“Noisy buggers,” Afer added after a minute.
Vibulenus nodded again. They were chanting in high-pitched squealing voices as they came, hammering their weapons on their shields and prancing with a high-stepping gait like trained horses. That changed to a flat-out run as they came within range of the chariot battle; it was a little like watching heavy surf rolling on a beach. The Roman tribune’s brows went up as he watched. They might be savages, but they knew their business. Dozens of them swarmed around every allied war-car, throwing clouds of short weighted darts, then dashing in to slash or stab at the chariot teams. Dozens of chariots went over in the first few minutes, or disappeared under mounds of hacking, heaving foemen. Then a trio of heads would go up on spearpoints, and the mob would move on to the next target with a loping movement like a pack of wolves. They ignored the auxiliary infantry as if they weren’t there, despite a trickle of casualties from arrows and slung stones.
“They probably think everyone will run away when the chariots pull out,” the tribune said in a neutral tone. “Probably has gone that way for them, until now.”
The allied chariots were disengaging, those still able to move—drivers lashing their beasts to reckless haste, high spoked wheels bouncing over irregularities at speeds that made even a heavy tuft of grass a menace to their stability. They had to get out, though, or go down like a beetle swarmed over by ants.
“Hercules. Must be twenty, twenty-five thousand of them,” someone muttered.
“Yeah, we’ll all have to throw both spears and then gut one each,” his file-mate replied. “Don’t any of ’em have armor, and this bunch aren’t nine feet tall, either, for a fucking change.”
The tribune’s eyes went right and left along the long mail-gray line of the legion. Sure as shit, the auxiliary infantry posted on either flank were running; not as fast as the chariots, but there was a lot less chance of them rallying, too. Vibulenus sighed and reached up to settle his white-plumed helmet more securely on his head.
* * *
“Limlairabu!” the enemy soldier screamed.
Or something like that. Gaius Vibulenus swung his round bronze-faced officer’s shield up and sideways with a mindless skill born of more years experience than he cared to remember. His opponent was wielding his axe one-handed, with a small iron-rimmed buckler in the other hand. The axe handle was some springy hornlike substance, rather than wood—or maybe that was the way wood grew here—and the edge of the axe whickered through the air as it blurred towards him. The edge was good steel, and so was the spike on the other side. Either could give him a brain-deep head wound beyond even the Medic’s ability to cure.
Crack. The axe took a gouge out of the rim of Vibulenus’s shield, leaving creamy-white splinters and torn bronze facing in its wake. He stepped in, stamped a hobnailed foot down on the native’s bare one, and stabbed underarm. The Spanish steel of his sword scarcely slowed as it went into the native’s taut belly-muscles, but a sudden spasm locked flesh around the metal as he tried to withdraw it. With a wheezing curse he put a foot on the spasming body and wrenched it out, straightening up to look around. Oblong Roman shields closed around him as the first two ranks trotted past, into the unraveling enemy formation. . . .
Well, no, he thought, straining to catch his breath. It never was a formation. More of a mob.
Tubas snarled. “Loose!” he heard, and the massed javelins of the rear two ranks whistled overhead. They didn’t have the densely packed shoulder-to-shoulder targets of the volley that had opened the battle, but there were still enough of the enemy crowded into the zone just behind the edge of combat that virtually every spear found a mark in a shield or in naked flesh. A frenzied mass scream went up; part of that was frustrated rage. Surviving warriors found they could neither pull the pilum points out of their shields nor use the javelins for a return throw if they did manage to wriggle them free, since the soft iron shanks of the weapons buckled on impact.