Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  His arm ached.

  Labienus had waited until the last moment to reveal his plans, as was his command style, Quadratus knew. Really, with the many and varied local tribal auxiliaries, it was a safe and sensible thing to do, but really he could have at least dropped an advance warning to a fellow senior Roman officer.

  The waiting seemed interminable, but finally he heard the low honk of a horn - three short and relatively subdued blasts designed to be heard across the camp, but not to carry to the enemy force.

  The Treveri army had been breaking up now for more than an hour, separate groups of nobles taking away their people, sick of the siege and disenchanted with Indutiomarus’ failure to provide them with victory and loot. The Gallic chieftain had been ranting and railing from the back of his horse, waving his sword at the departing groups and threatening them, but still they had gone.

  Now more than half the Treveri themselves had left the scene, and between desertions and death, perhaps half of the mercenary force had gone too. The odds were more or less in parity with the defenders and a pitched battle would have almost guaranteed victory, but still Labienus had held back his forces.

  Quadratus could understand why, of course. In a full scale battle, the rebel chief could launch his army at the Romans and sit safely protected behind them. Hundreds or thousands of Romans would die, as would even more thousands of Treveri, in a bloodbath on a monumental scale. Labienus had avowed time and again his desire to see this corner of the world settled without heavy Roman losses, but also without Gallic genocide, given that the Treveri were not as committed to the attack as their leader would have them. To attain victory without such a death toll would mean finding a way to take down Indutiomarus without having to engage his army in bulk.

  And that was where the cavalry came in.

  At the east gate, the rest of the mounted contingent had gathered under the command - despite Quadratus’ misgivings - of a native, a prince of the Mediomatrici who had been utterly incensed by the actions of the Treveri leader and had been urging Labienus to let him and his men off the leash ever since the attack had begun. It was not that Quadratus thought the man a coward or a traitor. There was no question of him refusing to attack, but the problem was something rather opposite. Given his spiteful invectives against the Treveri and their bandit allies there was every possibility that the angry noble would forget his orders in the thirst for blood and simply launch into the nearest enemy he found. And that would put Quadratus’ considerably smaller force in great danger.

  But it was all moot now. The anvil was in position and the hammer was falling.

  Those three short blasts had indicated to Quadratus that prince Messirios of the Mediomatrici and his force had fully committed and the east gate was now closed. If the blood-crazed lunatic Gaul was still clinging to both sanity and his orders, he would now be racing in a wide arc, circumventing the bulk of the enemy force and threatening their flank enough to draw out the reserve that sat behind - the Treveri noble cavalry, the most dangerous and effective fighting group on the field. With any luck, even now Indutiomarus was spotting the danger and sending the cavalry - one of his few remaining loyal units - off to the east to meet the Roman auxiliary force. And with luck Messirios had not simply charged his cavalry at the murderers and thieves in the front lines. If he had, Quadratus was in for a short and brutal trip, as he came across the entire Treveri mounted contingent.

  He shook his head irritably. No point in brooding on the possibilities. The attack had to go ahead regardless. He would just have to pray to Mars and Minerva that the prince stuck to the plan.

  His hand dropped and the cavalry began to move out through the south gate at his signal.

  The enemy had long-since abandoned the siege of the southern and western sides of the camp, partially because of the diminishing numbers of their force they could rely upon, but also because they knew that the swift, dangerous Mosella river - which formed a wide horseshoe at this point - curved around those sides and effectively prevented the Romans from fleeing that way in force. Indeed, their force was small and unimpressive even to the east, theoretically allowing the rest of the cavalry to burst through them and complete their task, depending upon the reliability of that Gaulish prince.

  This concentration of enemy forces around the north and east left an area to the south devoid of enemy warriors, giving Quadratus the golden opportunity to leave the camp unnoticed while all Treveri attention would be on Messirios’ attack.

  In line with the series of orders Quadratus had issued before the gates opened, the small but effective force of veteran cavalrymen raced across the causeway that spanned the camp’s double defensive ditch, and down the gentle slope which led to the Mosella river, the thunder of hooves lost to enemy ears amid the tumult of the attack by Messirios, and sight of them hidden by the slope.

  Quadratus reined in close to the rushing torrent of ice cold water brought several hundred miles from the Vosego mountains to the south. To be caught against that river by a superior force would be the end - the main reason for the lack of enemies in this arc. Nobody would be able to escape across it without the aid of a bridge or a ford, and the only local ford was the one behind the Treveri, across which they had come when they first arrived.

  Swiftly the rest of his force assembled around him, and Quadratus paused as they arranged themselves into their tribal sub-units, his veteran regulars forming up on him, bearing their banner to relay his orders to the rest, no signal horn in evidence in case its blasts led to their discovery.

  As soon as the various sections were ready he nodded to the signifer, who waved the red vexillum flag in the approved signals. In moments the entire force was moving along the bank of the river, following it downstream in a northerly direction towards the ford at the rear of the Treveri army. It was a measure of the skill and competence of the cavalry, both regular and native levy, that they managed to maintain their unit cohesion and move at speed given the narrow confines afforded by the raging torrent to their left and the slope that hid them from the enemy to their right.

  The horsemen raced on blindly, able to see only the gentle curve of the river valley, the location of the Roman camp and the Treveri army pin-pointable by the sounds that echoed across the landscape. The first gamble had been whether the other cavalry force would commit as intended. They would soon know the answer to that. The second gamble was that Quadratus’ own unit could leave the river and move up onto the enemy-controlled plain in just the right position to reach the commanders from the rear without engaging the entire force.

  Evicaos, one of the more senior native mounted scouts, had assured him that if they followed the river as far as the ford and then turned back directly south, they would fall upon the unprepared and lightly defended Indutiomarus with ease. Quadratus hoped the man was right. There was still every possibility - even if they made the right position to leave the river - that his small cavalry unit would arrive at their turning point, rush up the hill and find themselves confronted by the entire Treveri cavalry force defending their leader.

  * * * * *

  Lucius Annius Gritto clung to his spear and shield tightly as he steered his nervous steed with his knees in the fashion taught by Roman cavalry trainers. His mail shirt felt as though it weighed more than he did, dragging him down to the ground, but he clenched his teeth and held on.

  How he had drawn the duty of second in command of the native cavalry attack, he was still unsure. He was certainly not the most senior decurion in the camp, and far from the most experienced. He was lucky with dice and had fleeced a number of his peers recently, including the commander Quadratus, and it was tempting to blame that as a reason, though he hoped he owed this dubious honour to something more substantial than his affinity with lady Fortuna, bless her shapely breasts. He wished he had a free hand to grasp the pendant of his favourite Goddess hanging around his neck, but settled for a mental prayer - short and to the point.

  The briefing had taken mere mom
ents and was simple:

  Make sure the native prince and chieftains kept to the plan and didn’t either race off into the open ground and freedom or launch against the first warrior they saw. It sounded simple, anyway.

  In reality, given the lack of regular cavalrymen in the force and the absence of Roman officers or Roman training, what he actually found himself part of was a headlong, disorganised charge in true Gallic style, with a lot of shouting and screaming, threats and promises, some crazed laughter, more than a little jostling between the riders, occasional falls and mishaps and so much noise that it felt as though his ears might turn inside out. It had occurred to him within only moments of leaving the camp that his presence was about as pointless as tits on a bull, since even if any of them could hear his orders and calls over the general din, none of them seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him anyway.

  His initial fears were first realised when he shot out of the gate like some sort of projectile, squeezed through among the Gauls, only to see the remaining western force of Treveri running towards the open gate. There were not many of them, given the size of the Gauls’ army - perhaps three hundred, which was minimal given that until the desertions had begun there were more like two thousand outside this gate. They were rabid and wild, just like the horsemen he was riding amongst, and they sought blood, but they could easily be avoided, given their numbers.

  Indeed, the prince in charge, one Messirios - identified by the dragon standard that rode alongside him - immediately took the lead units out and swept around the Treveri group, as the plan had dictated.

  Two of the other chieftains leading their auxiliary volunteer regiments seemed to have different ideas and turned their forces directly on the small besieging mob, rushing to meet them and crashing into them like two opposing waves.

  Gritto had shaken his head in exasperation, realising there was virtually nothing he could do about it, and rode on with the bulk of the force, hoping that the loss of a hundred or more cavalry to this unintentional engagement would not alter their chances of the main objective.

  Then they had found themselves in the clear, riding hard to circumvent the main enemy force. It had been exhilarating, momentarily. They were on-task. The discordant honking and lowing of the carnyx horns and some frantic waving from the Treveri command group confirmed that they had been seen and were being taken seriously, just as intended, and even the enemy cavalry began to move as if to intercept them.

  And then things had gone wrong.

  Another bunch of the chieftains among the cavalry had apparently decided that they liked the look of the nearest bunch of Treveri scum and had peeled off with their units, heading directly towards the main force. As Gritto had shouted himself hoarse, his voice totally lost in the noise of the attack, he’d felt his heart sink as he watched two more of the native units peel off to support them.

  A very quick rough estimate in his head now suggested that almost half the attacking force had separated to wage their own private wars, and not only was it therefore not a given that the enemy would consider the attack enough of a threat to engage their own horse, but it was also now a worrying possibility that the Treveri might come after them and win…

  Ahead, what was left of the main cavalry attack was still skirting the main force, heading for the Treveri horse and their commanders at the rear, and Gritto scanned the crowd of his own men as he rode until he spotted the standard that betrayed the position of Messirios.

  It was dipping to the left!

  Though he had absolutely no idea of the signalling systems the natives used, if indeed they used any kind of signalling at all, given their propensity to chaos, an intentional dip of the standard to the left could only signal a move that way, as it would with a Roman unit.

  And that meant straight into the bulk of the infantry.

  Gritto felt his spirits sink even further - if that were at all possible, since they were already bounding along at ground level and cutting a furrow in the grass. If the prince turned against the main force, so would all his men and his allied chiefs. Then they would be engaged with the wrong group. Very likely the enemy cavalry would not even bother to commit and would just watch the fun, given that the infantry that would be dying would be the mercenary bandits anyway, and not their own tribesmen.

  How could that Mediomatrici moron be so short-sighted? He would cost them the battle.

  In the most futile of gestures, Gritto tried desperately to shout for them to hold their course, waving his spear and almost gutting one of the nearest Gauls in the process. He might as well have been throwing mouldy cabbages at the walls of Rome for all the difference his attempts were making.

  His heart raced. The legate Labienus and commander Quadratus were relying on this attack. If it failed, what should be a short, surgical cut would turn into a chaotic slaughter on both sides. And, far more important than that, Gritto would be decommissioned, chastised, punished and then sent home in disgrace, where Aurelia would never speak to him again, her father would call off their betrothal, and his own parents would push him into some awful administrative role.

  The thought of spending the rest of his life shuffling and shelving scrolls with records of public works brought on a worse fear by far than that of simple death.

  He had to do something to make this work.

  The Gallic horses were larger than his Roman one - Roman cavalry preferred the easier trained and more even-temperamented smaller beasts - so he could hardly make his presence felt and was barely visible among the crowd. But his horse was a noble beast, trained in the Roman military and therefore so obedient that he barely had to twitch his knees to make his intentions felt. And he knew that the Gallic steeds were more angry, more nervous and considerably more awkward.

  He would have to make his presence felt.

  Raising himself as best he could, he locked on to the position of the prince’s standard and noted its location and then, taking a deep breath, leaned forward over his steed’s neck and held his oval shield out in front at an oblique angle. Keeping his spear point up, so as to avoid accidental wounds, he kicked his faithful steed onwards, driving it as hard as he could.

  He felt the shield smack into the Gauls slightly ahead of him, who were moving as fast as they could in the chaos, but not with the speed and purpose of Gritto and his smaller beast. The shield bounced off a man’s leg and the angered Gaul, either not realising whose shield it was, or more likely not caring, smashed his sword down on it as Gritto pushed and heaved past.

  Then he was out between the two horses ahead, his shield battered but in place. The angry shout of the Gaul whose knee he had hurt rang out behind him but he ignored it, aiming for the position he remembered the standard to be and driving on the horse as hard as he could. He felt the shield bounce off the haunch of a larger horse and sensed the beast veering off, away from this discomfort. That rider of the animal roared at his steed and tried to turn back, only to find Gritto there, pushing past, shield up and yelling imprecations in Latin.

  The push went on. Another three times, four, five, and he had actually received a punch and a kick in the process, but had forged ahead through the mass of horsemen by sheer control of his horse and force of will.

  Slowing for a moment, he risked rising above the shield and was both surprised and relieved to see the standard of Messirios bobbing about almost in front of him. The horses had already turned slightly off-course, heading for the infantry. Any moment now, the prince would give the command to go from a messy gallop to an unrestrained charge, and then it would be too late to stop them.

  Even if the prince would consider listening to him, it was exceedingly unlikely that he would hear him in the din. A moment of undecided panic, and Gritto settled upon a course of action, somewhat regretfully dropping his shield and spear among the running horses where they were immediately trampled and smashed to pieces.

  Driving his horse on for that standard, he elbowed aside a Gallic nobleman, who in return delivered
him a sturdy kick to the thigh in anger. A push, a lunge, and suddenly he was next to the standard bearer. The Gaul, his drooping moustaches bouncing comically with his gait and the breeze, his head topped with a bronze helm that looked as though a metal seagull had impaled itself on the tip, had not even noticed he was there, too intent on watching the prince a few paces ahead, waiting for the nod.

  Aware that he might just die for his presumption but seeing no other choice, Gritto reached out and delivered the hardest punch he could muster to the upper arm of the standard bearer. The Gaul let out a yelp, the blow - as intended - deadening his arm for a moment and causing him to lose his grip on the shaft. As the Gaul’s head swung round in a mix of shock and anger, Gritto grasped the shaft of the falling standard and raised it high, tipping it to the right once, twice, three times.

  The course of the attack changed instantly, and after a matter of mere heartbeats Gritto found himself on the periphery of the force, along with the Mediomatrici prince, his standard bearer, and his personal cadre of noble warriors.

  The standard bearer raised the sword he had held in his other hand ready to bring down on this sudden attacker, but faltered as he recognised the uniform of a Roman officer, the sword quivering in his shaking hand high above them.

  Prince Messirios seemed to have realised that something was amiss, and had turned to look at the scene behind him, his eyes wide as he realised his army were veering off to the east, skirting around the enemy. His eyes, blazing, fell upon the Roman officer holding his royal standard and he barked something furiously in his own tongue.

  Gritto felt his heart skip a beat, knowing that the heavy Gallic sword was poised to fall on the prince’s command and that when it did so, it would smash open his head like a ripe melon. He realised that he was probably ashen faced and gawping like an idiot and forced his open mouth shut, lowering his brows into an expression of arrogant defiance such as the one his father seemed to have permanently affixed to his face.