‘You’re a damned idiot.’
Tillius glared at him. ‘Get back to your barbarians, man, and leave this to Romans.’
‘Romans who are lost?’ sneered Galronus, but he knew he was in no position to command here. Tillius had control. Galronus stepped his horse back to the nearest trees at the far bank of the river and watched in disbelief as the legate distributed orders and the legions began to swarm up the far side and towards the earthen embankment topped by a fresh timber wall beyond.
There were no defenders. And to Galronus that meant the defences were latent, unused and of little value. He was half tempted to have the cavalry turn around and leave. It seemed exceedingly unlikely that anything good was coming.
With a sigh, he watched the legionaries storming an empty wall, and turned his horse, riding back for the cavalry at the rear. He had not gone far before he heard a new noise.
Horn calls. Very distant, somewhere south over the woods, but most definitely the calls of legions. And far too many to be Caesar and his sixteen cohorts.
With some certainty, he decided that Caesar and his men were in the shit, neck deep, and unless something unexpected happened here, the second column and the cavalry were going to be of no help.
The gods had better be watching over the general right now.
Chapter 12
Atenos lurched back as a sword scraped across the brow of his helmet with a nerve-jangling sound, creating sparks. The tip narrowly missed bifurcating his nose, and the big centurion realised how close he’d come to being an ex-centurion. In a fraction of a heartbeat, he threw a prayer of thanks to Lug, and to Jupiter, just in case. But it had been a lucky blow rather than a clever one. The soldier facing him was playing everything by the legionary training manual. Every stab, step and parry had been drilled into him by a training officer relatively recently.
Atenos, on the other hand, had the advantage of years of practice as a mercenary, fighting in more than one army, against more than one type of foe, sometimes for Rome and sometimes against it, despite his current loyalties. Consequently, he was considerably more adaptable than the average legionary.
The soldier, having overreached, did exactly as he’d been taught, putting his large shield between himself and the enemy, hunching down behind it for protection as he pulled back his blade and prepared to drive it forwards again, looking for the centurion’s armpit. The problem was, he had not had sufficient practice to know how best to brace. From the angle of the shield alone, Atenos spotted the mistake. The legionary had pushed his shin at the bottom of the shield and put his shoulder into it low, crouching so that only his eyes upwards were visible above the shield. A veteran would know to brace his shoulder against the shield higher than that.
Gripping his sword tight ready, Atenos slammed out with the heel of his palm against the shield, just below the upper rim. With the brace point too low the soldier was doomed. The top of the shield simply slammed back into his face, very hard, given the massive strength in the Gaul’s arms. Atenos heard the grind of the man’s cheek pieces bending in and the crunch of a broken nose.
Howling, the soldier automatically lowered his shield, blinking away the pain, and for his sins received Atenos’ blade in the eye. The big centurion grunted with effort as the blade grated on bone and the dying, disfigured legionary fell away.
He seized the opportunity to glance to his left. That mad bastard tribune was intent on the enemy commander, but Atenos was damned if he was going to let anyone else have him. Titus Pullo had been one of Caesar’s own. A hero and a veteran centurion. He had fought valiantly for the general across Gaul, and alongside Atenos more than once. But he was a betrayer. Like Labienus and so many others, he had turned his back on his loyalty to Caesar and fled to Pompey in sick treachery. Worse still, he had been the man who had sold out the Twenty Fourth Legion to the enemy and caused the failure of Gaius Antoninus’ campaign in Illyria. The man was the worst sort, and his removal would be like excising the rotten flesh from a wound.
He was surprised to note that the lunatic Salvius Cursor had backed away from the combat, moving to the parapet and peering off into the distance. Atenos wondered in passing what had so drawn the man’s attention as to drag him from combat, but let the thought go. He had other fish to fry.
Three legionaries stood between him and Pullo now. More men were coming up behind in support, but the enemy prefect had clearly marked Atenos out and was not falling back behind his men. Indeed, Pullo flexed his muscles and readied his sword, clearly waiting for Atenos.
Another legionary made to stab Atenos in the groin, thrusting low and keeping as close behind his shield as he could. The big Gaul contemptuously knocked the blade aside with his own, stamped on the man’s exposed foot and, as the shield dropped a little in response, slammed the hilt of his blade into the man’s face. He fell, but Atenos had no time to recover, for another man made a swipe. Atenos lurched to the side and felt a line of hot fiery pain open up along his forearm where the blade just made contact enough to wound the flesh.
He roared and recovered, but had no chance to respond to his attacker, for one of his own men managed to plant a blow into the man’s neck, twisting amid the sound of breaking bone and cartilage and ripping the sword back out with a huge gout of blood. The enemy soldier collapsed and suddenly Atenos was through, facing Pullo.
It was odd how this sometimes happened on a battlefield. It had something to do with the respect and fear centurions instilled in the common soldiery. Despite the fact that this was a hard-press of fighting, men pressed up against one another in a tight mass of killing, somehow none of them interfered with the two officers facing one another. The fight seethed on around them, yet they were an island of calm in the centre as the two men watched one another’s eyes.
Pullo struck first. His sword dashed out with impressive speed. It was not intended to be a killing blow, understandably. The problem with two such skilled veterans facing one another was that both knew all the killing points and how to protect them. Pullo’s blow was to the centre of the torso. The centurion’s chain shirt would stop the point, for certain, but the blow would wind him and bruise badly. Hades, if the blow was powerful enough, it could even crack his breastbone.
Atenos twisted a quarter to his left and the point of the blade grated across the metal links with an eye-watering noise. In response, Atenos spun the other three quarters into a full circle, out of the way of his opponent’s blade, lancing out with his own sword for a similar strike.
Pullo’s defence was hardly noble, but it was expedient and swift. Exposed, he had no shield and could not withdraw his sword in time to parry. Instead, his free hand grabbed the shoulder doubling of a legionary’s mail shirt and yanked him into the path of the blow, a human shield. The legionary yelped as Atenos’ sword scraped his arm and drew blood before Pullo cast him aside again.
Once more they paused, facing one another.
‘Atenos.’
‘Pullo. I am disappointed to say the least.’
‘I’ll try and do better. Bear with me.’
‘I don’t mean your sword. I mean your soul. Why? Why betray your commander?’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about Atenos.’
‘Care to enlighten me?’ There was an odd, pregnant pause, and the big centurion suddenly dropped low and slashed at Pullo’s legs. The prefect stepped a pace backwards, dropping his own blade into the path of the attack.
‘I didn’t betray Caesar. Caesar betrayed the republic. I didn’t do it lightly, Atenos. I did it for principles. You wouldn’t understand. You’re a Gaul. A mercenary.’
‘I know I took an oath to Caesar, and so did you. Where I’m from we don’t break oaths.’
The two men circled a half turn.
‘Rome has to be bigger than individual loyalties, Atenos. Caesar has his eyes on a throne, man. He has to be stopped. Pompey’s an insufferable arse, but he’s a republican arse. It’s you who fights for wickedness, Atenos, no
t me.’
‘I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree,’ the centurion spat.
‘Only briefly.’
Pullo lunged again, his blade low for a belly strike, but coming up at the last moment for a chest blow once again. It was a masterful feint, and Atenos only just turned in time to rob the blow of most of its strength, though he felt a rib crack under the strike. Still, sometimes you had to sacrifice to win. It was only a rib.
Pullo’s face dropped into a frown. His eyes pulled back from his sword, pressed against Atenos’ side, along his extended arm, and to the hilt of the centurion’s blade, clutched tight in an extended hand, all that could be seen of the sword that had punched into his exposed armpit. He blinked.
‘A quick death,’ Atenos said. ‘A soldier’s death.’
Wincing at the pain of his broken rib, he twisted the blade, ramming it in a little further, mincing heart and other organs before ripping it out.
Pullo, eyes wide, stared at the blade as it left him, then simply folded up with a sigh that sounded oddly regretful.
Atenos had no time to mourn or celebrate, which was perhaps a good thing, since he was not sure which was more appropriate. A legionary swung at him and he almost followed Pullo into Elysium there and then, saved only by pure chance. The soldier’s sword glanced off the bronze hooks that held the doubled layer of chain over his shoulders and instead of shattering more bones, simply scraped away to the side, grating across iron links. The big centurion wobbled for a moment, and then stabbed the man in the throat.
The press closed in again, and Pullo’s body was lost to sight beneath the mass of soldiers stabbing and hacking for both sides. Grunting at the pain of his broken rib, Atenos was forced to favour his right side and realised that he was starting to lose his strength. He only heard Salvius Cursor’s shout the third or fourth time, and staggered from the line of men over to the parapet, breathing heavily.
‘What is it, sir?’
But he didn’t need the tribune to answer He could see for himself the serried ranks of Pompey’s legions tromping steadily towards the fort.
‘Bollocks.’
‘Exactly. Even with Tillius and his column that would be a damned hard fight. Without him, it’s suicide.’
Atenos nodded. ‘I’m with you there. What are your orders?’
Salvius nudged him and pointed over towards the interior of the fort, where Caesar, with other commanders and his personal guard, was giving out orders and pointing to positions around the walls.
‘Caesar’s clearly not planning to leave, so we can’t. I suggest we try and take this small inner fort and hold it. There’s not enough of us to hold the large one. And then maybe we can survive long enough for Tillius to get here.’
‘If he’s coming.’
* * *
Galronus took a deep breath, preparing himself. The odd, abandoned wall had been broken down across a fairly wide section, and the legions had crossed the gap swiftly, deploying on the far side, though they had, as usual, given precious little thought to the cavalry. The men had swarmed down the ditch, up the steep bank, over the shattered fence, and off into the open. That terrain would be guaranteed to break a number of horse’s legs and ruin the cavalry. It had taken some argument with Tillius before he deployed men to level out a section for the cavalry to cross securely. Even then it was only wide enough for a couple of horses with any level of safety.
The legions were beyond the wall now, the last few pioneers who’d been working on the flattening gathering their tools and running to join their mates. Word had come back that the woodland continued on the far side, but was much thinner than elsewhere making it more suitable for larger scale manoeuvres and for cavalry. Moreover, many of the trees had been sacrificed to create the forts and walls in the area, thinning it still further.
‘Forwards, two at a time. On the far side, separate and move to both flanks, wherever there’s adequate space to form up.’
Leaving his officers to carry out the orders, Galronus moved on ahead, walking his horse carefully across the freshly compacted earth causeway over the ditch. It was still soft when taking the weight of a horse, but considerably better than negotiating the dangerous ditch. At the far side, he climbed the low rampart where it had been brought down a little, and rode off towards the gathered legions. Between the ranks of men bent out of formation by the presence of foliage and wide stumps, and those same boles of tall trees, he could not see the officers out front, though he knew they would be at the fore somewhere. Satisfied that the route was safe enough now, he shouted as much back to the others, and the horsemen, who had been approaching the crossing rather gingerly, picked up the pace.
Galronus, satisfied that the infantry clearly were not hurrying off anywhere, fell into position at their rear, watching as his riders crested the rampart and descended to his position. As they arrived, he pointed either left or right to each one, directing them to the flanks to fall into the position favoured by a Roman general in the field. He counted the first hundred men through. It was going to take some time to get all the cavalry across, but they were managing. Given how late they were, though, he couldn’t understand why Tillius was delaying so. The infantry could run to the aid of their fellows,, or should at least be looking for them. The cavalry could deploy afterwards if necessary. It wasn’t ideal, but with the almighty cock up the legate had already achieved, it was the best they could hope for.
At a hundred and twenty men, he decided they were fine deploying themselves and nothing would stop them, and wheeled his horse, trotting off around the lines of infantry in search of their officers.
He found them easily enough, but it was not the heated debate going on among them that halted him in his tracks. As he emerged from the last trees and into open ground, his eyes widened at the sight that lay before him. A sea of silver and bronze and red much larger than the one they had brought. Pompey’s legions lay before them in vast array, marching purposefully. His gaze slid in their direction of march and finally he saw the fort that had been their destination perhaps a quarter of a mile away. On the other side of a huge enemy force. Pompey’s legions had, completely by chance, divided the two forces. There was simply no hope of Tillius’ legions getting to the fort to aid their allies. Caesar and his men were doomed. Only the fact that the second army was partially hidden in the woodland had saved them. Pompey’s forces had not yet identified this second threat.
For a moment, Galronus wondered whether it was possible. If they hit Pompey’s legions on the flank, could they make the difference? But the answer was clear. They were hopelessly outnumbered, and as if to seal that conclusion, Galronus caught sight of a second force moving towards the field of combat. Those heavy Illyrian cavalry were out and ready. The men Galronus could see from here alone would outnumber them two to one.
Two options. Take advantage of the surprise and make a try for it. The infantry might be able to overcome the superior enemy force with enough shock attack, and then Galronus would have to pit his Gauls and Germans against the Illyrian horsemen and test Fronto’s high opinion of them. It was dangerous. Perhaps even suicidal. But it was the only chance they had to help the others in the fort. Surprise was their only advantage. Or flight. Did they withdraw and hope that Caesar had given the same orders at the far side of the battle? It was the sensible option. But if they did that, the siege was effectively over.
With a deep breath and an underlying sea of anger at the lunacy that had brought them to this position, Galronus rode the last fifty paces to where the officers were arguing. They would have to make their mind up about a course of action fast and put it into play, before they were noticed by the enemy. The legions may be wholly focused on the camp, but the cavalry would spot the second army in the wood sooner or later.
He prepared himself to demand their decision between fight or flight, but before he could open his mouth, the argument erupted, and as Murcus, the legate of the Thirteenth, waved his hands in desperation, Tillius march
ed towards his own signallers from the Fifth.
‘No!’ bellowed Murcus, but to no avail.
Tillius snapped something at his signallers, and a cornicen lifted his instrument to his lips.
Galronus felt his blood chill. What was the idiot doing now? Before he could stop the man, the cornicen honked the call for the advance, which was picked up by the other musicians in the Fifth. There went the element of surprise, the only advantage they had.
Galronus’ gaze slid to the enemy once more. They reacted swiftly, two whole legions turning on the flank and presenting a wall of iron to the men in the woods. Worse still, the Illyrian cavalry suddenly leapt to life, whooping and with the tooting of their own horns, splitting into two sizeable wings, one of which continued to move towards the beleaguered camp while the other raced towards the woodland.
The legionaries of the Fifth began to march out of the woodland in as solid a formation as they could manage given the obstacles, their faces blanching at the sight of the enemy awaiting them. A moment later, the world spiralled into chaos. In response to their argument, Murcus had marched over to the Thirteenth and his own musicians issued the call for retreat
While each legion had their own calls, they were all variations on a standard, and consequently, the retreat call was close enough to that of the Fifth to cause utter confusion. Half the Fifth stopped advancing and tried to turn, while the rest walked into them on the march. Some of the Thirteenth remained where they were, while others began to retreat. The cohort of the Ninth at the centre, commanded by a baffled tribune, dithered, uncertain as to the general order.
The woods were suddenly awash with men either marching forwards or jogging back, often past one another. Chaos. Horns were blowing constantly both calls to advance and retreat, and no one seemed to be able to identify what they were expected to do.
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