The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  A flicker of movement caught his eye as he turned. He squinted into the woodland. There is was again. Just a little flash of movement back in the woods. No one would make anything of it. It could easily be an owl disturbed by the work; but Baculus had survived on the front line of more battles than he cared to remember and this was something wrong. Without waiting to confirm his suspicion, he swept his vine stick, cleared his throat and bellowed: “To arms! Rally to me!”

  Around the eaves of the woods, the men of the Twelfth, drilled almost obsessively under Galba’s command the preceding winter, reacted with perfect military precision. There was no panic; no shout of alarm. The men merely dropped the timber and rocks they were carrying and pushed their way through the woodland to get back to their centurion. Baculus nodded with satisfaction and, as his men began to congregate around him, squinted into the woods once more. This time he could see several signs of movement. And they were getting nearer. Blue. Blue meant Celts. Blue trousers… blue skin.

  “Form up on me!”

  He spotted the men coming out of the woods and did a rough head count. He could see around fifty or more men. Given that the century had been under strength for most of the year, he wasn’t missing many of his men.

  ”Can’t wait around for dawdlers, lads. As soon as everyone you can see is here and armed, we fall back to the legion; slowly and calmly, like… there’s rabbit holes and all sorts around here and one man falling could end it for all of us.”

  “What is it, sir?” a legionary asked. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Belgae, lad. And lots of ‘em. Back in the woods, but getting closer.”

  He glanced around at his men. The last stragglers, being hurried along by his optio, arrived and collected their swords and shields, tipping the piles of rocks off and to the ground.

  “Fall back at a slow march!”

  The First Century of the Twelfth Legion formed up in solid military fashion, and began to step slowly back toward the defences, a couple of hundred yards behind. As they passed from under the last foliage and out into the open, the first of the Nervii burst forth from the deep woodland. Behind him, Baculus could hear the cries to arms going up around the camp. It could be that the Twelfth had seen the century in full kit backing away from the trees, but it was much more likely, given that a large group of Belgae were rushing forward from these woods, that there were many more around the battlefield. This could be trouble.

  As they moved carefully back across the open ground, a veritable sea of Celtic warriors poured forth from the woods.

  “Double pace now, lads.”

  As the unit backed rapidly across the open ground, Baculus risked a moment to glance around and take in the entire situation. They would make it to the lines before the Nervii reached them, but only just. There must be thousands upon thousands of the bastards in these woods, so the camp construction would have to be abandoned. They couldn’t hope for relief from the two Gaulish legions either… they wouldn’t get here for a while yet. There’d be no help from the other four legions or the cavalry either. From his good position on the slope, Baculus could see the enemy pouring out of the woods opposite where they’d keep Priscus and Grattius’ legions busy. And the cavalry had gone. There were thousands more barbarians pouring down that slope to cross the river and keep the other two legions busy. The Twelfth were screwed; on their own.

  A momentary glance and he realised that one of the larger groups of Nervii were making for the near end of the baggage train as they were being settled at the top end of the incomplete camp. Nothing he could do about that. Have to leave that to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth when they arrived and hope there was some baggage left.

  The Twelfth had re-armed, but the units had become shuffled and mixed as the men had worked hurriedly, taking any position where a task needed to be done. Now they were rushing around trying to locate the standards of their unit in the mass of men. Baculus growled and took a deep breath, bellowing loud enough to be heard all along the rampart.

  “Forget finding your own units. Fall in to the nearest standard and form up!”

  On the embankment, he heard legate Galba echoing the command to the men. Not a bad leader, the legate. A bit fanciful, as they all were, but sensible and with enough brains to defer to his centurions when need be. He was grateful, as the First Century finally neared the Roman line, with thousands of screaming Nervii hot on their track, that the legate had had enough foresight to open up a space in the lines for Baculus and his men to fall into.

  He could almost smell the breath of the fetid bastards as he reached the embankment and rejoined the Roman line. He cursed for a moment. He’d been so damn busy making sure his men were prepared, re-armed and observed military etiquette, that he’d not had time to find his own sword and shield. Idiot. They were lying in the eaves of the wood back there.

  With a growl, he looked down at his hands and frowned. He gave the vine staff an experimental swish, shook his head sadly, and threw it on the ground, hefting the heavy dolabra in both hands, trying to decide whether the Nervii would enjoy the pointed side or the wedged blade side most.

  And suddenly the Nervii were on them. They travelled with more speed than the Roman legions, most of them unencumbered by armour and, a surprising number, even by clothes. Jabbing with long spears or swinging large blades, they rushed the shield wall of the Twelfth.

  “Hold the line!” Baculus yelled.

  Suddenly the world around him exploded into action and noise, Nervian warriors stabbing and hacking, trying to land killing blows between and around the shields of the defenders, while the legionaries, fighting alongside men they hardly knew from other units under unfamiliar standards, held the line like the consummate professionals they were.

  Suddenly, in a series of events that lasted mere seconds, the attacking mass of the Nervii opened up just to Baculus’ left and, in the narrow space this afforded, a naked man, armed with two wicked looking knives ran forward and leapt onto the legionary to his left. The barbarian was dead moments after he landed and before even the gap in the Nervii had closed, but his plan had already worked. Though the legionary who was the target of his insane attack dispatched the blue-painted warrior as he scrabbled at the shield, the man had driven his two blades deep into the leather and wood and, as he died, still gripping the knives, the sheer weight of the body tore the shield from the soldier’s grasp.

  This gap in the wall became the sudden focus of dozens of Nervian warriors, who leapt into the fray, trying to kill the man and, more particularly, the centurion next to him. Spears jabbed and blades flashed as the legionary desperately tried to turn the attacking weapons aside with his sword. A spear thrust caught him in the shoulder and pushed him back. Baculus growled once again.

  “Reform the line!”

  As his order was carried out, the wounded man being hauled back through the line and the second row of men inching forward to try and reform the wall, Baculus stepped out in front of his men. The sheer audacity of the move, walking out from the defensive line without even a shield or sword, took the Nervii by surprise enough that a small circle opened up round him.

  “Right, you fatherless sons of whores… who’s first?”

  A laugh went up behind him as the line solidified and the wounded man was removed from combat during the brief pause in fighting afforded by Baculus’ surprising act. The Nervii jostled for position, all tensing ready to attack this madman, but none of them quite willing to be the first to try.

  Baculus grinned and hefted his dolabra.

  “My turn, then.”

  Lifting the heavy multi-purpose tool above his left shoulder, he gave it an almighty swing, blade-edge first. The close press of the Belgae meant that none of them had time to duck back out of the way and the powerful swing smashed through arms, faces and weapons in a complete arc, Baculus being almost unable to stop the weapon, such was the momentum.

  A noise went up through the warriors that was half groan of dismay and half
howl of fury. Six barbarians collapsed in the front row, clutching broken wrists or hands or dead on their feet with shattered skulls.

  Baculus had expected them now to close in and take him but, to his astonishment, the circle around him widened. That wouldn’t last long though, and he was an easy target out here at the front. Sure enough, the mood among the enemy changed rapidly and a spear thrust from the crowd caused him to lurch to one side or risk a head wound.

  “That the best you’ve got?”

  He raised the dolabra over his right shoulder to swing and the warriors pressed back again away from this insane Roman. He let loose and took another swipe with the edge of the weapon, this time extending his arm as far as he could. The tool curved round in a wide, unstoppable arc, smashing more heads and limbs. A roar went up from the enemy and finally they pressed forward to kill him, trampling the latest half dozen victims who were still collapsing.

  A sword thrust pierced his side below the armpit and he winced for a moment as the iron pushed through his muscle and grated along his ribs. With a growl, he let the dolabra drop and grasped the hilt of the blade, wrenching it back out of his flesh. The warrior whose sword it was blinked in surprise as the apparently immortal Roman officer pulled the hilt from his hand and, with an almost negligent flick cast the heavy blade vertically into the air, catching it by the handle as it swung around and then hefting it professionally, backing away from the thrusting spears towards the line of his men.

  With a grin of malice, he swung the great blade, taking out two more of the Nervii, as the shield wall behind him opened up and he was pulled back into the safety of the legion. Every time he took a deep, ragged breath, the pain in his ribs ripped through him like fire and he struggled for a moment to deliver commands before giving up and allowing the men to ferry him through the lines to the rear.

  Legate Galba shook his head in wonder as the optio in the rear line helped the wounded centurion from the mass of men and then turned back to his work. There was a huge rent in the chainmail and leather armour at the man’s side and gouts of blood were issuing from it.

  “Centurion Baculus, I don’t know whether to congratulate you or have your mind looked at. That was unbelievable.”

  Baculus grunted.

  “It’s like fighting a bunch of girls, sir.”

  He turned and looked up and down the line. The Twelfth was holding well, but the pressure was increasing and the numbers of the enemy were a little discouraging from this vantage point on the slope.

  “I see there’s some trouble up by the standard of the Firth Cohort. Regards, sir, and I’ll be off.”

  Galba stared at him.

  “You’re bleeding to death, Baculus. You’re done for now… get to the surgeon.”

  “Bugger the surgeon, sir.”

  With a salute and without waiting for Galba’s flapping mouth to make a sound, the primus pilus turned and strode off toward the wavering standard, pausing further down to collect a sword and shield that lay unclaimed on the grass. Galba shook his head and beckoned to one of the Capsarii who waited at the rear to deal with minor wounds.

  “Follow the centurion and when he stands still long enough, stitch that wound of his up. He might not stop, but I’d like to stop him bleeding to death in the meantime.”

  The capsarius saluted and ran off after Baculus.

  Galba frowned and shook his head yet again. This was starting to look a little dangerous. He could only hope the other legions were bearing up as well as his own, or better. He scanned the lines for his commander and spotted Caesar alongside Cicero and Pedius, remaining back from the line of combat and in deep conversation. For a moment he considered joining them, but truly, he had his own problems.

  * * * * *

  Fronto watched the screaming tribesmen running from the eaves of the wood to the west. He’d been quite lucky really. He’d been in a position to view the disaster that had befallen Varus and the cavalry on the north bank and, the very moment he saw the Belgae pouring out of those woods and down toward the river and the working legions opposite, he’d known damn well there would be more on this side waiting to close the trap.

  He’d run back to the wall, yelling ‘to arms’, much to the surprise of the other officers of both the Tenth and the Ninth. Soldiers were retrieving weapons and shields before their centurions could issue further commands and, by the time the first warrior had left the shelter of the trees, the Ninth and Tenth were formed up on the partially constructed rampart, fully equipped and ready in a shield wall.

  Good job, really, given how many of the bastards there were. Fronto glanced around at the situation and shook his head, then turned to Labienus.

  “We’ve got it best, really. There’s more of them heading for the centre than here and the Twelfth’s on their own on the other wing. I just hope the wagons get settled in quickly so that the Thirteenth and Fourteenth can support us…”

  His voice tailed off.

  “The wagons.”

  Labienus shrugged.

  “They won’t be trying for the wagons. There’s no point at this stage.”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “I know, but there’s more. Look!”

  He pointed to the higher end of the slope, where the wagons were arriving, now hurrying as fast as they could to get into position in the camp, safe behind the legions. Labienus followed his gaze and noticed with dismay further groups of Belgae beyond the camp’s defences, heading down toward the staging area where the wagons were gathering at the planned south gate of the camp. The number of warriors in that attack was smaller, but they were coming from both sides and converging on the wagons, which were undefended and behind the main fight.

  “What the hell are they doing? The wagons are immaterial right now.”

  Fronto shook his head more irritably.

  Clever little sods aren’t after the wagons. They know that’s where the command party was. Blood good job you all split up among the legions. You’d all be dead before we could get to you.”

  Labienus nodded, staring.

  “How do they come up with such things? None of the other Belgae seem to have been half as prepared.”

  Fronto growled.

  “Galronus said the Atrebates, the Aduatuci and the Nervii were the ones to watch. He was bloody right.”

  He frowned and rubbed his temple.

  “Someone’s got to deal with them. Can you take command here? Lead the Tenth?”

  Labienus nodded. “Of course, but what will you do?”

  Fronto smiled.

  “I’m going to take the Sixth Cohort only and go save the wagons and guard our rear.”

  Labienus shrugged.

  “Sounds dangerous, but good luck.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Titus, we’re in the middle of a battle. Danger’s kind of the norm, don’t you think?”

  He scoured the rear ranks of the Tenth and spotted their chief centurion.

  “Lucretius? Call your cohort to order and follow me!”

  The centurion, a veteran with snowy-white hair that made him look considerably older than he truly was, saluted, and began shouting orders to his subordinates. Moments later, he strode back from the assembling cohort.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  Fronto pointed up the hill to where the enemy were already now converged on the carts, which had come to a stop, the column being held up by the attack.

  “Trouble with the wagons. We’re going to save the day, as usual, Lucretius.”

  The centurion nodded and turned to his men.

  “At the double-time, to the wagons! Prepare to charge on arrival!”

  Fronto smiled and drew his sword. As the legionaries began to half-march, half-run towards the wagons, he fell in beside them. He and Lucretius picked up their pace to reach the front of the relief column as they ran. The centurion grinned at his commander.

  “Did you know that the soldiers think you actually look for trouble to get involved in, sir?”
<
br />   Fronto laughed.

  “It’s not a long way from the truth, Lucretius.”

  As they closed on the enemy, they could see in much more detail what was happening. Two columns, each of perhaps seven or eight hundred warriors, had broken cover after the main attack and made straight for where they assumed the staff officers to be. Having arrived, they had either discovered their error and decided to attack the wagons instead or, more likely, had not yet discovered, in the large staging area of wagons and riders, that the command unit were not present.

  Next to Fronto, Lucretius bellowed “Attack!”

  The cohort roared as they swept past the officers. Fronto was momentarily taken aback, expecting the traditional slowly advancing shield wall. But then, Lucretius was right. Adapting to the situation, a shield wall would be no good here as the warriors swarmed around and over the wagons, killing their drivers and the oxen drawing the vehicles.

  Taking a deep breath and raising his shield protectively, Fronto shouted a quick prayer to Nemesis and, aiming for the nearest wagon’s assailants, ran forward.

  There was no strategy to the attack. As men to both left and right struggled, the result was, for Fronto, a foregone conclusion. There were maybe fifteen hundred Belgae here, but there were five hundred Romans, and they were more disciplined and better equipped.

  Fronto reached the wagon and saw a Nervian warrior with a spear thrusting up at the rider, who was squirming in his seat, trying to avoid the vicious point. The legate ran up behind the attacker and drove his gladius to the hilt in the man’s back just below the right shoulder blade. The body went limp and fell to one side. As it did, Fronto juggled his sword into his shield hand and grabbed the falling spear. With a grin, he passed it up to the wagon driver.

  “Pick a few off!”

  The man grasped the spear gratefully and began to thrust down with it into the warriors at the far side as Fronto returned his sword to the correct hand. There was a noise behind him, just a faint grunt, and pure instinct led the legate to duck to the left and spin. As he did so, the warrior that had been closing behind him thrust out his sword into the empty air where, a moment earlier, Fronto’s kidney had been.