Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series)

by R. Cameron Cooke

  "I do this for the sake of my people," she said finally. “Alain will go with you. He can see you safely through the forest."

  Now, hours later, Lucius followed the boy into a shadowy green glade that was bisected by a stream. "This stream is a tributary of the river. It's mostly marsh from here on." He pointed to a hollow in the brush on one side of the clearing. "That way leads to the road on the ford, on the north side of the river, where the Belgic army is." He pointed to another path on the opposite side. "This way will take us across the marshes to a hidden ford. There we can cross the river unseen, and you can find your army."

  Alain knelt and cupped his hands to take a drink from the stream, all the while eyeing Lucius suspiciously.

  "That's why she likes you, you know," he said suddenly, as he wiped the water from his lips.

  “What did you say?” Lucius did not know what the boy was talking about.

  "She's been told by the seer that you are her savior, so she believes everything you say. She believes you are her lucky talisman. That’s why she didn’t have you whipped for calling her father a fool. That’s why she let you escape.”

  Lucius was stunned. “She believes in such nonsense? And what about you?”

  Alain shrugged. “I don’t like you, Roman. But, my mistress thinks you will save her. If that is what she believes, I believe it, too.”

  Lucius laughed and then planted the spear upside down in the earth and leaned down to take a drink from the cool stream.

  He had just finished drinking when he heard voices and the whinny of a horse. The boy grabbed his arm and put a finger to his mouth, urgently gesturing for Lucius to follow him. Plucking the spear out of the ground, Lucius darted with the boy into the cover of a nearby thicket. There, they waited.

  They did not have to wait long before a mounted warrior entered the glade from the hollow that came from the marsh. The man was a Gaul - or he looked like one - with dark pigtails descending from beneath a conical helmet to rest on both sides of his mailed chest. He wore bright yellow-checked trousers and appeared to be an officer from one of the auxiliary cavalry troops. He was followed by another rider. This one was a Roman, mounted on a fine steed and wearing a dark cloak with a red plumed helmet. He looked red-faced and tired. Both horses were covered in the slime of the marsh.

  "Refresh yourself here, my lord Argus," the Gaul said, sliding off his mount and guiding his horse to the stream. "The beasts stay here. The path is too difficult for them. We will move faster without them."

  The Gaul proceeded to take a drink from the fresh stream. The Roman dismounted, but he did not drink. He looked extremely anxious.

  "Hurry up, will you?" Argus, the Roman, demanded. "We haven't the time to tarry. I must get to Boduognatus before the column reaches the ford. It is imperative that I do so."

  "I am thirsty," the Gaul said defiantly, "and I will rest a moment, even if you will not."

  "Damn you, then! I'll go myself!"

  "I would not advise it," the Gaul said smugly, "I have travelled these woods more times than I can count. They are treacherous. One wrong turn and you will not find your way out. The Nervii designed them that way."

  Argus only gave the Gaul a look of displeasure as he tied his horse to a tree.

  "The Nervii know me, Argus," the Gaul said. "If they see you alone, and with no escort, they are likely to run you through before you can get two words out."

  "I will manage." The Roman officer made to leave and then paused in a moment of doubt. "If, by some unlikely event, I do lose the path, and you make it there before me, you must pass on a message to Boduognatus."

  "And that is?"

  "You must tell him the plan has changed. That he is not to wait for the impedimenta, as he was told before. He must now attack the moment the first legion reaches the river plain. Tell him this message comes from the senator himself.

  The Gaul raised his eyebrows, and chuckled. "The senator? You Romans truly are a vicious people, betraying your own as easily as you wipe your ass."

  "The message is a simple one!" Argus snapped irritably. "You have been paid in gold. Now, will you deliver it or won't you?"

  "Oh, I suppose I will, but first you -" the Gaul was cut short in mid-sentence.

  The Roman looked at him in puzzlement as the Gaul's eyes stared straight ahead, registering sudden pain and shock. He stumbled to his horse, and when he turned, Argus could see that a six-foot spear shaft protruded from the Gaul’s back. The Gaul seemed delirious, gasping for air. He unlooped his horse’s reins from the tree, as if he might mount and flee. But then his brow crinkled, and he fell to the ground dead, his untethered horse running off into the brush without him.

  Argus instantly drew his sword and scanned the surrounding brush for the assailant. The woods were alive with birds and insects and a dozen sounds he could not place. He could see no one. It was as if the trees themselves had cast the spear.

  "Who is there?" He shouted. "Who is bloody there?"

  He heard a twig snap behind him. He wheeled around to see a young boy staring at him from the edge of the glade. The boy wore a somber expression, as if he were a nymph of the forest. Surely he could not have cast a spear with enough force to penetrate the links in the Gaul's armor.

  At that moment, Argus realized that he had been tricked, that the boy was a distraction, and now he turned around expecting to see someone coming at him. But there was no one there. He noticed that the long spear that had been lodged firmly in the dead Gaul’s back was nowhere to be seen. He spun back around to face the boy, but now the boy was gone, too.

  Whether phantoms or mortal men, his attackers had him completely at their mercy. He saw the hole in the hedge, the one that led to the Belgic army, and he made a dash for it, throwing his useless sword away in an effort to move faster. A rustling noise behind him told him that his attackers were in pursuit. He allowed a curious glance over his shoulder to see who they were, but it was a mistake he never should have made. With an icy horror, he saw that the spear was in the air, sailing straight and fast directly for him.

  His cries of terror, then of pain, were quickly swallowed up by the sounds of the swamp.

  XXII

  Caesar’s army had reached the river Sabis.

  It was early afternoon when the eagle standard and front ranks of the Seventh legion, the van legion of the twelve-mile long Roman column, emerged from the hedges and forest country onto a grassy depression. It was the first clear ground they had seen all day. The narrow road upon which they marched continued on, cutting a straight path down the green knoll to the edge of the wide, sparkling river. Those legionaries who cared, and who were not too busy swatting at the millions of biting insects produced by a nearby marsh, could see that the road disappeared at the river’s edge only to emerge again on the north bank and get lost in the wooded hills beyond.

  General Balbus halted the Seventh Legion and spurred his horse forward with his staff to study the ground further. He could see that centuries of ebbs and floods had cut a gentle depression in the surrounding land, affording a good-sized clearing on both banks, although the tree line on the opposite bank was much closer to the water’s edge. Glittering in the afternoon sun, the wide river ambled along, generally east to west and generally straight. Balbus immediately took notice of a large hill on the opposite side of the river that dominated the surrounding landscape. The road wrapped around and disappeared behind it.

  A good place for an ambush, Balbus thought. The hill was thick with trees, and there was no telling what lay beneath the green canopy.

  As he watched, a band of mounted, spear-wielding warriors suddenly emerged from the tree line about half-way up the side of the hill. They rode down to the water’s edge, stopping on their side of the river, and there they waited, staring back at the Romans.

  “Scouts, sir?” the staff officer beside Balbus asked.

  “Yes. Nothing more, I expect,” Balbus replied confidently, knowing every man in the leading cohort would be li
stening, too. “Come to watch us cross the river, I expect.”

  At that moment, a troop of auxiliary cavalry thundered up both sides of the road, kicking up a great cloud of dust that the halted legionaries had to breathe in. They were Treveri spear cavalry, clad in bright tunics, helmets, and small shields. Like the Aedui, they were experts in the saddle, far surpassing the speed and dexterity of any Roman horseman. They were led by a young Roman officer who reined in his charger beside Balbus and saluted.

  “You’re a mite late,” Balbus said, removing his own plumed helmet and dabbing his perspiring forehead with a rag. “I was afraid I was going to have to ask those gawking bastards to bugger off all by myself.”

  “Caesar wishes the army to camp here for the night,” the cavalry officer said, ignoring Balbus’s statement entirely. The young man looked fatigued. His face was covered with a layer of dirt that his sweat had turned into streaks of mud.

  “Are you sure?” Balbus asked, half-mockingly. “Putting our backs against a river in enemy land doesn’t seem like good strategy.”

  “It’s waist deep in most places!” The cavalry officer retorted with some abrasiveness, “And even shallower at the ford. Do not worry, my good general. Should you decide to run, it will not hinder your retreat!”

  Balbus smiled casually. “I’d be happier throwing a screen across the river, just now. Has the blessed proconsul even seen this place?”

  “Where do you think I’ve been?” The young officer spat the words. “I’ve just returned from telling him about it! I’ve been riding all over this infernal country all morning, and this is the only damned open ground for miles around.”

  “Do you suppose they know that, too?” Balbus pointed at the enemy horsemen on the far bank of the river. “Maybe had you asked them first, you’d have saved yourself the trouble.”

  The officer reeled his horse’s head around. “I shall take care of them, my good general. Now, by the order of the proconsul, deploy your men and make camp!” He then glanced at the halted ranks of troops, and shot a poisonous look at Balbus. “The Greeks and Balearics shall come with me!”

  “As you wish, young man.” Balbus smiled as he watched the cocky young officer ride away. He could never remember the arrogant upstart’s name, but it did not matter. He knew the young man’s father back in Rome, and he and Balbus had been at odds for as long as Balbus could remember. There was little to amuse a man on a long campaign, so Balbus took great pleasure in harassing the cavalry officer whenever he got the chance.

  As Balbus’s staff got the Seventh moving again and directed the ranks to peel off the road and fall in to work and guard details, the cavalry officer directed the next unit in the column, an auxiliary cohort of Cretan archers and Balearic slingers, to follow him at the double step. The skirmisher troops often followed the van legion on the march, in the event that the army needed to beat a quick retreat under the protection of the auxiliaries’ long range missiles.

  Balbus watched with some amusement as the officer led the auxiliary horse down to the river’s edge, just across from the gawking Belgae. This had no effect on the enemy horsemen who jeered and hurled obscene gestures at the Treveri, for riding under the Roman banner. Nearly one hundred paces of shallow water separated the two parties, but there was little either band could do to the other without crossing. However, once the Cretan bowmen reached the river's edge, they began loosing missiles at the Belgae. The distance was too great to cause much harm. Most of the arrows bounced harmlessly off of raised shields, but a few did manage to get through and things began to happen very quickly after that.

  A Belgic horse took an arrow in the rump, causing the horse to kick and throw its rider into the water. Another arrow lodged in a man's neck, dropping him from the saddle, but it had only injured him, and he rose from the ground clutching his red-streaked collar.

  The other Belgic horsemen, no more than a dozen, quickly spurred their mounts away, presumably to get out of range of the archers, but they kept on going up the slope of the hill until they were once again hidden by the trees.

  The two Belgae left behind, their horses gone with the others, instantly realized their predicament, and began running desperately after their comrades. Seeing this, the young Roman officer ordered the Treveri spear cavalry to ride them down. The horsemen obeyed, dashing into the river in pursuit, whooping and yelling in a maelstrom of white spray. As they thundered onto the opposite bank, the terror on the faces of the two fleeing Belgae only spurred them on faster. The Roman officer emerged at the front of the charging horse, a spear held high above his head. The Belgic man with the arrow in his neck was the first to be skewered, but that merciful death only saved him from being trampled into a pulp by the hundred horses following closely on the leader's heels. The second Belgae was a much faster runner than the first, and had nearly made it to the tree line.

  As Balbus watched, he thought for sure the young officer would break off the pursuit and let him go.

  "Oh, you bloody fool," Balbus mumbled under his breath as he watched the blood-thirsty young man, his red-plumed helmet conspicuous among the Celtic troop, drive his men onward at the helpless man.

  They caught up with the unfortunate Belgae only a few paces from the trees, first surrounding him and then driving a dozen spears into his body. Meanwhile, the Cretan and Balearic cohort also crossed the river with bows, quivers, and slings held high above their heads. They, too, were under the command of a Roman officer. Deprived of the immediate guidance of his glory-seeking superior, the officer of the skirmisher cohort had ordered his men to follow the cavalry in support. The Cretans and Balearics in their drenched tunics quickly formed up on the opposite bank and began marching in a long line abreast.

  "You fool!" Balbus now shouted, though all of the distant troops were too far away to hear him. "Get them out of there!"

  Incredibly, the Treveri had stopped at the edge of the tree line to cheer their victorious hunt, and their officer was doing nothing to curtail it. Instead, he appeared to be stretching forward on his mount, peering into the forest, as if looking for the remaining Belgic horsemen. It was like watching a slow-acted play that Balbus had seen before and knew how it would end – and the ending was not long in coming.

  As Balbus watched, the forest suddenly began to eject hundreds upon hundreds of missiles of all kind. Four-foot-long javelins flew at the Treveri cavalry at an appalling rate, the deadly points finding the unprotected flesh of men and horses alike. One horse took a javelin in the breast and toppled over, throwing its rider into the ground head first. A dozen cavalrymen fell from clear fatal strikes, and many more roiled and wheeled in a confused frenzy. Balbus knew that, in addition to the javelins, they were probably being hit with arrows, darts, and stones that were too small for him to see at this distance. They were clearly facing numbers their officer had not anticipated. As one horse and rider after another fell to the lethal flying points, the Roman officer, to his credit, rode up and down his confused ranks, braving the storm of missiles, pointing his spear toward the river in an attempt to order them away from the trees to make their escape. Some had the wherewithal to obey, but a scant few made it, the officer himself being knocked from his mount by a missile Balbus did not see.

  The skirmisher cohort had made it half-way up the slope, and the few surviving riders and riderless horses now streamed through their ranks in the opposite direction. At the order of their officer, the Cretan archers and Balearic slingers began to unleash a steady volley of stones and arrows over the heads of the beleaguered cavalry and into the trees in an effort to provide the horsemen with some cover. The cavalry never once paused in their flight back down the slope. The confused and leaderless riders crossed back over the river, leaving the cohort of archers and slingers all alone on the open plain. With the surviving horsemen now out of range, the hidden enemy shifted their aim to the line of skirmishers, and the Cretans and Balearics began to fall.

  Balbus saw a few blue painted warriors on foot dart
from the cover of the trees to finish off the wounded Treveri. They did this under threat of the Cretan arrows, but there were always a few in any army willing to face any danger when there was the prospect of loot. One bald and skinny Belgae darted to and fro, dodging arrows and stones with a ravenous smile on his face, as he closed on his prize.

  "The poor foolish bastard," Balbus said to himself, as he realized who the Belgic warrior’s intended victim was.

  The wounded Roman officer that had led the Treveri cavalry into the trap was crawling toward the rear when the bald Belgic fighter caught up with him. The Belgae buried his knee in the Roman's back, pressing him to the ground. Then, in the blink of an eye, the wiry warrior pulled the officer's head back and stabbed a large dagger into the side of the young man’s neck. Before the fountain of blood had settled to the green earth, the Belgic warrior had the plumed helmet off and was unlacing the expensive armored corselet.

  With the booty in his arms, the triumphant Belgic warrior bolted for the tree line at a speed that indicated he was probably a skirmisher and not a spear warrior. He had instantly become the target of every Cretan bowman. The skinny, blue-painted man, overcome with delight at his plunder, laughed maniacally as he swerved this way and that, miraculously avoiding every missile – all but the one that struck him in the buttocks and made him yelp once before he disappeared in the trees.

  The arrows and stones coming from the trees began to slacken. Fewer and fewer bombarded the skirmisher cohort. The auxiliary troops seemed to gain spirit from this, as if their own volleys were finally having effect. At least, that must have been the impression of their Roman officer who waved his sword aloft encouraging his men to keep up the intensity of their barrage.

  "Why do they put the fools in charge of the auxiliaries," Balbus muttered, and then called to one of his staff officers. "Sextus, ride to Caesar, and tell him we are engaged here. Tell him we will take position on the right. Tell him I recommend the legions take position to our left as they arrive. Ride, now! And hurry, damn you!"