He ducked once more and heaved, pushing at his shield, noting with concern that so much damage had now befallen the great wooden cover that he could actually see points of daylight through it. That could not be good.
Above him, the signum lanced out once more and stabbed into another barbarian.
Just a few more moments…
* * * * *
Labienus grimaced. It looked very much like they would not make it. The Twelfth was so seriously depleted, perhaps down to a quarter of their number, and still surrounded by a veritable sea of Belgae. Even if the Tenth ran like racehorses they would still have to fight their way through the Nervii to relieve Caesar’s legion.
He fretted as he ran with the Tenth, still in good formation, down the slick and bloody slope of the north bank and began once again to wade across the river. Despite the trouble the Twelfth was experiencing on the flank, the day looked hopeful for Rome now. Rufus could deal with the Atrebates, even if it meant just chasing them off. Balbus and Crispus were still heavily embroiled in combat, but things were going enough their way that the Belgae had committed every man they had, with no reserves to be seen across the field. With the Roman reserves surely only moments away, the battle would be theirs.
But unless they did something quickly, the Twelfth would be gone by then, along with Caesar and any hope for a glorious end to the campaign. Without the general, a new governor would be selected for Cisalpine Gaul, the legions would be withdrawn, possible no longer funded, and everyone would go home, probably without much in the way of booty either. Sad, really, that so many men and their families’ futures relied on the one patrician busy fighting for his own life.
Clambering up the opposite bank, he waved his cornicen over.
‘Sound the muster. I need to think.’
The musician put out the call and the Tenth and, as they returned to the south bank and began to form into their contubernia, centuries and cohorts, Labienus found a low natural mound and stepped onto it for the best view he could manage. What would Fronto do?
He could just make out a crest in the midst of the fighting that would be either Balbus or one of his tribunes, or perhaps one of the staff fighting alongside them. Up by the furthest end of the fighting he could make out a small unit who seemed very irregularly organised, being led by a couple of officers. No sign yet of Plancus and the reserves.
He fretted again. What to do? Labienus was a career soldier. Oh, he had dabbled in politics far more than Fronto, but only to secure military positions for himself. He had almost as much command experience in the field as Fronto and Balbus, so he damn well should be able to think of something.
He sighed as he realised the Tenth was almost formed behind him, and he would have to have an answer in a few moments. It looked bad for soldiers to have to wait while an officer faffed and dallied.
He needed to see this from an objective view. He tried to imagine how an eagle would see the scene. The corner of the camp where the action was going on was like a disjoined ‘L’ where the long side was the strung-out line of the Twelfth, surrounded by the Nervii on all sides. The short side was the compact Eighth and Eleventh, fighting only on the one side.
He frowned and squinted at the legions in combat. He knew what he would be doing if he was in command of the Twelfth or the Eleventh. Surely they must have figured it out. Caesar and Crispus between them could outthink Minerva. They had to close up and form a solid ‘L’ with no gap. Then he had a plan.
Squinting, he watched carefully. Behind him, someone cleared his throat.
‘Shh!’ he said irritably.
Labienus frowned. He could not quite make it out in that complex press of human bodies. He suddenly became aware of the comforting figure of Priscus beside him.
‘You got good eyes, Priscus?’
The primus pilus of the Tenth shrugged.
‘Good enough, sir. Why?’
‘Can you see any movement over there?’
Priscus frowned.
Moments passed tensely by.
‘The Twelfth is moving down toward the Eleventh. Not sure how they’re managing in that position, but I swear they’re moving!’
Labienus nodded.
‘I thought so. And I think the Eleventh is doing the same.’
‘I believe you’re right, sir.’
He cleared his throat again and spoke in a low whisper.
‘Sir, the men are waiting for orders…’
Labienus nodded. As he turned, there was a satisfied smile on his face.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do, gentlemen…’ he said to his men.
* * * * *
Rufus stood at the very crest of the hill, where he could see every part of the battlefield. The Twelfth was still in trouble, but Labienus and the Tenth were closing to help and, best sight of all, a great number of men had appeared in the distance, moving alongside the wagon train on both sides, not at a march, but at a run. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth would take the field any moment. Good, because the rest of the fight would certainly have to go on without the Ninth.
He turned once again to look down on the scene.
The Atrebates had pushed aside the defences they’d created on the hill and returned to their camp, but Rufus’ men were ahead of the game. His primus pilus, a veteran named Grattius and whom, he had been informed, had effectively controlled the legion before Rufus’ appointment, had, the moment they reached the crest, split his men with a simple shout of ‘Bull horns!’
Immediately, the cohorts had split into three groups. As four cohorts formed into a traditional attacking line, two groups of three cohorts picked up to double pace and arced out to the sides in a long column, where they began to encircle the retreating enemy who were dithering in their own camp, unsure of what direction to flee, given that their world was now collapsing around them.
Rufus gave his primus pilus an appreciative nod of salute and stood back to watch the scene unfold like a carefully organised parade. Within a few moments, the enemy camp was surrounded by three lines of legionaries who, as soon as they were in position, formed a solid shield wall. Rufus smiled at the sheer speed that his legion had completely enclosed the fleeing Atrebates. Grattius was worth his pay several times over.
As the enemy warriors milled around uncertainly, the four cohorts in standard battle order marched forward to the edge of the slope where they towered over the enemy. The primus pilus turned to his commander.
‘Sir? The command is yours to give.’
Rufus stepped forward to the front of the battle-ready cohorts.
‘Some of you will speak Latin’ he bellowed. ‘At least enough to understand this…’
He took a deep breath and deepened his voice as much as he could, like an orator addressing an open air assembly or an actor in one of the greater theatres.
‘This battle, your resistance and your war are over. Ended.’
He waited for this to sink in; several heartbeats longer, in fact, hoping that those who understood him would pass the word.
‘You have only two choices: surrender…’
He tried to make his voice as flatly menacing as possible.
‘Or extermination.’
There was a great deal of sudden discussion below.
‘Surrender now and you will live. Many of you could go free.’
He waited, tense, for some sort of spokesman to step forth among the Atrebates. Moments passed quietly, the only sounds the desperate yet quiet conversation of the enemy and the occasional clanking or grating of the arms and armour of the Ninth Legion.
And then suddenly, someone at the far side of the mass screamed something in the guttural language of the Belgae, and the entire mass charged, bellowing, at the enclosing circuit of shields.
Rufus shook his head sadly. Prisoners fetched good money in the slave markets of Rome. Corpses were only of use to the crows. He turned to Grattius.
‘They’ve made their choice. Wipe them out!’
* * * * *
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Labienus shouted orders as the Tenth marched against the enemy. They’d crossed the first part of the open ground at a steady pace but, as soon as he had judged the advancing edges of the Eleventh and Twelfth legions to be a hundred paces from each other, heaving and squeezing the Nervii out of the intervening space, he had picked up to double-time. If he wanted this to work properly, it had to be carefully timed.
They had now passed the rear ranks of the Eighth, to the cheers of Balbus’ men, and were closing on the enemy. As they reached a distance of three hundred paces, he yelled his penultimate command.
At his cry the centurions and cornicens relayed the orders and the Tenth Legion suddenly expanded from a column into a line, which lengthened and continued to do so as they closed. Labienus’ timing was impeccable. With an audible crash, the Eleventh and Twelfth legions met and turned their numbers outwards to the enemy in a joint front, while the Tenth, forming another junction with the Eleventh, turned the ‘L’ of legions into a ‘U’. Suddenly, one side of the massed Nervii that had been slowly obliterating the beleaguered Twelfth were now themselves trapped between three groups of Romans.
Labienus grinned to himself; Fronto could not have done any better. The Tenth began to roll like a tide over the ranks of the Nervii who, he had to admit, bore the sudden change in their fortunes bravely. Many people would have run or downed their arms, but ten thousand Nervii trapped between three legions with no hope now of victory merely snarled and fought with renewed vigour.
He found himself for a moment actually impressed with these men. Fronto was right; if the future of Gaul was as a province of Rome, these men would one day make legions that could storm the very gates of Hades. The idea made him frightened and hopeful in almost equal measures.
* * * * *
The primus pilus of the Thirteenth Legion took in the view of the battlefield with a practised eye. From his position at the head of the reserves and the top of the southern slope, he could just see activity on the far side of the river but, judging by the organised lines of men, their commanders had the situation well under control.
This side of the river, however, was chaos. Two legions, the Eighth and Eleventh by the looks of it, were engaged in heavy combat down by the river, and the Tenth was attacking the enemy on one side, the other remaining open. Must be the Ninth and Twelfth on the opposite hill then. Things were not going half as badly as the scouts had made out…
Then he noted the standards in the deep press of the enemy. Somewhere in the middle of that huge mass of barbarians, a standard of the Twelfth raised and dipped.
Alright then; perhaps there was a problem after all. He waved his cornicen over.
‘Give the orders. We’re moving at a charge down the eastern side of the slope. The Tenth have the enemy hemmed in to the west, and the Eleventh from the north, so if we take the east and the Fourteenth come straight from the south at them then we can squeeze them to death between four legions. Best also have someone pass the plan back to the primus pilus of the Fourteenth.’
The cornicen saluted and gave the orders to one of the men who ran back along the line to update the other reserve legion on the situation. As the man disappeared, the musician began to blow the various command calls and Pullo took a deep breath.
‘Charge!’
In the worst part of the field, Baculus stood in the thick press of men, a legionary holding him upright. The numbers of the Twelfth were still dropping. The tables had turned, and the Nervii were now in trouble, but even the threat of imminent defeat did not seem to be dampening their bloodlust. Trapped between legions, they just seemed to be fighting all the harder. At least now there were men from the Eleventh filtering in among them and bolstering the Roman numbers.
The soldier supporting his weight pointed out across the mass.
‘Look, sir.’
Baculus squinted for a moment and then nodded contentedly. The Thirteenth had arrived and, after a moment at the crest, presumably weighing up the situation, they were coming down toward the point where the enemy were thickest.
‘The relief’s here, lads. Don’t want to give the new boys too much of a challenge. Let’s kill as many more as we can before they get here!’
A roar went up around him, and the Twelfth fought on with renewed vigour.
He watched, grumbling beneath his breath for a moment and then gently pushed the soldier away from him.
‘Buggered if I’m going to be sitting back and playing with myself when the relief arrive.’
The soldier started to argue, but Baculus adjusted the shield on his useless arm, wincing at the pain in his leg when he crouched, and swapped the great Celtic blade he currently held for a familiar gladius. Hefting the latter, he stood with some difficulty, and half-limped, half hopped through the men toward the front line once more. Respectfully, though with his face displaying a mix of doubt and disapproval, an optio he vaguely recognised shuffled to the side as best he could in the press to make room.
Baculus immediately swung his torso so that the shield on his broken arm blocked a blow, and stabbed back at the man, almost toppling in among the barbarians as his leg buckled momentarily. Two men along the line legate Galba, previously obscured by the action, leaned across.
‘What the hell are you doing back in the fight?’
The legate’s attention was suddenly drawn away once more and he found himself fighting hard for his life as the primus pilus growled.
‘My job, sir.’
‘You’ve been wounded a dozen times. Back off, centurion!’
‘I’ll back off when I reach two dozen, sir.’
Glancing across the enemy, Baculus could see the standards of the Thirteenth now, bobbing around behind the Nervii and cutting their way in. His view was suddenly blocked by an enormous warrior, naked and painted with blue whorls, his great sword raised over his head for a downward blow. Baculus raised the shield as best he could, trying not to notice the way the arm strapped to it flopped from side to side, to ward off the inevitable blow, while stabbing at the man’s exposed chest. As he felt the blade slide in to the enemy’s torso, puncturing organs as it went, he noticed too late the spear point thrusting around the side of the man. In trouble from two directions, all he could do was try to duck to the side. The spear point ripped through the chain mail of his shirt and entered his body just below the bottom rib at his side.
He had no time to react to the sudden sharp pain, as the great heavy sword of the mortally-wounded warrior came crashing down on top of his shield with enough force to drive a man a foot into the turf. The shield cracked and broke under the strike, the bronze boss turning the blade aside and preventing what would otherwise have been clearly a killing blow. Unfortunately, the simultaneous timing of the attacks caused the centurion’s leg to collapse once again under the weight and, as he fell to the ground, the spear ripped open the side of his abdomen in a spray of viscera and links of chain.
‘Bast… bastard’ he shouted, struggling to find his feet, but there was no longer enough strength in him to drag him upright. He felt arms beneath his shoulders and reluctantly allowed himself to be drawn back away from the action as another man stepped in to take his place.
He sat for a long moment on the turf, staring around him at the legs of the Twelfth Legion, constantly moving and straining in the press of battle. He was clearly out of the action now. In fact, he could not actually move his legs enough to change position, let alone stand.
Well, they would still either die as heroes or live as victors, but either way they’d have to do it without him for now.
He smiled as he started to count off on the fingers of his good hand the number of barbarians he had killed. He had passed twenty when he found he had noted one of them twice; the one with the axe. Well it was not a personal best, but he doubted many here would match the number. His grim smile widened. The primus pilus was a man who believed he should be better than any other man in the legion; else that man might deserve his job.
And, he thought more soberly, two leg wounds, two to the abdomen, one to the head and three to the arms. The legate was wrong; eight, not twelve, unless you counted minor scratches. He was definitely beginning to feel light headed; must be the blood loss. Grunting, he tore a long strip from his tunic and packed the wound in his side as best he could.
For a long moment, he wondered if there was a capsarius still alive among his men and then, blessedly, he blacked out.
* * * * *
Damiacus of the Aduatuci reined in his horse and held up a hand, lowering it, so the palm was flat to the ground and then sweeping it to the side. Behind him, a dozen of his best warriors drew their horses slowly and quietly to a stop and walked them alongside. The chieftain nodded, his face a mix of thoughtfulness and irritation. He had warned the damned Nervii time and again against rushing in too early; he had warned them against trying to protect too much land and had suggested a line of low cliffs that lay between the rivers Meuse and Schelde as the perfect land to lay traps and deal with the Romans. So what if they had to abandon some of their lands to the southern pigs. Once they’d skinned the Romans and sent the fleshless remains back to their mothers, the Belgae could retake their lands.
He snarled.
Instead, here he was, sitting atop a hill with a magnificent view over several miles, including a spectacular panorama of the debacle that Boduognatus and his Nervii had brought upon themselves. They had taken a chance and had failed. Had they listened to Damiacus, the Aduatuci would have been with them further east, but no. They were too impatient and had paid the price. The day belonged to Rome.
Now he would have to spit on the corpses of his ‘countrymen’ and call his cousins and their tribes across the Rhine to come and gut these catamites from the south.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 88
