Fronto would never have time to finish. The legions were lucky, in fact, that he had suggested they worked in their armour, for they’d only have time to grab their weapons and shields and then this mass of men would be on them. ‘Hell, I hope Fronto’s seen them.’
He squinted across the shallow river valley to the camp workings.
‘Oh hell, no!’
The legions were clearly aware of the danger and were already grasping weapons and dropping their entrenching equipment, but that would not save them. Already the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth were getting into position where they had been working, but the Eleventh and Twelfth were a different matter, and had only just begun their work.
Beyond them, the lines of wagons were slowly appearing over the crest of the hill and somewhere far behind them were the other two legions.
But what filled him with dread was the sight of other huge groups of Belgae rushing out of the trees to either side of the camp; trees that had been swept only a few hours ago by scouts and deemed impossible to hide men in due to the deep undergrowth.
Either the scouts had been horribly mistaken, or the Belgae had worked damn quick.
Varus smashed his fist on his pommel in anguish. He was being ignored by the attackers pouring down the hill between him and the river. He and his few remaining companions presented no great threat, but that huge charging force of Belgae now stood between him and the rest of the army.
Chapter 15
(Construction site by the river Selle)
‘Corona: Lit: ‘Crowns’. Awards given to military officers. The Corona Muralis and Castrensis were awards for storming enemy walls, while the Aurea was for an outstanding single combat.’
Publius Sextius Baculus, veteran of four great campaigns, recipient of the corona castrensis, the corona aurea and the corona muralis and Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, spat on the floor and lifted his vine staff, bringing it down on the back of the legionary’s legs, hard enough to leave a stinging pain but no damage. The centurion smiled grimly. The lad should be grateful he did not use the other arm; there was a dolabra in that one!
‘Every rock you drop slows the camp down, so every rock you drop gets you another belt!’
The legionary bit his tongue to prevent himself yelping, saluted hurriedly and collected the large fallen rock. Baculus, never entirely trusting any other man to do the job correctly, had taken charge of the procurement party from the Twelfth himself.
A century of men, his century no less, had split off as soon as they arrived on site and left the rest of the legion digging and heaving sods of earth, while they moved hurriedly to the eaves of the nearby woodland to collect supplies.
Fifty or sixty of his men, under the control of his optio, had begun cutting poles and stakes to supplement those that would be arriving in the wagons shortly; were probably being unloaded as he pondered, in fact. He could see pairs of men now, carrying heavy lengths of timber between them and heading back toward the camp.
The rest were gathering rocks the size of a man’s head and piling them up on shields to carry back. The rocks would be utilised to line drainage culverts in the rampart and various other sundry uses.
He smiled again. Last time they’d made camp, he had left the job to one of his junior centurions and they’d brought back what looked like saplings and gravel. Never delegate something important, as he always said.
He scanned the woodland and nodded with satisfaction as he saw men carrying boulders back toward the heaps nearby.
A flicker of movement caught his eye as he turned. He squinted into the woodland. There it was again. Just a little flash of movement back in the woods. No one would make anything of it. It could easily be an owl disturbed by the work, but Baculus had survived on the front line of more battles than he cared to remember and this was something wrong. Without waiting to confirm his suspicion, he swept his vine stick, cleared his throat and bellowed: ‘To arms! Rally to me!’
Around the eaves of the woods, the men of the Twelfth, drilled almost obsessively under Galba’s command the preceding winter, reacted with perfect military precision. There was no panic; no shout of alarm. The men merely dropped the timber and rocks they were carrying and pushed their way through the woodland to get back to their centurion. Baculus nodded with satisfaction and, as his men began to congregate around him, squinted into the woods once more. This time he could see several signs of movement. And they were getting nearer. Blue. Blue meant Celts. Blue trousers… blue skin.
‘Form up on me!’
He spotted the men coming out of the woods and did a rough head count. He could see around fifty or more men. Given that the century had been under strength for most of the year, he was not missing many of his men.
‘Can’t wait around for dawdlers, lads. As soon as everyone you can see is here and armed, we fall back to the legion; slowly and calmly, like… there’s rabbit holes and all sorts around here and one man falling could end it for all of us.’
‘What is it, sir?’ a legionary asked. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Belgae, lad. And lots of ‘em. Back in the woods, but getting closer.’
He glanced around at his men. The last stragglers, being hurried along by his optio, arrived and collected their swords and shields, tipping the piles of rocks off and to the ground.
‘Fall back at a slow march!’
The First Century of the Twelfth Legion formed up in solid military fashion, and began to step slowly back toward the defences, a couple of hundred paces behind. As they passed from under the last foliage and out into the open, the first of the Nervii burst forth from the deep woodland. Behind him, Baculus could hear the cries to arms going up around the camp. It could be that the Twelfth had seen the century in full kit backing away from the trees, but it was much more likely, given that a large group of Belgae were rushing forward from these woods, that there were many more around the battlefield. This could be trouble.
As they moved carefully back across the open ground, a veritable sea of Celtic warriors poured forth from the woods.
‘Double pace now, lads.’
As the unit backed rapidly across the open ground, Baculus risked a moment to glance around and take in the entire situation. They would make it to the lines before the Nervii reached them, but only just. There must be thousands upon thousands of the bastards in these woods, so the camp construction would have to be abandoned. They could not hope for relief from the two Gaulish legions either… they would not get here for a while yet. There’d be no help from the other four legions or the cavalry either. From his good position on the slope, Baculus could see the enemy pouring out of the woods opposite where they’d keep Priscus and Grattius’ legions busy. And the cavalry had gone. There were thousands more barbarians pouring down that slope to cross the river and keep the other two legions busy. The Twelfth was screwed; on their own.
A momentary glance and he realised that one of the larger groups of Nervii were making for the near end of the baggage train as they were being settled at the top end of the incomplete camp. Nothing he could do about that. Have to leave that to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth when they arrived and hope there was some baggage left.
The Twelfth had rearmed, but the units had become shuffled and mixed as the men had worked hurriedly, taking any position where a task needed to be done. Now they were rushing around trying to locate the standards of their unit in the mass of men. Baculus growled and took a deep breath, bellowing loud enough to be heard all along the rampart.
‘Forget finding your own units. Fall in to the nearest standard and form up!’
On the embankment, he heard legate Galba echoing the command to the men. Not a bad leader, the legate. A bit fanciful, as they all were, but sensible and with enough brains to defer to his centurions when need be. He was grateful, as the First Century finally neared the Roman line, with thousands of screaming Nervii hot on their track, that the legate had had enough foresight to open up a space in the lines for Baculus and
his men to fall into.
He could almost smell the breath of the fetid bastards as he reached the embankment and rejoined the Roman line. He cursed for a moment. He had been so damn busy making sure his men were prepared, rearmed and observed military etiquette, that he had not had time to find his own sword and shield. Idiot. They were lying in the eaves of the wood back there.
With a growl, he looked down at his hands and frowned. He gave the vine staff an experimental swish, shook his head sadly, and threw it on the ground, hefting the heavy dolabra in both hands, trying to decide whether the Nervii would enjoy the pointed side or the wedged blade side most.
And suddenly the Nervii were on them. They travelled with more speed than the Roman legions, most of them unencumbered by armour and, a surprising number, even by clothes. Jabbing with long spears or swinging large blades, they rushed the shield wall of the Twelfth.
‘Hold the line!’ Baculus yelled.
Suddenly the world around him exploded into action and noise, Nervian warriors stabbing and hacking, trying to land killing blows between and around the shields of the defenders, while the legionaries, fighting alongside men they hardly knew from other units under unfamiliar standards, held the line like the consummate professionals they were.
Suddenly, in a series of events that lasted mere moments, the attacking mass of the Nervii opened up just to Baculus’ left and, in the narrow space this afforded, a naked man, armed with two wicked looking knives ran forward and leapt onto the legionary to his left. The barbarian was dead moments after he landed and before even the gap in the Nervii had closed, but his plan had already worked. Though the legionary who was the target of his insane attack dispatched the blue-painted warrior as he scrabbled at the shield, the man had driven his two blades deep into the leather and wood and, as he died, still gripping the knives, the sheer weight of the body tore the shield from the soldier’s grasp.
This gap in the wall became the sudden focus of dozens of Nervian warriors, who leapt into the fray, trying to kill the man and, more particularly, the centurion next to him. Spears jabbed and blades flashed as the legionary desperately tried to turn the attacking weapons aside with his sword. A spear thrust caught him in the shoulder and pushed him back. Baculus growled once again.
‘Reform the line!’
As his order was carried out, the wounded man being hauled back through the line and the second row of men edging forward to try and reform the wall, Baculus stepped out in front of his men. The sheer audacity of the move, walking out from the defensive line without even a shield or sword, took the Nervii by surprise enough that a small circle opened up round him.
‘Right, you fatherless sons of whores… who’s first?’
A laugh went up behind him as the line solidified and the wounded man was removed from combat during the brief pause in fighting afforded by Baculus’ surprising act. The Nervii jostled for position, all tensing ready to attack this madman, but none of them quite willing to be the first to try.
Baculus grinned and hefted his dolabra.
‘My turn, then.’
Lifting the heavy multi-purpose tool above his left shoulder, he gave it an almighty swing, blade-edge first. The close press of the Belgae meant that none of them had time to duck back out of the way and the powerful swing smashed through arms, faces and weapons in a complete arc, Baculus being almost unable to stop the weapon, such was the momentum.
A noise went up through the warriors that was half groan of dismay and half howl of fury. Six barbarians collapsed in the front row, clutching broken wrists or hands or dead on their feet with shattered skulls.
Baculus had expected them now to close in and take him but, to his astonishment, the circle around him widened. That would not last long though, and he was an easy target out here at the front. Sure enough, the mood among the enemy changed rapidly, and a spear thrust from the crowd caused him to lurch to one side or risk a head wound.
‘That the best you’ve got?’
He raised the dolabra over his right shoulder to swing, and the warriors pressed back again away from this insane Roman. He let loose and took another swipe with the edge of the weapon, this time extending his arm as far as he could. The tool curved round in a wide, unstoppable arc, smashing more heads and limbs. A roar went up from the enemy and finally they pressed forward to kill him, trampling the latest half dozen victims who were still collapsing.
A sword thrust pierced his side below the armpit, and he winced for a moment as the iron pushed through his muscle and grated along his ribs. With a growl, he let the dolabra drop and grasped the hilt of the blade, wrenching it back out of his flesh. The warrior whose sword it was blinked in surprise as the apparently immortal Roman officer pulled the hilt from his hand and, with an almost negligent flick cast the heavy blade vertically into the air, catching it by the handle as it swung around and then hefting it professionally, backing away from the thrusting spears toward the line of his men.
With a grin of malice, he swung the great blade, taking out two more of the Nervii, as the shield wall behind him opened up and he was pulled back into the safety of the legion. Every time he took a deep, ragged breath, the pain in his ribs ripped through him like fire and he struggled for a moment to deliver commands before giving up and allowing the men to ferry him through the lines to the rear.
Legate Galba shook his head in wonder as the optio in the rear line helped the wounded centurion from the mass of men and then turned back to his work. There was a huge rent in the chainmail and leather armour at the man’s side, and gouts of blood were issuing from it.
‘Centurion Baculus, I don’t know whether to congratulate you or have your mind looked at. That was unbelievable.’
Baculus grunted.
‘It’s like fighting a bunch of girls, sir.’
He turned and looked up and down the line. The Twelfth was holding well, but the pressure was increasing and the numbers of the enemy were a little discouraging from this vantage point on the slope.
‘I see there’s some trouble up by the standard of the Firth Cohort. Regards, sir, and I’ll be off.’
Galba stared at him.
‘You’re bleeding to death, Baculus. You’re done for now… get to the surgeon.’
‘Bugger the surgeon, sir.’
With a salute and without waiting for Galba’s flapping mouth to make a sound, the primus pilus turned and strode off toward the wavering standard, pausing further down to collect a sword and shield that lay unclaimed on the grass. Galba shook his head and beckoned to one of the Capsarii who waited at the rear to deal with minor wounds.
‘Follow the centurion and when he stands still long enough, stitch that wound of his up. He might not stop, but I’d like to stop him bleeding to death in the meantime.’
The capsarius saluted and ran off after Baculus.
Galba frowned and shook his head yet again. This was starting to look a little dangerous. He could only hope the other legions were bearing up as well as his own, or better. He scanned the lines for his commander and spotted Caesar alongside Cicero and Pedius, remaining back from the line of combat and in deep conversation. For a moment he considered joining them, but truly, he had his own problems.
* * * * *
Fronto watched the screaming tribesmen running from the eaves of the wood to the west. He had been quite lucky really. He had been in a position to view the disaster that had befallen Varus and the cavalry on the north bank and, the very moment he saw the Belgae pouring out of those woods and down toward the river and the working legions opposite, he had known damn well there would be more on this side waiting to close the trap.
He had run back to the wall, yelling ‘to arms’, much to the surprise of the other officers of both the Tenth and the Ninth. Soldiers were retrieving weapons and shields before their centurions could issue further commands and, by the time the first warrior had left the shelter of the trees, the Ninth and Tenth were formed up on the partially-constructed rampart, fully equip
ped and ready in a shield wall.
Good job, really, given how many of the bastards there were. Fronto glanced around at the situation and shook his head, then turned to Labienus.
‘We’ve got it best, really. There’s more of them heading for the centre than here and the Twelfth’s on their own on the other wing. I just hope the wagons get settled in quickly so that the Thirteenth and Fourteenth can support us…’
His voice tailed off.
‘The wagons.’
Labienus shrugged.
‘They won’t be trying for the wagons. There’s no point at this stage.’
Fronto shook his head.
‘I know, but there’s more. Look!’
He pointed to the higher end of the slope, where the wagons were arriving, now hurrying as fast as they could to get into position in the camp, safe behind the legions. Labienus followed his gaze and noticed with dismay further groups of Belgae beyond the camp’s defences, heading down toward the staging area where the wagons were gathering at the planned south gate of the camp. The number of warriors in that attack was smaller, but they were coming from both sides and converging on the wagons, which were undefended and behind the main fight.
‘What the hell are they doing? The wagons are immaterial right now.’
Fronto shook his head more irritably.
Clever little sods aren’t after the wagons. They know that’s where the command party was. Bloody good job you all split up among the legions. You’d all be dead before we could get to you.’
Labienus nodded, staring.
‘How do they come up with such things? None of the other Belgae seem to have been half as prepared.’
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 83
