Greg Fisher
Chapter Three - Spain
Mattias staggered from the transport and vomited onto the pristine beach.
‘Thank the gods for Spain’, he declared, grabbing my arm for support. The rest of us looked on, laughing, until one of the men whistled softly, and then called out, ‘by the gods, would you look at that.’
I turned; all around us the prows of troopships could be seen nosing into the cove, while our escorting warships stood offshore, covering our arrival. The beach, broad and sandy with smooth pebbles, was filling rapidly with soldiers, animals, and equipment as far as the eye could see.
‘Come on, pull yourself together’, I chided Mattias, pulling him up and propping him against the side of the troopship. I patted the wooden prow with some affection; she had got us here in one piece. The journey had taken a month, and as Mattias turned from one shade of green to another, we had hugged the Italian and Gallic coasts, avoiding the direct route from Pisae to eastern Spain where, even with the dominance of our navy, a few Carthaginian privateers flitted between fog banks and between the islands, ready to try their luck. On the sole occasion when one was sighted, our escort efficiently beat to action stations and several of the sleek triremes shot off in pursuit, oars pulling hard into the spray and marines closed up on the forecastle, ready for action. By the gods, what a marvelous sight! The warships were elegant, their peaked prows slicing through the waves, marines visible on the Mars, from where the squadron commander directed the pursuit. The sound of the drums, keeping rhythm for the oarsmen, echoed over the slate-grey sea. We were not bothered again.
Each night we had anchored in sight of shore, but mid-way through our journey, a storm had swept for several brutal days and kept us from departing. The naval officer in command of the Minerva had ordered all troops to remain below for the duration of the tempest, turning the interior of the ship into a stinking, foetid mess as men voided their bowels and threw up over and over, the buckets provided for the purpose soon inadequate for the task. My stomach had stayed strong, and Crispus had quickly found his sea-legs. Mattias, on the other hand, was in the very pit of misery.
‘As the gods are my witness’, he gasped, in between bouts of horrific retching, ‘if I survive our time in Spain then like Hannibal himself, I will come back over the Alps before I set foot again in this damned tub.’
I looked on sympathetically, but as another round of sickness hit him, I slipped my tunic over my mouth, and tried to get some rest. By the end of the voyage we were all of us elated to descend the accommodation ladders from our transports, splash into the surf, and clamber onto the beach with our packs and equipment. There, sergeants and corporals chivvied us into line.
‘Sound off!’ rang the cry from one end, as a head count was taken from the Drusilla. In our formation we heard the barked command of ‘Equipment check!’ from one of our sergeants.
Carefully, I counted off the contents of my pack, and then asked Mattias, now looking a more earthly shade of pure white, to check.
‘It’s all here, Marcus… changes of clothing, spare hobnails and leather straps and cloth for your sandals, rags and abrasives for cleaning our weapons, spare hoops of armour, and your personal stuff. Here, check mine’, he said, and I did.
I also had with me my weapons, together with my shield, the boss of which I had polished daily on the voyage to a brilliant sheen. The roach had drilled into us the importance of clean kit, and looking around at my fellows, I sensed that he would have been proud at how we had maintained our weapons, and indeed our appearance, even in the trying and claustrophobic atmosphere of a leaky troop transport.
I cast my eye over the beach for Crispus, and saw the marines disembarking and forming up. After a short lecture by their commanding officer, which I strained to hear over the pounding of the surf, they were dismissed and fell out to organize their equipment.
‘Men!’ shouted a sergeant, walking towards us. ‘You four’, he continued, ‘cooking fires. You, you, and you’—a stubby finger jabbed the air—‘tents. The rest of you, up into the dunes, clear brush and post sentries.’ He indicated the sandy hillocks just inland, where grass waved gently in the breeze and gulls called overhead.
I set about gathering wood for our fires, while the transports lay beached to our backs and the warships were anchored in the cove beyond, their prows swinging gently under the curved headlands that rose into the darkening sky.
As I coaxed the wood into flame, I saw Crispus walking towards me.
‘So, Marcus, you made it! How is Mattias?’
‘Loving this shithole, I think’, I said, laughing. ‘So, what are your orders?’
‘Well, we’ve got everyone here in one piece, so it looks like we will be following you legionnaires, wherever it is you are going.’
‘Rumour says we area headed to Saguntum, but there’s been no clear word on that yet.’
‘Gods, that place.’ Crispus shook his head. ‘Such a stain.’
I nodded in agreement. ‘The only thing I do know is that we’ll find out after morning parade tomorrow; until then, we are at liberty, or what passes for it’, I said, gesturing at the embrasures and low turf walls being erected around the camp.
One of the marines called Crispus back to his unit, and he half-turned briefly, holding up a hand in acknowledgment.
‘Well, I’d better be going. First night on dry land. Sleep well, my friend’, and he took my hand and shook it gently.
He turned back to the rest of his squids, as us legionnaires jokingly called the marines. Little did we know, then, that he and his band of sea-soldiers would cover themselves in glory, and that I myself would be a squid one day; but all that was to come. For now, our stomachs were empty, the fortifications were nearly complete, the tents were pitched, and all along the beach the scent of cooking fires filled the dusk air. Here and there a laugh could be heard, along with the gentle murmur of conversation. Despite the desperate state of the war, morale was high. Cavalry pickets had been sent out when we arrived, and had now reported that there was no enemy activity anywhere in our vicinity. Nevertheless, the commander of our troop convoy, a senior centurion with twenty years’ worth of hard service, ordered listening posts to be sent into the scrub, and sentries to be posted at two-hour rotations. I was lucky, assigned my duty immediately after we had eaten and our cooking fires were doused. I heard nothing but the night-sounds of birds, startled once or twice by animals in the scrub, and strained fruitlessly to see anything under the light of a quarter moon. A tap on the shoulder and Ganno, a man from another transport, relieved me. I soon fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, grateful to be released from the swell of a rolling deck.
The morning came slowly, dew on the grass and a chill in the air, with grey clouds scudding across the horizon. Trumpeters roused us from our tents, and we prepared our morning meal. The last of the sentries filed into camp while their unfortunate replacements took their places, having only had time to snatch some oat biscuits and cheese before heading to their duty stations. Later, meals finished, we were called to parade.
‘Good morning, men’, shouted the convoy commander, mounting a wooden box to our front. We came smartly to attention.
‘Good morning, sir!’ we chorused.
‘At ease. Many of you have been wondering where you are headed. More of you are probably wondering why you are here, in Spain, when there is so much danger to Rome and our Italian friends and allies. The latter you will learn in good time, when you join your units; but to suffice to say that failure in Spain will mean failure in Italy. Remember this: fight hard when the time comes, for every Carthaginian you kill here means one fewer to terrorise our families at home.
‘As for the former question, you will have your answer now.’ He consulted a wax tablet on which his orders had been written.
‘Legionnaires from Minerva, Drusilla, Wave-catcher, Putanna, Diana, Pluto, Demos, and Trianna: you will go to reinforce the Second legion, under the command of Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio. Legionnaires from Vesta, Surf-crusher, and Hasta, you will be joining the Fifth legion, under the command of Publius Cornelius Scipio. Guides from the Fifth have already arrived, and you will depart immediately following this parade. You marines’, he indicated the squids to his left, ‘will attach yourselves to the Second, and you will await the legionary guides and depart with your fellow legionnaires. Cavalry reconnaissance’—he nodded to the several dozen horsemen who had made the trip with us—‘will likewise travel to join the Second.
‘That is all. May the gods be with you. Centurions and company sergeants, report to the operations tent for a detailed briefing. Everyone else, strike your tents, prepare for departure, and organize working parties to police the area for rubbish. I want this beach spotless.’
The sergeant major called us to attention, and the commander held our eyes for a brief moment.
‘May the gods be with you—with us all. Dismissed.’
We fell out amongst a lively buzz of conversation.
‘I knew it’, Mattias said excitedly. ‘I knew the Scipio brothers were here; we’ve heard not a jot about what Publius had been up to after he was wounded at the Trebbia. Gods-damnit, I just fucking knew it. I don’t know much about his brother, Gnaeus, but we’ll find out soon enough.’ He smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand, grinning.
‘Look at that’, I interrupted, pointing at a small group of men making their way to the operations tent. They were not our officers and sergeants; they looked worn, like a piece of ship-wood turned too many times on the lathe. Their uniform tunics and armour were dusty, but they moved with an arrogant pride.
‘Those must be the guides from the Fifth’, I said. Mattias pushed me and I realised I was gaping at them in awe.
‘You’ll get your chance to look as good as them, Marcus… or you’ll die trying. Look sharp, and help me with this tent.’
We returned to our labours, neatly stowing and packing our kit and preparing for our march. Mattias drew lots with me, and after losing, I set off to pick up the rubbish nearby, throwing it into the dying embers of our cooking fires. Afterwards, pretending to be busy by running a sharpening stone along the point of my sword, I secretly idled, dreaming of glorious battle, imagining myself charging a Carthaginian, calling him out to single combat in front of the glowing eyes of the Scipio brothers.
‘Marcus! Lively, lad’, the company sergeant chided me. I stood up, sheathing my sword. The beach looked emptier now, as the guides from the Fifth had departed, leading a column of legionnaires into the brush. A rising dust cloud marked their passage to war.
Mattias was staring at the last of the legionnaires to leave the camp, his eyes roving hungrily over the group. I opened my mouth to say something, but my thoughts were interrupted by three trumpet blasts: our guides had arrived.
Four horsemen entered the camp, men who had disembarked with us from the troop transports and who had left at dawn to meet the Second’s guides. The riders dismounted and grooms took their mounts away. The guides, eight men in glittering armour, followed the riders to meet with our convoy commander.
‘What on earth is that?’ I asked Mattias, who shook his head in wonder. On the armoured right shoulder of each of the eight was a dull red handprint.
‘Alright men, form column, four ranks’, our sergeants bellowed. I hefted my gear and fell in beside my tent-mates. The sun shone weakly in the sky and the wind coming off the water was cool. I began to shiver.
‘Typical bloody army. Hurry up and wait’, came an anonymous grumble from behind me, followed by several grunts of agreement. Eventually the guides came to the front of the column, four hundred or so of us, and we moved off in an easy marching cadence—the same movement which the roach had beat into us in training. Although we were used to singing on the march in order to maintain our rhythm and to keep our spirits up, this time we were ordered to stay silent: our destination was a full day’s march and more, some thirty miles, and we would be camping overnight. Our cavalry troopers rode out ahead of the column, searching the horizon; a pair watched our rear, but their vigilance proved unnecessary.
‘Not that much different to Italy’, remarked one of the men behind me. The terrain, with its gentle hills, olive groves, and small farmsteads, was comforting and familiar. Around us the tang of autumnal wood smoke scented the air, and occasionally we stopped to pick apples growing wild along the side of the track that we followed. Aside from one poor fellow stung all over his body by wasps who resented his intrusion into their pear tree, the journey to the line was uneventful; after making and then striking camp overnight, we reached the cavalry pickets of the Second by lunchtime the next day.
It was a weary column of grimy and dust-drenched men who marched across a gently shelving plain of grass and low woodland into the smart fortifications of the Second legion—the Glorious Second, as it was known, under the mascot of a rampant griffon. We passed through the small shanty town that had grown up outside the walls of the fort, seeing a few naked children scrabbling in the dust, or held on the hips of young women. We marched under a wooden gate, placed in the centre of a timber wall that encompassed a large working and living area. Four thousand men called this place their home. We were efficiently divided into replacement drafts for the numerous companies, and shown our bunks.
‘Men, my name is Aelius’, said a fierce looking man as we dropped our gear. A jagged scar ran across one cheek, and an ear was missing. He held out his hand, and I shook it. ‘I am your company sergeant. Welcome to the Second.’
‘Thank you, sergeant, my name is—’ I began, but Aelius held up a hand.
‘No names. If you’re here next week, then you can tell me.’ Without pausing for my reply, he continued, ‘get yourselves something to eat, and square away your kit. At the next watch, report to me for duty.’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
He nodded curtly. ‘Welcome to the line, boys. Dismissed.’
‘ “If you’re here next week”?’ Mattias spat. I shrugged, and set my shield down, and stowed the contents of my rucksack in the small wooden locker next to my bunk. I tried not to think too hard about its previous owner, and what fate befell him. Was he killed in battle? Sent home on leave? Taken by some fever or other, and died? A meal of gruel and some soft cheese and wine later, and all too soon the trumpets sounded for the changing of the sentries, and we hurried to join the rest of our comrades on the parade ground around which our tents were organised. Two centuries—a complete maniple—came to attention as Aelius addressed us.
‘Lads!’ bellowed the sergeant. ‘This afternoon we will be leaving to conduct an overnight patrol along one of the enemy’s lines of communication. With us will be some of our Spanish allies’—he gestured at the tall, lanky man next to him—‘who will be acting as our guides.
‘Clean your kit, pack rations for one night, and make sure that everything is tightened up and tied down. We don’t want any noise. You new men,’ he said, looking at the handful of us in the company, ‘corporal Spurius here will assist you with your preparations and make sure you’re up to task. Move it!’
The company fell out and double-timed to the tents to get ready. Spurius showed us how to cinch up the leather thongs on our armour to ensure a tight fit, one that wouldn’t rattle and give away our position.
‘And this’, he said, ‘you’ll need this as well.’
He stooped down and picked up a handful of the dirt that was in ample supply at the camp.
‘Rub it in, like so’, he said, smearing the armour that I had laboured so hard to polish. ‘Rub it into your faces, too. It makes things a bitch when you’re done, but it’s better to clean your armour than be lying dead in it on some miserable piece of Spanish earth because you were shining like a bonfire on Saturnalia’, he said.
‘And fill your canteens all of the way—no sloshing. Make sure your scabbard is nice and tight, and try to avoid bumping it when you’re amongst rocks or close in with your comrades. The boys will appreciate it. Follow my lead, and you’ll both do just fine.’ He clapped Mattias on the shoulder.
Inside, I felt a terrible anxiety. I feared failure most of all—the fear of letting down my fellow soldiers, Mattias, Spurius, Aelius… I feared death, too, of course, but it was worry of failure that tortured me the most. I had imagined a period of training once we reached our billet, time to get adjusted, but it was entirely possible that I would not live out the night. I shivered, and packed an extra woolen tunic into my pack, along with biscuits, cheese, and some bread that we had taken from the mess tent.
‘Ready?’ Mattias asked me, slapping my shoulder. My friend was full of false bravado.
I shrugged. ‘What choice is there? Let’s go.’
The rest of the company, red handprints on their armour glowing in the dying light of the sun, ignored us. I was chilled by their indifference even as I tried to mimic them. The sun was well into the horizon by the time we assembled by the south gate. Spurius was there with us, and Aelius walked unhurriedly down the length of our hundred or so men, pausing to offer words of encouragement or tighten a piece of kit. Finally, just before the trumpets sounded again to mark the changing of the watch, the Spaniard—Tarro, his name was—and twenty of his men fell in beside us. I looked at them warily. Mattias muttered beside me.
‘Can we trust those bastards?’ he whispered, shaking his head. ‘What stake do they have if we live? What do they profit if we die?’
I tightened the straps of my armour, shifting my weight uncomfortably.
‘Company, attention!’ came the call from Aelius, and he saluted the commander, a centurion with a brilliant red horse-hair plume in a spotless helmet. He returned the salute, and then brusquely indicated for the sergeant to get us underway. The gates to the fortress swung open, and we marched silently out into the gloom, heading for a notch in the hills, several miles to the south.
That night was my first action as a Roman soldier. Many other fights have come between then and my telling of this story, and much has been lost in my memory, but some things I do remember. Almost immediately, things began to go badly wrong. Only a mile into our march, Tarro spotted horsemen on the horizon to the southwest. They quickly vanished, but then reappeared again shortly afterwards. The patrol was compromised; the centurion, whose name I cannot remember, conferred with Aelius and the decision was made to press on. I would learn later that Gnaeus Scipio was a tough taskmaster, and had cashiered several of his officers for what the Roman army liked to call ‘insufficient aggression in the face of the enemy.’
We moved into the notch between the hills, our path barely lit by a dull moon. A sense of unease passed down the column and I glanced nervously at the dark outcroppings around us.
‘Mattias, this is madness’, I whispered.
He grunted in agreement. ‘What was it the roach said? Expect to be ambushed. If you see mountains on each side, expect it.’ He strained his eyes in the gloom.
A hiss of warning came from somewhere ahead of us and I watched in mute horror as a dark shape detached itself from the earth. It glided towards the headquarters group, and with a savage chop of what looked like a double-edged axe, felled our centurion, nearly severing his head from his shoulders.
‘Enemy contact front!’ yelled Aelius. ‘First and second squads, form square, third squad in reserve. MOVE!’
We reacted immediately, the roach’s endless drills paying their dividend. In less than a minute, we were in a small square, four ranks deep, with an impenetrable line of shields guarding our front, rear, and flanks, and a knot of men in the centre, ready to rush to the aid of their fellows.
A remarkable formation, this, came the roach’s voice, unbidden, soothing my nerves. I could feel the breeze under that willow tree, the humid air coming off the marshes. Compress it, and it becomes the testudo, shields front and overhead, to guard you against arrows and missiles. Shaped like this you can march in any direction; you can attack or withdraw, keeping your fighting brothers alive.
By now the corpse of the dead officer had been brought into the centre of the square. Aelius pointed at two men, who sheathed their swords and placed the poor fellow onto a shield, in readiness to carry him back to camp. The roach’s voice came to me again, out of the murk and shadow.
Never leave your dead on the battlefield. Never! The enemy will take your ears, your nose, hell, they’ll hack off your limbs if you give them the chance. And then you’ll never cross the Styx, and you’ll wander the earth for all eternity, deformed, unwanted, shunned.
Aelius had his wits about him. Sword drawn and a wicked look on his face, he spoke to us in an urgent whisper.
‘Fighting withdrawal, lads. Half-step, keep the formation. Look sharp.’
Mattias and I had been at the rear of the column with second squad when the centurion was killed, and we had now turned ourselves about in the front ranks of the square, preparing withdraw. I rested my hand nervously on the back of the man to my front, who was calm but keyed up, senses alert. On my own back I felt the reassuring touch of the man behind me.
‘Forward!’ hissed Aelius, and the square began to move smoothly back towards the edge of the notch and into the open ground where our enemy would have less opportunity to conceal themselves.
‘Shit!’ barked one of the corporals in the front rank: directly ahead, a line of men rose out of the dirt, perhaps a hundred paces away, blocking our retreat at the point where the hills gave way to the lower ground. And now, from our flanks came a strange rustling in the air as arrows were shot blindly from the heights around us.
‘Testudo!’ shouted Aelius, and our square collapsed in on itself, with all but the front ranks holding their shields aloft. Arrows thudded into the formation. Most were stopped by the great wooden barrier of our massed shields, but some slipped through to puncture feet and rip into faces, shoulders, and thighs. I heard grunts of pain and saw at least one man fall, an unlucky arrow shot straight through his eye and into his brain, killing him instantly. His body was dragged along with us as we moved, his comrades either side clutching at his armour to pull him along while keeping their heavy shields aloft to maintain the formation.
We struggled out of this killing ground, and the arrow-fire sputtered to a stop as we moved out of range. But the shield wall blocking our exit was now only thirty paces away.
‘Halt! Uncover!’ Aelius ordered, and we returned to our square. Once again I felt a hand resting upon my back, the touch of my unseen comrade giving me a welcome sense of confidence.
Shit, I thought, only a few days ago I was on a boat, not a care in the world, except for Mattias and his endless puking. Now, here I was, quite possibly about to become a battle casualty on my first day on the job.
With great effort, I pushed this thought from my head, and tightened the grip on my shield. We were nearly in javelin range, and each man in the front rank clutched one of these deadly missiles.
‘Wait for it, lads, wait for it…’, urged Aelius, his voice seeming to be just behind me. ‘Now, javelins!’
As a single unit, the front rank disgorged their slender missiles. Before the first hit home, they were ready to launch their second.
‘Second volley, go!’ yelled Aelius.
In front of us we saw gaps appearing in the enemy shield wall as our javelins struck home. Some of the men facing us were forced to throw down their shields, while others were impaled and fell to the ground with a shocking finality. Now swords were drawn in the front line.
‘Full step, boys! Give them hell!’ shouted Aelius, a wicked glee in his voice.
We met their line with a muffled thump, and I saw the sword of the man in front methodically jab forward, then, not finding its mark, going over his shield and into the face of a rugged-looking tattooed man with a long beard and a single malevolent eye, the other long-gone amid a mass of scar tissue. He fell to the ground, gurgling as the deadly sword ripped his throat open, and then immediately there was another to take his place. My hand continued to rest lightly on his back. I sensed the movements of his sword arm, felt the tension in his muscles, recognised his own fear duelling with his training and experience.
The sound I dreaded came: the whistle, the warning for what was to come. A sickness grew in my belly, and my mouth, dry with fear, felt sour and warm. My hand, resting on the pommel of my sword, ready to draw, was soaked with sweat. My heart hammered in my chest and I felt an overwhelming urge to soil myself. And then the whistle blew.
Amazed, I watched with a detached fascination as my body did what the roach had taught it to do. The man in front of me slipped to the side and vanished beside me, while I drew my sword, stepped forward, brought up my shield, and, sensing an opportunity, rammed its heavy boss into the chest of the man whose face was only feet away from mine. Caught by surprise, he staggered back, before regaining his composure. Encouraged by the murmur of approval from the man behind me, and the pressure of his hand on my back, I executed one of the many moves that the roach had taught us: an appalling thrust that sought out the tender flesh under the armpit, which no armour could truly protect. I made eye contact with my enemy as his mind registered the blow, and he went down with a gasp of surprise and then suddenly there was no one to take his place: the enemy line was broken.
‘Go! Go! Go!’ bellowed Aelius, now right behind me, and we forced the hole in front wider, stabbing to our sides, cutting the enemy down where they stood. Tarro and his men swarmed the enemy, hacking away bravely in front of our line. Panicking, some of the enemy dropped their arms and attempted to surrender, but Tarro’s men killed them hungrily. Others ran, and in the eternity of a few short bloody minutes, we were victorious. Aelius didn’t miss a beat.
‘Everyone back in line! Button up, look sharp! Corporals, casualty reports!’ he called, and his deputies moved quietly among us even while we maintained a watchful formation, ready for a counterattack that never came. We had three dead, including our hapless centurion, and four wounded, one quite seriously. One of the dead was a new man who had come out from Pisae with us.
‘Poor fellow’, said Mattias, looking at the pale and bloodied face. ‘Bought it on his first mission.’
‘Secure that talk!’ growled Spurius, glaring at Mattias, before finishing his rounds. Aelius, passing by, grunted a brief ‘well done, lad’, and clapped my shoulder. The gesture instantly turned my euphoria into agonising pain, and I realised that I had been wounded.
‘Here, Mattias, check me out would you? Right shoulder.’
He inspected the bent and twisted armour plate, and said ‘Ah, you’ll live’, he said, with a worried face. ‘Medic! Over here!’
Our company medic ran over to me, took a look at the wound, washed it and then pressed a bandage between my armour and the wound. ‘This will keep you going until we’re back in camp, then go and see the doc—alright?’ He rushed off to his next customer.
The enemy had been broken and driven to flight, but Aelius was not taking any chances. We resumed our march, now in column, and well before sunrise, we glimpsed the fortress in the distance. Our first action was over, and I was blooded. Later that day, Aelius strode into our tent, and with little ceremony, he smeared his hand with ochre, and made a print on my armour. He shook my hand.
‘Well done, son. Now you’re part of the team.’