bounced away, but a few did find targets, cracking bones and denting helmets. Given the number of missiles released, it was inevitable that there were fatalities. Not many, but the unlucky few slumped to the dirt, their weapons falling from slack hands.
    Romulus’ dream of getting to Rome was fading. He gazed uneasily at the massed enemy ranks, asking for Mithras’ continued favour.
    Everyone else was praying to their favourite gods too.
    Their work done, the slingers and archers fell back. It was time for the chariots to attack. Romulus could make out at least fifty. Enough tohit most of the Twenty-Eighth head on, while the Thracians and Pontic heavy cavalry rode around to their undefended rear. Their situation was grim now, even critical. Still there was no sign of Caesar or the other legions.
    Flicking their reins, the charioteers encouraged their horses into a trot. At last it was possible to make them out clearly. Clad in composite scale cuirasses and laminated armpieces, their crested Attic helmets were not dissimilar to those worn by junior Roman officers. Each carried a long-handled whip, which he used to encourage his mounts to the trot. A moment later, it was the canter. Having conserved their steeds’ energy, they had room to ask everything of them. With jingling traces and the blades on their wheels spinning and flashing, the chariots surged forward. Although the slope was steep, the ground was not that uneven and they were able to pick up speed quite fast. With loud whoops and cheers, the cavalry forces split off to the sides, eager to complete the pincer movement. Last of all came thousands of peltasts and thureophoroi , their weapons raised in readiness. Theirs would be the final job, to charge into the Roman lines after the chariots and horsemen had smashed them apart, and prevent any attempt to regroup.
    The fear among the legionaries grew palpable, and again the Twenty-Eighth began to waver, despite the officers’ muttered reassurances and threats. More centurions moved to stand in the front rank, and the standard-bearers lifted their wooden poles for everyone to see. The tactic helped somewhat. No one ran – yet. Men looked nervously to their comrades, muttered anxious prayers and eyed the heavens. They were all about to die: chopped apart by the chariots or cut down where they stood by the horsemen. Where in the name of Hades was