He peered through the foliage and caught tantalising glimpses out into the clear ground beyond the copse. He was at the edge, with the best view, albeit still virtually obscured . Carefully, gingerly, he walked his horse slightly closer to the eaves of the woodland. Through the lighter foliage, he could see Gallic horse moving down to the water, roped lines of beasts each burdened with huge water barrels plodding along behind.
He counted under his breath, watching as the enemy all moved close to the river. The opening of battle would be clear and not chosen by him. He waved a flattened hand up and down, warning his men to be ready.
The signal came only a few heartbeats later. A cry of alarm, for the horsemen had reached the river and were suddenly aware of the infantry waiting for them below the banks. A roar of invective in Latin announced the attack of the light-armed footmen as they leapt swiftly up the bank and into the horseme n. Galronus and his horsemen were already moving when he heard, in a terribly familiar dialect, the order given to pull back to the camp.
He burst into the open, sword held aloft, his riders close behind. Just as he’d hoped, they had all passed the edge of the copse now and were gathered near the river, bellowing defiance at the sudden threat. Their voices rose in pitch and changed entirely in content as the rearmost of them suddenly spotted Galronus’ cavalry bursting clear of the trees behind them, cutting off their path back to Pompey’s camp on the hill .
Orders were called to form up, others conflictingly to charge the approaching infantry, yet more to abandon the pack animals and race east along the river . The bulk of the forward s horse decided that the infantry would be easy pickings, whether or not they’d heard the warnings about Galronus’ men. But these footmen were no ready target . On almost any other battlefield, when faced with angry cavalry, the infantry will either flee or immediately close into a defensive formation. Galronus’ infantry simply bellowed all the louder and charged the horsemen.
Even as the anvil of infantry crested the river bank and fell among the shocked cavalry, so the hammer of horsemen hit them from the rear. There was instant chaos. Galronus hauled on his reins and pulled off to one side, staying out of the combat. This was time for Roman style command, for he needed to be able to judge the capabilities of this mixed type of combat and he could not do so from within the melee .
Carefully selecting a place where he achieved an excellent view of the violent struggle , he peered into the mass. The first thing that struck him was that in any such future engagement, the mixed Caesarian force needed some sort of identifying mark. Almost every man on a horse was Gallic or Germanic, no matter what side he fought for. That was no issue for the riders, for they knew their tribes, their symbols, their marks, and could pick out who was friend and who was foe even amid the worst of the carnage. In fact, Galronus would be willing to wager that old feuds and hatreds were being played out now on the field of battle over and above the Roman cause.
The issue, though, was the infantry. They were legionaries, drawn from places that were predominantly Latin speaking, and all were citizens. They had been working alongside Galronus’ Gauls and Germans for only a few days, yet to them there was no distinguishable difference between any of the riders. Consequently, though they were exhibiting no fe ar and were in among the horses attacking, they were lunging at Caesarian riders as often as Pompeian ones . The worst was avoided after the first few blows when the allies began to shout ‘Caesar’ repeatedly, allowing the infantry to better select their targets, but if he were to do this sort of thing again, Galronus would have them all tie some coloured scarf around their arm or suchlike .
Regardless of those setbac ks they we re doing well, and now that the legionaries were better able to choose a target, they were swiftly dealing with the Pompeian party. There would be an attempt at flight soon, for there was still an opening to the east, and many would be able to escape once they got out of the press. He would…
His train of thought screeched to a halt as his eyes fell on a figure amid the chaos, hammering down with his blade and bellowing curses in a Rhodanus-valley accent.
Egus and Raucillus.
In fact, he could see only Egus, but he felt certain the other chieftain would be there. The last time he had seen them was at that gate in the siege works at Dyrrachium as they rode for Pompey’s lines, changing sides because they had been chastised by Caesar for their criminal activities. After only a moment, he also spotted Raucillus, tussling with a legionary. Even as the Remi’s eyes narrowed dangerously, the treacherous Allobroge chieftain died, a pilum thrust upwards into his unprotected face. He shrieked and lurched back, though the legionary had jabbed with such strength that the pilum stayed lodged, dangling out of the dying man’s face and pulling him forward s again with the weight . He disappeared from the saddle and Galronus knew without a doubt that he would never rise again.
He wanted nothing more than to ride into that mess and deal with Egus. To put down that other traitor would be a moment of supreme satisfaction . But he was not sure he could get to the man through the press, and over and above it all, a notion had struck him as he watched the confusion among the men fighting one another.
Should he?
Settling on a decision he sheathed his sword, pulled off his Remi torc and arm rings, tucked his pendant into his tunic and swept off the Roman style cavalry helmet he’d been wearing. Wishing he’d kept his beard longer – it had grown back out from stubble over the campaign – he gripped his hair with the fingers of both hands and rummaged, messing up and tangling the neat strands. At least he’d kept the traditional braids.
He detached the broach holding his cloak i n place and let the thick wool garment fall , fastener included. He was almost done. One more thing. He ro de to the edge of the combat, bearing neither sword in hand , nor clear sign of any tribe, and consequently he was largely ignored by everyone. He waited patiently until an Allobroge warrior nearby took a blow to the ribs and died, wailing, in the saddle. Then, as swiftly and subtly as he could manage, he closed on the dead man, whose horse was milling about uncertainly, and slipped the arm ring and the torc from him. Smiling weirdly, he pushed them both into place and then moved around the edge of the fight again, towards the east.
Now, disguise in place, he peered across the heads of the riders once more. It took him a moment to spot Egus. The man was moving his way, face lowered. As he watched, Galronus realised that the Allobroge was wounded. He was hunched forward s , clutching his side and trying to push for the edge to make it to freedom.
Galronus smiled an unpleasant smile and drew the dagger at his hip. He waited, horse stepping sideways impatiently, until Egus neared the edge of the mass. The chieftain had gone horribly pale. Almost certainly a death wound, then. He’d lost vast amounts of blood already in such a short time. Still, it would be good to help send him on his way to Dubnos , where his black spirit could writhe for eternity .
Galronus waited, trying to look inconspicuous.
Egus finally pushed his way clear of the crowd, not even casting a glance at the Remi , who walked his horse closer. As he came alongside the Allobroge chieftain, Galronus cleared his throat. Egus, pale and squinting, teeth gritted against the pain in his side, turned at the noise and frowned in incomprehension.
Slowly, like a pale sun dawning on an even paler sky, recognition flooded Egus’ face.
‘You!’
Galronus did not re ply. He simply nodded even as his dagger jabbed out, burying itself in Egus’ throat. The traitor’s eyes widened in shock and he coughed, blood fountaining up out of the twin holes of mouth and neck.
Galronus just smiled, wiped his dagger on Egus’ already soaked trousers, and then turned away, riding back to the mass.
‘Pompey Magnus !’ he bellowed as loud as he could. ‘For Pompey and Rome. Retreat. To the camp.’
He was not their officer and none present among the enemy would know his voice, but it mattered not. All they had needed was a trigger, for they had been ready to break since the beginning.
Moments later the Pompeian cavalry were disengaging, pulling away and racing east and then north, away from the river and toward s the camp on the hill.
Galronus let a dozen or so pass, and then kicked his own horse and fell in with the fleeing riders. Many more died to derisive Roman pila before they could entirely disengage, and it was only once they had been riding twenty heartbeats that Galronus turned in the saddle and looked back over his shoulder.
The joint infantry and cavalry he had led were cheering and shouting foul and crude things after the fleeing horsemen. They had also, in the process of the fight, captured a good number of pack animals and cavalry steeds. The Remi noble smiled. They would celebrate well tonight, and probably together, Roman legionaries and Gallic and German riders drinking to their joint victory.
Not so: Galronus of the Remi.
* * *
Fronto watched as the horsemen approached. The infantry who had gone out with them on the attack had been forced to jog alongside when they left. Now, as they returned, the legionaries were mounted triumphantly on pack animals, swaying along in front of water barrels, or on captured cavalry horses, sitting amid the blood stains that remained mute evidence of a former owner.
The grinning unit gave the password of Venus Venetrix to the pickets before the gate and then swept on in to the camp. Fronto watched, initially elated, along with the cheering legionaries and the singing cavalry, but his worry and tension rose with each body that passed through the gate, for none of them were his friend.
As the last few men entered, including a Gallic nobleman Fronto vaguely recognised and was sure was an officer of some sort, the legate descended from the rampart top, his knee wobbling slightly with the speed and exertion.
‘Where is Galronus?’
The nobleman, busy laughing at something with his companion, turned a surprised look on the legate. ‘Sir?’
‘Galronus. Remi nobleman. Commanded this force. Where is he?’
The man’s frown deepened. In a thick Gallic accent loaded down with confusion, he pointed along the line. ‘Somewhere here.’
‘No,’ Fronto said flatly. ‘No he isn’t. I watched you all return. He’s not with you.’
Now the man began to look concerned. They stopped walking their horses and he had a brief exchange in his native tongue with the man beside him, who did rather too much shrugging for Fronto’s liking. Finally, the nobleman turned back.
‘It is very strange, Legate. He stayed at the edge. Did not fight. He was watching. Commanding. He was fine . We went through the fallen. Looted the enemy. Brought back our own. I know the commander was not among the dead.’
‘Did they take captives?’
The man shook his head. ‘They had no time. They ran home.’
Then where in Hades’ name was Galronus?
‘I am sure he will be here somewhere . He must be,’ reiterated the nobleman, and then began to ride on once more, leaving Fronto standing worried and alone .
‘Where are you, my friend?’
Chapt er 19
The first half mile of the race across the plains to Pompey’s camp was fine for the Remi horseman . Each rider was deeply in the grip of panic, and their commanders had both died in the melee, so there was little in the way of co ntrol. But after that half mile , once it was clear that the Caesarian force was not following, they had begun to slow . Galronus had tried to appear inconspicuous but had found himself, for a heart-stopping moment, riding between two men , both of whom who he remembered by sight as being part of that treacherous Allobroge breakout he had witnesse d back at Dyrrachium . If he recognised them from the brief glimpses he’d had , then he, as a notable Caesarian cavalry commander they had seen most days, would be blindingly obvious.
He allowed himself to drop ba ck toward s the rear of the group where he recognised no one, and as covertly as possible rubbed his hands in the blood on his horse’s flank – a vestige of Egus’ spraying neck – which was already becoming sticky . He then reached up and rubbed it in places on his face and in his hair. Combined with the inevitable dust and horse sweat it stank and was filthy, but it would help hide his features from knowing eyes.
He knew this was about as dangerous as it got. Men caught spying in another camp were unlikely to receive any level of clemency, and possibly not even a clean death . Better to put things to the test here, where he might still be able to make a break for it and ride away, than in the camp. Swallowing his nerves, he slowly edged forward s until he was between those two men once more, and then waited until one of them turned towards him quite by chance . He then lifted his head and met the man’s gaze before, w ith a calculated expression of defeat, lowering it again. When he peeked out to the side, the man had ignored him, facing ahead once more.
Good. If people who had reason to remember him were oblivious, then he was as safe as he could hope to be. They rode the remaining distance in silence, each man mulling over what had happened. Someone wou ld have to take responsibility f or the debacle and report it to the staff. At least it would not be Galronus.
The camp was well-constructed and took advantage of the land’s co ntours. Initially, Galronus had wondered why Pompey made camp on the lower slope and not on one of the two high hills that flanked it. Arriving at the rampart, he now realised why: s heer size. Had Pompey camped atop one of those hills, his ramparts would have enclosed much of it and many of his men would have been billeted on a steep gradient.
It was strange to arrive at a Roman camp gate as an enemy, even if the defenders were not aware of that fact . The legions that occupied the camp were so similar to Caesar’s, barring the insi gnia on their flags and shields – and even those were in the same colour, distinguishable only by design. The gate remained firmly closed as the column approached, and as the head horseman came close to the defences, he called out ‘Hercules Invictus.’
The unconquered Hercules. Pompey clearly had as grand an opinion of himself as did Caesar. It was hard to suppress a smile as Galronus realised that he now had the password for Pompey’s camp, which would be equally viable for pickets and scouts encountered out in the wild. That alone already made his dangerous mission worthwhile. So long as he managed to get home , that was .
With a start, he wondered how long he’d thought of Roman camps as home, and resolved to return to Durocorteron soon.
The gates swung open and the lead element of the tired and wounded column began to make their way in. A man in an officer’s uniform with a tribune’s narrow- striped tunic gestured at the lead man.
‘Report to the headquarters straight away.’ Then he raised his voice. ‘The rest of you get back to quarters and clean yourselves up.’ As Galronus passed, the man’s nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Not you. You get to the valetudinarium and have a medicus look at that.’ He gestured to Galronus’ blood-smeared face. The Remi nodded meekly and continued onward. The man had mistaken the mess for a wound. That could be massively advantageous. The last thing Galronus wanted right now was to find himself in the cavalry quarters with the rest of the riders.
Though he had no idea where the medical section would have set up in the camp, he knew Roman thinking. Hygiene was of paramount importance. It would be at the edge of the camp somewhere, beside a slope that would carry away waste. And given that the nearest water source was the river, it would likely be this side of the camp. Consequently, not far from the gate, without a word to the other riders, he turned right into another alleyway betw een tents, heading down a gentle slope. He’d been right: a t the end was a collection of huge tents which had to be the medical unit .
He had no intention of going there, of course, since he was unwounded. A score of paces down the alley he checked to make sure he was alone and slid from the saddle, leaving the beast entirely. The horse, tired and grateful to be left alone, simply stayed between the tents and began to munch on the grass.
Galronus hurried down the slope. While he had no intention of presenting himself at the hospital, he knew something of
value lay there, and h e needed to look less like a wounded Gallic cavalryman and more nondescript and invisible in a camp of thousands of legionaries.
It took only moments to find one of the huge water troughs behind the hospital complex. It was far from the cleanest water he’d ever seen, since it was used to dunk injured men to identify their wounds before admittance , and even though there had as yet been no battle , men on campaign acquired wounds and injury entirely by misfortune.
Ducking between two tents, he stripped down to his tunic and then lowered himself quietly into the cold water of the trough. It was the work of only moments to scrub off the worst of the muck. He worked quickly. The valetudinarium might be quiet in these pre-battle days, but sooner or later someone would come by.
Lifting himself back out, he kicked his stolen torc, arm rings, his own precious possessions and the rest of his clothing under a tent’s outer edge, and in only a sodden tunic and boots, and carrying his sword belt , scurried off into the sea of tents. It was dusk now and men were busy preparing their evening meals. He hurried past two groups of soldiers who paid him no attention, and ducked into a shadowy area between tents, where he drew his dagger. With a sigh of regret, he ripped through his hair, taking it off at what he judged to be a hand width from the scalp. Away fell the sodden locks, braids and all. Then the beard, scraping it down to the chin.
In fifty heartbeats he was moving again. He paused at a washing line strung between two tents and stole a freshly laundered red legionary tunic. By the time he arrived at one of the main thoroughfares in the camp, he had the red tunic on and belted with his swor d hanging to the side. It was a longer sword than the standard legionary issue, but with his camp-made Roman scabbard, it would be difficult to tell at first glance.
For the next half hour he strode around the central area of the camp, largely to test his disguise. He was badly shaven and his hair still long for a legionary, but they were on campaign, and men were generally scruffy at this stage anyway, and no one gave him a second glance. He came close to the command area with the headquarters tent, Pompey’s own praetorian guard in evidence, each with a somewhat ostentatious leopard pelt atop their helm, in the manner of a standard bearer. He would not get close to the tent, clearly. He could almost hear the voices within, but to gain any clarity he would have to be close enough that the guard would take an interest in him. As he watched, a legionary appeared with a j ar of wine and a tray of cups. Th e man was admitted swiftly, and Galronus took note. Dangerous, but possible.
Marius' Mules XI Page 28
