The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Jogging down the hill, his mind still hazy and pained, he fixed on the dragon standard of Galronus of the Remi. Thank Mars… a familiar sight. He ran on and, as he approached, the auxiliary officer hauled on his reins to control his prancing mare.

  “Sir?”

  Varus coughed with the effort of his run.

  “We need to do something; need to give Fronto time to get the fort built, and I want to see what the Nervii are up to behind that crest.”

  Galronus nodded uncertainly.

  “More traps yet? We attack, we die?”

  Varus shook his head.

  “They’ve used up their traps. If they had anything else, they’d have used it by now. They’re planning something and we can’t give them time to carry it out. Fronto’s got to get that camp built. Sound the rally. Get all surviving units back here and formed up. You!”

  He gestured at the nearest regular cavalryman.

  “Sir?”

  “Go help Fronto with the camp. I need a horse.”

  The man looked uncertain for a moment and then nodded, dismounting. As Varus vaulted into the saddle, the trooper ran back down the hill and waded into the water, relief now flooding over him that he wouldn’t have to try that ascent again.

  As the cavalry units formed up on the call, Varus sat tall in his saddle.

  “I know no one’s very keen to try that again, but we need to give the legions time to set up the defences. So… we’re going to charge, but we’re going to do it like this: Two columns, five riders across. The only place we know there aren’t pits are where the logs rolled down, so we’ll use those paths as a guide. We charge up those narrow corridors and then, once we’re ten yards from the enemy, separate out one horse width and allow the second row to filter in so that we become a ten-man front. Watch out for those spears though. They’re deadly with them. So hang your sword on the saddle horn and go in with your own spears. Anyone who’s no longer got their spear, take rear positions in the formation. Use the spears and try and pick them off without getting too close. Once we’ve taken down the front spearmen, you can draw your swords and go crazy. Alright?”

  There was an affirmative shout around him. The atmosphere was aggressive. While nobody relished the thought of that charge once again, the general anger over the Roman losses was fuelling the need for revenge.

  “But don’t get carried away. Listen out for the call from your cornicen. The fall back will be given either when Fronto gives the signal that he’s sorted or we are so deep in the shit we have to. Be heroes, but not suicidal ones.”

  * * * * *

  Fronto gave the cornicen a nod as the Tenth descended the slope to the river Selle. The engineers that had been sent out with the advance party of scouts had already placed poles with flags to mark the positions of the wall corners, along with the gates and, as the musician blew out the orders, the Tenth at the front of the column dispersed as they arrived on site and moved left to take position on the western perimeter where the professionalism of the Roman army took over. The engineers dropped their shield and pilum somewhere easily retrievable and began to mark out the edge of the rampart and ditch with string, while their assistants ran along the lines with groma setting new flags to mark drainage culverts and so on.

  Even before the lines were measured, the ordinary soldiers collected their dolabra from their pack and began to dig the ditch in positions where they knew it to be without markings, and to pile the excavated earth behind on the line of the future rampart.

  By the time the Eighth Legion began to arrive on the scene, the Tenth were already at work on the western ditch. At a second series of calls from Balbus’ command, the Eighth marched straight ahead and began to work on the northern line. More calls could be heard over the next few minutes as the other legions gradually arrived on the scene. The Ninth flanked Fronto on the western wall, curving round to the south. The Eleventh joined Balbus to deal with the north, the most important line, facing the enemy. Finally, the Twelfth appeared to deal with the eastern rampart.

  The section toward the enemy would be completed first. By the time the baggage train and then the Thirteenth and Fourteenth arrived, most of the work would be complete.

  Fronto watched for a while with a professional and marginally-interested eye. It was always fascinating in a way to watch engineers at work, no matter how many times you’d seen them do this before. But right here and right now, Fronto felt about as useful as a eunuch at a Bacchanalia. A legate’s duty was to set the overall orders for his legion. Once it came down to carrying out those orders, the centurionate took over and all he had to do was stand around and look pretty. Well he knew he didn’t look particularly pretty, so it was time to find something useful to do.

  He turned to Labienus, who was examining the ground across the site.

  “Can you take charge here?”

  “Take charge of what?” laughed the staff officer. “I’m about as important as you right now.”

  Smiling, Fronto turned and strode out toward the water, ahead of the works. Assuming things were proceeding according to plan, he’d concentrated on the Tenth and had barely glanced across the river. Now though…

  “Oh shit!”

  He turned and pushed his way back past the surprised legionaries, hacking away at the ground and already making their mark, a foot-deep, three foot wide trench opening up along the northern and western lines. He spotted Labienus and Brutus deep in conversation.

  “Varus has hit trouble!”

  The two men turned and squinted past the works. The slope was too gentle for them to easily see over the heads of hundreds of working legionaries.

  “Can’t see. What’s happened?”

  “He’s in the deepest of shit.”

  Brutus frowned.

  “Do we mobilise the legions?”

  “No.” Fronto frowned. “We need to get the camp built as soon as possible. I’ll deal with it.”

  Running along the line of the ditch past surprised legionaries, he finally spotted what he was looking for: a whole group of white-garbed men standing around, looking bored. The auxiliaries had no place in the construction of a camp and were in position on the periphery, not on guard so much as keeping out of the way.

  “You!”

  Fronto ran up to the nearest man, a Numidian archer.

  “Sir?” the man replied in heavy-accented Latin.

  “Go and tell every auxiliary archer officer you can find that legate Fronto needs them down by the water.”

  The man looked nonplussed for a moment and then saluted, turned, and ran off. Scanning the group, the legate spotted prefect Galeo tapping his fingers on his sword hilt irritably.

  “Bored, Galeo?”

  The prefect turned and smiled when he saw Fronto. He opened his mouth to reply, but Fronto beckoned.

  “Got a job for your lads. Come with me.”

  As Galeo gave the order, he ran to join Fronto who was already jogging back down the slope. Moments later the archers were catching them up. One of the benefits of light, unarmoured auxiliaries was the speed with which they moved. Fronto stopped just outside the line of working men and pointed.

  On the opposite hill, carnage was taking place. As Galeo followed his gaze, he saw a great tree trunk descend, flattening everything it rolled across, wiping out a group of panicking cavalry and then disappearing into the river with a splash.

  “Where do you need to be to reach them?”

  Galeo shrugged.

  “We can hit them from near bank.”

  “Then do it!”

  As the prefect ran forward with his men, who began to stretch strings and release deadly missiles high across the opposite slope, Fronto turned and looked back and forth between the camp and the cavalry mess. Several of their shots were striking home at the Belgae, and the threat alone seemed to be making the enemy pull back to their initial line.

  “Sir?”

  He turned to see Decius approaching with his archers. Other units were pouring
through the lines of legionary workers.

  “Get your men to the bank and concentrate your fire on anywhere the Nervii are looking like they’re about to break.”

  The prefect nodded.

  As he turned back to the works, other prefects rushed past with their units. There was no need for further commands. The officers could see where they were needed.

  Fronto grumbled under his breath. Pit traps, rolling logs, disciplined lines. These were not simple barbarians. These bastards had tactics. Possibly they’d even learned from what the Romans had done to the Belgae at Bibrax? He’d had a feeling of foreboding about today and now it was being borne out. Just from an initial glance across the river, he guessed that Caesar had lost a quarter of his cavalry in one horrible minute. Bloody ridiculous. And they’d hardly seen any of the enemy yet. There were maybe five hundred men on that ridge. And no standards or chieftains.

  Turning to the men working behind him, he spotted Pomponius, measuring something incomprehensible.

  “How long ‘til the basic defences can be up?”

  Pomponius looked up in surprise.

  “I’d say about thirty minutes, sir. It’s an enormous camp, but there’s five legions working on it.”

  “I have a feeling it’s going to be a close thing at best.”

  * * * * *

  Paetus smiled as he adjusted the strange, yet surprisingly comfortable bronze helmet on his head and re-slung the extremely heavy Gallic blade at his side. He had asked for armour and been laughed at. Only the nobles got armour, apparently. Not the ordinary warriors. In fact, as he’d learned in the days leading up to this, their warriors often went into battle naked as the day they were born, save the whorls and swirls and other marks they daubed on their skin.

  He drew breath sharply as one of his many now-healing knife wounds caught uncomfortably with his baldric. He’d assumed they were trying to frighten him by telling him they would put him in the front line of the attack, but here he was, hiding beneath the eaves of the wood, surrounded by thousands of smelly, sweaty, often disturbingly naked, Nervii. He had learned since receiving the ‘trust’, such as it was, of the chieftains that the Aduatuci were due to join them but were late and may not make it here before the Romans. He looked up at the sun. Too damn late now, for certain.

  The cavalry had already met with the Viromandui and the Atrebates on the hill and Paetus’ carefully-worked surprises had devastated the initial Roman charge. Well, they’d met the visible Viromandui and Atrebates, anyway.

  But the Nervii lay waiting to spring his main trap.

  For a long moment, Paetus paused. He was a Roman, though dressed and armed like this few would realise it. It was his duty and pride to march, and fight, with the legions and yet here he was, about to bring about their downfall; cause the vicious deaths of thousands of soldiers and all in the name of… no. Not in the name of revenge, he reminded himself… in the name of justice, and that was what Rome should stand for!

  I could call off the attack. One shout and I could save the legions and ruin the Nervii.

  Just one shout.

  But that would save Gaius Julius Caesar too.

  * * * * *

  Varus nodded in satisfaction. The second charge had been what he’d hoped for the first time. The two columns of cavalry bellowed up the safe zone where the logs had rolled down and met the forces of the Belgae just below the crest, engaging in careful, spear-thrusting combat. Once in combat, the two forces expanded out sideways to meet up, creating one heavy front again the barbarians. And then the most unexpected and peculiar thing happened.

  The Belgae on the ridge dropped their spears, turned and fled. Around him, riders cried out in triumph and raced over the summit, the officers yelling encouragement. But Varus paused. Something wasn’t right here. These men wouldn’t flee. Not after what they’d managed to do. They knew damn well they could crush the cavalry if they worked it well.

  Varus’s eyes bulged.

  “Retreat!”

  He tried to locate the cornicen but the man had joined a group heading over the crest. Once more he yelled for a retreat at the top of his voice, but the triumphant cries of the men and officers drowned him out and only a few surprised troopers nearby heard him.

  “For the love of Mars, retreat!”

  His heart thumping, he carefully edged his mount up so he could see over the crest in the bare area between the woodlands. His men were chasing down the fleeing thousand or so infantry from the ridge, but there was no one else there. Where was the army of a hundred thousand or more?

  “Oh no…”

  Guttural cries all around and behind him filled him with dread and he stared. Large groups of Belgae came running out of the woods to either side, carrying something. Each group bore between them, sweating and cursing, a fence or screen made of sharpened stakes, tightly bound together, almost like a caltrop that was six feet high and twelve long. As he desperately wheeled his horse in panic, the Belgae began to drop their horrible screens into lines, creating one long defence that would clearly prevent the cavalry from returning to the battle.

  “Rally! To the camp!”

  As the few hundred men he could see turned and rode back downhill, Varus scrunched up his eyes and let out a string of violent expletives. This was the problem with using Gallic auxiliary cavalry. No matter how much you tried to drill legionary discipline into them, they still had that mad Celtic need to go racing into battle and run after glory and victory. That was why most of the few regulars were still here with him and hadn’t crossed the summit alongside the auxilia.

  Well, the cavalry were lost to him for now. Thousands of men were cut off and it would be some time before any of them managed to get back. If the Belgae had planned this much, damn certain that they’d made sure all easy routes of return were sealed.

  As his mind raced, he heard a roar and his bones filled with cold dread. The copses and areas of woodland around the hilltop hadn’t just been home to a few careful surprises… they’d harboured to the whole bloody Belgic army. What the scouts had deemed impenetrable woodland had apparently been cleared of undergrowth and had hidden thousands of warriors. From either side of him, a sea of Belgae swarmed out from the eaves and thundered down the hill towards the river.

  Fronto would never have time to finish. The legions were lucky, in fact, that he’d suggested they worked in their armour, for they’d only have time to grab their weapons and shields and then this mass of men would be on them. ‘Hell, I hope Fronto’s seen them.’

  He squinted across the shallow river valley to the camp workings.

  “Oh hell, no!”

  The legions were clearly aware of the danger and were already grasping weapons and dropping their entrenching equipment, but that wouldn’t save them. Already the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth were getting into position where they had been working, but the Eleventh and Twelfth were a different matter, and had only just begun their work.

  Beyond them, the lines of wagons were slowly appearing over the crest of the hill and somewhere far behind them were the other two legions.

  But what filled him with dread was the sight of other huge groups of Belgae rushing out of the trees to either side of the camp; trees that had been swept only a few hours ago by scouts and deemed impossible to hide men in due to the deep undergrowth.

  Either the scouts had been horribly mistaken or the Belgae had worked damn quick.

  Varus smashed his fist on his pommel in anguish. He was being ignored by the attackers pouring down the hill between him and the river. He and his few remaining companions presented no great threat, but that huge charging force of Belgae now stood between him and the rest of the army.

  Chapter 15

  (Construction site by the river Selle)

  “Corona: Lit: ‘Crowns’. Awards given to military officers. The Corona Muralis and Castrensis were awards for storming enemy walls, while the Aurea was for an outstanding single combat.”

  Publius Sextius Baculus, veter
an of four great campaigns, recipient of the corona castrensis, the corona aurea and the corona muralis and Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, spat on the floor and lifted his vine staff, bringing it down on the back of the legionary’s legs, hard enough to leave a stinging pain but no damage. The centurion smiled grimly. The lad should be grateful he didn’t use the other arm; there was a dolabra in that one!

  “Every rock you drop slows the camp down, so every rock you drop gets you another belt!”

  The legionary bit his tongue to prevent himself yelping, saluted hurriedly and collected the large fallen rock. Baculus, never entirely trusting any other man to do the job correctly, had taken charge of the procurement party from the Twelfth himself.

  A century of men, his century no less, had split off as soon as they arrived on site and left the rest of the legion digging and heaving sods of earth, while they moved hurriedly to the eaves of the nearby woodland to collect supplies.

  Fifty or sixty of his men, under the control of his optio, had begun cutting poles and stakes to supplement those that would be arriving in the wagons shortly; were probably being unloaded as he pondered, in fact. He could see pairs of men now, carrying heavy lengths of timber between them and heading back towards the camp.

  The rest were gathering rocks the size of a man’s head and piling them up on shields to carry back. The rocks would be utilised to line drainage culverts in the rampart and various other sundry uses.

  He smiled again. Last time they’d made camp, he’d left the job to one of his junior centurions and they’d brought back what looked like saplings and gravel. Never delegate something important, as he always said.

  He scanned the woodland and nodded with satisfaction as he saw men carrying boulders back toward the heaps nearby.