The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  (Battle of the Selle)

  “Pilus Prior: The most senior centurion of a cohort and one of the more senior in a legion.”

  Fronto grinned at Balbus and Crispus.

  “It’s stupid. It’s dangerous; even suicidal and totally stupid.”

  Balbus smiled at his friend.

  “You like it.”

  “You’re damn right I like it. We’ve got to do something to break this, or we’re going to end up just overwhelmed by sheer numbers.”

  He frowned.

  “Are you going to try the same thing?”

  Crispus shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. We’ve got the reserve force facing us as well. If we break the Viromandui, they’re going to turn and run straight into the Nervian reserves and then we’ll end up fighting both lots at once. We have to wait until you succeed, then you can get behind the reserves and we can push the Viromandui. If it all works we can end up surrounding them and pushing them into the river.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Then I’ll see you when it’s over.”

  As his two fellow legates turned and headed back toward their struggling legions, Fronto strode across to the small force of reserves from the Tenth who were standing tensely waiting to plug any desperate gaps.

  “Find the primus pilus and centurion Velius and tell them I need to speak to them immediately.”

  As men saluted and pushed off through the crowd to find the officers, Fronto spotted Labienus and waved to him. The commander strode over.

  “I was thinking perhaps I ought to be getting my hands dirty, Fronto, rather than standing here like a fifth wheel.”

  “I’ve a more important request for you. I’m about to do something suicidally reckless and you need to take command of the Tenth again for a while.”

  Labienus frowned.

  “What are you up to?”

  Fronto laughed. “I hate repeating myself, so I’ll wait until Priscus and Velius are here. I can see them coming now.”

  The two centurions pushed their way out of the press of men and marched up the gentle incline to the waiting officers. Fronto looked them up and down. Hardly an inch of them was not dented, dirty and covered in blood. Velius strode with his hands behind his back. Fronto frowned and, as the centurion came to a halt in front of him, he drew his hands out in front.

  “Can I give you a hand, sir?”

  Fronto and Labienus stared at the severed appendage in the grizzled veteran’s hand as Priscus exploded into laughter. Velius grinned and cast the article to the ground nearby before straightening to attention.

  Fronto sighed.

  “Your sense of humour leaves something to be desired, Velius. I’ve got a plan.”

  Priscus raised an eyebrow.

  “And naturally, whatever idiocy you have in mind includes us?”

  The legate nodded.

  “I’ve been speaking to Crispus and he’s come up with an idea. We can see the standard of the enemy. He says they’re the Atrebates on this flank. Don’t know how he knows that, but he does. There are three groups of standards out there, and that means their leaders are likely beneath those animal heads. We think that maybe, if we can wipe out their commanders, we can break their spirit and make them run. The standards are relatively close to our lines, so we’ll have to go straight head-on, rather than try to flank them and come from behind.”

  Priscus shook his head.

  “It’s bloody dangerous. It relies on men actually getting through the enemy, surviving long enough to kill what will likely be tough royal bodyguards, and then the Belgae actually being sensitive enough about it to run. Even if we succeed, it might just make them angrier.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “That is a possibility, as is death. But the thing is: we’re screwed anyway if we don’t do something. Three groups, each led by one of us, while Labienus takes over the Tenth.”

  The commander stared.

  “The whole reason we have a chain of command, Fronto, is so that vital officers can delegate this kind of thing to the people who are trained and paid to do it.”

  Fronto grinned.

  “There are precisely three people in the Tenth that I trust to pull off this kind of manoeuvre, and I am one of them.” He turned to the chief training officer of the legion. “I’d have liked to choose the most dangerous men we have, Velius, but there isn’t time. What do you think?”

  Velius shrugged.

  “Pick any century. They’re all full of madmen. You’re infectious, you know.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Then pick a century each. Velius, you take the standard on the far left; Priscus, the centre. I’ll take the right, as I want to signal Balbus and Crispus when we’re done.”

  Labienus shook his head.

  “You know this is mad, Fronto.”

  The legate nodded.

  “Mad and necessary. Have fun.”

  He turned and strode off to the right flank of the Tenth. Scanning up and down the ranks for a centurion, he spotted the familiar white hair of Lucretius wiping his brow, his helmet off. Lucretius’ century were in the rear line and currently unoccupied.

  “Lucretius!”

  The centurion turned and saluted, coming to attention.

  “You and your century want to join me on a suicide mission?”

  “Is that really a choice, sir?”

  Fronto laughed.

  “Not really. We’re going to break out of the line, make for the nearest enemy standard, and kill their leaders.”

  The centurion grinned.

  “That’ll shake ‘em, sir.”

  Without waiting for orders, he turned.

  “Sixth Cohort, First Century: Report to the rear!”

  The seventy or so remaining members of Lucretius’ century fell out of the line and assembled in formation and at attention in the open space of the camp’s interior. As they did so, Fronto strode to the rear line directly opposite the standard he could see wavering, bronze and shining, above the enemy, and accosted the closest legionary.

  “In a minute, the whole line will have to part to let a century through. We’re going to push out of the line. Pass the word down to be ready.”

  The soldier saluted and spoke hurriedly to the men around him, as Fronto turned back to the century behind him. Lucretius was standing to attention with his men.

  “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do” he announced. “The line’s going to open as we march through towards the front. As soon as we’re three men back from the enemy, I want the century to drop into testudo formation, four men wide. Lucretius and myself will take central positions at the front. The moment we’re in formation and the front line opens, I want a charge, maintaining that formation. We can’t afford to open any gaps, as we’ll be surrounded by the enemy. That means the rear will have to take position and walk backwards…”

  He gestured at the optio. “That’s your position. Bear in mind you’re going to have to charge backwards. Can you do it?”

  The optio shrugged.

  “Can’t guarantee the line will stay closed while we charge, sir. We’ll do our best, but I can guarantee that as soon as we slow to a march, any gap will close.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Do whatever you have to. They’re a dense mass, so they probably won’t have room to drop to the ground and attack under the shields. We just need to get there. Once we’re there we kill anyone well-dressed, armoured, or holding a standard. If we can do that, we form up and hold tight until the legion marches to meet us. If this works, Labienus will push the legion forward as soon as he sees the standards go down. If we’re lucky, we’ll still be alive when they get to us.”

  The soldiers of Lucretius’ century continued to stand, stony faced, not a single man showing a hint of fear. It always made Fronto proud to see the quality of his men.

  “Alright. Form up, four abreast.”

  He collected one of the spare shields from the armament piles behind t
he ranks of men, stepped next to the centurion and smiled.

  “See you in Elysium then, eh?”

  Lucretius nodded.

  “Hopefully a few years away, yet, sir.”

  Fronto gritted his teeth and raised the shield, drawing his sword.

  “Open ranks!” he called to the Tenth and the lines of men pulled aside like a tide retreating over wet sand, leaving a space for the column to march through. As the two officers led the column into the lines of legionaries, the discipline of the Roman military once more impressed itself on him. Row after row of densely-packed legionaries stepped aside and opened a path as they advanced forward through the ranks of the Tenth.

  After what seemed like an eternity of marching, Fronto saw the fighting ahead, the front ranks of his men lunging, stabbing and shield-barging; even head-butting where the opportunity presented itself. As he watched, lucky barbarian blows landed between the shields and figures fell, only to be replaced by a legionary from the rank behind, causing a line of men of that cohort to step one rank forward.

  And then there were so few men in front of him that he could see the contorted, hungry faces of the enemy as wool-clad or naked warriors swung with swords or stabbed with spears.

  “Testudo!”

  With a crash of shield upon shield, the century fell into formation, four shields forming a front wall, with each man along the side creating a solid shield wall down the side. Unusually for a testudo, there were not enough shields to create a complete roof, but this particular manoeuvre was unlikely to come under arrow fire. Fronto held his sword up and ready to shove through the narrow gaps afforded by the curvature of the shields.

  Suddenly the front ranks of the Tenth opened and Fronto found himself face to face with a screaming, naked, blue-painted Celt.

  “Charge!”

  The century, still in formation, picked up to a fast pace and slammed into the enemy who were trying desperately to make use of the sudden opening to break the shield wall.

  The sheer momentum of seventy heavily-armoured men running with shields to the front carried them into and through the first few ranks of the enemy, Belgic warriors staring in surprise and panic as they were quite literally battered to one side and ploughed out of the way.

  After a moment’s initial push, however, the pace of the testudo began to slow, as the momentum waned and the mass of enemy bodies around them increased. Now began the work that was the forte of the legion. As the testudo moved forward at a slow, heavy plod, Fronto began to lash out with his blade through the available narrow openings. He could barely see what he was attacking, his view was so restricted by the protective shields, but he felt the blade bite into flesh time and again.

  Slowly, pace by pace, the century moved on, deeper into the mass. Legionaries would be dying, he knew. They’d be lucky if they lived long enough to reach the standard, let alone kill the men around it. Of course, the discipline and training of the Roman military meant that each time a soldier fell, he would be replaced by his nearest compatriot. The testudo would gradually shrink as their numbers fell, but the wall of shields would close after each death.

  Fronto felt something clatter off his helmet. Damn, that was close.

  Behind him to the left there was a shriek and for just a moment he felt the ominous expanse of air where a man had been, and then a moment later another man was in that place and there was the reassuring ‘clunk’ of a replacement shield slotting into the gap.

  How long would this take? He couldn’t spare the time to look around and see how far they’d come and, even if he could, he wouldn’t have been able to see past the rows of legionaries with shields and the press of barbarian warriors beyond.

  He would…

  Suddenly the world next to him opened up to chaos. A well aimed blow had landed between the curved shields and had carved a great gouge in Lucretius’ face. The centurion was dead before his knees buckled and he hit the ground. Fronto and the other front man to his right swung their weapons like madmen to prevent the assailant from managing to pull apart their formation and then thankfully, suddenly, the soldier from the second row managed to step forward over the fallen officer’s body and slot his shield into place.

  Fronto grimaced. The loss of any man was always unfortunate, but the loss of a good veteran centurion was particularly lamentable, though common, given the impressive mortality rate among the centurionate.

  Suddenly, through the narrow gap between shields and over the heads of wild, screaming barbarians, Fronto saw a golden boar on a pole waving back and forth. They were almost there.

  “I see it lads! Push!”

  With renewed vigour, the depleted century barged and heaved their way forward through the enemies and suddenly Fronto found himself face-to-face with a man in a bronze breastplate and a strangely-horned helmet, screaming wilding and gesturing with his sword. The area around the leaders of the Atrebates was relatively open, giving them enough space to deal with the job of commanding their army, such as it was.

  “Now, lads!” he cried. “We’ve got ‘em. Open up and form a protective circle.”

  As Fronto moved his own shield to the side and prepared for straight combat, the remaining men of the century opened up behind him in a crescent, pushing their way in among the Atrebates’ command party while maintaining a curved line of shields against the rest of the enemy.

  Fronto kept his eyes on the nobleman or bodyguard or whatever he was, but cast a quick, satisfied glance past him to see that other men were already engaging another well-dressed man and the standard-bearer.

  The warrior, a bulging-eyed man with red cheeks and an impressive moustache, screamed violently and lunged with his sword, too restricted by the sudden press of Romans to make a good swing with it. Fronto threw the shield in the way and such was the power of the man’s blow that the blade tore through the shield and wedged in among the fractured wood and leather. Almost contemptuously, Fronto twisted the shield and ripped the sword from the surprised barbarian’s hand.

  As the man stared and then reached in a panic for the smaller blade at his belt, Fronto took the opportunity of an undefended opponent and lashed out twice, quickly, with his gladius. The first blow caught the man in the belly, the second in the arm as he spun. The chief or guard was as good as dead now. He’d certainly be dead within the hour at the latest, but this whole push was all about the look of things. The Belgae had to see their leaders die, ignominiously and in pain.

  Fronto stepped forward and towered over the slowly-collapsing man, raising his sword for a killing blow when a sudden explosion of white-hot pain in his left arm spun him around. A well-thrown spear had ripped through the protective layers at the top of his shield and had gone straight through his arm, breaking the bone in the process, and into his shoulder next to the armpit.

  It was a lucky blow for the victorious Celt but, really, luckier for Fronto. Three inches higher and it would have gone straight through his neck. Fronto winced and gritted his teeth, trying not to shout in pain. The command group of the Atrebates was gone, and the legionaries had formed into a protective circle around him and the three other soldiers that had dispatched the leaders and their companions.

  As he spun around in pain, he noted, even in his predicament, that the circle was tightening as the men created a solid shield wall against the enemy. Somewhere back at the Roman lines, the cornicens called the advance and a roar went up.

  Fronto dropped his gladius to the floor and reached round to grasp the spear just below the head. His mind was beginning to feel a little fuzzy. He made an unsuccessful attempt to pull out the spear and grunted in pain, collapsing to his knees. Suddenly, hands were helping him up.

  “Gettoff! Just get this bloody thing out of me.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” a legionary enquired quietly.

  “Get it out!”

  There was a commotion going on among the Atrebates and Fronto caught out of the corner of his eye the sight of pila arcing through the air and coming dow
n among the barbarians. He gritted his teeth and let out a whimper as two men pulled on the spear shaft and the blade came out of his shoulder with a ‘slurping’ sound, followed by a gobbet of blood.

  “Lie down, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the capsarius for this century and I know what I’m doing, sir. Lie down!”

  Fronto, starting to feel distinctly faint, collapsed to the floor, the jarring of the shield on his broken and impaled arm making him shriek.

  As soon as he was down, the medic picked up a heavy Belgic blade and took a swing downward, severing the spear shaft close to his arm. The shock that ran through Fronto drove him into immediate and blissful unconsciousness and he was still in the dark bosom of Morpheus while the Capsarius grasped the spear head and pulled the shaft through the arm, removed the shield and splinted and bound his legate.

  Around him, the defensive circle tightened again as the surviving eighteen men of the century tried to defend their position against an angry, but increasingly panicky enemy.

  * * * * *

  Labienus was close to the front of the charge. Whoever Fronto’s second most senior centurion was, the man had been adamant that Labienus should not be endangered and had argued him into staying in the third line. What was it with the Tenth? It was as though Fronto’s insolence and disobedience had spread like a disease through his men.

  After only half a minute’s argument it had become clear to Labienus that he was not going to win this argument, even if he ordered the man to stand aside.

  As soon as the call had gone up, every soldier who still had access to a pilum had cast it in a shower of deadly iron. The dismay at the death of their leaders and the capture of their standards was already shaking the morale of the Atrebates. The sudden horrifying rain of missiles caused an uproar and, by the time Labienus shouted the order and the Tenth began to push forward, the Ninth following suit on their left, panic was beginning to grip the this Belgic tribe.

  Like a slow tide, the Roman line moved through and over the enemy who tried to retreat for several minutes in an orderly fashion with a view to regrouping, before news reached the rear of the Celtic force that their leaders were dead, their standards gone, and they were now being pushed back.