“I may be a passenger now, but you’re still a senior commander. Let’s take control of the auxiliaries and provide a little support.”
Tertullus smiled and clambered down from the cart.
“So what do we do?”
“You take the archers and I’ll take the spear men. Imagine what damage a thousand arrows could do falling from the top of the valley side?”
The tribune’s smile widened.
“We might be able to thin them out quite well. And the spears?”
“Spears are no use up there, but there are a lot of loose rocks on these hillsides. Imagine the damage a heavy rock could do rolling down that hillside and into a mass of warriors.”
Tertullus laughed.
“I see what you mean about not thinking exclusively.”
Reaching up, he grasped Galronus and helped him down from the cart.
“Come on. Let’s go and save my nephew’s backside.”
Chapter 16
(Iunius: Inland Aquitania, territory of the Sotiates.)
Gaius Pinarius Rusca licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth in panic. What in the name of all the Gods was he doing here? The closest he’d ever come to fighting was a tussle with a peer who stole his seat at the games when he was a teenager.
Eight months ago he had been sitting in his cosy little triclinium contemplating his future with the delectable Laevinia and now, standing on this springy turf with his legs shaking uncontrollably and a dangerous slackening around his bladder, he couldn’t believe how excited he’d been to have had his posting to the legions approved.
His father had served under the elder Crassus years ago and had managed to secure him the most prestigious tribunate within the Seventh beneath the young legate, since when Rusca had spent the past months in Vindunum lording it over the others and turning his ability with numbers and attention to detail to the disposition of units and supply problems.
A distant bellow of rage brought his attention rudely back to the current situation.
“Hold the line!” he shouted, noting the way his voice cracked in fear and hoping that no one else had.
The legate had sent the cavalry on chasing the Sotiates and had marched the legions as fast as they could move in formation down the hill behind.
They had descended, eager to bring Roman vengeance to these skirmishing horsemen and Rusca had watched from his forward position as the pursuing auxiliary cavalry engaged the enemy once again, only to be completely cut off from the rest of the army as untold thousands of screaming, bloodthirsty barbarians, some wearing wild animal pelts around their shoulders, had poured seemingly out of the very ground to either side of them.
Rusca’s world had fallen apart. He was a natural mathematician; a studious and quiet young man hoping to achieve at least a minor public appointment back in the city on the strength of his military experience. What he was truly not, he thought, as the embarrassing warm trickle began, was a soldier.
Crassus himself had been close by and Rusca had been surprised at how the man dealt with the situation. The legate was no older than he and had only served the legions for a couple of years and yet he took control of the disaster like those Cretan bull leapers grabbed their acrobatic steeds and pulled the legion together; like a veteran commander.
On the legate’s orders, the legion had split into individual cohorts, each forming a defensive square in the face of the charging enemy. Suddenly, and without time to even attempt mental preparation, the inexperienced senior tribune had found himself in nominal command of the Second cohort as they braced for the clash, though in truth, the cohort’s senior centurion was already shouting the appropriate commands, most of the troops largely unaware of even the presence of the tribune.
The square consisted of shield walls thirty men across and four deep, with the tribune, the cornicens and the capsarii in the central space.
The Sotiates, wrapped in their pelts, furs, leathers and occasional mail shirts poured down the slope like a shabby sea, crashing against the rocks of the Second cohort with a spray of blood, spittle and sweat and Rusca felt a fresh wave of panic as the shield walls on two sides gave a little under the onslaught, bowing inwards toward the non-combatants in the centre. The scent of urine brought a burning shame to the tribune’s cheeks, though he was sure no one would notice in the general stink of sweat that threatened to make him gag.
How could there be so many barbarians in all the world? Already the shield walls were under attack by a vast force, and yet all he could see from his central vantage point were yet more and more enemy warriors charging, screaming into the fray.
“Hold the line!” he bellowed again, aware of how pointless it was as a command. As if the men were about to part and let the sea of Gauls into their midst.
A commotion drew his attention to the north face of the formation, where a particularly violent assault was taking place, the enemy literally throwing themselves in a blind rage on top of the shield wall, breaking the square. As he watched, a huge barbarian with a broad-bladed axe appeared, the weapon held high above his head, as he stood on the back of a fallen comrade, one foot held firm on a discarded Roman shield, and brought the vicious weapon down in a massive swing.
Something bounced off Rusca’s cheek guard and rattled around the helmet’s bronze rim, and his sight went black.
In an urgent and terrified panic, Rusca raised his free hand, his sword arm hanging pointlessly at his side, and wiped desperately at his suddenly blind eyes. What had happened?
His vision returned as he wiped the excess blood from his eyes and he gagged, realising that the axe blow had sent half the legionary’s head flying through the air in pieces. Stepping back, pale and shaking, Rusca leaned forward and vomited copiously, fresh waves of horror assailing him as shards of bone and fractured teeth fell out of his helmet where they had become lodged following the blow.
How he remained standing at that point, white, terrified and sick, he would never know, but the young tribune’s world changed in that moment.
He stared down at the fragments of the unknown legionary on the floor below him and spat the remains of the bile away. Reaching up with a shaking arm, he unlaced his helmet and let it fall, blood-soaked and dented, to the ground with the rest of the detritus.
Blinking away more of the sweat and blood, he reached down for the crimson linen scarf around his neck, studied it until he found a relatively dry and clean section, and wiped his face, noting with surprise the sheer quantity of blood that was still there.
He looked around him, his terror having metamorphosised into something different; something beyond mere fear. Rusca was going to die today and now that he knew it, he felt curiously prepared. The legionary who had succumbed to the axe blow had died so instantaneously he couldn’t possibly have felt the pain for longer than a heartbeat.
The cohort was collapsing around him.
What had begun as five hundred men had perhaps halved already, and two areas of the shield wall were precariously thin.
As he watched, contemplating what he could do to help, there was a second violent clash in that same spot, huge powerful warriors leaping onto and across the shield wall with apparent unconcern for their own life. Suddenly, like the bursting of a dam, the shield wall gave, and three wild, growling men burst through.
The centurion, somewhere off to Rusca’s left, called his orders and the breech was quickly sealed, men pushing from either side until they connected and formed a solid front once again. At a second order, the few free capsarii in the centre, ready to tend to any wounded men who were passed back inside from the line, grasped their swords and stepped forward to intercept the three Gauls who were making straight for the man in the burnished cuirass, clearly the senior officer.
It took Rusca a moment to realise that they were rushing to protect him and he felt a fresh wave of shame rise on his cheeks. There were men he had met this past half year, men who occupied the same position as he in other legions, who would thi
nk nothing of charging, bare-handed, into the enemy at this point. Yet here he was being nothing but a burden to the men under his command.
For a moment, the fatalism that had clouded his thoughts these last moments threatened to drive him into action. It would be nice to go to the Elysian fields knowing that he had made one heroic stand with his men and fought like a soldier.
Unfortunately his knees didn’t see things the same way and refused to carry him forward, instead trembling uncontrollably and threatening to make him collapse to the ground.
Four capsarii leapt in front of him, one slipping on the mess of blood, bone and vomit and crashing to the ground, causing a fresh wave of guilt and shame to batter the tribune. The other three ran at the intruders, gladius in one hand and dagger in the other, their shields already discarded to allow for medical duties.
Rusca watched, shuddering, as the men fought, stabbing, slashing and hacking at the barbarians, who returned the favour, their own swords and axes swinging and slicing. The tribune couldn’t pick out the detail in the flurry of action, his knees barely holding him upright, and the moment he realised that the capsarii had failed, his trembling legs finally gave way, bringing him to a kneeling position, as though penitent. Shuddering, he collapsed to all fours in the filth.
The capsarii had dispatched two of the Sotiate warriors, but the third seemed to be entirely unharmed as he stabbed down almost casually, ending the life of the man who had been attacking him, and then strode purposefully across toward the tribune.
The soldier who had slipped in the mess before the tribune was already picking himself up, sword in hand, ready to stand and defend his commander to the last.
“Get back!”
The capsarius jumped in shock as Rusca put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him backwards, sliding him to the rear and away from the approaching warrior.
His father had been a soldier; ten times the soldier he could ever hope to be, and had imparted a great deal of military expertise around the dinner table over the years, particularly when his uncles had been visiting. In this moment, at the end of his life, Rusca could clearly remember one such pearl of wisdom: ‘in battle, anything goes’. There is no right or wrong way. The noble warrior faced his enemy and stared him in the eye as they fought; the noble warrior would allow an opponent mercy if he sought it; the noble warrior looked after his equipment and followed his training to the letter. All good and noble, but the victorious warrior did the unexpected, kicked, bit, head-butted and dodged away. He did whatever he could to be the victorious warrior.
The great hulking barbarian stepped toward him, grinning and raising his long blade in two hands, ready to bring it down in an overhand blow that would drive it clean through the tribune and at least a foot of the earth beneath him.
Already sickened at the fact that he was on his hands and knees in his own vomit and the blood of several men, Rusca took a deep breath and threw himself flat on his front in the mess, swinging his sword arm out with all his strength as he did so.
The gladius was traditionally used for stabbing, its point vicious and its blade well made for repeated thrusts and withdrawals. The legions were trained to use them this way for efficiency and the high probability of mortal wounding with each blow, but it was not unknown, according to his father, for the blade to be used to slice, as in the horrible Macedonian conflicts a hundred years ago where tales of severed limbs had abounded.
The blow was powerful, driven by fear, desperation and a curious cold determination that had formed like ice from the tears of his panic. As the Gaul’s sword reached its apex, prepared for its deadly descent into the tribune’s back, Rusca’s gladius swept out and bit into his leg just above the ankle, the force carrying the blow deep enough to snap the bone.
The warrior gave a blood-curdling cry as his leg slipped sideways, separating from the foot above the ankle, the severed shin dropping to the turf.
The man collapsed, screaming in agony, his attack entirely forgotten.
Rusca blinked in frightened amazement as the man’s sword, relinquished in mid air, plunged point first into the earth less than a foot from the tribune’s grimy hand. Shuddering, he pushed himself back into a kneeling position and stared at his slick, crimson sword.
Suddenly an arm was beneath his shoulder, helping him to stand. His legs seemed to have regained some of their strength and he pushed himself upright without too much difficulty, turning to stare in confusion at the capsarius who had helped him. The man was saying something.
“What?”
“I said thanks for that, sir.”
The man laughed.
“Actually, what I really said, sir, was ‘bloody hell!’”
Rusca continued to stare at him blankly. The man shrugged.
“Never seen an officer fight like that, sir. Hell, I’ve rarely seen anyone fight like that!”
Rusca gave a croaky laugh.
“Better to be a living thug than a dead hero, eh?”
The capsarius nodded, grinning, as he stepped past the tribune and sank his blade into the writhing form of the one-footed Gaul, dispatching him with ease.
The tribune wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes and frowned into the fray.
“Can’t see what’s happening. Can you? I appear to have all manner of shit in my eyes.”
The capsarius laughed and squinted as he turned and took in the scene around him.
“I think we’re down to about half numbers, but a lot of those will be walking wounded; salvageable, if we can get out of here.”
Rusca raised an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t really seeking a medical opinion, man, more a tactical one.”
“’Course, sir. Think they’re thinning out. Looks like we’ve got the edge.”
The pair turned and stared as the scene up and down the valley became apparent. Ahead, the Sotiates were retreating, running as fast as they could down the valley, while Crassus and the First cohort reorganised to follow them. The enemy horse had fled already, and Galronus’ cavalry had turned and were harrying the fleeing Gauls. Further back along the line, among the other cohorts, the Gauls were already beginning to disengage.
“Why are they running?” Rusca wondered aloud.
“’Cause of the auxilia, sir. Look!”
The tribune raised his eyes and scanned the top of the valley side, where his companion was pointing. Units of auxiliary archers were pouring arrows down into the rear ranks of the enemy, while others, probably the spear men, were heaving at the loose rocks, setting them rolling down the steep incline and into the mass of Sotiates.
“Ha. Their ambush has been ambushed.”
The capsarius wore a look of concern as he turned back.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re very pale, sir. It’s hard to see beneath all the blood, but you’re white as a Vestal’s dress. Are you wounded?”
Rusca grinned.
“Far from it.”
He turned and scanned the men until he spotted the senior centurion.
“Looks like they’re breaking, centurion. Soon as they do, get formed up and follow, joining up with the First cohort.”
The centurion saluted and Rusca turned back to the capsarius.
“You and I, however, are going to wait until the enemy are cleared back and then head to the supply carts where I can get water for a wash, and some clean clothes.”
The capsarius grinned.
“Up to you sir, but if I were you I’d stay just like that. The very sight of you would loosen their bowels!”
* * * * *
The chief oppidum of the Sotiates had been a surprise to all. After an initial chase, it had become clear that, with its accompanying auxilia and baggage train, there was little hope of catching the fleeing Gauls before they reached their settlement and so Crassus had called an immediate halt to the fruitless chase and had changed tactics entirely.
Scouts sent ahead confirmed that over the next ten miles the land gradually lowered
and flattened until it became a huge plain that extended all the way to the distant shore. The oppidum was constructed on only a very low hill, that being all that was available, and surrounded by low walls that, in quality and size, fell short of the impressive defences they had seen in other parts of Gaul.
Clearly the Sotiates had placed all their faith in the ambush in the valley, knowing that once the Roman forces reached the plain their defensive capabilities were drastically reduced.
Crassus had greeted the news from the scouts with a smile, reforming the Seventh legion and its auxilia and taking two days in the last of the forested hills before descending to the plain. While this delay would have given the Sotiates the time to recover from their heavy losses and panicked retreat, it would not be long enough for them to effect heavier defences or gather great reinforcements, yet would allow the Roman force the time to perform the onerous post-battle tasks: the tending of the wounded and the funerals of the dead and raising of a mound.
More importantly it had given the engineers of the legion plenty of time to strip areas of woodland and use the timber to construct a number of siege machines in preparation for the coming assault. From his position outside the army’s current command chain, Galronus had watched the engineers with interest. His duties with the cavalry had rarely allowed him time to observe the feats of the engineers in progress and the work was fascinating to watch. Clearly these men had worked together so many times that there was hardly any need for commands or directions, the soldiers going about their tasks with ordered precision, as though performing some sort of complicated dance.
By the time they had set off on the march again yesterday morning, the huge train of carts that followed the army had acquired mobile shelters that the engineers called vineae, two tall towers and a number of great screens that could protect troops.
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) Page 37
