Most of the legions had cast their javelins with the exception of the Tenth and the Eighth and, from the occasional glance Balbus managed, he realised that the legions had encountered difficulties. Many soldiers in the front line were fighting off the enemy with their shield bosses whilst desperately trying to draw their swords in the midst of the melee.
Balventius, fighting like a furious madman at the front of the First Cohort, kept the line straight. He shouted over his shoulder.
“Stop pushing the line. Wait for the signal.”
Slowly things began to right themselves along the line. The legionaries had managed to draw their weapons and were now settling in to their standard shield-wall tactics, though the phalanx formation of the Germans was seriously reducing the effectiveness of the Roman attack. The two armies fought from behind their protective shields and little headway was possible.
Balbus held his shield high and protective as he stabbed rhythmically with his blade. The men of the Eighth would be proud to be fighting alongside their commander and he was glad to be with them, but having tremendous trouble trying to think of a solution to their current problem. The lines were locked into a stalemate; a war of attrition, and something had to be done to break it. Damn it, he couldn’t think straight with having to concentrate heavily on warding off blows from the front.
Further along the line, Crispus had dropped back from the front line. He had been cut by a German blade along his upper arm, but not badly, and had bloodied his own sword. The Eleventh had seen him fighting among them and that was what was important. Now he had to be somewhere to think and direct his men. All across the field, the legions had barely moved since the two armies met, and stood little or no chance of advancing yet. He flipped through the mental pages of military history. His mind whirled through the battles of Alexander, Hannibal and Scipio Africanus, trying to find a way out.
Balbus gave a sharp intake of breath as the German spear point glanced off the rim of his shield and dug into the pteruges hanging at his shoulder. The tip tore through the leather and scraped across his upper arm, drawing blood. Lucky! Had it glanced to the left instead of the right, it could easily have gone through his chest. A distant call came from the right, where the Tenth fought alongside them, and a roar went up from the men of that legion.
Priscus waved the men on around him while the butchery continued. The front few ranks of the legion continued to stab at the enemy, while the rear ranks opened up, leaving space for manoeuvring. One of the centurions called out to the primus pilus.
“Ready, sir.”
Priscus smiled and raised his voice over the din of battle.
“Break ranks!”
The front lines of the Tenth pulled aside for a moment. Pockets of legionaries continued to fight the phalanx of Germans, while gaps opened along the front. The Germans, surprised by the sudden withdrawal of sections of Roman shields began to surge forward, only to meet groups of legionaries from the rear lines, who were now charging shield-less through the gaps at the enemy.
The groups of men hit the German phalanx with the force of a charging bull and, rather than stabbing with their swords, began to wrench the German shields down and to the sides. Others vaulted over the top and came crashing down among the press of barbarian warriors. Instantly the order and formation among the Germans collapsed. Their phalanx front had been broken in several places and now there were legionaries in amongst them. The formation turned into a melee within moments, whereas the Roman line had formed once again, the gaps closing with drilled precision.
Nonus hadn’t had so much fun since he’d raced up the hill with Velius and a few others to take out the last of the Helvetii so many months ago. It was gratifying that his reputation had been so confirmed that day that he was immediately called upon whenever anything slightly insane and dangerous was suggested. He had been the first among the Germans, vaulting so high he had come down several rows back. He had been lucky, really. The man who’d leapt over just to his left had ended impaled on a raised German spear point.
He grinned like a savage as he stabbed again and again into the flesh pressed around him. The Germans had been so tightly pushed together in their formation that they had no room to manoeuvre. Their long spears and long Celtic swords were all but useless in such a confined space.
“Eleven. Twelve…” he counted as he systematically exterminated the men around him. He crouched low, turning as he went. Slowly a space was opening around him as bodies hit the ground, spraying him with their lifeblood.
He smiled again, wondering where Curtius, his friend and colleague, was. Curtius had been in the next group down and should be somewhere in this press of men. All he had to do now was keep going until the Tenth had broken enough of the front line to reach him. He would…
Velius was with the first few of his men to push into the broken phalanx. They surged forward, breaking their own formation and moving into a man to man melee, the Germans fighting back desperately and trying to make enough room to fight effectively. Pushing as hard as he could into the press of barbarians, he hadn’t even noticed as he stepped over the fresh body of Nonus, the Tenth’s wrestling champion, lying twisted among the enemy corpses.
Balbus’ arm shuddered under every impact of the German blade, his shield fracturing and cracking, held together by only the bronze edging. Glancing along the line he saw Balventius fighting like an enraged animal and cursing the barbarians as he plunged in repeatedly with his gladius. Belting an unwary tribesman with his shield boss, Balventius stepped back and craned his head over the melee. Balbus turned momentarily to follow his gaze, but a heavy blow pushed him into the man behind him.
“What’s up?”
The primus pilus smiled, the effect as disconcerting as ever as the lines and scars on his face joined in places.
“The Tenth have broken them. We need to push hard. Now.”
He turned away from the enemy warriors and shouted to the Eighth.
“Push! Push the bastards back. They’re breaking!”
The German he had been fighting took the opportunity to swing the heavy sword at the primus pilus’ upper back. The sword edge sliced from his right shoulder across both blades, cutting through chain, scale and the man’s subarmalis. The blade continued on its relentless swing leaving a trail of blood droplets, shattered links of chain mail and scales from the centurion’s armour flying through the air. Balbus watched the blow in horror and disbelief.
For a moment Balventius staggered forwards into the ranks of Romans, lurching, as the protective armour on his back neatly separated and most of the torso hung from one armpit like a loose rag. The veteran’s knuckles tightened for a moment and then twitched, almost dropping the sword. The shield fell forgotten to the floor.
Balbus watched as the centurion almost toppled, then righted himself. As the grizzly Balventius turned back toward the Germans Balbus saw both the cut across his shoulders, which was deep and vicious, bleeding profusely down his back, and the look in his eye. Far from knocking him out of the fight, the German’s blow had enraged him.
Balventius squared his shoulders and the blood from the cut splashed the men behind him.
“You little German whore-dog son of a Greek catamite! I’m going to tear your liver out with my teeth!”
The barbarian had drawn the broad blade back for another swing at the Roman. He grinned and let fly with the sword, swinging round like a pendulum, heavy and unstoppable. Balventius ducked and, as the blade carried on its arc above his head, stabbed with his blade into the man’s gut. As his right hand twisted the hilt, he reached up with his left hand and gripped the terrified German’s windpipe.