“Very well. We’ll give ten minutes before calling the advance. I want Crassus and Varus to have enough time to adjust their attack.”
The two stared across the field to where Crassus and Varus sat astride their horses, facing each other and talking.”
“Varus, I am in charge of this wing and I will decide whether we’re not up to the task.”
Varus slapped his hand down hard on the saddle horn.
“Sir! If you don’t arrange to bolster our wing now, we could find ourselves very deep in the shit when we meet the enemy. You said you wanted me here for my experience, and you’re not listening to me. I know what I’m talking about!”
“We have the strongest cavalry force that’s been fielded in this entire campaign; possibly in the history of Roman warfare. We have experienced troops fighting in Roman armour and style and vast amounts of barbarian levies fighting in the same style as the Germans. We could beat them if they were ten feet tall and I will not go to one of my opposite numbers and beg for help.”
“You don’t have to beg for help, sir. Caesar knows all of this and he has the cavalry to spare. The third line of each legion is a reserve force for just such emergencies.”
“Get back to your ala, prefect.”
“If you order me there, I’ll go, but you’re going to kill a lot of people if you don’t change the plan.”
“I said: Get back to your ala!”
With a face like thunder, Varus kicked his heels and turned to ride to his men.
“Yes, sir!”
Crassus stared off into the mass of Germans half a mile away. They hadn’t the heart or the stomach for a proper fight.
“Germans! I’d take one Roman over a thousand of them.”
Towards the centre of the line, Priscus looked over his shoulder at the Tenth, behind him. They looked eager; angry even. He turned back and muttered to Sabinus, assigned as lieutenant for the Tenth and standing beside him.
“We’re not going to have much room to manoeuvre, sir. Half a mile. If we run and so do they, we’ll barely have time to draw swords!”
Sabinus nodded.
“Caesar wants two full javelin volleys before we meet them. You don’t think we’ll have time?”
Priscus snorted.
“Unless something miraculous happens, we’ll not get a chance to let off one volley or, if we do, it’ll have to be so early it’ll be a pointless gesture.”
Sabinus raised an eyebrow.
“Fronto lauds your abilities as a commander to everyone. I’ve seen my fair share, but mostly from a nearby hill and directing grand plans. You’re the one with the experience, Priscus. Do what you think’s best.”
Priscus nodded and turned to face the Tenth.
“Disarm your javelins. Pass them to the back of the legion and stack them for later. Draw swords.”
He turned to Sabinus.
“Do you know anything about their tactics, sir?”
The staff officer smiled and shrugged.
“I would expect more of what we’ve seen before: cavalry with individual infantry support, but what we’ll meet in the middle is a different matter. They have a similar tribal and military style as the Gauls, and they’ve been fighting with and against them for many years. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see phalanx, shield wall or even squares.”
Priscus nodded.
“Some kind of shield-based defensive formation, then, eh?”
“Something like that.”
Priscus turned once more and shouted across the front line, in the centre of which stood the First Cohort.
“Remember the Helvetii lads?”
There was an affirmative murmur.
“You remember how they broke our square? How they got in amongst us?”
Again, an affirmative murmur. The First Cohort would clearly remember that moment, trapped among the Helvetii, trying to maintain their formation while the rest of the Tenth arrived. Next to Priscus, a signifer gripped his slightly dented standard very tight.
“If the Germans are in a line when we get there, we’re going to do that to them! As soon as I give the word.”
A low approval hummed across the crowd.
Sabinus stamped his foot impatiently.
“Why aren’t we moving?”
Priscus grinned.
“Dunno sir, but I’d make the most of it if I were you.
Titus Balventius growled.
“I can lead ‘em myself sir and you know it.”
Balbus sighed.
“No more argument Titus. I’m the commander of the legion and commanders should command from the front.”
“No sir. Centurions should lead from the front. Commanders should sit in shiny armour on a nice looking horse at the back, like a good gentleman.”
He rolled his one good eye toward Balbus.
“If you get yourself killed it’ll only make my lads worry.”
“I’m touched by your sentiment. I am, however, staying right here. Even Caesar’s leading from the front.”
Another growl. The primus pilus of the Eighth turned to face his men.
“See them? They’re Germans and they fight nasty. The only way to deal with them is to fight nastier. If I see any of you showing any kind of mercy or pity, I’ll tear your arms off myself. I want to see you stab, slash, gouge, shield barge and kick and punch. When you’re too close for that, I want to see you knee, head-butt and bite. Make the bastards afraid of the Eighth. Everybody else is.”
Once again, Balbus found himself looking sideways at his primus pilus. Balventius would get his honesta missio shortly, but he’d probably turn it down. The grizzled centurion would likely stay in his current position until an enemy blow finished him. He was the kind of man that would make a good camp prefect when the time came. The legate made a mental note to have a word with Caesar.
Crispus smiled. To his left Felix, the primus pilus of the Eleventh, stared at him with a puzzled look. The young legate had taken on the hard look of an embittered veteran. Felix cringed. He’d seen that look on plenty of men just before they got themselves killed on a revenge attack. He would have to look after this one. Aulus Crispus was young enough to be Felix’s son and far too educated to talk to comfortably for any length of time, but he cared about his men and had a knack for last-minute strategy. He had the making of a fine commander. Felix wished he’d shave, though. The lad was too young to grow anything but wisps, and he seemed to be modelling himself on the rarely shaven Fronto.
To the other side of Crispus stood Quintus Pedius, a staff officer roughly the same age as Crispus, but already tanned dark and with a permanent five o’clock shadow. Pedius had served before as a tribune and travelled with his father on campaigns. Crispus felt oddly inferior when standing next to him.
“They don’t look at all bad for a fledgling legion, do they Pedius?”
The staff officer smiled.
“They look like Veterans, Aulus, and they soon will be. Remember, they’re nearing the end of a full season of campaigning now, and they’ve fought several battles. I don’t think you can really call them ‘fledgling’ anymore. And look at you. You look different to the young administrator who arrived fresh from Rome.”
Crispus shrugged.
“I’m that very same person, though I am starting to learn what it is to command men. I’m not entirely sure that I am the best choice. You were wanting a commission to command a legion, weren’t you. Maybe after this battle you can take on the Eleventh.”
Pedius grinned at him and then looked across him at Felix.
“Centurion, what would you say if Crispus here were to step down as commander of the Eleventh in favour of someone like myself?”
Felix grinned his lop-sided grin.
“Respectfully, I’d say stick it up yer arse sir. The lad’s ours now. ‘E took us as new and made us ‘eroes sir.”
He turned to look at Crispus.
“You’re me commander, lad. Don’t ye dare step down. That’s worse tha
n getting’ yerself killed.”
Pedius grinned at the primus pilus.
“My thoughts exactly.”
He smiled at Crispus.
“You’re their commander until you or they die or until Caesar sees fit to replace you. Me? I’ll wait ‘til next year. There’ll be more legions raised next year, you mark my words, and I’ve got my sights set on one of them.”
Crispus frowned.
“Do you know, Pedius, I’ve actually given not a single iota of thought to the future ever since Bibracte. I’d not set my mind at all to next year.”
Pedius smiled again.
“For now, just get through today, eh?”
* * * * *
Across the lines, the signal to advance was given. The legions moved forward at their steady fast march, shields locked in front, bristling with the points of swords and javelins. On the wings the cavalry kept pace with the line.
The blaring of horns announced the attack of the Germans. Like two opposed waves, the armies moved across the grass, the Romans at a steady, unstoppable gait, the Germans in an unruly charge. Balbus shouted along the front of the Eighth.
“Ready javelins. Volley at two hundred yards.”
As the legionaries raised their javelins, Balventius shouted out louder.
“Drop javelins and draw swords!”
Balbus had barely time to wonder about his order being challenged as he saw the wave of Germans swarming toward them and realised there would have been no time for a volley. The enemy closed in a phalanx formation and at a ridiculous rate. Further along the line, the primus pilus of the Seventh gave orders to cast javelins. The missiles arced out over the German lines, finding their targets only moments before the shield walls of the two armies met with a crash.
Most of the legions had cast their javelins with the exception of the Tenth and the Eighth and, from the occasional glance Balbus managed, he realised that the legions had encountered difficulties. Many soldiers in the front line were fighting off the enemy with their shield bosses whilst desperately trying to draw their swords in the midst of the melee.
Balventius, fighting like a furious madman at the front of the First Cohort, kept the line straight. He shouted over his shoulder.
“Stop pushing the line. Wait for the signal.”
Slowly things began to right themselves along the line. The legionaries had managed to draw their weapons and were now settling in to their standard shield-wall tactics, though the phalanx formation of the Germans was seriously reducing the effectiveness of the Roman attack. The two armies fought from behind their protective shields and little headway was possible.
Balbus held his shield high and protective as he stabbed rhythmically with his blade. The men of the Eighth would be proud to be fighting alongside their commander and he was glad to be with them, but having tremendous trouble trying to think of a solution to their current problem. The lines were locked into a stalemate; a war of attrition, and something had to be done to break it. Damn it, he couldn’t think straight with having to concentrate heavily on warding off blows from the front.
Further along the line, Crispus had dropped back from the front line. He had been cut by a German blade along his upper arm, but not badly, and had bloodied his own sword. The Eleventh had seen him fighting among them and that was what was important. Now he had to be somewhere to think and direct his men. All across the field, the legions had barely moved since the two armies met, and stood little or no chance of advancing yet. He flipped through the mental pages of military history. His mind whirled through the battles of Alexander, Hannibal and Scipio Africanus, trying to find a way out.
Balbus gave a sharp intake of breath as the German spear point glanced off the rim of his shield and dug into the pteruges hanging at his shoulder. The tip tore through the leather and scraped across his upper arm, drawing blood. Lucky! Had it glanced to the left instead of the right, it could easily have gone through his chest. A distant call came from the right, where the Tenth fought alongside them, and a roar went up from the men of that legion.
Priscus waved the men on around him while the butchery continued. The front few ranks of the legion continued to stab at the enemy, while the rear ranks opened up, leaving space for manoeuvring. One of the centurions called out to the primus pilus.
“Ready, sir.”
Priscus smiled and raised his voice over the din of battle.
“Break ranks!”
The front lines of the Tenth pulled aside for a moment. Pockets of legionaries continued to fight the phalanx of Germans, while gaps opened along the front. The Germans, surprised by the sudden withdrawal of sections of Roman shields began to surge forward, only to meet groups of legionaries from the rear lines, who were now charging shield-less through the gaps at the enemy.
The groups of men hit the German phalanx with the force of a charging bull and, rather than stabbing with their swords, began to wrench the German shields down and to the sides. Others vaulted over the top and came crashing down among the press of barbarian warriors. Instantly the order and formation among the Germans collapsed. Their phalanx front had been broken in several places and now there were legionaries in amongst them. The formation turned into a melee within moments, whereas the Roman line had formed once again, the gaps closing with drilled precision.
Nonus hadn’t had so much fun since he’d raced up the hill with Velius and a few others to take out the last of the Helvetii so many months ago. It was gratifying that his reputation had been so confirmed that day that he was immediately called upon whenever anything slightly insane and dangerous was suggested. He had been the first among the Germans, vaulting so high he had come down several rows back. He had been lucky, really. The man who’d leapt over just to his left had ended impaled on a raised German spear point.
He grinned like a savage as he stabbed again and again into the flesh pressed around him. The Germans had been so tightly pushed together in their formation that they had no room to manoeuvre. Their long spears and long Celtic swords were all but useless in such a confined space.
“Eleven. Twelve…” he counted as he systematically exterminated the men around him. He crouched low, turning as he went. Slowly a space was opening around him as bodies hit the ground, spraying him with their lifeblood.
He smiled again, wondering where Curtius, his friend and colleague, was. Curtius had been in the next group down and should be somewhere in this press of men. All he had to do now was keep going until the Tenth had broken enough of the front line to reach him. He would…
Velius was with the first few of his men to push into the broken phalanx. They surged forward, breaking their own formation and moving into a man to man melee, the Germans fighting back desperately and trying to make enough room to fight effectively. Pushing as hard as he could into the press of barbarians, he hadn’t even noticed as he stepped over the fresh body of Nonus, the Tenth’s wrestling champion, lying twisted among the enemy corpses.
Balbus’ arm shuddered under every impact of the German blade, his shield fracturing and cracking, held together by only the bronze edging. Glancing along the line he saw Balventius fighting like an enraged animal and cursing the barbarians as he plunged in repeatedly with his gladius. Belting an unwary tribesman with his shield boss, Balventius stepped back and craned his head over the melee. Balbus turned momentarily to follow his gaze, but a heavy blow pushed him into the man behind him.
“What’s up?”
The primus pilus smiled, the effect as disconcerting as ever as the lines and scars on his face joined in places.
“The Tenth have broken them. We need to push hard. Now.”
He turned away from the enemy warriors and shouted to the Eighth.
“Push! Push the bastards back. They’re breaking!”
The German he had been fighting took the opportunity to swing the heavy sword at the primus pilus’ upper back. The sword edge sliced from his right shoulder across both blades, cutting through chain, scale and the man’
s subarmalis. The blade continued on its relentless swing leaving a trail of blood droplets, shattered links of chain mail and scales from the centurion’s armour flying through the air. Balbus watched the blow in horror and disbelief.
For a moment Balventius staggered forwards into the ranks of Romans, lurching, as the protective armour on his back neatly separated and most of the torso hung from one armpit like a loose rag. The veteran’s knuckles tightened for a moment and then twitched, almost dropping the sword. The shield fell forgotten to the floor.
Balbus watched as the centurion almost toppled, then righted himself. As the grizzly Balventius turned back toward the Germans Balbus saw both the cut across his shoulders, which was deep and vicious, bleeding profusely down his back, and the look in his eye. Far from knocking him out of the fight, the German’s blow had enraged him.
Balventius squared his shoulders and the blood from the cut splashed the men behind him.
“You little German whore-dog son of a Greek catamite! I’m going to tear your liver out with my teeth!”
The barbarian had drawn the broad blade back for another swing at the Roman. He grinned and let fly with the sword, swinging round like a pendulum, heavy and unstoppable. Balventius ducked and, as the blade carried on its arc above his head, stabbed with his blade into the man’s gut. As his right hand twisted the hilt, he reached up with his left hand and gripped the terrified German’s windpipe.
Balbus turned his head away just too slowly to miss the grisly sight as his primus pilus wrenched out the man’s throat. Balventius held the lump of meat high as the German toppled forward.
“At ‘em now, men.”
The Eighth surged past both of their commanders, piling into the enemy, Balbus pushed through them to his primus pilus. Balventius stood erect, head held high, as the men charged but, as soon as Balbus reached him, the two of them made their way slowly back through the ranks. They passed the main attacking force by and entered the gap between the second and third line, where the Eighth’s capsarii sat, tending to the wounded. Balbus, knowing his officers very well, surreptitiously held Balventius’ arm as he staggered and sank to his knees.
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