Spira Mirabilis (53 page)

*

Some four thousand horsemen formed up beside the River Silarus. The muster of the men of the south was a grand sight, and not just for Pedro. The butteri themselves lived such solitary lives that they had not properly realised their collective strength; it awed them. Even so, Pedro could not forget that the Legion that had besieged Rasenna was a thousand men more, and that Spinther’s Grand Legion was the sum of six such hosts. Doubtless the campaign had reduced that number, but it would still be a disproportionate match.

Ferruccio did not like to look at the smoke covering Salerno. He turned and found Pedro watching the yellowish haze approaching from the south. ‘How many did the Tarentines promise?’ Pedro said, taking out his eyepiece.

‘Two thousand – but it looks like they brought considerably more.’

‘It’s not them.’

It was a strange host indeed, coming down from the Pollino Mountains. Sofia had set out from Neo-Sybaris with a few hundred men. Along the way, the other villages of the Sybari Plain – each of whom thought of themselves the sole descendants of Sybaris – had been drawn to their banner, a crudely drawn eye.

It was unusual enough to see Sybarites venturing out of their caves, but what alarmed the butteri even more was the sight of their companions; such knights had left this land a century ago – and marching beside them in loose-fitting robes were the Ebionite foe they had gone to fight!

Pedro suddenly snapped his eyepiece shut and urged his mount to a gallop.

‘Maestro, wait!’ cried Ferruccio, but Pedro Vanzetti couldn’t stop for another moment. Three years ago he had found hope in the midst of utter despair when he had spied the Scaligeri flag in the front ranks of John Acuto’s Hawk’s Company.

He had just found it again.

As they headed south of Salerno, General Spinther reviewed the old Bernoullian maps of the unfamiliar territory and pointed out interesting features of the terrain to Horatius, who had become something of an acolyte. The general was missing Scaevola more than he realised.

The Grand Legion found their foe at last, arrayed on the far bank of the Silarus. The rather ragged-looking pikemen jeered at them to cross the antique stone bridge.

As Geta surveyed the situation, Spinther asked, ‘What do you make of it, Horatius?’

‘They picked a good spot for it, General. The steep-banked rivers surrounding the plain make it a natural fortress, the thick forest provides cover – and probably conceals butteri reserves. The marshy patches will retard the ability of large numbers to manoeuvre. The scouts report that the bridge where the Silarus meets the sea has recently been demolished.’ After this grim catalogue, he paused for effect, then added, ‘There is another bridge further inland which has been left undefended. I wish to volunteer—’

‘Undefended indeed,’ said Geta irritably. ‘It’s a ruse, boy. They want us to waste time looking for a chink in their defence.’

Horatius ignored the interruption and said earnestly, ‘If we fight them here, General, I strongly recommend luring them to this side before we engage. They could have easily destroyed this bridge before our approach. It’s obvious they wish to make it the focus of the contest. And it’s obvious why: only small numbers
can cross at once so a few sturdy pikemen could hold us back almost indefinitely.’

‘Everything you say is true – but what are we to eat while we are waiting – grass?’ Leto was by now as impatient for blood-letting as Geta. ‘We’re out of time, so damn the difficulty. I’m through playing according to their rules. Bring up the catapults. Might as well get some use of them.’

Horatius saw the general was decided. ‘In that case,’ he said with studied élan, ‘might I lead the cavalry charge?’

‘You would volunteer in spite of your reservations? I must say I’m impressed. But no, you shall stay by my side. That baton is an honour that must go to another.’

‘Too kind, Spinther,’ said Geta wearily. ‘Just make sure you soften them up first.’

The bombardiers assumed that this would be their last chance this campaign to practise their art, and they were liberal with the powder. The intensity of the bombardment quickly forced the pikemen back, then the artillery slowly increased their range. Geta’s cavalrymen were first across the bridge. They formed up quickly on the far bank, all the while waiting in vain for any counter-attack.

Behind them, a cursing centurion herded eighty infantrymen across. The century formed an intimidating semi-circular wall of steel in front of the mouth of the bridge, and it expanded as more infantry poured across.

After five more centuries had crossed, Geta ordered them to form a cohort. He was disgusted that the butteri had not even attempted to contest the crossing. ‘If they won’t come and get it, we’ll bring the fight to them.’

Leto had altered his plans. After seeing how easily they had crossed over, he decided to push the advantage. He left a cohort protecting the artillery on the first bridge and led a march for the second – if he could get across that one before the Salernitans
found the nerve to attack, they could attack at two points.

*

The pikemen were repugnant one-eyed creatures, and almost as gruesome were the Moorish-looking fellows beside them hurling stones from leather slings with deadly accuracy. They stood together so firmly, and Geta belatedly realised they had
intended
to draw the Concordian forces as far forward as they could. Behind the first rows was the League’s carroccio, and amongst the coalition flags he could see the same red banner that the Tartaruchi of Rasenna had flown: the Scaligeri lion.

Dio
, how he’d love to capture that one.

Fond hope. The mounted butteri never charged the centre, but instead pressed either flank, one darting forward and flinging his bolos before turning away and immediately being replaced by another. Geta did not like to imagine the results if one wing collapsed under the pressure.

‘What do we do, Lord Geta?’ cried the centurion.

‘For God’s sake, give me a moment.’ It was hard to fight and even harder to think while keeping one eye over his shoulder, where the situation across the river was looking distinctly troubled.

The cohort that was supposed to be protecting his own rear was pulling back, and to the east he could see Spinther too was giving ground – but what on earth to?

He saw it.

A purple river had poured down the slopes of the Picantini Mountains and flooded the plain, and there in the front rank was the master of the purple river, riding in a quadriga. The two-headed eagle emblems, the massive square banners – they were horribly familiar.

The Byzantine Army – Geta didn’t care to think about how it had got there – might not be as large as the Grand Legion, but it
was almost certainly fresher. And he knew from painful experience the skill of their cavalry. It was only a matter of time before the bridge behind him was cut off; if he ordered a general retreat, the butteri would turn it into a rout in moments.

Only one thing for it.

Geta dug his heels hard into Arête’s flanks and galloped into the thickest fighting, slashing left and right, before turning to face his beleaguered men. He held his baton aloft and flung it into the enemy ranks. ‘A thousand soldi for the hero who retrieves it!’

After a stampede of inspired soldiers passed by, he turned about and galloped headlong for the bridge – but before he reached it, he found his way blocked by an ancient buttero with a thick white beard and a long starry cloak.

‘No further, Lord Geta.’

‘Dear me, Doctor, this is too exciting a place for an elder statesman.’

‘I’ll make it fair,’ said Ferruccio as he dismounted. ‘My mazza. Your steel.’

Geta remained in his saddle. ‘Very good of you – I’m ordinarily game for daft romantic gestures, but the thing of it is, I
am
in rather a hurry.’

‘Oh, it won’t take long. You’re overestimating again.’

‘And you’ve already had your chance to kill me. YAAH!’

Arête went straight for him. Ferruccio would have done better to strike at the horse instead of its rider, but that a true buttero could never do.

*

Leto could hardly believe it. The Byzantines were pressing his line back, pushing them away from the Silarus and cutting them off from the men he had already sent across. He was not so much concerned for them but worried that the Byzantines would envelop his forces; it would be inevitable if they continued to grapple.

Horatius was still at his side, injured in the leg but fighting on gamely. ‘Look who it is, General,’ he said with a curled lip.

Leto turned to see a dreadful figure approach. The legs and belly of Geta’s horse were spattered in gore, and Geta himself was breathless. ‘You saved my life once, Spinther. Permit me to repay the favour. Our position is untenable. Order a retreat while you can.’

Leto’s face fell. He knew it was true, but he hadn’t dared admit it to himself. ‘But the artillery—’

‘Already lost. The only question is whether you give them your life today, or preserve it. I’ve harried enough disorderly retreats to know how they end.’

The centuries fighting on the far side of the Silarus were almost entirely encircled and – once it got round that Lord Geta, whose survival instincts were the stuff of barracks legend, had abandoned them – utterly hopeless. A few months ago they might have fought to the last man, but the Minturnae had leached that spirit. Instead, they struck their colours and prayed their foes were men who treated prisoners better than they did.

The Concordians passed once more into the funnel of the Lattari and the Picentini Mountains, constantly looking over their shoulders, checking out any number of concealed passes from which butteri could burst to harass their straggling columns and tumble their exhausted horses with bolos before dispatching their riders with mazzas.

After reaching the Vesuvius camp, the Concordians threw down their arms in exhaustion. Geta, forgetting the men he’d abandoned behind the Silarus, fulminated through the long night at the ignominy, ‘They left us this one escape route so they could herd us like buffalo – you know this means the Moor failed.’

‘That’s not certain.’ Leto did believe the Moor had failed, but he considered Geta’s wallowing unprofessional and refused to indulge it. ‘Once we cross the Volturno, we can regroup and fight on more agreeable terms. The rivers are as much an impediment to them as us.’ He took a breath. ‘Under the circumstances, we did well to conduct an orderly retreat.’

‘
Dio
, I pray I never see what you’d consider a rout.’

After a night of sleepless watches, they embarked early and marched on at the same unforgiving pace. The infantry lines became stretched out, and it was the cavalry – looking to their own safety – who reached the Volturno first.

It was not to be the promised deliverance.

All that remained of the cohort the general had left to guard the three pontoons was a field of broken men and spears. Only
the middle pontoon was still standing, and that, he knew, was quite intentional. If he attempted to get everyone across none of them would see the morrow; the crush would collapse the pontoon long before the butteri arrived to finish off the rest.

As he considered his options, Geta said quietly, ‘Pick someone else.’

Leto marvelled at Geta’s instincts, but he pretended to be disappointed. ‘I thought you many things, but never a coward.’

‘Does that kind of thing often work? I fight when there’s a fighting chance, otherwise I run.’

‘Horatius,’ Leto shouted, ‘how’s the leg?’

He trotted up to the general eagerly. ‘I fear my galliard days might be over, but I’ll live.’

‘I want you to lead the rearguard and protect the crossing.’

‘Yes, Sir!’ cried the young officer.

Geta wondered when Horatius would work out that he had just been handed a death sentence. He didn’t wait for Leto’s order before crossing, and a stampede of cavalry soon emulated him. The pontoon was not designed to bear such weight all at once and the rearguard would not hold out long against the Byzants and butteri. Leto’s choice was simple: stand on protocol – or follow Geta and live.

As soon as he rode onto the pontoon a hundred hands of entreaty raised up, begging for succour even as they dragged at him. It was impossible to reason with that blind hydra. He let himself be pulled down from his saddle and carried along on the pressing, pulling river of flesh, enduring the pinches and biting, stabbing with his dagger when necessary, all the while hearing the fearful creaking of the timber slowly growing louder than the screams.

When he was finally vomited out of the crush onto the muddied bank he found Geta looking down on him with a grin. ‘Orders, General?’

‘Burn it and fall back’

It was just one more sacrifice, after days of little else. The more he could leave behind to delay the enemy, the better it would be. The very worst outcome would be to let the dogs have any means of reaching them. His bedraggled men could not long hold the pass – his abandoned artillery would surely be brought up and used against them. And he was wary of the butteri taking some unknown ford in the highlands and flanking them.

When the legionaries who had safely crossed saw the pontonniers packing the foundation with powder, their despair turned to rage: they had comrades still crossing. Geta had to beat back the rioting legionaries while Leto ordered his cannoneers to fire
into
the bridge to stem the flood. As the survivors backed away, their frantic comrades began shouting that they were being abandoned.

A frantic few risked it, but the charges exploded with a strangely displaced
bang!
and the ripple threw most of them off. Those who remained began crawling forward with pathetic optimism – but all at once the pontoon collapsed, a dead thing, all rigour gone, and fell away into the cold rushing river.

By the time Leto and Geta had restored order, the battle on the other side of the Volturno was over. After Horatius fell, the abandoned Concordians threw down their swords, hoping for better treatment from their foes than from their masters.