The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Plancus… can you take over here if I join in the action? I’m sending alternate units into the fort or along to the bridgehead.”

  The young man nodded, letting out a deep breath. With a quick glance at him, Fronto gestured to the centurion who had just crossed.

  “You men are with me!”

  Without waiting for a reply, he started to make his way speedily along the river bank. Ahead, he could see the legionaries fighting desperately at the edge of the river. As he ran he saw with dismay one of the men slip in the midst of combat and drop into the river like a stone. Weighed down with chainmail and helmet, there was no hope for the man. Fronto gritted his teeth as he saw how hard the men were fighting for such little ground. He and his reserves finally reached the rear of the century of men, now already whittled down to a third of their number.

  “Push!” he yelled, and threw himself in among the soldiers, clearly greatly to the surprise of the Gaulish legionaries. The reserves joined the line and the extra weight began to press back the Belgic warriors. With grim satisfaction, as they slowly heaved the line forward, Fronto noted how the victorious faces of the barbarians slipped to uncertainty as they found themselves being pushed backwards into the press of their own men. Fronto grinned. An idea was forming, but he’d have to be fast. These bastards were vicious. The Roman numbers in the push had almost halved again already. He leaned across to his right and barked hurried instructions at the centurion nearby. Behind them, another century of men joined the fight.

  “Push them back!” he bellowed to the Roman force in general. He was almost at the front now. Almost close enough to reach one of the hairy bastards with his gladius.

  Spotting the centurion that had accompanied him into the fray, he quickly leaned across and repeated his instructions. The man nodded and began to move off to the left. Fronto waited a full minute for his instructions to have been disseminated among the men present, during which another century joined the rear. Their ranks were now growing faster than they were being whittled down and they were forcing the Belgae back, but the push was getting ever harder, since the barbarians were being heaved into the press of their fellows.

  “Now!” he cried.

  Simultaneously, two thirds of his force changed direction and pushed off to the left, in line with the fort’s western wall, while the other third pulled back from where they had been pushing along the riverbank. The whole Roman front line swung like a gate, back along the shore to the fort wall. The sudden push deep in their lines and the opening space next to the river caused a natural momentum unfortunate for the Belgae. Unable to hold their ground, pushed back by the inland advance and their own great press, a large number of the Belgae found themselves pushed out of the force, into the open space and then beyond, where the shoving carried them straight on, over the bank and into the fast current of the river.

  A cheer went up on the bridge several hundred yards downstream as over a hundred Belgae washed past beneath them, screaming as they were carried away from the field. The few wealthier barbarians who wore the heavy armour and helmets of the Celtic noblemen, splashed briefly before disappearing without trace.

  “Reform!” Fronto called.

  As suddenly as they had changed direction before, the Roman left pulled back and the right pushed out once again to their original solid line. Now, the diminished force of Belgae by the river gave Fronto’s force sufficient room to begin pushing in earnest. Laughing like a maniac, Fronto launched into the front line, hacking and stabbing with his sword, lost in the simplicity of combat where complicated thought could be replaced by instinct.

  Bolstered by a continual supply of legionaries from the rear, Fronto’s force continued to expand the line in an arc, pushing the Belgae back. Stepping back from the action for a moment, Fronto smiled with satisfaction. They had now fought their way almost half way along the fort’s wall, allowing Sabinus to redeploy a number of his men from that side. As he watched, the nearest gate opened, just behind his advancing line, and more reserves poured from the fort. The press of Belgae in the narrowing area of riverbank they controlled were now shouting desperately. As their concentration had been drawn toward Fronto’s vicious assault, Balbus had taken the advantage of their lack of attention and finally broken away from the bridge, the Thirteenth pouring into the field and forming an arc like Fronto’s, pushing the barbarians further back from the river.

  As the minutes passed, Fronto grinned. The advancing forces from the bridge and the makeshift crossing were close now, the Belgae pushed back to the flat land on the other side of the fort. With a deep breath, he once more threw himself into the front line, shouting encouragement at the legionaries to either side. A roar went up and the advance redoubled in effort, Belgae now trying to turn and flee among their own ranks.

  ‘Lucky’, Fronto thought to himself. For all the Romans had finally gained the riverbank and forced the Belgae back, they were still outnumbered by at least five to one. The Belgae had descended into chaos. Had they the discipline of the Roman army, they would right now be driving Fronto back into the water, instead of trying to get out of the way. The number of casualties Fronto’s advance had suffered spoke volumes about how dangerous a foe these barbarians could be when they had the bit between their teeth.

  He clenched his teeth and offered a small prayer to Nemesis that the bastards kept on running.

  Another cheer went up and the forces of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions finally met on the bank, joining forces and turning the two expanding arcs into one great, solid line advancing over the grass on the disordered Belgae. Professionalism took over among the centurions and the desperately pushing line quickly reformed into a traditional legionary shield wall, supported by second, third and fourth lines, with more reserves falling into place and rapidly forming a fifth.

  This was starting to look like a proper battle now, rather than a mad advance, though only because the enemy were already trying to leave the field. A voice nearby called out his name and he turned to see Balbus, grinning, his forehead spattered with blood and, judging by the long cut close to his temple, much of it was his own. Fronto shook his head.

  “Quintus, you crazy bastard. Why are you at the front?”

  “Why are you?” the older man shouted back, laughing. Leaving command of the push to the centurions, Fronto and his fellow legate fell out of the line to the rear and stretched.

  “I saw Sabinus at the fort. He’s alright. I left Plancus with him, so the prat can’t do much harm.”

  Again, Balbus laughed.

  “I loved your swinging gate manoeuvre. My lads laughed like Bacchus when they saw all those flailing barbarians washing away underneath. I even saw one of the men pissing over the side of the bridge on them as they went past. Should have disciplined him, really, but to be honest, it was just too amusing!”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Let’s just hope this panic keeps up. If they realise they’re still more than five to our one, things could go very badly for us.”

  Balbus nodded, sobering up.

  “Best keep them running then.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Where’s your helmet?”

  “Bottom of the river, I think. Ah well. Cita owes me a few favours. I’ll get another one without going through the rigmarole.”

  “Sir?”

  Fronto and Balbus both instinctively turned. Behind them, Decius stood with three of his auxiliary officers.

  “I beg to report, sirs, that we are now out of range of the cowardly, spineless, piss-poor barbarians. I’ve ordered the auxiliaries across to the fort where we can keep up the good work from the walls and free up legate Sabinus to bring his legionaries into the fight.”

  Fronto’s grin widened.

  “Very good, Decius.” He turned to his fellow legate. “Balbus? You know Decius? He’s one of yours.”

  Balbus nodded uncertainly.

  “I’ve seen you around, prefect, yes. That’s some fine work today.”

>   “Thank you, sir.”

  He smiled and stretched wearily.

  “There’s more, though. From the hill we saw the standards of the legions behind the woodland to the left over there. Caesar should be here in about an hour and a half with the rest of the legions, but it looks like the rear of the Belgic army is already on the run. I doubt there’ll be many left here by the time the general arrives.”

  Balbus frowned.

  “Caesar wanted us to hold them here. Could be trouble in store.”

  Fronto ground his teeth.

  “I’m here to fight and to win. The only way they’ll stick with this now is if we start to pull back and hand them the advantage. I’m not going to do that, Balbus.”

  Smiling grimly, he took a firmer grip of his sword.

  “Coming?”

  The older legate flexed his hand several times. That finger he broke on Fronto’s nose still locked up painfully occasionally. He sighed, which turned into a smile, and then gripped his own blade.

  “Why not?”

  Chapter 10

  (Battlefield on the south bank of the Aisne River.)

  “Aurora: Roman Goddess of the dawn, sister of Sol and Luna.”

  “Cloaca Maxima: The great sewer of republican Rome that drained the forum into the Tiber.”

  Caesar, pale faced once again, pulled his horse ahead of the vanguard of officers.

  “Fronto? Where, pray, are the Belgae?”

  The blood-spattered legate, still gripping his sword, his helmet crest in disarray, smiled grimly and gestured all around him with a sweep of his arm. The general’s colour drained a little further.

  “Fronto! I wanted the Belgae trapped here. I wanted to wipe them out, for good.”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “With respect general, the only way we could have kept that many here is to let them carve us into new shapes. We were teetering on the edge of complete disaster and, frankly, I think it’s quite impressive, given the odds, that we pulled this off.”

  The general shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And now they’re south of the river, they’ve got free reign to attack our supply lines and destroy Remi lands!”

  Balbus shook his head.

  “I don’t believe so, Caesar. As they fled, they went west. They were trying to get far away from us and yourself. I think they’re following the river and trying to find a way to get back across and head north again.”

  Caesar grumbled.

  “And then the Belgae will fall back and regroup to face us again.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “A lot less of them, though. We won you a solid victory here, Caesar.”

  The general ground his teeth.

  “Trying to give you orders, Fronto, is like trying to nail a shadow to a wall!”

  The legate’s grin widened.

  “That was not meant to be funny!”

  Behind the general, Labienus cleared his throat and leaned forward over his horse’s neck.

  “Apologies for interrupting, Caesar, but I think we need to decide on a course of action quickly and worry about recriminations later. The Belgae are getting further away all the time, but they could stop and reform damned quickly.”

  The general let his stare of disapproval linger on Fronto a moment longer, and then straightened.

  “Quite right, Labienus. Send for my Belgic scouts. We need to infiltrate the fleeing mass and try to determine what their next move will be. But as soon as our scouts are with them, we’ll need to follow on and harry them. We certainly don’t want to give them time to reorganise themselves.”

  He climbed down from his steed and handed the reins to the nearest legionary.

  “For now, I shall return to my headquarters. Fronto? This is your mess. Kindly sort it out.”

  Fronto rolled his eyes and sighed as the general, with Labienus at his shoulder, made his way among the bodies to the bridge and back toward the huge camp on the hill.

  “Alright then.” Fronto gestured to a centurion he spotted nearby, who looked up in surprise.

  “I want those three temporary sling-bridges to be supported, strengthened and secured. We can’t guarantee that the Belgae won’t change their mind and come back for more, so I want movement of troops easy. Find some engineers and get it done.”

  Scanning the nearby ranks, he singled out another centurion.

  “We need to get these dead piled up and cremated. Two piles. One for Romans; one for the Belgae. No disrespect though; they may be barbarians, but they’re warriors who fought well and died in battle. Give everyone the same send-off. You’ll need to co-opt another century for the detail. There’s a lot of bodies.”

  The centurion saluted and cleared his throat. “And survivors and wounded among the enemy, sir?”

  Fronto nodded thoughtfully.

  “Medical care for those who can be saved. Round up the prisoners and put a guard on them… and do the same for any that are caught in the vicinity afterwards. At the very least, they’ll fetch a few coins for us in Rome.”

  Scratching his head, he looked up toward the legions that Caesar had led by his circuitous route and who, abandoned by their general and no longer required for battle, were standing awaiting further orders from the staff officers at their head. The familiar face of Gnaeus Priscus, primus pilus of the Tenth, grinned back at him from the ranks. Fronto raised his voice and pointed at his second in command.

  “Priscus! Get Pomponius out here.”

  There was a brief ruckus in the ranks of the tenth, and the young centurion and chief engineer of Fronto’s legion strode out to meet him.

  “Sir?”

  “Just on the offchance that the Belgae come back for more, I want the fort defences on this side of the river extended to form a long boundary. I’ll leave the details to you. Take as many men as you need.”

  Frowning at the assembled legions, standing quietly, he cleared his throat.

  “I want the Tenth to remain on this side of the river with the Thirteenth and Fourteenth and make camp once the bodies have been moved and the new defences built. While that’s happening, those of you who aren’t needed can go and break camp near Tetricus’ ditch and haul the gear back here. Priscus? When I’m not around, you come under Sabinus’ command.”

  The primus pilus nodded, eying the battle-worn Gaulish legions warily.

  Fronto turned and waved his arm at the assembled work parties.

  “Oh, and if you find a posh and probably dented officer’s helmet in the river, have it sent to legate Balbus!”

  There was a ripple of laughter and Fronto turned to his counterpart from the Eighth Legion.

  “Let’s go see if we can console the general. Our victory seems to have pissed him off a little.”

  Balbus nodded, but before turning to leave, he glanced across to see the Tenth legion going about their business, while Rufus and Crispus started moving the Ninth and Eleventh back toward the river crossings.

  “Balventius?”

  The primus pilus of the Eighth stepped out of the mass of officers.

  “Sir?”

  “Get the men back to camp. I have a feeling we’ll need to be rested shortly.”

  The scarred veteran barked out a harsh laugh.

  “I bloody hope so, sir. All this action and the veterans haven’t seen an inch of it yet!”

  Balbus grinned at his friend and second-in-command, before turning to leave the field with Fronto. As they approached the sturdy bridge, so recently a scene of such carnage, they spotted Sabinus leaning over the parapet and staring down into the water.

  “Mortal thoughts or some such?”

  The senior officer looked up in surprise.

  “Oh, hello, Fronto… Balbus. Just taking a moment to relax and breathe the air. Above the water’s the only place around here that doesn’t smell like dead meat. I don’t suppose either of you has a stock of wine with you?”

  Fronto grinned.

  “I can always find wine.”
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br />   “It’s true,” Balbus laughed. “He can feel when it’s nearby!”

  Fronto turned for a moment.

  “Hmm. I told Priscus he was under your command while I’m not there.” He shrugged. “Ah well. He knows what to do without us interfering.”

  He smiled at Sabinus.

  “When you roll down the hill later tonight back to your quarters, you’ll find I’ve left the Tenth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth all assigned to you. Don’t want a repeat performance, eh?”

  As the three men continued on along the bridge, Fronto spotted the Gaulish engineer, directing a small party of men strengthening the slung bridge supports.

  “Biorix?”

  The legionary saluted as he saw the three senior officers. Fronto fished in his pocket and placed half a dozen silver coins on the flat top of the end bridge pile.

  “When you’re done, use this to get wine for you and your lads. Well done.”

  Sabinus raised an eyebrow.

  “A Gaul? What did he do?”

  Fronto laughed.

  “He’s the one that managed to get us across the river in time to save your arse!”

  Sabinus smiled and, fishing in his own pocket, added another pile of coins to the top.

  “And when you’ve got drunk on Fronto,” he called out, “get drunk on me, my friend!”

  Biorix grinned and saluted once more before getting back to work. The officers strode on up the hill toward the camp.

  “At least you’ve given us an easy rear entrance now!” Sabinus laughed, pointing at the demolished camp rampart.

  The three men reached the top of the hill, climbed across the rampart amid the torn chunks of palisade and walked through the camp towards the officer’s section. Fronto patted Sabinus on the shoulder.

  “Go find my tent. There’s a jar in there and some of that bloody awful beer that Crispus likes. I’ve got to go and see Caesar, and then I’ll find more wine and join you.”