were to stay on this western bank, no unnecessary killing, accept the surrender and disarm any legionaries who had not fled. The leading two Centuries were to follow those who escaped across the bridge, drive off the troops at the far end, then return. They should leave behind just two Contubernia on the eastern side. Twenty men should suffice – the walkway of the pontoon was no more than eight paces wide. Menophilus would send in the men who would cut the bridge. When it was about to give, the two Contubernia would be recalled.
The volunteers with axes fell in behind Menophilus, at the side of the road. The officers returned to their stations. No trumpet calls or bellowed orders – these troops knew their business – just a nod from Adiutor, and they set off.
Menophilus moved through the trees parallel to the column to find a point of vantage. The forlorn hope hefted their axes, and followed him. It was best not to think about them.
The leading auxiliaries were around the bend, clattering twenty or more paces down the incline, before the alarm was raised.
Enemy in sight! Many voices were shouting at once.
The ten legionaries in the piquet raised their shields, shuffled together, all the time yelling for support, and glancing over their shoulders. Their companions ran here and there to snatch up their weapons. They were getting in each other’s way, cursing and shouting, stumbling and tripping over cooking pots and all the other impedimenta of a camp in uproar.
Watching from above, Menophilus did not let himself smile. Never tempt fate.
Ulpia Galatarum! Menophilus’ men shouted as one.
When the war cry of the auxiliary Cohort rang out, the legionaries broke. Taken unawares, in complete disorder, faced by an avalanche of steel, they could not be blamed. Some ran into the woods on either side. More dropped their arms, held out their hands in supplication. Yet the majority turned and rushed to the bridge. There they jostled and fought to get onto the pontoon, and then, casting shields into the water, they ran pell-mell across.
The two designated Centuries of auxiliaries were hard on their heels.
With more warning, the legionaries at the far end of the bridge had time to form up, shoulder to shoulder, shields overlapping, blocking the walkway. But it was their own tent-mates who crashed into them, hauling their shields aside, desperate to get away. Like a badly made dam, the shieldwall held for a moment, then collapsed under the pressure. On the eastern side of the Aesontius, figures vanished up the bank, into the woodland. Resistance was at an end.
Going down to the bridge, Menophilus and the volunteers waited for the troops to stream back across. Adiutor was everywhere, roaring commands, rounding up prisoners, restoring order. The operation could not have gone better: a bloodless battle, a victory without tears.
Walking out onto the now empty bridge, Menophilus’ boots sounded hollow on the planks. A few feet below those thin boards, he could sense the rush of the river. The pontoon seemed a fragile, impertinent thing in the face of such power. Reaching the centre, he took stock. The post of twenty auxiliaries at the eastern end, Adiutor getting the remainder, and the thirty or so prisoners, under control on the western bank. All was in hand, but there was no reason to delay.
As Menophilus turned to the waiting men a cloud darkened the sun.
‘Cut the cable holding the anchor of this barge.’
The men did not move. They were staring at the sky.
‘There is no time to waste.’
The nearest soldier dropped his axe, raised his arms to the heavens. Another sank to his knees. They all began to shout; incoherent, terrified prayers.
It was getting darker; more like night than day.
Menophilus looked up. The sun was vanishing. Not a cloud, but an eclipse.
If the sun falls, it brings desolation to men! The soldiers were wailing and sobbing like women. Desolation and death!
‘It is nothing,’ Menophilus called, ‘an eclipse, a shadow.’
Lost in dread, the men ignored him.
‘It is not a portent. It is just the moon passing between the earth and the sun.’
Pray to the gods, pray for the return of the sun!
Menophilus took off his cloak, held it in front of the eyes of the nearest soldier. ‘Is this alarming? Is this a terrible omen?’
He whisked the cloak away. The man stared at him, open-mouthed, not speaking.
‘What is the difference, except the eclipse is caused by something bigger than my cloak?’
In the murk, the soldiers stopped weeping. They stood, trembling like frightened animals.
‘You are soldiers of Rome, not irrational barbarians, or effete easterners. Master yourselves, remember you are men, recover your discipline.’
His words were greeted by an uncertain silence. Not all men were amenable to reason.
‘The gods control the cosmos.’ Which was true in a sense. ‘When we return safe to Aquileia, we will sacrifice an ox to Helios, the sun god, another to the god of the river. See, the moon is passing from the face of the sun, the light returning.’
With the daylight, the men’s courage returned. Some looked shamefaced, but others were still evidently shaken. Hard labour and the very real dangers of the river in spate would take their minds off the eclipse.
The downpour in the night had combined with the spring melt from the mountains to make the Aesontius rise dangerously. The barges were riding higher than allowed for by the engineers who had built the bridge. The anchor of the central one on which Menophilus stood had dragged. Its cable was now at an angle of no more than forty degrees; not enough to hold against the stream were the barge not lashed to those on either side. The others were much the same. The anchor of one, however, had caught. It was now dragging the prow of its barge down towards the surface. The pontoon was under intense stress, yet it would stand, unless something intervened. Menophilus gave the order to cut the anchor rope.
As two of the men clambered onto the prow, and prepared to wield their axes, a messenger ran back from the advance post on the enemy side of the river. There were troops moving in the woods to the east. Menophilus kept the runner with him. He could not see the enemy yet. Anyway, there was nothing to be done. The handful of men on the far bank would have to hold.
The axes bit down into the cable. It was thick, waterlogged, taut as if woven of steel. The impact of every stroke vibrated through the barge. Suddenly, like a clap of thunder, it parted. One end shot away into the river like a water snake. The other narrowly missed the legs of one of the axemen. The decking shifted under Menophilus’ feet, the barge wallowed, lurched backwards. The screech of tortured ropes and wood was loud over the roar of the river. The additional strain pulled at the cables that ran laterally from barge to barge, and up the risers to the banks.
Originally Menophilus’ plan had been to sever the bindings from the Aquileian bank. It would have been infinitely safer for those doing the cutting. Yet, Patricius had told him there was the possibility that the pontoon would swing like a hinge, and many of the barges might come to rest against the far bank. If undamaged, they would allow Maximinus’ men to quickly repair the bridge. Menophilus
