Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Indutiomarus!’ he snapped and, to try and make his point all the more obvious, used his free hand to mime a cantering horse (though in all fairness it probably more resembled a drunken spider) and then pointed over the enemy to the cavalry at the rear.

  For a long moment, the prince of the Mediomatrici glared at him in anger and finally, showing no sign of letting up his fury for even a moment, nodded and turned his horse away, racing off to catch up with his men as they skirted the Treveri army.

  The Gaulish standard bearer lowered his sword with a glance after his departing lord and punched the Roman heavily in the arm, retrieving his standard before riding off to join his compatriots.

  Gritto sat for a moment rubbing his arm and watched the fruit of his labour as the attack moved back on track. After a few more heartbeats, though, a rising noise attracted his attention and he realised that the nearest group of mercenary killers among the enemy force were moving out to try and attack this now-lone Roman on his small horse. It occurred to him in the blink of an eye that his shield and spear were somewhere back across the hoof-churned grass, smashed and splintered, and that defending himself against this bunch with just a sword was plain suicide.

  Drawing his blade anyway, he wheeled his horse and raced off to join the cavalry attack - preferably somewhere safe and near the back.

  Now it was time for a short and brutal attack and the rest was down to the commander and his small mounted force at the ford.

  * * * * *

  Quadratus gestured to the slope leading up from the river. According to what might laughably be called ‘the sun’ which shone as little more than a pale reflection of the moon in the marble grey sky, they were roughly at the position where the river curved around north of the fort. The scout’s initial suggestion that they turn at the ford had proved less than helpful in the commander’s opinion given that, despite the season, the rainfall had tailed off in the last couple of days and the river’s level had dropped sufficiently to reveal two more of the seven known fords in this area as opposed to the only one visible the past few days.

  Still, the scout had been insistent as to which shallow strand was the ford he’d meant, and the sun never lied about directions, so Quadratus had little choice but to accept his appraisal.

  The scout nodded at his commander’s gesture and cupped a hand to his ear meaningfully.

  Quadratus tried to steady his thumping heart and listened carefully. The general mob noise of battle was all he could hear, and it sounded exactly the same to him as it had the past three times they had paused to listen since nearing their objective.

  No. Different, now that he concentrated. The main clash of battle had become more distant, muted by the tense bulk of the army gathered between. The other cavalry force had drawn the Gallic riders away to the far side of the field as they had intended. It was the only explanation.

  With a nod, Quadratus had his signifer wave the standard and ready for the advance. The unit would move up the slope as quietly as possible to maintain the element of surprise until the very last moment, and would then break into a charge as soon as they could see the command party and target the Treveri leader.

  With quiet speed, the horsemen urged their mounts up the rise, which at this point seemed to be so much higher than when they had descended to the river, perhaps twice as high in fact. Logic dictated that the same plateau could only be the same height above the same river, but clearly something about the landscape had thrown out that particular bit of logic and the rise was difficult on horseback. Quadratus was immensely grateful, though, that he was climbing it rather than trying to coax a horse safely down it.

  He was impressed with the Gauls in his small force on two counts: firstly their surprising level of control over their mounts. The ease with which the auxiliary volunteers mounted the slope took him quite by surprise, and a number of them could have taught his regulars a thing or two - though in fairness, when it came to the act of joining battle, the reverse would certainly be true.

  The second was that the units were not vying with each other for prime position in the coming fight, which was the normal Gallic way, each man desperate for the most glorious and prestigious kill. Instead they were holding to their given formations almost as tightly as his own regular ala, each unit staying in position behind his lead.

  If he were to be uncharitable, he might suspect that to be a matter of letting him and his men fall into the shit first…

  Quadratus was the first to crest the slope, with his regulars arrayed behind him and his signifer by his side, standard lowered so as not to give any more advance warning than necessary

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  It had been the signifer that had spoken, but he had voiced Quadratus’ own thoughts.

  Certainly most of the enemy cavalry had been committed to the far side of the plateau to deal with the more major cavalry feint. Only a few hundred at most had stayed with the command group and that would not have been a great issue. The problem was that the Gallic commanders were fleeing the field, with that remaining cavalry about them. And that meant riding for the ford.

  The result was that Quadratus crested the ridge at a steady pace only to see several hundred Gallic cavalry, along with their chieftains, musicians and signifers, bearing down on him at breakneck pace. A little more worrying than that was the fact that behind them, he could see the bulk of the Treveri force turning and taking to their heel in his direction too.

  The other cavalry attack had been extremely effective. Over-effective, in fact. It had totally broken the already-flagging spirit of the Treveri army, and the entire force was now turning to leave the field, only to find Quadratus - and his roughly two hundred and fifty men - directly between them and the ford.

  Desperation gripped the commander. Suddenly things looked rather worrying, and they had perhaps a count of thirty at best before the Gallic cavalry reached them. Would the Treveri slow to engage, or…?

  A slow smile spread across his face as he realised the approaching riders, rather than slowing down, had increased their pace! They were moving to charge the Romans. Idiots.

  He was suddenly filled with a smug sense of relief that over the past day he had given the auxiliary cavalry extensive tuition in the various calls, orders and standard relays for different manoeuvres, not knowing what Labienus had planned. The result was that he could be relatively confident that he had a good Roman command over the native force behind him.

  ‘Sound the ‘halt’ and the ‘form line’.’

  The signifer had the effrontery to look puzzled, but his professionalism prevented any real insubordination, and he waved the standard madly. For a moment, Quadratus worried whether the Gauls under his command would manage to form up as intended, but their control over their beasts was truly excellent, and in a matter of heartbeats the bulk of his force was forming a line only two riders deep at the crest of the ridge, others still arriving up the slope behind them and falling in to make a third line where the terrain allowed.

  He remembered with a smile that the native scout was still close by, and explained his plan in a few short words, which was then relayed with shouted orders in both directions along the line.

  ‘Shields forward, spears out!’ he bellowed.

  The signifer and the native scout relayed the command. A count of ten…

  ‘Ready!’

  Eight…

  ‘Signifer!’

  Six…

  The man nodded, fingers ready on the standard.

  Four…

  ‘Now.’

  Simultaneous with his call, the scout relayed it in the local dialect and the signifer waved the flag, giving the command to form squares by ala. It was an infantry-style manoeuvre usually carried out with precision in drills or with the leisure of awaiting the call to attack an enemy.

  But not usually with only two heartbeats before a rabid charging enemy crashed into you.

  All along the line, the formation disintegrated as men moved into thei
r new positions. With thirty two men in each ala - the Gauls had been befuddled at being organised into Roman unit sizes - the square was perhaps six men wide and near the same deep. Of course, the native levies could not be expected to form with the same sort of precision as his regulars, who created a good solid forward edge and powerful wings, but left the centre and rear less compact, yet their efforts were laudable and more controlled than he would have expected.

  Quadratus would have laughed out loud, had he not been suddenly thrown into deep combat as the fleeing Treveri cavalry charged him. The sudden forming of a line had led the enemy to believe that they had an easy - and stupid - kill awaiting them. But as the line reformed into blocks the enemy suddenly discovered that the majority of their number were racing at unstoppable speed over the crest of a slope that disappeared at a steep gradient towards the fast, icy torrent of the Mosella below.

  More than half the Treveri cavalry charge swept helplessly through the empty space where the Roman forces had been only moments before. While the odd one managed to regain some sort of control and slow themselves or direct their descent and a few found themselves engaged with Quadratus’ men who had not quite got out of the way, most of those charging Gauls instead found themselves hurtling unstoppably down the hill, faster and steeper than their mounts could cope with.

  The result was carnage.

  Quadratus knew what it would look like, though he could hardly turn to see the slope covered in fallen riders and downed, injured horses. Of the perhaps one hundred and fifty horses that had passed between the Roman squares, they would be lucky if two dozen made it to the river bank alive. The slope would be an appalling sight.

  The cavalry charge of the Treveri had failed dismally, and those who had still found themselves facing an enemy had crashed into a solid block of riders rather than a wavering double line, only to grind to a halt in a brutal horseback melee.

  Quadratus hacked and chopped with his blade, his shield held forward and moving up and down with the enemy’s strokes in an attempt to protect his torso or legs and steed as required. The cold, damp air was supplemented with a faint drizzle of pink as the numerous blows from both sides sent arterial spray up into the morning atmosphere. Half a Gaul’s hand whirled past lazily in the air - victim of some stroke Quadratus never even saw.

  It could have been bloody and vicious. It could have been - should have been, really - a hard fight with a high casualty rate on both sides. But with the siege lifted, the army departing, and half their number scattered broken on the slope below, there was simply no heart left in the Treveri cavalry. Almost as soon as battle was joined at the crest, the horsemen were pulling away from the fight and trying to flee through the gaps between Roman units and down the slope to the river, their momentum now slow enough to afford them a reasonably safe descent.

  But as many of them swept past, the sides of the defensive squares - a formation rarely utilised by cavalry - raked them mercilessly, bringing down two of every three riders that passed by.

  As the hell of personal combat relented, the enemy either dying or fled, Quadratus paused to take in the situation. The Treveri infantry were moving his way, fleeing the field, despite the cavalry in the way. After all, sheer weight of numbers was with them, and they had to make it across the river to even begin to believe they were safe. Behind Quadratus and his men, down the slope, maybe seventy or eighty enemy riders had managed any kind of safe descent.

  Quadratus let slip a loud string of curses and imprecations as he noted the standards that identified Indutiomarus’ party at the bottom of the slope, near the river, racing desperately for safety.

  ‘Bollocks! Damn, damn, damn and bollocks!’

  With a sigh, he turned to the signifer. ‘Sound the pursuit. Full pace. I want that standard and the king’s head.’

  Aware that many of the Gaulish volunteers around him were listening in, and that his scout was still relaying a translation, he raised his arm. ‘Whoever brings me Indutiomarus’ head, I will repay with the same weight of gold!’

  Barely had the scout relayed the words than the auxiliaries let out wild whoops of delight and turned, directing their mounts over the crest and down the slope with as crazed and dangerous speed as the enemy had attempted, driven by their greed for the royal prize Quadratus had set.

  The commander turned with the rest of his force, leaving the small parties of native auxiliaries still locked in a fight with their counterparts to finish it off before following, and began to pick his way back down the slope as fast as he dared, which was less than half the speed of the blood-and-gold crazed Gauls.

  By the time he was halfway down the slope, he realised just how quickly word of his offered reward had spread, shouted between the Gauls, and many of the ones who had been farthest down the slope to begin with were even now racing out into the water in an attempt to head off the foremost fleeing enemy and capture the command group.

  Quadratus slowed his descent, his gaze flicking alternately between the dangerous incline down which he walked his horse and the events unfolding at the ford in a vast tableau. As he realised what was happening, he paused and reined in to watch.

  Seeing the Roman’s Gallic auxiliaries closing in on both sides and pulling ahead to seal off the ford, the Treveri cavalry had collapsed into a disorganised, panicked shambles. In the centre of the remaining enemy force, the small knot of nobles and the standard bearer were trying to push their way out ahead.

  Indutiomarus - or at least, Quadratus assumed it had to be the Treveri king, given his ostentatious armour and garb, raised himself as high as possible on his steed and started throwing around commands like a man in a state of extreme desperation. Quadratus nodded to himself happily. His own riders had got ahead now and were sealing off the ford. The enemy king was doomed. He hoped momentarily that Labienus might stand the reward, rather than leaving him to pay it, but if need be, he was willing to cough up the gold. It would be worth it.

  He almost bellowed out with laughter as the Treveri king yelled at one of his nobles, shaking his arm and pointing to the far side of the ford, and then failed to hold in the mirth as that same noble simply raised his sword and slid it deep into Indutiomarus’ chest.

  The Treveri king - would-be architect of their destruction and aspiring hero of Gaul - gave a cry of agony that was audible even halfway back up the slope and tumbled from his horse. The mass of auxiliary cavalry swarmed in like locusts, each ignoring their own peril and leaping from their horses, rushing the disorganised and panicked Treveri in the desire to be the one to retrieve the head of the dead king. Quadratus wondered, still chuckling, whether he could get out of the reward on the technicality that the king had already been killed by his own, but shook his head at the thought. Honesty in all dealings.

  The Treveri at the ford had thrown down their weapons and were begging for clemency, but the auxiliary cavalry were having none of it. The body of Indutiomarus was still in among them somewhere, and the idea of a head’s worth of gold was overcoming any of the riders’ notions of nobility in battle. Quadratus considered giving the order to accept their surrender, but he knew it would do no good. His local levies had blood and gold in their sights now, and no mere Roman order would stop them from collecting. Besides, they would have finished it before the order ever reached them and, truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop them.

  He would take Indutiomarus’ head, and that would help put the final end to this irritating and dangerous rebellion in the east. His memory furnished him with an image of the entire Treveri force running on foot for the ford, and his heart lurched suddenly.

  Somewhere down at the ford there was a whoop of delight and a Gaul was running for his horse, a heavy weight swinging from his hand by the hair, half a dozen of his compatriots chasing him angrily while the rest finished off every last Treveri soul in the river in their disappointment at failing to take the prize. It was over down there.

  So, given the approaching Treveri infantry, shou
ld his small force leave, heading back the way they’d come, upriver and along the bank, or try to bring the army to a halt? He knew the answer, of course. He had the suspicion that Labienus would let the survivors go free anyway, but he would not be the one to allow the entire Treveri force to flee the field without explicit orders from a superior.

  ‘Signaller! We form up on the fords. Their army’s coming this way and I intend to deny them the crossing.

  The soldier with the standard stared for a moment in disbelief, and then began waving the flag in an attempt to attract the attention of the rest of the cavalry. A quick pause and with a little concentration, Quadratus could hear the fleeing Treveri nearing the crest of the slope. This was going to be extremely bloody unless he could persuade them to surrender.

  With a quick uttered prayer to Mars, he made his way on down the slope to the river bank, where his men were forming in the shallow water.

  * * * * *

  Barely had the small cavalry force assembled in the ford than the first of the fleeing tribesmen appeared over the crest of the hill, beginning their descent to the river. Some of the discipline seemed to have evaporated among the native levies with their easy victory at the ridge and the ensuing bloodthirsty executions of the Treveri commanders in the river, which even now ran with a pink tint from the numerous bodies snagged on the stones of the ford and the rocks and branches at the river’s bank.

  Still, despite the elation and blood-drunk enthusiasm of the Gauls under his command, they had managed to form a rough block that defended the river crossing, some ten men deep. It was a formidable obstacle. They would be hopelessly outnumbered by the fleeing Treveri, but the width of the ford would negate much of that disadvantage, since no man in his right mind would try to cross the Mosella anywhere but at a ford. And the height advantage of a horseman meant that as long as a rider could keep his beast from harm, he was relatively free to manoeuvre, stabbing with his spear into the attack, while the enemy infantry would be hampered by the waist-deep flow and the numbing cold.