LITMIR.BIZ

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ever-present ache in his stomach.

      The food supplies of the legion were near exhaustion and, with the camp and the adjoining city both effectively under siege, the legions had been forced to engage in foraging. It was a normal practice for a fighting army in the field, but one that carried significant risks. The Carthaginians knew how tenuous the Romans’ supply situation was, and so their attacks on the foraging parties were marked by their intensity and ferocity. Legate Megellus was forced to send units no smaller than a maniple into the surrounding countryside and the parties had to range further and further in an effort to keep the camp supplied.

      The IV of the Ninth had left camp at dawn to forage in the valley to the north of the encampment. Marcus’s maniple was once again near full strength, the death of Centurion Valerius of the VII resulting in the cannibalization of his maniple to feed and replenish others. The resulting influx of men from the VII, proud men who resented the break-up of their maniple, had infused Marcus’s command with a miasma of anger and isolation that had badly affected morale.

      Marcus glanced over his shoulder at his assembled men. To a man their expressions were grim and angry. When facing the enemy those expressions signified the ferocity of a fighting legion. Now, those same expressions represented the low morale and simmering discontentment of hungry men. After three hours of foraging, the wagon accompanying them held only wild game and fowl, barely enough to feed the maniple itself. The Carthaginians had swept the countryside of livestock and grain stores, creating an island of hungry men in a sea of ravaged farmland, and the desperation of his men was palpable, a desperation that fuelled their indiscipline and the reckless action of Gratian and Nerva.

      Marcus turned once more to the tree-line and spat in anger. When the two legionaries returned Marcus knew he would have to order a harsh punishment for their insubordination. He could only hope they would return empty-handed. If they carried a deer on their shoulders the men would cheer their return, a cheer that would instantly turn to resentment when Marcus had the men flogged for disobeying the standing order. It was brutal discipline but entirely necessary if the men were to be kept in check. With their backs to the wall, any lapse in the rule of command would result in anarchy.

      Marcus tensed as he caught a flicker of movement within the copse. ‘About bloody time,’ he cursed as he hardened his expression. Out of the corner of his eye he caught another disturbance, the second fifty yards from the first. He reacted before his mind could fathom their cause.

      ‘Shields up!’ Marcus roared before the first flight of arrows darted from the undergrowth.

      The legionaries moved with lightning speed, their previous indolence forgotten as training took over their actions.

      Marcus felt the arrows slam against his own shield, their flat trajectory driving the arrowheads deep into the leather. An arrow tore past his shield and struck him in the upper arm, the punch of iron knocking him off balance. Behind him the arrows struck the wall of shields as one, negating the killing power of the surprise attack.

      ‘Form up on the centurion!’ the optio called. The maniple moved forward as one, their line enveloping Marcus and coalescing around his position.

      Marcus grunted as he caught the shaft of the arrow embedded in his upper arm. The wound felt numb, a feeling Marcus knew would not last, and he fought to break the arrow before the pain arrived. The shaft snapped at the instant a second wave of arrows struck. The Carthaginians were steadying their aim after the first rush of attack and Marcus heard the cries of his men as they fell under the onslaught.

      ‘Testudo!’

      The flanks instantly folded and the maniple deployed into two lines, the second holding their shields aloft at a forward angle to complete the tortoiseshell of protection. As quickly as it began the rain of arrows ceased, the tree-line once more becoming still.

      ‘Steady men, wait for the command,’ Marcus shouted to his men, their swords drawn behind the wall of shields, their eyes fixed dead ahead.

      The copse seemed to exhale a breath of aggression as the legionaries waited in silence. Suddenly a lone war cry was heard, the noise a low growl, its source undefined in the undergrowth. Within a heartbeat it multiplied and reached a crescendo, and the Carthaginians surged out of the woods.

      ‘Orbis!’ Marcus roared above the sound of fury.

      The legionaries moved instantly, the command expected, and before the Carthaginians had covered half the distance the IV had formed into a defensive circle. The Carthaginian front line struck the solid line of shields with all the momentum of their downhill run, their shoulders bunched into the charge in an effort to breach the armoured wall and expose the flesh beneath.

      The Roman wall bowed under the pressure before legs made strong from endless marches began to push the formation back into shape, the Carthaginians forced to spill around the edges.

      ‘Give ‘em iron!’

      The legionaries roared in attack as they began the rhythmical series of strikes made efficient through years of training. Marcus bunched his shoulder behind his shield and heaved forward against the press of the enemy. The surge opened a small gap between his shield and the next, a gap large enough for his gladius to seek out flesh and bone. The sword struck home and Marcus withdrew the bloodied blade, allowing the gap to close again as he readied himself for the next lunge.

      The wall buckled to Marcus’s left as a legionary fell, the flanks moving to close the gap and re-form the line. The Punic and Roman war cries were now mixed with the common cries of wounded men as the bloody slaughter continued, the Carthaginians maintaining the pressure of attack in a bid to break the back of the Roman defence. As commander Marcus detached his mind from the sound of battle to seek out signs of weakness or panic. All around him men were falling, Roman and Carthaginian, but neither side was giving quarter. Marcus knew he had to force the issue if a break was to be made.

      ‘Maniple! Prepare to manoeuvre!’

      Every Roman heard the command, their bodies tensing in anticipation of the change in formation.

      ‘Wedge!’

      Again the legionaries moved as if guided by an unseen hand, forming a wedge with the centre of the front line as its point. The Carthaginians were caught off guard by the sudden change in formation, their flanks left with a vacuum of enemy before them as the centre of their line now took the full brunt of the Roman attack.

      ‘Advance!’ Marcus shouted, pressing forward at the head of the wedge.

      The enemy line staggered under the hammer blow, its shallow depth unable to stem the press of Roman shields before suddenly collapsing under the onslaught, which split the Punic line and annihilated the cohesion of the formation.

      Marcus felt the pressure against his shield lift as the enemy turned, his gladius automatically striking out at the exposed lower back of a Carthaginian, the black blood of his kidney running down the blade of Marcus’s sword. A surge went through the Roman formation as the enemy fled, their blood lust aroused, calling for slaughter, the sudden release from imminent death provoking them to slay all before the line.

      ‘Hold!’ Marcus roared, his voice like a whiplash to break the spell of pursuit.

      The legionaries halted at the order, their ingrained obedience to a centurion’s command transforming their thirst for retribution into shouts of challenge and insult at the retreating enemy.

      ‘Testudo!’ Marcus commanded, the legionaries once more forming a protective barrier as the last of the enemy re-entered the copse at the top of the rise. Within seconds the Carthaginian archers recommenced their deadly barrage, their aim steadied by their desire for revenge.

      ‘Sound the advance?’ Corin asked.

      As Marcus considered the question he saw two Carthaginian runners break from the edge of the copse and run headlong down the far side of the rise. Messengers, he realized.

      ‘No, we withdraw. Out here in the open our tactics are superior. In enclosed woods it would be every man for himself. We need to withdraw to Makella before

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