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Lucterius of the Cadurci clung tight to his reins, urging on his horse to an even greater turn of speed. It had quickly become apparent, as he had stood at the walls of Alesia with his best warriors, that the plain was the only option for a breakout, despite the concentration of forces there. No sensible cavalry commander would try and take his force north, south, or east, for the hills they would have to cross were high and surmounted by fortifying legions. The horses would be too slowed by the gradient to present a show of strength at the top. And the two river valleys that ran northeast and southeast were too narrow for comfort. If the Romans had already set defences there - which any sensible besieger would - then they would be riding into almost certain death.
That had left the plain which, at almost three miles in length, was good ground for cavalry, and a little careful observation had easily picked out the weakest point. Here at the centre, perhaps two cohorts of men worked at digging a trench, the bulk of the forces concentrating on the main camp to the north end of the plain and the area below it.
The hooves of the seven hundred beasts conveying his force thundered down the lowest slopes, every man keeping their silence. It seemed odd, at least for the Cadurci among them, to be riding into a fight without their traditional whooping war cries, but their hope of overcoming the encircling forces relied as much on surprise as it did on strength. They had lost only a dozen or so men on the horrific, helter-skelter plunge down the steep hillside. Maybe a score. Astounding, really, considering the terrain in the dark.
Ahead, on the plain, the legions were now beginning to spot something happening. The odd native horsemen stationed around the place as scouts had noticed the force sweeping down the slope towards them. A horn blew to warn the Romans. Too late, thought Lucterius with a savage grin.
His horse was the first to reach the enemy, as was appropriate for a respected war leader, and his steed easily leapt the four foot ditch and the panicked legionary busy with his pick, tearing out chunks to deepen the defences. The mound behind it, made with the spoil from the ditch, was no more than three feet high yet - nowhere near enough to deter Lucterius’ forces.
His arm came out and back while his horse jumped and he swept it forward as a legionary rose from his digging, trying to present his tool as a defensive weapon to parry the blow. The long blade, its edge honed sharp for just such cavalry manoeuvres where thrusting was useless and backed by immense momentum, carved straight through the man’s arm as though it were naught more than butter, on and into his neck, where it bit deep, severing arteries and muscles and tendons. He felt the familiar tug as the dying body clung on to the blade wedged in it, but with a twist of the elbow, Lucterius changed his sword’s angle and it ripped out, already held to the rear and ready to sweep for another kill.
The Cadurci chieftain realised he was laughing maniacally, and had to force himself to remember that this was not a cavalry charge into battle. He was not here to maim and kill Romans. He was here to make it to freedom and carry the urgent request for reinforcements. His men seemed to be suffering a similar urge to kill. The first few men who had touched turf behind the defences alongside him had actually reined in their beasts and were busy laying about them with their blades, cutting down exhausted Romans.
More were arriving in the oppressive darkness and taking to the battle with glee.
There were so few enemies here really - just a few tired engineers building a wall. Perhaps he could allow his men the freedom to spend their time killing Romans for a few moments before they made for the south-western horizon?
No. This was no time to indulge their whims. Time now to get the Arvernian king’s message to the gathering at Bibracte. The army was relying on them, and Lucterius was once more a respected figure among them. He would not risk failure and ignominy again.
Turning, he spotted his standards - two men bearing the boar and the dragon - and near them the man with the horn on a strap round his neck. ‘Sound the signal to move out. This is not a fight, but a break out.’
As the three men did so Lucterius defied his own orders, aware that it would take a number of heartbeats yet for his entire force to cross the ditch and rampart, and devoting the time as he watched them jump down onto the flat turf to unleashing his fury upon the poorly-armed Romans. They had been digging, not preparing for the fight, and only one man in four was armoured and had kept his shield, most of them labouring away in just their russet tunics and unarmed apart from their tools. With a snarl of pure hatred, Lucterius hacked down with his gleaming, red-stained blade, cleaving through tunics, skin and muscle again and again, killing men with wild abandon.
Nearby, one of the enemy scouts - possibly Remi, certainly of some Belgic tribe - levelled a spear and charged across at him. Lucterius wheeled his horse to present his shield to the man, hefting his blade ready. The Belgian was good. His spear changed angle, and Lucterius had to adjust again and again as they closed until, with a crash, the spear slammed into his shield, ripping deep and splintering near the head.
Before the man could recover himself, Lucterius swept his sword down, carving off the rest of the spear and leaving the man with only a jagged two-foot stump. Turning his horse again, the Cadurci chieftain pulled back his blade to deliver a killing blow, but the Belgic scout was better even than he’d realised, and the man lunged forward in his saddle, his grip changing on the spear as he did so. Even as Lucterius’ blade managed a glancing blow that tore the mail shoulder-doubling from the main’s armour, the scout slammed the broken shaft deep into his thigh muscle, ravaged point first.
Lucterius bellowed his pain, drawing startled attention from all around him as the scout reached down, trying to draw his sword with a shoulder badly bruised from the previous blow. His eyes watering from the pain, Lucterius pushed his beast forwards with his knees, pumping blood out from his leg around the jutting wooden shaft, and hacked down again. His blow was well-aimed, brought down at the same point as his previous strike that had ruined the man’s mail shirt. The sword’s edge bit down into the angle of the Belgian’s neck and shoulder, sending shattered iron links showering up into the air and delivering a crippling and ultimately death-dealing blow. He did not have the luxury to finish the man swiftly, though, for already one of the few fully-armoured legionaries was running at him while his friends began to form up, collecting pila from a stack nearby.
The Cadurci signaller was blowing his instrument for all he was worth, trying to force the battle-hungry riders to move on and not delay just in order to murder Romans. Wheeling his horse away from the running Roman, Lucterius dropped his shield and used his left hand to wrench out the wooden shaft with a cry and then clutch his thigh, which pulsed with agony, sending waves of shock into his brain.
Ahead, he could see Nonnos, his second in command, entirely ignoring the order to leave as he delivered several unnecessary blows to a Roman who was already dead, though had not collapsed yet. Hoping he had time, Lucterius grabbed hold of his friend’s upper arm with a blood-soaked hand, almost bringing a sword blow upon himself from the surprised nobleman.
‘We have to go.’
Nonnos hesitated for a moment, his blood-lust up and visible in his wild eyes.
‘Set an example!’ snapped Lucterius, wrenching his hand back and clamping it over the thigh wound again. The chieftain turned to the open plain to the southwest. Some of his more obedient and wise riders were already making for the safety of the horizon. Far more, though, were mired down in killing Romans from whom they could very easily flee. He felt anger course through him. The signallers were still blowing the horn and waving the standards, but nothing seemed to be stirring his men from the fight. At least Nonnos had freed his blade and turned.
The legionary who had marked him earlier was closing on them, but two of the horsemen rode the soldier down and cut him to pieces long before he could get to the chieftain.
They had to go.
A new noise cut through the din and Lucterius pee
red into the inky dimness, his eyesight made all the poorer by the dotted Roman fires and the reflections they displayed in shield bosses and helmets. A new shape was moving in from the north. Roman tuba calls announced that their cavalry was on the way to take up the fight. They absolutely had to go now. Otherwise they would be caught here and kept busy until two or three legions converged on them, fully prepared, and cut them down.
One last try.
Turning, he viewed the battle in full swing. There had been remarkably few cavalry casualties, the Romans unprepared and unarmoured. And many legionaries lay around the earth, their blood mingling with the red of their tunics. But all that would change any moment.
‘Pull out and run!’ he bellowed into the press and was rewarded with attentive looks from the nearest perhaps half-dozen men. The tuba calls were nearer now, and a glance over his shoulder revealed a huge mass of horse hurtling across the plain towards them. It was too dark to pick out any useful detail about them, but it was impossible to miss, over the din of the approaching mob, the blood-hungry yelling and hooting in the guttural growl of the Germanic peoples. A memory swum into Lucterius’ mind of a big monster riding past him on the grass before Novioduno, fastening a severed head to his saddle horn. He shuddered. Any man not fleeing now… well gods help him!
Way to the rear of the Roman force, back up towards the large camp, he could hear the sound of cornicen calling out orders to the legions present as they fell in to protect the camp and the siege works, preparing for a full scale assault, even though only Lucterius and his cavalry had been in evidence so far.
Of the seven hundred men that had descended the hill with him, perhaps forty or fifty were now clear of the area, racing off into the southwest. Half a dozen of those men had the presence of mind to slow and check what was happening behind them, trying to ascertain where their chieftain was, aware that his continued survival as an ambassador was the prime reason for their flight. Maybe thirty or forty were now dead or down. Another twenty were gathering around Lucterius now, preparing to run, having heeded his final call. The remaining six hundred were clearly a lost cause, engaged in a melee with the Roman workers, heedless of the danger coming their way, despite the many warnings he had given them.
For all Vercingetorix’s grand talk about disregarding tribal boundaries and forming one great Gaul, such a possibility was still clearly far off. Far from the tightly-knit force of Cadurci Lucterius had led down that treacherous slope at Gergovia - many of whom had perished during that ill-fated attack on Caesar’s army a couple of days ago - the band of riders he had led down from Alesia this night had been the survivors of that assault, a mix of men from a dozen tribes and more, most of whom were only vaguely familiar with Lucterius and owed him no long-standing fealty.
This was no cavalry army of ‘one Gaul’. It was a mess of arguing tribes who paid little attention to the calls of their signallers or commanders. And because of that they would perish. He could only hope this wasn’t a simile for the whole war.
With a sad expression, he turned away from the bulk of his cavalry who were ignoring the closing Roman signals and taking out their frustration from their previous defeat upon the workmen. Joining the less-than-a-hundred men who had heeded his calls, Lucterius began to race southwest, away from the battle. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the majority of the Roman horse had maintained their course, making for the fracas, but some of the Germans - two or three hundred in total, perhaps - had veered off, their gaze locked on the fleeing riders.
The Germans! What had he done to deserve this?
The important thing was to get away, to carry the message. It left a sour taste in Lucterius’ mouth to flee the battlefield and not turn and face the monsters, but he could not afford to fail. Tearing his anxious eyes from the whooping, bellowing ironclad Germans, he leaned forward in the saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, and kicked his horse into whatever reserves of speed the animal could manage.
A spear arced through the air a few feet to his left, indicating just how close their pursuers were, and a moment later one of his men disappeared from his saddle with a shriek, the horse pelting on riderless, its course unchanged.
‘Come… to… me… Arverni!’ snarled a hungry-sounding voice only a few paces back in a Germanic growl and Lucterius felt his heart pound all the faster. It seemed pointless to waste breath and focus correcting the man, and the Cadurci chieftain kept his sight fixed on the lead men among his fleeing force.
The first he knew of his pursuer’s attack was when the moonlight betrayed the man, casting a shadow across his own horse’s flank. He glanced right urgently just in time to see a giant, hairy German atop a shaggy horse five hands higher than his own, his sword raised ready for a downward chop. There was little he could do to stop it. In desperation, he raised his own sword.
The German’s strength was impressive. The big sword came down like the collapsing of mountains, unstoppable and irresistible. Lucterius watched in horror as the heavy blade smashed his own to pieces, carving straight down through it, hacking off the front left horn of his saddle and then chopping deep into the back and shoulder of his horse. The animal lurched and the missing horn of his saddle, combined with his wounded thigh and the horse’s bucking, served to easily unseat him, expert horseman though he was.
Lucterius knew he was in trouble. Wounded, weaponless, and now falling from his steed, he would never see Bibracte and bring aid to the army. His arms flailed out as he fell, instinctively and with no conscious purpose in mind.
The fingers of his right hand closed on the German’s saddle, grasping desperately at the leather. As he felt his fingers scrabbling for purchase, his left hand closed around the man’s leg wrappings. Knowing that letting go meant death added a hitherto untapped strength to his struggle, and he was swiftly hauling himself up. The German, his face betraying no fear - only irritation - raised his huge sword and tried to angle it down at the figure clinging to his leg and saddle.
Lucterius’ right hand, still finding it almost impossible to maintain a good grip on the leather due to the bouncing, jolting gait of the horse, came up sharply and grabbed the wrist of the descending arm, forcing the sword out away from him at the same time as using the grip to pull himself further up.
He almost lost control when his left leg bounced against something, causing his wound to send sheets of jagged pain through him. Then he realised what it was his leg had hit: his wounded horse had somehow veered back in its excruciated, panicked race. With only a moment’s thought, he thrust out with his good leg, found purchase against his ruined animal’s bloody shoulder, and braced, launching himself with a push.
The sudden manoeuvre took the German by surprise, and Lucterius hit the big man hard and felt him falling away to the far side. Instantly, he let go of the man’s wrist and leg and scrabbled for the reins. One hand closed on the leather and, as the German disappeared down the other side with a cry that became a scream as his own huge horse ran over him, Lucterius fell. His feet hit the ground at speed, bad one first, and he shrieked. Then he was hanging from the reins, feet bouncing along the turf as the horse ran, riderless.
His arm muscles creaking and shrieking with the effort, he hauled himself up the beast’s side and slowly, with dreadful exertion, into the saddle. The horse was so large it felt odd to be up here.
Settling in the saddle, he looked around. Most of the Germans had given up the chase as unproductive, and had turned to the majority of Lucterius’ horse, who had finally learned their folly as their massacring of the Roman workers turned to their own demise, a huge cavalry force ploughing into them. Fools.
Perhaps a dozen Germans were still on his heels, though, their horses large and tireless. And he was now unarmed too, of course.
‘Save the king, Lucterius,’ a voice called from his left. He turned in confusion to see Nonnos slow and wheel his horse to face their pursuers. Of the other five men around them, three joined him - all men of the C
adurci, Lucterius noted with curious pride - while the other two raced on. Four men on tired mounts, some wounded, facing a dozen of the heavily armed and armoured German riders. They would be dead in heartbeats.
But they might buy his life with their own.
Lucterius kicked the huge horse and was surprised at the extra speed the big beast seemed to find, racing off ahead, quickly outstripping the other two and gaining on the rest of the fleeing tribesmen ahead. He bit his lip and raced on, feeling somewhat sick at the fact that he was using all those behind him to buy time for his own survival. A quick glance at the two men racing with him confirmed that they were already falling behind, and he realised from their panicked faces that the pair could hear the Germans gaining on them. Sickened with himself, he nonetheless willed them to slow and be caught by their pursuers, buying him yet more precious moments.
He kept his head down and forged ahead into the darkness, ignoring any peril and concentrating on his path. He felt the ground falling away and managed to bring the big beast up and into a jump as he reached a stream bed, clearing it and landing with ease on the far side, feeling tears stain his cheek at the fresh wave of pain from his leg.
His racing mind gradually registered a noise from far behind: a new call on one of those dreadful honking German horns. His gaze shifted over his shoulder again and for the first time since he had reached level ground, his heart sent a calming wave through him.
There was no longer any sign of pursuit. The call he’d heard must have been for them to fall back and abandon the chase. His heart leapt again as a horse suddenly burst through the undergrowth at the far side of the stream, behind him, but the animal slowed as it reached the water, suddenly intent on drinking its fill. The limp body of Nonnos leaned in the saddle, spattered with blood and death-grey, but still wedged between the horns.
The Great Revolt Page 41
