Observing the action from atop his horse behind the ranks, General Fabius, the legate of the Tenth Legion, considered that the action was going very well. With the Belgic ranks repulsed, at least temporarily, the frontline legionaries had the opportunity to dress ranks and cut the throats of any wounded Belgae at their feet. They only had to contend with the ineffectual arrow barrage that had not stopped throughout the engagement. The Ninth and Tenth were holding. How things were going over on the right side of the line, nearly three miles away, was anyone's guess. That part of the line was hidden from view by a tall row of hedges that ran along the road marking the center of the battlefield. Fabius assumed the other four legions were meeting with similar success. These Belgae really weren't as fearsome fighters as the stories hyped them up to be, Fabius thought, as he observed the mass of men skulking in the river shallows. Several hundred of the Belgic rabble had already fallen to the javelins, and he still had two lines that had not yet engaged. Let the bastards try to rush the line again, and he would give them another taste of the pilum barb. His men could stand here and fight until no Belgae remained brave enough to charge up that hill.
At that moment, a cluster of riders reined in beside him. He was not particularly surprised to see Caesar among them. The proconsul was probably darting all over the battlefield that he might claim his generalship won the day.
"How do you fair, Fabius?" Caesar asked, the long plume of his helmet stretching out behind him as he got control of his mount. The Belgic arrows were making the beast nervous.
"We can stand here all day, General, if that is what you desire."
Fabius saw the Gallic bodyguard ride up now, followed by Senator Valens, who examined the lines once and then took on an expression of grave concern.
"They appear to be forming again, Caesar," the senator said to the proconsul. "Hadn't you best order a withdrawal, while there is still time?"
Caesar shot him a brief look of disbelief before turning his attention back to the enemy. "Are you mad, Valens? I have them where I want them, now," turning to the legate he said, "Fabius, take your legion and the Ninth and assault the enemy. Push them back across the river."
"Begging your pardon, Caesar, but we hold the advantage in our present positions. By all appearances, they mean to come at us again. Would it not be wiser to stay on the defensive?"
"And let them melt into the forest only to fight us again someday? I hardly think so, General. They are ready to break. Take your legion and break them. Let your javelins fly, and then drive them, Fabius! Drive them! Kill as many as you can."
"Yes, Caesar."
Valens observed Caesar with trepidation as the smug proconsul watched his orders being relayed to the cohorts, and then put into execution. The bastard was nearly salivating. And why shouldn't he? By all appearances, this was shaping up to be another great victory. The Ninth and Tenth legions had lost but a few men, and now the two legions advanced down the slope, the front liners brandishing the tips of crimson-stained gladii before their shields. Shrinking at the approaching Romans, the Atrebates ignored the pleas of their officers and made for the river in a confused rush. At this, the second and third Roman lines released their javelins deep into the ranks of the retreating foe. Four thousand barb-tipped pila fell amongst the panicked conscripts, piercing blue-painted backs and knocking warriors by the hundred face-first into the muddy shallows. Flailing bodies and wooden shafts hindered the escape of those closest to the oncoming Romans. Then, like a storm of metal, the legionaries were upon them. The gladii wrought their terrible harvest, maiming and killing the out-matched spearmen until the river ran red. Commius, too, fell under the gladius, whilst trying to reform his men, his last breath cursing Boduognatus's blunder and calling for his son, Commius the younger, also fighting in the ranks, to avenge his death.
Valens watched hopelessly as the Belgic formations, now little more than a mob, disintegrated before the Ninth and Tenth Legions. This was far from the ignoble defeat he had expected. At that moment, a giant bolt hummed over Valens's head and landed squarely in the center of the Belgae ranks, skewering two men, and sending those in the immediate vicinity into a panic. The senator looked to the rear and saw that some of the artillery had managed to disentangle itself from the impedimenta, and were now assembled and fully operational, launching their giant projectiles over the Roman ranks to wreak havoc among the packed Belgic lines. Valens glanced over to the center of the battlefield where it appeared that the enemy massed before the Eleventh and Eighth legions were also faltering.
Valens cursed his own stupidity for trusting the battle to Boduognatus. The Nervii fool could not fight his way out of the Vestal Virgins’ house. Could he not see that speed and concentration of force were the only means to victory? Valens had foregone giving the Belgic chieftain a military advisor, fearing the presence of a Roman on Boduognatus's staff might have caused a ripple in the Belgic alliance, but now he wished he had done otherwise. The Ninth and Tenth legions were pushing onto the opposite bank now, the Belgic warriors before them nothing more than a confused mass. Most struggled to get away. A few stood firm only to be cut down by the indomitable thrusts of the gladii. Once these troop had routed, the Belgic center would be in jeopardy, too.
"We have them, Valens!" Caesar exclaimed gleefully. "We have them! Did you ever see finer legions?"
At that moment, a cluster of Roman officers arrived from the rear, their horses lathered from hard riding. The officer at their head grimaced with something akin to disgust.
"Hail, Labienus!" Caesar said, cheerfully, but with sarcasm. "I am overjoyed that you could make it before there are no more enemy left to kill."
Labienus face was set in a scowl. "I come at your bidding, just as I went to the rear at your bidding."
A puzzled look crossed Caesar's face. "I don't know what you are referring to. Why in Jupiter's name would I have given you such an order?"
"Aye, why indeed?" Labienus retorted, his anger getting the better of him. "Lest it was to ensure that Caesar, and Caesar alone, is given credit for the victory, and that you may add to your report that Labienus sat in the rear commanding the baggage!"
Caesar's face turned beet red. "I tell you plainly, I gave no such order, damn you!"
A flaming scorpion bolt swooshed over the heads of the gathered officers, momentarily frightening the horses. Each man instinctively turned to see the ball of fire land amongst the retreating Belgae, the burning pitch setting several men ablaze. The burning men ran this way and that, their comrades moving away from them. Their shrieks could be heard above the din of the battle.
This seemed to temporarily calm the tempers of the two men.
"Who gave you the order, Labienus?" Caesar asked amicably. "Tell me what incompetent is responsible for removing my best general from the battlefield at such a crucial moment, and I will have him flogged, were he even the son of Crassus. I swear to that, my friend."
Labienus now appeared somewhat conciliatory. "I'm not exactly sure who he was. A young knight, definitely. He handed me a message, ordering me to see to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions, at the rear of the column, and to see that they were in good order." Labienus then produced a paper from his saddle and handed it to Caesar. "Is this not your hand?"
Several paces away, Valens watched in silent trepidation as Caesar turned the document over several times. Valens's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his own sheathed sword, but he then forced himself to take his hand away and assume an indifferent expression. He cast a glance at the three Gallic horsemen in the front rank of Caesar's bodyguard. Their swords were drawn, as were those of the other horsemen, as would be expected when the enemy was so close. Caesar and Labienus were entirely focused on the document, discussing it now in low voices that Valens could not overhear. Valens had not wanted Labienus to die. The man at least knew something of the art of war, and would have been useful when Valens took command of the army. Now, he would have to die alongside Caesar. But Valens knew it cou
ld not be helped. He had to act now. The battle was won, and if he waited any longer, even the Gallic swordsmen might betray him, in order to ingratiate themselves with the victorious proconsul.
Valens carefully slid a strand of blue silk from his corselet. He saw the fierce eyes of the three bodyguards watching his every move. It was the agreed signal between them. The three men were to slay Caesar the instant the blue cloth left his hand.
The cloth fluttered in the wind, and his fingers were about to release it, when another rider arrived, bringing his straining mount to a stop within feet of Caesar.
"General!" The young officer said in a panic. "I come from General Balbus!" The officer struggled to turn his jumping mount to face the proconsul.
"Well?" Caesar said, irritated. "Don't just sit there gasping! Speak, man!"
"The right has collapsed, sir! The Seventh and the Twelfth have been flanked! The enemy has crossed the river and is pushing toward the road!
Upon hearing this, and seeing the stunned expressions on Caesar's and Labienus's faces, Valens instantly put the blue cloth away, and shook his head ever so slightly at the waiting bodyguards. There was hope yet that this victory might turn to disaster, and the moment it did, the moment he was sure Caesar's reputation was sufficiently dishonored, then he would strike, and all of Gaul, and eventually all of Rome, would be his.
XXVI
On the other side of the battlefield, opposite the Roman right, Boduognatus felt ready to burst with pride, as he watched his fifty thousand Nervii spears close in on the two legions atop the slope on the right of the Roman lines. For some reason, the legions had been ill-prepared for his attack, and there were several hundred still chopping down trees and working on the camp when Boduognatus's warriors overtook them. This was partly due to some god-sent negligence of the Romans, but his flanking maneuver deserved much of the credit. The two Roman legions, numbering roughly eight thousand men, had stretched their line across the top of the slope, anchoring their right on the thick hedges and trees lining a bog to the east. This had given them a false sense of security that their flank was unassailable. They had not counted on the grit of the Nervii, who traversed these swamps at will, and who knew of every dry path and cutaway through the foliage. Outnumbering the Romans in front of him nearly five to one, Boduognatus had sent one fifth of his force through the swamp, to come upon the Romans from their right flank and to surround them – and the plan had worked perfectly.
From atop his horse, he had watched as his line of spears advanced up the slope against the Roman front. The Romans threw their javelins, as he had expected, and the first ranks of spearmen had suffered heavily, but his nobles had spurred them on, and soon the lines were joined. Then, came the payoff. When the Romans were fully engaged to their front and committed to fending off the sheer numbers that threatened to overwhelm them, he ordered the horn to sound, and the trap was sprung. Ten thousand of his painted, shrieking warriors burst from the foliage and drove into the unprotected Roman right and amongst the shieldless legionaries constructing the camp. Boduognatus watched, over the top of the melee, and saw his spearmen skewer one defenseless Roman after another, running down each one individually and placing their spears into Roman backs. It was a glorious sight, and the panic it caused among the front line legionaries was even more glorious. As a pig's bladder deflates after it has been kicked too hard, the Roman defense began to falter. With Nervii spearmen to their front and rear, the common soldiers fell back, leaving their cursing centurions on the line to stand alone. The impressive Romans in the cross-plumed helmets, unlike the rest of their comrades, grabbed up abandoned shields and began fighting like berserkers. Boduognatus had much respect for these gallant warriors who valued honor above life, the same creed he and the majority of his army lived by. But the centurions' devotion to honor did not save them today. Pushing off the Nervii spearman one after another, and thrusting their gladii time and again, until their hilts and forearms were painted crimson, they eventually succumbed to the numbers arrayed against them. Some fought back to back, and these were harder to kill, but those that stood alone often went down pierced by three or four Nervii spears. After one of these had fallen, Boduognatus saw one of his own Nervii nobles, in the midst of the melee, hack down with his long sword and then come up holding a centurion's severed head, still wearing the cross-plumed bronze helmet. The swordsman hurled the bloody object over the ranks at the retreating enemy, the head going one way, the helmet another. The Romans were falling apart. The slope on which the extreme right of the Roman line had stood only moments before was now covered with spearmen, and they were pushing the Romans back even further. The Romans had a second line, and that too was falling back, retreating toward the center, rather than toward the road. Boduognatus knew why, too. Though he could not see what was happening over the crest of the hill, he knew that his men had gotten around to the Roman rear, and were now proceeding to get between the legions and their only escape route.
"My Lord!" A man behind Boduognatus shouted to get his attention. The man appeared to be in a panic as he splashed his horse through the waist high water to approach the chieftain. He was obviously a messenger, a Viromandui from the looks of him. "My lord, I bring grave tidings. Commius has fallen. The Atrebates are in full retreat!"
Boduognatus was not fazed by this news. The moment he had seen the Ninth and Tenth Legions, the finest in Caesar's army, forming up on that side of the line, he knew that the Atrebates were in for a slaughter. He had known that, and he had allowed it to happen with the knowledge that their sacrifice would leave his own Nervii facing two depleted legions of mixed caliber. The other chieftains would not have understood it, but it was their best chance of succeeding. The only way they could defeat the legions was to get in their rear and create havoc in the one place where the Romans expected there to be order. Only that would throw the Romans off balance and make them run.
"That is unfortunate," he finally said to the messenger. "Commius the brave will have a place in our songs of this victory. How does your own lord fare?"
"We are hard pressed in the center, sir. The legions are advancing on our right. My lord asks if you can send men to assist us."
Boduognatus considered for a moment. The right could collapse. He was not worried about that, but he needed the center to hold, at least long enough for his own men to annihilate the two legions they were quickly surrounding. Still, he was reluctant to part with any more of his troops. They already appeared thinned out, and he was wondering just how many had deserted in the morning's indecision. But they were in the hands of the fates now.
"Tell your lord I am sending three brigades. Tell him he must keep up the attack, and, above all, he must hold!"
The thankful messenger departed, orders were given, and three thousand spears were pulled out of the rear ranks and sent to bolster the Viromandui in the center.
The carnage on the slope continued. The centurions had all been slaughtered, and now his spearmen pressed hard on the collapsing legions. They were rushing and killing, and why should it surprise him so? His warriors had fought off countless invasions by German tribes. All was going as he had hoped. The annoyance of Senator Valens's bad intelligence – or treachery – was now in the past. That blunder had been overcome, and now all that remained was to separate the Romans from the road and their baggage, and the battle would be won. A cloud of dust had risen above the thousands of jabbing and slashing swords and spears, and obstructed his view beyond the enemy lines. He desperately wished he could see the progress of his troops there, but he was sure they were pressing to envelope the Roman rear. At any moment, he expected to see the two legions before him break and melt away into a mass of confusion.
Boduognatus waited for that moment, counting each beat of his heart and daring to dream of the accolades he would receive for this victory. Surely, all of the Belgic tribes, even those that had already capitulated to the Romans, would rally to his banner and declare him king over all. Then, with all of t
he Belgae behind him, he would drive the Romans from Gaul, settling a few long-overdue scores with the Aeduans and the others who had allied themselves with the invader. The name of Boduognatus would resound in the ears of the Belgae and their enemies for generations to come.
But Boduognatus pulled himself back to the present as the battle lines bowed and swayed like the contours of a rocky coastline. In most places, his men were forcing the Romans back, but now, in a few places along the line, the Romans stood firm like rocks against a rushing tide. They would break. They had to break. Until they did, Boduognatus watched and he waited.
Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 20
