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

by R. Cameron Cooke

  "Has the cavalry not tended to them yet?" Caesar snapped to the nearest of his adjutants.

  "I believe they are awaiting the carts, Proconsul." The officer offered in explanation.

  "Damn the carts, man. Do they wish those corpses to burst before they collect them?"

  Caesar studied the far bank of the river. The grassy plain, on which the slain auxiliaries lay, swept up from the river’s edge to a row of low wooded hills. There could be any number of Belgae hiding in those woods. But if the enemy was there, as Balbus’s panicky message had so informed him, then why had they not attacked?

  Already annoyed by the delays incurred by the Belgic countryside over the last three days of marching, Caesar was loathe to let a few skirmishers hold up his advance. Judging from the sparse resistance they had seen thus far on the march, he fully expected this campaign to be over quickly. Aside from this day’s skirmish, his army had marched through the Belgic countryside with little harassment. Only a handful of arrows and stones had come at them periodically, the assailants hidden in the brush and gone before the cavalry could respond. It was the work of small bands, not any organized army. He was quite certain that all of the tales of a massing of the Belgic tribes were overinflated. Of course, the coded message kept coming to the forefront of his thoughts, but he just as easily dismissed that, too. It all seemed like such an over-reaction now.

  Caesar had received Divitiacus’s scout, the man called Adalbert, late on the previous evening. The Aeduan had presented him with a cipher, and Caesar had eagerly used it to decode the message Divitiacus had taken off of the dead Nervii officer. He had hoped to find something revealing in the text, such as the names of the traitors Divitiacus had claimed were lurking within the army. But the message was quite disappointing. It had contained nothing more than a short description of the marching order of the Roman column. The message had emphasized that the army marched with “baggage separating each legion.” This was rather benign, if of no importance at all. Still, this morning, he had seen to changing the marching order, if only to sow the seeds of doubt among the Belgae, that their hidden informant was unreliable. When the army marched, Caesar had instructed the quartermaster to place all of the baggage between the six and seventh legions in the line. The change had caused so much delay and confusion that Caesar had almost immediately regretted ever giving the order.

  The precaution was absurd, really. If the enemy truly did lie in ambush up ahead, why would they have allowed so many legions to take the field unopposed?

  Caesar looked beyond the ranks of legionaries. A troop of cavalry sauntered near the river's edge, a hundred paces in front of the army. They were Roman cavalry, rushed up from the rear to take the place of the auxiliary horsemen that had been lost in the skirmish. The Roman horse casually trotted in column along the near bank of the river, riding the entire length of the four-mile Roman line. Upon reaching the end of the line, the officer at their head turned the column about to ride the circuit again.

  "Quintus," Caesar said curiously. "Who is that officer driving our horse about in front of our lines as if he were on triumph? If he's going to stay on this side of the river, he might as well retire to his tent. I can observe the field just as easily from here. Why does he not scout those trees on the opposite bank as I have ordered? And where in Jupiter's name is Labienus. I thought he was at their head?"

  "General Labienus went back up the road, sir, to bring up the Thirteenth and Fourteenth." The aide then added, uncertainly, "He said it was on your order, sir."

  "I gave no such order. I need him here. Ride after him, Quintus, but not before you ask that oaf down by the river if he would be so good as to take his cavalry somewhere that they might be of use."

  "Yes, Proconsul," the officer replied, before mounting his horse and clattering off.

  "Sometimes I do not know what has come over this army, gentlemen," Caesar said apologetically to the two senators. "They act as though they have never been on campaign."

  "Nervous young men often muddle the message, as you well know, Gaius," Valens said consolingly. “I remember when I campaigned in Spain with the great Sertorius. He would often send three or four messengers with the same message, just to ensure it got through, and with the same content as when he sent it. I am sure all is well and that young man down there has a good vantage of the woods. He is probably just showing prudence in light of what happened to the Treveri cavalry."

  "Prudence is for the general to decide, Senator," Caesar said irritably, still watching the ambling cavalry.

  Valens cast an unseen glance at Porcius, who averted his eyes nervously. They both knew why the cavalry officer down by the river seemed to disobey his orders, and it was not due to any level of prudence. It was because the young man was part of Valens's conspiracy and had been told not to take the cavalry anywhere near the woods, in the event that the troopers, who were not privy to the conspiracy, might sight the mass of Belgic spearmen lurking within, and raise the alarm too early.

  But it was not early. It was late, and Valens was growing anxious. The Belgae should have attacked by now. They should have attacked as the first legion of the column arrived on the field, just as the message he had given this morning to Argus, to deliver to Boduognatus, had advised. But what had happened to Argus? He should have returned by now. Legion after legion had arrived on the field without any sign of the Belgae attack, so Argus must not have gotten through. Either that, or Boduognatus had betrayed him. If the attack never came it would not take Caesar long to figure out who had arranged for the errant messages to be delivered to Labienus in Caesar's name. It would not take him long to figure out that the officer now leading the forward deployed cavalry was a new arrival from Rome, and one of Valens's own men.

  Valens smiled, remaining outwardly calm as he inwardly cursed the Belgic chieftain. Even now, were he to attack, the legions would be taken by surprise. The Ninth and Tenth Legions, on the left, had only just arrived on the field, but the other four legions in the center and on the right, had now been deployed in battle line for many hours. The inactivity across the river had made them lackadaisical and careless. They now lounged on the grassy slope, their pila and shields stacked by squad as they chewed on grass, and rested after the day's march. They clearly did not expect an attack today, some even breaking from the ranks to venture down to the river for a cool drink. Half of the soldiers of each legion were consumed with building the camp, and had returned their large oval shields to the leather covers in the event of an afternoon shower. They unloaded the few pack mules that had marched with them, dug ditches, and planted stakes in preparation for building the palisade walls once the main impedimenta arrived, with its hundreds of carts and thousands of pack animals. Several dozen legionaries had ventured with axes into the nearby thickets to find some fair trees to fell. They laughed and joked as they worked, but none seemed in the least bit wary of an attack.

  Valens watched the back of Caesar's head as the proconsul studied the woods on the other side of the river. Did he suspect anything? Would the attack even come? If it did not come, there were other plans. Valens's eyes drifted to the mounted Gallic cavalry that served as Caesar's bodyguard. Three of the bearded warriors in the front rank met his eyes in acknowledgement of the pact they had made with him. They were his contingency. They were to wait for the battle to be engaged, and the legions near the breaking point. When that time came, the three brutes were to bury their longswords in Caesar's back. If for some reason the battle did not go as Valens had planned, they were to wait for his signal, and then send the proconsul to the afterlife. Either way, Caesar would die, and Rome set back on her intended path. Certainly, Valens would prefer it if that arrogant ass of a proconsul were to die on the battlefield, the last vision of his dying eyes that of the flight of his defeated troops - the same troops he had exalted in his letters to the senate as the best ever fielded by Rome. It made Valens laugh inside to think of these bumbling incompetents compared to the great legions of Sertoriu
s. Once he was in command, perhaps a taste of decimation would make them smarter. Yes, that was it. He would have to decimate at least one legion to send a clear message to them all, that the liberties they took under their previous general would no longer be tolerated.

  "Where in Jupiter's name is he taking them now?" Caesar exclaimed.

  Valens pulled himself back to the present to see that Caesar was referring to the cavalry officer, who had now wheeled his entire mounted force away from the river, and was leading them with all speed toward the rear. The horsemen rode between the files of the formed legions, their officer entirely ignoring the inquiries of the puzzled legates. Within moments, the entire squadron had disappeared back up the road amidst the baggage.

  Caesar audibly gasped in disbelief. The Roman cavalry had been withdrawn to a place where they could not support the legions, should the enemy cavalry show itself again.

  While Caesar cursed, Valens inwardly smiled. He exchanged a subversive glance with Porcius, for both men knew exactly what was happening. At long last, it was happening just as Valens had planned. The cavalry officer had been given explicit orders to remove the cavalry from the field at the first sign of the enemy attack. While Valens was counting on the legions to be terribly handled on this day, he did not wish for the cavalry to suffer. For he would need the cavalry, once he was in command of the army.

  What happened next, he had fully expected to happen.

  "Mother of Remus!" One of Caesar's adjutants exclaimed, voicing what every legionary in the ranks was thinking, as they all stared open-mouthed at the terrifying sight across the river. From right to left, stretching in one continuous line as far as visibility would allow, a line of blue-painted, spear-wielding, howling warriors had emerged from the tree-line. Their ranks were deep, and their war cry menacing. It was the cry of tens of thousands of blood-thirsty Belgae, and when combined it reached a crescendo that was inhuman and unnatural. Like a single organism, the line of blue surged forward across the open space, consuming the green plain, reaching the river's edge within moments. On the left, the newly arrived Ninth and Tenth Legions were closest to the charging mass. They would be first struck by the indomitable wave of spears.

  Valens watched Caesar, fully expecting panic to overtake him. But, to Valens's surprise, after a moment of uncertainty, in which Caesar's face registered shock, anger, and disbelief, all at once, the proconsul suddenly sprang to life. Caesar walked briskly to his mount, snatching his crimson-plumed helmet from the waiting staff officer.

  "Unfurl the red banner!" He commanded from the saddle, as he tied the straps beneath his chin. "Recall the work details. Get all legions formed and under arms!"

  Before Caesar spurred his mount, Valens stopped him with a feigned look of concern. "But where are you going, Caesar? These men need you here?"

  Could it be this easy? Valens thought to himself. Is this populares bastard so scared that he is already fleeing the field?

  Caesar seemed to detect the pageantry in Valens's question and replied curtly, "The legions on the left will be the first to feel the enemy's charge. With Labienus off who knows where, I must go and direct their battle. You and Porcius may remain here if you wish."

  Without another word, Caesar kicked his mount forward, and thundered off, his staff following close behind him.

  A moment later, the score of Gallic bodyguard followed, too, the three conspirators among them casting a questioning glance in Valens's direction before charging off with their comrades.

  "What do we do, Valens?" Porcius said nervously.

  "We keep our heads, damn you! Stay here. When the legions on the left break, and they will, go to the legates of the other legions and tell them Caesar is dead. Tell them General Valens orders them to conduct an orderly retreat back up the road."

  "And if they don't break?"

  Valens shot him an incensed look. "Then make yourself useful until they do! You know what's at stake here, man. Both of our necks will be on the block if Caesar is not defeated."

  Porcius nodded nervously. "And where are you going?"

  Valens looked after the distant cloud of dust stirred up by the galloping horses of Caesar and his bodyguard. "I go where Caesar goes. I go to ensure that the blessed proconsul never leaves this field alive."

  With that, Valens mounted his horse and rode off at a full gallop.

  XXV

  On the far left side of the Roman army, the legions had mere moments to prepare for the coming onslaught. The forest on the opposite side of the river was much closer to the water’s edge than in other places along the four mile line. Thus, the Belgae spearmen springing from those woods had much less distance to run in order to reach the Romans. The men of the Ninth and Tenth Legions, both Spanish legions, having just arrived on the field, dropped their kits and trenching tools and quickly formed ranks. Often considered Caesar's finest legion, the Tenth was famous for its speed and hardiness, and it did not disappoint on this day. The Tenth Legion, along with the Ninth, established the left anchor of the Roman army, their eighty centuries coolly forming into three lines in the face of the onrushing enemy. They did not have to be told what to do, for they were all veterans, and had faced barbarians many times before. Eight thousand Roman helmets peeked above as many freshly painted shields. With javelins poised, the legionaries stood side-by-side, like a cemented seawall, prepared for the approaching wave.

  The Belgic warriors splashing through the river shallows to confront the two legions were the 15,000 spears of the Atrebates, under their chieftain Commius. The tribe came from the coastal plain and was, by and large, comprised of men who made their trade on the sea – merchants and sailors who did business with the British Isles. While they were stout and hardy men, they were not as akin to combat in rugged terrain as their Nervii brethren, who regularly blooded their spears fending off incursions by the Germans.

  Riding near the head of his charging warriors, Commius knew full-well that pitting his average troops against the prime Roman legions was ill-advised, but the fates had decided otherwise. With the advantage of numbers, he also would have preferred sending some troops to hit the Romans in the flank, but the Roman left was protected by a sharp escarpment covered in thickets and hedgerows. Under the previous plan, in which his men and the rest of the Belgic army were to face one or two legions at most, these natural barriers were to have boxed in the fleeing Romans and prevent them from escaping. Now, with six legions on the field, the hedges worked to the Romans’ advantage, forcing the advancing Atrebates to approach the three-century-deep Roman lines with a nearly equal front. Still, they outnumbered the Romans before them nearly two to one, and should, by all accounts, be able to overcome them with a single massed frontal assault. Commius forced his mind to believe that as he glanced over at his son, leading the brigade to his left.

  The mass of howling warriors charged up the slope on the Roman side of the river, obliterating the hoof prints left in the mud by the cavalry. Their ranks were jumbled from the crossing, but their nobles spurred them onward, waving swords high in the air, disregarding or oblivious to the fact that they had just stepped into the deadly space that lay before any Roman legion drawn up in perfect battle order on the high ground.

  When the Belgae were within twenty paces of the Roman shields, the two legions suddenly came alive. The primus pilus, standing in the front right centuries, shouted an order that set the massive formations in motion. Like a ripple traveling down the skin of a snake, two thousand javelins were hurled into the sky. The front right centuries threw first and the other front centuries followed suit, in a perfectly sequential motion that might have been beautiful had its result not been so deadly.

  The six-foot missiles swarmed above the open space between the lines and came down with devastating fury amongst the front ranks of rushing spearmen. As if encountering some invisible barrier, the front lines stagnated, forcing the pressing ranks behind to push into them. Shields came up and men crouched to avoid the terrifying weapons, bu
t in vain. The two-foot-long iron shank on the tip of each Roman javelin, backed up by the momentum of a five-foot wooden shaft, found the gaps in the shields and sliced through the poorly armored. Many of the missiles that struck the shields squarely, punched through the plied wood to destroy the hands and arms beneath. Men cried out in pain and terror, some lanced by two or three pila, some gushing blood from javelins lodged in their necks, even one who ran about frantically between the lines trying to dislodge a pilum that had entered through his eye and protruded from the side of his head, miraculously not killing him.

  Having lost its momentum, the Atrebates charge now stagnated, as wounded men crawled to the rear, many of them unconsciously trampled by the ranks behind. The uninjured warriors clawed their way through dropped shields, corpses, and the shafts of a thousand of spent pila protruding from the soft ground, but none seemed ready to rush at the waiting Roman lines. Shouting encouragement to the hesitant spearmen, a few mail-clad Belgic nobles on horseback nudged their way to the front and began to rally the muddle back into a line of continuous shields.

  The legionaries in the frontline centuries observed this and began ridiculing their opponents, daring them to come up the slope. Arrows, shot over the Belgic ranks by bowmen standing knee-deep in the river, began to clatter against the giant Roman shields. These were some of the same archers that had so thoroughly massacred the lightly armored Treveri horse only hours before. Now, they faced heavy infantry – legionaries – clad in mail-shirts and bronze helmets, and only a few fell prey to the flying missiles. Commius, understanding that the sight of so many arrows causing so few casualties among the Romans would do nothing to help bolster his men, ordered a general charge before his men had time to think about it.

  The Atrebates line surged forward, a mass of snarling, blue-painted, spiked-haired men behind shields and extended spears. They hit the Roman line like a thunderclap, shield against shield, some throwing spears at the squinted eyes of the legionaries, some wildly leaping into the ranks of their foe. Like a giant meat-grinder, the Roman line engaged the blue wave, each soldier crouching behind his shield as he shoved it into the enemy to his front, pushing the Belgic front liners back into the ranks pressing from behind, and then jabbing with his gladius at the off-balanced foe. This was repeated time and time again, short, repeated thrusts that punctured blue-painted abdomens, mutilated genitals and opened leg arteries, while the Belgae spears, unwieldy in the compact close quarters glanced off of the curved Roman shields. Atrebas warriors began to fall by the dozen to the repeated thrusts of the gladii. Spears probed the gaps between the legionaries’ shields, some of them returning covered with Roman blood, but most getting deflected or shattered by a chopping short sword. As one of the few sword bearers among the Atrebates, Commius had a distinct advantage over his countrymen. He splintered the Roman shield to his front and then drove the point of his long sword into the face of the legionary behind it, dislodging teeth and jaw and starting a torrent of blood that streaked down into the man's tunic and mail. Commius gave a victorious cry, hoping that the men around him might take heart from the mangled Roman now falling back into the rear ranks, but his small victory, and those of the few other sword-wielding nobles, was not enough to stop the wholesale slaughter of his men. They were no match for the trained veterans of the Ninth and Tenth, and they began to fall back, no matter how much Commius upbraided them for it.