The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  Unlike what lay beyond it.

  Perhaps half a mile away, across the flat land, Varus could see the gathered swarm of enemy horsemen. Given the mob attitude of the enemy commanders, it was almost impossible to guess at numbers, beyond the fact that they far outstripped his own. The clomping of hooves on the compacted earth announced Quadratus’ arrival at the van.

  ‘This will be a tough fight.’

  Varus nodded.

  ‘Might I ask where the Germans are?’ Quadratus asked, with the characteristic nervousness the Roman officers generally exhibited when speaking of that dreadful yet effective cavalry unit.

  ‘I’m holding them in reserve. Every time they’re fielded they put the wind up whoever we face, and they might be useful if things go badly. But since we’re deploying the entire horse in formation, I doubted a thousand blood-hungry and barely-sentient Germans would help matters at this stage.’

  Quadratus nodded emphatically. ‘I bet they were pleased to be told to wait.’

  ‘Not especially, no. One of their officers punched my courier so hard he broke his jaw.’

  The two men smiled at one another, and the whistles went up in quick succession left and right, confirming that all three wings were in position and ready.

  ‘Ready?’

  Quadratus nodded again. ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s show these barbarians how a well-organized force does it.’

  At a gesture, the musician called another sequence of notes and the banners waved, all three cavalry wings moving immediately with the oiled machine discipline of the Roman military. By the time the commander reached the low bank of the Brennus and urged his mount down into the chilly, swift flow, the other two wings were closing on an angle and converging with his own. As his horse climbed the west bank of the river and he looked out upon the host arrayed before him, Varus glanced to either side once more. All three wings were coming together now to form one large army. They might not match the numbers of the Gauls, but in terms of tactics and discipline, they were the masters of the field. The front line was perfectly straight and controlled.

  The Roman cavalry assembled into their units as the men flooded across the Brennus and Varus watched the enemy, tense, waiting for the calls from the rear to confirm that the entire force had crossed. He felt a ripple of cold air across his neck that raised the hairs, and he raised his hand, somehow knowing what was about to happen.

  ‘They’re about to charge.’

  Quadratus frowned, even as the enemy erupted with a roar and the mass of Gallic horse burst forth, picking up speed as they raced towards the Romans. Varus half smiled. Predictable. They had hoped to catch the Romans while they were still crossing the Brennus, their forces split between two banks. But they would only exhibit such confidence and strength while they believed the Romans to be unprepared. Not confidence, in fact… overconfidence.

  ‘Sound the charge,’ Varus shouted.

  Quadratus frowned. ‘We’re still divided, sir.’

  ‘Yes. And they think that’ll make us nervous and weak. We need to keep them off guard. If we hit them, they’ll break, so sound the charge.’

  The musician blew the call, which was picked up by the various tuba-bearers among the cavalry, and the force started to move forward. Varus allowed his horse to hesitate for a moment, letting the force catch up so that he fell into the perfect straight line with the foremost attackers rather than running ahead. Quadratus had done the same and was now several places to his left as the cavalry launched forth, bypassing the trot and moving from a walk to a canter and then into a gallop at the simple calls from a tuba bearer. The two large forces thundered towards one another, a large part of the Roman cavalry still crossing the river behind and then racing along to catch up with their compatriots, the rebels moving like a tidal wave of muscle and sinew.

  Varus clenched his teeth and allowed himself to rise and fall with his horse’s gait, observing the oncoming horsemen with a professional eye. The Gauls knew their Roman opposition well. There was at least an even chance of them breaking, he figured, when faced with unstoppable Rome. That had been why the Gauls rushed their attack while the Romans were crossing - they had not wanted to allow the Romans time to lead a charge of their own.

  As he rode, ripping his sword from its scabbard, Varus threw up three quick prayers to Epona, Mars and Fortuna that he had it right. Around him, the horsemen couched their spears for the clash, bringing their shields to face the enemy.

  And then the centre of the Gallic line began to fold inwards.

  Varus grinned. That was it: the Gaulish horse had caved under the Roman onslaught before they’d even met, just as he’d hoped. Not all of them, mind. He had to give them credit for that. Much of the enemy left wing was intact, and only perhaps half the right had run. Those who had stopped, however, were now turning tail and racing back towards their original position, and perhaps the slopes beyond, where the infantry awaited. If they thought to lead the Romans into the infantry, they would be sadly disappointed, of course. Varus’ men were disciplined and knew what to do. They would break the force and harry them as they fled, but would stop short of the reserves on the hill and then move back to re-form.

  The musicians were still periodically blowing the call to charge, and Varus found himself among a large number of Roman cavalry racing close to the heels of the retreating Gauls. He almost whooped with elation as the first of the fleeing enemy arched his back and screamed, the point of a Roman spear slamming through mail, flesh and ribs and into the soft cavity within. The rout would now turn to a slaughter.

  In a heartbeat it all changed.

  Suddenly, with an efficiency more Roman than Gallic, the retreating Gallic horsemen pulled into narrow lines as they rode in columns through gaps in the force waiting behind them. Varus had no time to shout a warning.

  As the enemy horsemen retreated in those narrow columns, their disappearance revealed what had been waiting behind: walls of Gallic spearmen in a passable Roman contra-equitas formation, shields lined up in angled walls to guard against the Roman spears, while their own points jutted out like a deadly hedgepig.

  The more enthusiastic of the Roman horsemen slammed into the Gallic infantry, unable to slow due to their elated momentum. Horses reared and screamed, kicking out as they hit the mass of men, bashing gaps in the shield-wall but suffering impalement for both horses and riders all along the bristling hedge of iron points.

  The musician was calling the charge to a halt now, at Quadratus’ urgent command.

  But it wasn’t over. As the twenty or so Roman horses who had fallen to the contra-equitas flailed and thrashed in agony, the noise of the wounded and dying seemingly filling the air to capacity, row upon row of Gallic archers rose behind the shield-walls and even as they stood, released a cloud of arrows up and over their kin into the Roman ranks. Varus looked this way and that and everywhere his gaze fell, men and horses were dying.

  ‘Sound the order to fall back,’ he bellowed, and his musician lifted the tuba to his lips just as an arrow thudded into his face, throwing him back in his saddle, dead almost instantly, the instrument falling from spasming fingers. Wrenching his head round in desperation, Varus looked for another musician. How had this happened? Such tactics were unheard of among the Gallic tribes. Then again, plenty of them had spent a season or two fighting among the Roman forces and there would undoubtedly be quick learners among them. But someone in command over there was astute and knew exactly what to expect from the Romans. Outmanoeuvred by a Gaul!

  His eyes fell upon another man with a tuba and he bellowed again the order to fall back. This musician took up the call and Quadratus appeared from somewhere unseen, clutching the flights of an arrow that had driven straight through his upper arm, the tip dripping crimson onto his elbow.

  ‘Where do we re-form?’ the wounded officer hissed through clenched teeth.

  Varus heaved in a deep breath. ‘At the river. We can form a healthy line there with the rest o
f the men, and the bastards can’t spring any more surprises like that on us.’

  As if to underline that comment, a second volley of arrows arced up into the air, and the two officers kicked their steeds to speed, racing back east along with their men. Around them, more and more Romans and auxiliaries fell, panicked riderless horses milling this way and that in the chaos, trampling the fallen wounded.

  Even as the Roman lines pulled away from the enemy, leaving far too many dead and wounded for comfort, the enemy cavalry came forth again, forming up in the wake of the Roman flight, finishing off those wounded who lay scattered around the ground.

  ‘They’re coming again any moment,’ Varus shouted, and Quadratus looked over his shoulder, wincing at the pain in his impaled arm as he did so. Sure enough, the enemy were almost in position.

  As they neared the river once more, the concentration of Roman cavalry increased exponentially. The entire force would now be across on this bank, and already the musicians were forming up the ranks with calls from their individual commanders. Behind him, Varus could hear the low rumble of the now-pursuing Gallic horse but above that, new sounds caught his attention.

  From across the river at the fortifications came the distinctive sounds of battle. The thud and clatter of artillery mixed with the booing calls of the cornicen and the whistles of centurions, all above the rattle and crash and murmur of men fighting. Something was happening there too, then.

  Varus turned his horse and lined up with the rest. Next to him, Quadratus took his reins between his teeth and reached around with his right hand, snapping off the arrow close to the skin. Shaking and sweating, he grasped the other side of the shaft, behind the head.

  ‘Don’t pull it out. You’ll bleed too quickly.’

  ‘And if I don’t I’ll be too hampered to fight,’ Quadratus said, muffled around the leather reins. Clenching once more, he pulled the arrow free with an unpleasant sucking sound and cast it to the grass. Varus edged his steed closer and undid the pin at his throat, pulling his scarf free and wrapping it around the man’s wounded arm several times and tying it off.

  ‘Stay alive until you see a medicus.’

  ‘Well if it’s an order,’ grinned Quadratus, still sweating and pale, the reins falling from his mouth. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We defeat them. Or we die trying.’

  Quadratus pointed north with his good arm. ‘Looks like their infantry are using this distraction to flank us. The fortifications are about to be hit from both sides at once.’ Varus looked, and could just see a mass of figures skirting the cavalry battle and heading for the river downstream. It was exactly what they’d hoped to prevent, but the cavalry wings could only deal with one nightmare at a time.

  ‘Nothing we can do about that, for now. We just have to keep their horse busy and hope the legions can hold the walls.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto ducked behind the wicker fence as an arrow thrummed past him and thudded into the rear wooden post of the tower. As he rose to the fence top once again, gripping the pilum that had been passed up by the legionary on supply duty inside the defences, two Gauls appeared before him, snarling and shouting. One was armed with a Gallic sword and brought it back for a swing, the other with a spear. Fronto quickly noted the spearman’s position and stepped away from it, ducking again, into the path of the swordsman.

  The men of his singulares fought along the wall to either side, Aurelius struggling with a particularly large specimen even now. Fronto had refused Masgava’s demand that he stay back from the wall, citing the need to commit every man if they hoped to hold. Thus the men of his bodyguard had taken position with him on the walls and were fighting like lions.

  Even after hours of battle, the Gauls had yet to cotton on to the nature of the Roman defences. The swordsman slashed madly at the wicker, attempting to cut through the apparently flimsy defence and get to the Roman behind, only to find his blade turned easily by the flexible-yet-tough woven fence. As the man staggered back, almost slipping down the sharp incline and into the ‘v’ shaped ditch below, Fronto rose once more and jabbed out with the pilum, stabbing the iron point into the man’s neck - the only exposed flesh between his bronze helmet and tight-linked mail shirt. With a scream the attacker plunged down the treacherous slope, snapping the few remaining sharpened branches that jutted out, most having already come loose though having taken hundreds of Gauls with them on their keen points. The ditch into which he fell was already a mass burial waiting to be covered, almost full to ground level now with corpses, severed limbs, weapons and armour, bloodied timber, shredded pieces of wicker defences and mud, blood and shit. The pungent stink of the charnel pit rose constantly in the warm air to cover the defences in its choking stench.

  He’d judged the move right. The swordsman had been unable to penetrate the fence, and had died for his ill judgement. The spear man, however, had thrust his weapon at the fence, roughly where Fronto had previously stood, driving the point with little trouble through the wicker. Had Fronto not moved, he would now be looking down at the spear in his belly. As it was, he turned and grabbed the protruding shaft with his free hand and pulled with every ounce of strength he could muster from battle-tired arms.

  The spear came through easily and the surprised warrior gripping it hit the fence face-first. The shock made him loosen his grip and Fronto pulled the entire weapon through the narrow gap and let it roll down the inner slope, where one of the supply soldiers grabbed it and added it to the store of javelins he passed out continually to those who beckoned from the wall. Suddenly unbalanced and weaponless, the Gaul found himself staggering and plummeted back into the ditch. With an angry yell, he rose amid the grisly flesh-and-gore-pool and ripped his sword from his side only to be hit in the face by a scorpion bolt that threw him back and into the second, outer, ditch, which was as yet only half filled with corpses.

  To his right Masgava, busy cleaving a climber in two, paused to yell at him. ‘Keep your right arm up when you strike. You’re sagging and your blows are going awry. Fronto gave him a tired shake of the head, but the big Numidian was already moving on to the next Gaul.

  A few paces to the left an optio yelled at a legionary. Fronto couldn’t hear the details, but the tirade went unfinished as a lucky strike with a Gallic spear took the optio in the torso and threw him back from the rampart. Fronto glanced around for a moment and saw the junior officer pick himself up and rip the spear from his side, clutching a bleeding hole in his mail, starting to shout more orders even as the capsarii pushed him down onto a stretcher and carried him from the scene.

  Three more legionaries arrived from the small reserve units being marshalled in the centre by Reginus, and moved up onto the ramparts to plug the gaps left by the wounded. Fronto hadn’t realised how thin this section had become until the reserves occupied it.

  The battle had been raging now for so long he’d lost track of time. He knew that he’d been fighting for several hours when Atenos had appeared from somewhere and demanded that he step back and take a noon meal, else he would lose the strength to fight. He’d done as he was bidden and scoffed down a plate of meat, bread and fruit as though he’d been starved for weeks and had, in a sad acknowledgement of the fact that he was no longer a young man, taken the opportunity for an hour’s rest, in conference with Antonius, before returning to the fray.

  That had been perhaps three hours ago. If fact, as Fronto glanced over his shoulder to where an equally brutal struggle was underway at the outer rampart a few hundred paces away, he could see the sun sinking towards the hillside upon which the Gallic relief army had been encamped the previous night.

  Almost a whole day!

  He couldn’t remember the last time a single engagement had lasted that long. A whole day of constant battle. The body count must be appalling on both sides. The number of men serving between the walls as both reserves and supply-porters had dropped drastically over that time - a telling sign of how many had been lost.

  He t
hought back on the conversation he’d had with Antonius during his hour’s rest. The army’s second most senior officer had sent messengers to his camp at Mons Rea, as well as to Caesar and Labienus, requesting reserves to bolster the defences, but all three men had returned with nothing. The general had put down a blanket order across all his officers. Each sector was the responsibility of the officers assigned to it and they were to hold it with the troops they were given. There would be no calling for reserves from a different sector, in case the Gauls used the move to launch surprise attacks on any weak spots.

  Antonius had exploded in anger and ridden off to the general, arguing that it was no use keeping the troops in position to prevent weak spots opening up where there was already one massive weak spot on the plain. Caesar had relented and allowed three more cohorts to be reassigned, but refused any further aid.

  And so with ever decreasing numbers the men of the Tenth, Eleventh, Twelfth and Fifteenth had held the walls for most of a day, not even granted time to consider what might be happening out on the plain to the cavalry. Varus would be involved in a brutal fight for his own life, given that he was cut off from the Roman fortifications by the reinforcement rebel infantry who now besieged them.

  His attention was brought back to the present by a flurry of arrows - they had begun as clouds sent up en-masse in the morning, but had become sporadic as the hours wore on and the archers became separated from one another and from their leaders, encouraged to stay back by the Roman bowmen and artillerists. The flurry was answered with a Roman volley, accompanied by the crack and thud of hurled iron-tipped bolts and heavy stones from the war machines atop the wooden towers.