Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  Caesar frowned.

  “Not ambassadors?”

  Fronto shook his head. “I think what they are is decoys, sent to keep the bulk of the army busy. Something’s about to happen, or it’s happening already.”

  Caesar nodded slowly, a worried shadow in his eyes. Turning to Varus’ cavalry, he scanned the ranks until he spotted the commander himself.

  “Varus. Take some good men and ride for Piso’s vanguard. Make sure all is as it should be and order them to pull back to the main column.”

  Varus saluted and started shouting out orders, but Fronto saw a few snarling lips and wrinkling brows among the enemy. Caesar had switched back to Latin to give the order. In seconds, as Fronto drew breath to get Caesar’s attention, the Germanic riders were already turning and racing off down the far side of the hill.

  “Caesar!”

  The general glanced at the sudden explosion of movement and nodded.

  “Let them go. I won’t push any more men out from the column to catch them. They’re too light and fast; they’ll easily outrun our heavy-equipped cavalry.”

  As Varus trotted past the group of officers, a turma of regular cavalry forming up behind him, Fronto reached past and tapped him on the arm.

  “If you value the cavalry, ride like Pegasus himself and get Piso and his men back here.”

  Somewhere away to the northeast a single flash of lightning rent the sky.

  “Great” Fronto muttered as his left hand rose involuntarily to the Fortuna pendant.

  Chapter 5

  (Border of Treveri & Ubii lands close to the Rhine & Moselle Rivers)

  Varus and his turma of cavalry raced up the gentle incline across open swathes of grass between the forested low hills that covered the landscape here, hiding fertile valleys and the ruined shells of small, peaceful settlements that had fallen victim to the Germanic invaders.

  The small force had paused at one, despite the urgency of their mission, to confirm their worst fears. Varus very much wished he hadn’t entered the hut and seen what the Tencteri raiders had done to the Belgic farmer and his wife and daughters, almost certainly both before and after their deaths. Since that first encounter, they had warily avoided stopping at any of the other two dozen villages and isolated farmsteads they had passed.

  Half an hour they had been riding now, the last ten minutes of which they had followed the unmistakable trail left by Piso’s cavalry wing, some five thousand men and mounts.

  Across the low saddle they rode, almost three dozen men pounding the earth in their haste to reach the vanguard as fast as possible. Crossing easily into a wide, shallow depression surrounded by forested hillocks and ridges, they espied a deeper and narrower valley across to the west, flattening where it met the river to the east.

  Full of milling horsemen.

  Piso’s cavalry had come to a halt in the valley. Their direction of travel so far, following the northeasterly course set by the general, would lead them directly over the highest hills ahead, with the deepest, most tangled forests. Since clearly the army could not pass that way, the cavalry commander had paused, sending scout units out to locate the best route, whether it be along the Mosella River or further up the valley. Varus nodded as he slowed his mount at the crest. He’d have done exactly the same. Of the force of five thousand cavalry, perhaps three thousand remained in the centre of the wide valley, the rest split into units of three hundred, each under its own officers, dispersed around the valley, probing each low saddle or side valley for the best route onwards.

  At least they were intact. Nothing untoward had befallen them.

  “Sir!”

  Varus turned to the man who’d addressed him, a regular cavalryman, holding his shield and reins in one hand, while jabbing his spear out toward the valley.

  “Hmm?”

  “I saw movement on the hill opposite. Above the tree line.”

  Varus didn’t even bother to look. His men were good. The first turma in his command was made up of veterans, each of whom had served since the first push against the Helvetii, and many even in Hispania before that. Each man in this small unit knew Gaul backwards and inside out now. Each one of them was as alert and trustworthy as a soldier could be. If Afranius said there was movement, then there was movement.

  And the Roman forces in the valley were scattered over more than a mile of open land in small groups.

  “Form up!” Varus bellowed, already kicking his bay mare into activity and urging her down the slope into the wide depression.

  By the time he’d picked up to a canter and then a gallop, the turma had formed on him and kept to a tight knot as they descended toward the large force of auxiliary cavalry – Gauls, Belgae, Aquitanians, and the occasional Roman officer amid the spread-out mass.

  By the time they were half way down the valley side, Piso and his officers had spotted them, a standard bearer gesturing in their direction with his silver wolf standard, other men pointing and many horses turning to face them.

  Varus’ gaze took them all in, and then rose above them, tracking across the fields and past the burned shell of a small farm, to the tree line opposite, from which shapes were now detaching. Enemy cavalry; lightly armed and clothed men – a number of them naked he assumed from the fleshy tint – were leaving the shadows of the wood and pouring down the hillsides toward the large force.

  A quick glance showed the same thing happening up and down the valley. There were not a vast number of enemy riders, but they had been well positioned in groups, each small force falling upon one section of the separated Roman cavalry.

  Finally, Piso’s men had noted the enemy coming at them and horns rang out with half a dozen contradictory orders. Varus cringed at the cacophony. He was watching a potential disaster. Piso was a new commander and, for all his vaunted abilities, he was as yet unused to leading a force like this in such a campaign. Many of his men had served together before, but the mixing in of the former forces of Galronus had destroyed a lot of the units’ cohesion from the previous year, and the result was chaos.

  As the enemy appeared, some of the more mixed or greener units panicked, turning and racing for the river or up the inland valley, abandoning their comrades. Others tried to form a small defensive shape but, with only a month or so to practice together so far, they were less than successful as often as not.

  Piso’s standard bearer was waving his silver wolf, directing the units while, Piso having calmed the conflicting orders, had his own musician blow the recall on his horn, summoning all the distributed units to his side. Still, the mass of cavalry at the centre were only just beginning to realise the danger they were in. Varus kicked his mount in urgency as the small Roman turma reached the valley bottom and raced past a few groups of allied horsemen milling about in confusion.

  Piso waved him over.

  A few hundred yards down the valley, the first casualties occurred. A group of three hundred men – one of the few who had managed to form into a solid square with spears at the ready, began to succumb to a hail of small stones that rained down on them from the trees.

  “They’re using slings!” Varus exclaimed as he finally reached Piso in the press. “I thought they supposedly consider missiles a dishonourable way to fight?”

  Piso nodded, wheeling his horse.

  “Doesn’t stop them using them. Just the noble warriors won’t touch them – they leave them to peasants. Half the damn forces in the valley haven’t heard the recall, Varus!”

  The senior commander nodded.

  “I’ll get them rounded up. You martial the main force here.” His eyes rose to take in the forces pouring from the hillsides. “There aren’t many of them, really. Not more than a thousand, I reckon. They’re only a danger while we’re spread out. In a centralised force we can take them.”

  Piso smiled and began to bellow orders to his standard bearer and musician, who called out individual unit commands, drawing the main force together to stand in open ground.

  Varus retur
ned to his turma and gestured for his three decurions to step out front.

  “Take eight men apiece and ride to each of the forces in the valley who seem to be having trouble. Get them pulled back and rallying on Piso’s standard. Afranius and Callus, you head up the valley, one on each side. Petro, you head toward the river on this side. I’ll take the spare men and follow on the far side of the valley. As soon as you run out of men to herd, get back here, and try not to engage the enemy in the meantime. We’ll crush them here.”

  Petro frowned.

  “What if there are too many of them sir?”

  “There aren’t. We outnumber them about four to one and they won’t have infantry. This is a running ambush, so they’ll want to be able to get out quickly too.”

  “What about the slingers?”

  “Peasants. They don’t consider them warriors; they’ll probably leave them to die. They certainly won’t come down from the trees.”

  Without waiting for further questions, Varus called out two men from each of the Decurions’ commands and drew them together before heading off across the valley.

  Not far away, three groups of horsemen had managed to join together to form a consolidated force of almost a thousand men and were in a good defensive formation, having pulled themselves far enough back from the forest’s edge to be out of the range of the hidden slingers.

  The large unit had formed up close to a small cluster of charred and blackened farm buildings, the animals stolen and butchered by the Germanic invaders, the occupants slain and left in a pile in the farmyard, with a large dog impaled on a spear standing like some grisly banner above the corpse-heap.

  Sickened, Varus moved past the farm and tried to spot the officers in the large group. Some five hundred enemy cavalry were descending the slope towards them, though they had slowed from a charge and were advancing with a menacing slowness. Even though they faced odds of two to one, the Germanic riders grinned their rictus war masks. Their blood boiled now with the urge to kill.

  In the ordered ranks of Gallic cavalry, Varus could just see a dragon-head standard with a coloured streamer tapering from behind. Even as he watched, that dragon head dipped and then circled, the air filling the conical taper and whistling through it with a shudder-inducing scream. Suddenly it dipped again, signalling an advance. Even as he and his six companions closed on the ordered mass, the ranks began to step forward, spears lowered.

  “Belay that order!” Varus bellowed. A number of men turned in their saddles in surprise, and frowned. Even the non-Latin-speaking Gallic auxiliaries had had certain commands and a few choice phrases drilled into them, in order to serve under Roman officers. Many of them clearly understood what he’d said, though no man paused. To break formation would be unthinkable for most of them.

  Biting his tongue, Varus raced along the side of the unit, repeating his order, until he could see the commanders. Three Gallic nobles conferred together as they moved slowly forward, their status only marked out, to Varus’ eye, by the quality of their armour and helms and the gold that adorned them. In his own allied cavalry unit, he’d assigned Roman mail shirts and green cloaks to the officers, as well as green feathers for their helms, so that he could easily identify them. But Piso was Aquitanian and was bred to the culture. Spotting their commanders would be a simple thing for him.

  Taking a deep breath, he broke out into the open space between the two slowly advancing forces. Any moment now, the Germanic force would break into a charge. They were not, reputedly, a people to move carefully and slowly into battle. Only the fact that their prey had consolidated into a large, well-ordered unit seemed to have thrown them and made their advance a cautious one.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  All three noblemen turned at his voice. “Commander Varus?”

  “Break off your attack and rally to Piso.”

  “Are you sure, sir? We’ve got them at two-to-one here.”

  Varus nodded. “And if we get everyone back to Piso we’ll have them at five-to-one. Better odds. Now pull back.”

  Commands were issued in the complex language of the Gauls and the dragon standard dipped and waved again, howling its horrible cry. In good order, the nine hundred men turned their mounts and rode away toward Piso’s banner. The enemy cavalry seemed to take it as a move of cowardice and jeered as they picked up the pace, pursuing the retreating Gauls. Varus watched them for only a moment as he and his half dozen riders reached open space at the valley centre again, and then ignored them, concentrating on where to head next. The large unit was well-ordered and well-commanded and would easily regroup with Piso. The pursuing enemy would break off early rather than face the whole mass together.

  His eyes ranged around the valley. Two groups of three hundred at the far side of the valley were already making for Piso’s standard, Germanic aggressors shouting insults at their retreating backs as they followed them cautiously.

  Varus frowned.

  Why were the enemy being so cautious? It seemed so unlike the Germanic tribes of which he’d heard.

  There was only one group of men left on this side of the valley and it took a good minute for Varus to spot them. A single turma of thirty men had been separated from a unit and were beleaguered by twice their number of enemy horsemen pressing in on them.

  Again, his mind raced. Sixty or so Germanics advancing slowly on half that number of Gauls, their pace menacing. What was going on?

  Waving to his men, Varus rose to a canter, bearing down on the unit. The enemy was not pressing for a fight. Why were they advancing slowly and not charging?

  The answer struck him in a series of flashing images from around the valley. They were being herded. The enemy was not allowing them to regroup at Piso’s standard, they were actively herding them there. But why? They would be outnumbered five-to-one. What possible benefit could that be to them?

  But something was going wrong here. The turma of Gauls were backing up to yet another small burned out farm building which, along with the fence and irrigation ditch, would hamper them and prevent them retreating any further. The retreating Gauls trapped, the enemy would have no option but to attack. Varus gestured to the men with him as he broke into a gallop.

  “We’ve got less than a minute before those barbarians have no choice but to smash our lads. Come on. Let’s break the attack.”

  The seven men hurtled through the lush grass of the meadow, towards the shell of the charred wooden building, on the far side on which he could just see the Gauls in good order, unable to retreat any further, preparing to meet the inevitable charge.

  “Let’s put the shits up them” Varus grinned as he urged every ounce of speed out of his fast-wearying mount. Across the field he raced, the other six close behind. The fence – a stout construction some four feet high, constructed of rough-sawn timber and treated against the weather, was too much of an obstacle to the Gauls, who had retreated there at a walk.

  Not for galloping horsemen, though. With a single command, augmented by rein-and-knee activity, Varus urged his steed into a jump, clearing the fence easily and coming down on the far side, releasing his reins to draw the long cavalry sword as he did so.

  The trapped Gauls first became aware of their allies’ arrival reflected in the faces of the enemy, who stared in mixed surprise and confusion at the small party of red and silver heavily-armed cavalry leaping the fence into the fray.

  Perfectly-trained, Varus’ regular cavalrymen cast their spears almost the instant their hooves touched the turf on the far side of the fence, three of the six missiles flying true and plunging into the advancing Germanic riders and their steeds. Two horses collapsed, screaming, thrashing and foaming, snapped spear shafts protruding from them. The third impaled a rider, who toppled from his mount, the beast trotting away.

  The blows drove the enemy into the almost expected rage. The Germanic warriors, not a people to flee a fight, felt the final uncontrollable surge of blood into their brains and roared, leaping from their horse
s and running forward, brandishing their weapons and shields or, more often, two weapons.

  Varus almost pulled up in surprise. Why had they dismounted? What in Juno’s name were they doing?

  Off to the right, the Gallic cavalry had realised what was happening and the thirty men, with their decurions leading them, broke into a run, levelling their spears at the invaders and trying to join up with Varus’ men in a line.

  And then everything exploded into chaos.

  Perhaps half a dozen of the dismounted enemy fell victim to the levelled spears in the initial flurry, and Varus learned the hard way the reason for the strange tactic of leaving their horses behind and running into battle.

  Three men made directly for him, likely seeing him as the man to kill for the most glory, his kit marking him out as a senior officer. Even as he tried to imagine what they hoped to achieve, Varus had already fallen into the rhythmic actions of the Roman cavalryman, his sword swooping out and low and shearing off half the man’s head at the bridge of the nose, pulping both eyes and sending a hairy cap of bone sailing through the air as the rest of the body slumped to the ground, brain matter falling out to mingle with the soil.

  Even as the blow was made, his left arm had reacted to a sign of danger out of the corner of his eye, slamming down his shield so that he broke a reaching arm with the bronze rim.

  The third attacker had disappeared. In the sudden flurry, Varus turned this way and that. Now, riders and their dismounted opponents were locked in individual combat all across the field. The body of his sword victim lay to his right, and a man on his left howled as he clung to an arm that was bent impossibly out of shape.

  No sign of the third man, though.

  Suddenly, Varus’ world turned upside down. The third warrior, who had made himself small with a crouch, had ducked amazingly between the front legs of Varus’ horse and had then reached up with a wide, sharp knife and jammed it into the horse’s soft underside, driving it deep and raking it this way and that.