Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  The Remi commander nodded sadly.

  “Do you know, tribune, that I spent the winter in Rome? I had only a loose command of Latin before my time there, and much the same even when I first arrived. And yet, in the city itself, no one treated me as anything other than another face in the street. No prejudice. The distrust of the Gallic peoples seems to be the province of the military alone.”

  The tribune chuckled.

  “Give them a little room there. They’ve spent the last two years fighting Gauls, so there’s bound to be a certain uneasiness. Things will change in time, but not until the army stops campaigning here. In the meantime, mark my words and watch your back. I will do what I can to help, but I will not, you understand, defy the legate for you.”

  Galronus nodded.

  “I would not expect it. I am surprised to find a tribune in the Seventh who would lower himself enough to speak to an auxiliary commander, let alone one of your… experience.”

  The man laughed.

  “’Age’, you mean. Yes, I’m no young hopeful, I’m aware.”

  He held out a hand.

  “Publius Tertullus. I have the esteemed honour of being young master Crassus’ uncle, through marriage.”

  Galronus raised his brow.

  “And you serve as a tribune?”

  Tertullus laughed.

  “I am not the most popular man of my line. I fear the lad’s father keeps me close to look after him.”

  The Remi officer smiled and took the proffered hand.

  “It is good to know that someone of apparently good honest sense has a commanding role in this campaign. This role is not one of my choosing. I would have been back among my own people serving under Labienus if commander Varus had been willing to take this command instead.”

  Again, the older tribune gave a light laugh.

  “I must return to the others. I may be required when we meet up with these new reinforcements. Remember my words, though, Galronus of the Remi.”

  The cavalry officer smiled and nodded.

  He would remember.

  The army had been travelling through the lands of the Sotiates for a day now and Galronus had begun to feel distinctly tense, jumping at each unexpected sound. The officers in their accustomed position in the vanguard seemed to be treating the whole expedition as some sort of jaunt through the country, laughing and joking, pausing the army’s march to take a meal on a hill with a particularly splendid view and riding out on small forays to hunt as the army travelled.

  The Remi commander had met a number of men like this in his winter sojourn in Rome with Fronto, men more interested in themselves than their assigned task. Men who were heading for a fall.

  The scenery here was stunning, though, he had to admit. As a man from the largely low and flat lands of the Remi, Galronus had little experience of terrain like this. Aquitania seemed to consist largely of deep valleys and gorges, thick woodland and high waterfalls, separated by high rock formations and bald moorlands. The landscape reminded him of the folds and dips in a cloak cast uncaringly to the floor.

  Also, since leaving Vindunum and separating from Caesar’s army, the weather had been improving the further south they travelled, leading to blue skies and warm sun among the Aquitanian hills, the buzz and hum of bees and the twitter of birds a constant companion.

  But no amount of breathtaking scenery or stunning weather could shake the mood from the cavalry commander.

  Three days into what was considered to be Aquitania and no sign of anything but a few small hamlets and lonely woodcutters’ huts. One full day into the lands of the Sotiates, the largest tribe of this land, and nothing to show for it but a tanned face and the smell of summer flowers.

  Galronus had approached the legate and suggested a number of measures, almost all of which had been ignored out of hand.

  Crassus did not deem these woodcutters worth interrogating, though Galronus had seen the look in their eyes as they’d watched the legion pass. They knew something and each gaze he met set his nerves a notch higher. The legate refused to reorganise the army’s marching order so as to be less predictable; the Seventh were apparently invincible in Crassus’ eyes. Even the suggestion that they change their route and make for some of the smaller tribes first to gain more of an idea of what they were facing fell on deaf ears. Finally the two men had agreed on roving scouts provided by the Gallic auxiliary cavalry, but even that seemed but a tiny measure to the Remi commander.

  A noise cleared the cobwebs from his head.

  He was relieved, as usual, to hear the double blast on the Gallic horn that announced the return of the scouts. To his left, the hillside sloped away sharply, becoming a gradient far too steep for horses as it plunged down to a narrow river valley. Ahead, a more gentle and civilised slope led down the valley side, their route to the river they would be following to its confluence.

  The scouts appeared to the right flank of the column, where the hillside continued to rise to a lush, grassy moor, punctuated by white rocks that created unusual and fascinating formations on the crest.

  From among those white rocks the riders returned, scattered rather that in formation, and at a casual pace. The two blasts on the horn indicated that they were rejoining the column to report, and that the land hereabouts was still clear.

  Despite the news, Galronus’ heart still pounded; something was going to happen. He could feel it in his bones and in his blood… something was up. He turned to the cavalry officers trotting along behind him at the head of their units.

  “Be prepared.”

  The men, mostly Gallic auxiliaries themselves, a number of them from the Remi tribe, looked at one another in confused concern. While they had no reason to suspect trouble, they knew, to a man, how much they could trust and rely on their commander.

  Quiet commands were passed out among the cavalry and Galronus picked up a little speed on his mount, riding ahead to the van.

  Tertullus sat at the rear of the tribunes and smiled at the Remi commander as he approached.

  “Good morning, Galronus. You have news?”

  Crassus turned and cast a look of supreme disinterest at the horseman.

  “Something is happening” Galronus said in a matter-of-fact voice. “I don’t know what it is, but there is something in the air. The legion should stand to, legate.”

  Crassus sniffed and turned away again.

  “Take your superstitious mutterings back to the cavalry, Gaul.”

  Galronus ground his teeth again and, narrowing his eyes, made a suggestive motion to Tertullus before turning and riding back to his men, each of whom now had a firm grip on his spear, shield strapped on ready for combat.

  The scouts were now trotting down the hillside toward the column and Galronus began to become angry with himself. A sense of foreboding was no use without a direction for it. The scouts had given the all clear to the right and the landscape was visible in all other directions. Unless the legends of old were true and the sky was about to fall, there was no evidence of trouble. The scouts would…

  He frowned.

  The scouts had been circling in units of a dozen men, three out at all times, covering the landscape ahead and all around them. How the three units had met up to their right and…

  “Sound the alarm!” he bellowed.

  Men all around him stared.

  “They’re not our scouts! Sound the damn alarm!”

  As chaos broke out around him, Galronus kicked his horse to life and rode ahead. Sure enough, there were more and more riders pouring over the crest of the hill. A hundred or more men already, and the numbers were thickening all the time. And here the legion and their support were trapped, the hill from which the enemy poured rising to their right, a steep drop to their left which no man with a sense of self preservation would attempt with anything other than critical, slow care.

  The enemy had learned their call code, which means they had already captured and interrogated the scouts and had waited until the Roman for
ce was at its most vulnerable.

  By the time Galronus reached the vanguard, the fighting had already begun. The tribunes and their legate were busy bellowing desperate commands, the cornicens and signifers relaying the orders as the legion tried to reorganise from a line six men abreast, into a solid shield wall facing the enemy. By sheer chance, either happy or unhappy depending on the viewer, the bulk of the cavalry were travelling on the army’s left flank and were now cut off from the enemy by the beleaguered legion, trapped between the Seventh and the steep drop to the valley below.

  “Legate: pull the legion back to the brink of the precipice and I’ll have my cavalry ride out to the rear out of the way.”

  “What?”

  Crassus sounded incredulous.

  “The enemy riders will have to be very careful on horseback close to that drop. Your men can arrest their fall quickly if they go over the edge, but a mounted warrior has no such chance.”

  Crassus glared at him.

  “I will not take the brunt of a battle against an enemy that used your own cavalry to surprise us while you take your men and slink off somewhere safe!”

  Galronus blinked and the legate snarled at him.

  “Now get your men round behind them and fight as though you were Romans.”

  The Gaulish officer stared in disbelief at his commander. Had Varus been the man here and now, he would likely have defied the legate, but Varus had the benefit of being both a senior commander, appointed by Caesar, and a Roman nobleman who theoretically outranked Crassus. Galronus had no such advantage and was well aware of his tenuous grip on command. Should he push Crassus too far, the man would simply remove him from his position and place one of the tribunes in control of the auxiliary cavalry.

  “Very well, sir.” With an exaggerated salute, he turned and rode back to his men who, already and without the need for such an order, had begun to move back toward the rear of the column.

  “Come on. Let’s get out there and flank them before they do too much damage.”

  The units of Gallic horsemen kicked their steeds into a stronger pace and raced along the side of the legion, who were holding the line well and paying no heed to their own cavalry detachment behind them.

  As he rode, Galronus frowned. Something was still not right. There must be a thousand or more enemy riders over there; probably two thousand. But that was nowhere near enough to take on an army this size. What did the Sotiates think they were doing?

  The legion, now facing the enemy and the rocky hillside behind, formed a shield wall, supported by five further lines of men. The Sotiates, in traditional fashion, had ridden in sharply, cast a first spear into the lines, and then wheeled away before they met the shield wall. That initial volley had caused a reasonable amount of damage but, in the grand scheme of the army, had hardly made a difference, many of the spears being knocked aside with shields or falling short.

  Since then the enemy had taken to riding forth in small groups, racing along the line of solid steel, jabbing down with their remaining spears in an overhand manner and then wrenching it back before riding away to rest as another group came forth. The same was happening all along the line. Here and there a spear blow would strike muscle and bone and a legionary would collapse, screaming, back among his fellows, but the vast majority of blows were caught and turned aside with the heavy legionary shields.

  What could the Sotiates hope to gain from this? Sooner or later the legionary commanders would tire of watching this attritive warfare and would order an advance. Then it would all be over for these horsemen.

  Galronus had reached the far end of the column now, where the newly-raised auxiliary spear bearers and archers brought up the rear, protecting the artillery, the baggage train and the supply wagons. To the cavalry commander’s secret delight, these auxiliary units under their own commanders seemed to be faring a great deal better than Crassus’ formidable legion. The spear men formed a veritable hedge of long, sharpened points, inaccessible to horses, while the archers behind kept up a steady volley that fell among any of the enemy that dared get close enough. The rear of the column was safe and the enemy were already moving toward the front, keeping a safe distance from this deadly combination of spear and arrow.

  At least the supplies were protected.

  As he watched, the first few units of his cavalry appeared at the other side, riding wide to flank the enemy and trap them against the column.

  Galronus smiled and nodded to himself. Now things would change.

  A minute later, he himself, along with his first unit, rounded the supply wagons and began to race toward the fray, picking up speed tremendously now that they were safely away from the precipice.

  Galronus settled into his saddle, hauling the shield from his back onto his arm, and gripping his own spear tight as his knees guided the beast left and right.

  The Sotiates were already pulling toward the front of the column, out of the reach of the archers and their deadly rain. The auxiliary cavalry came in at a wide arc from the slope above the fracas, driving for the flank of the enemy, where they met with shouts and the ringing sound of sword blows pounding shields or the metallic shriek of spear points sliding along bronze helmets or iron blades.

  The legionaries close by, where the two cavalry forces had met, simply stood ready and stayed out of the way unless one of the Sotiates made a lunge for them. For a moment, Galronus wondered why they weren’t pressing home the attack, and then realised that, once the two forces were enjoined in combat, no legionary could tell the difference between the enemy horsemen and their own Gallic cavalry and were staying safely out of the situation for fear of causing allied casualties.

  Gritting his teeth, the commander spotted a gap in the fighting and drove his horse down the slope toward a man in a mail vest with a splintered shield and a spear whose tip ran with crimson.

  “Taranis, my arm is your thunderbolt!”

  With a quick glance skyward, Galronus raised the spear above his shoulder and charged.

  The moments that followed went by in a blur of confusion. Suddenly there was bucking, screaming, a jolting sensation, and he was free of the saddle, thundering through the air.

  A lucky blow from one of the enemy horsemen had taken his steed in the neck, just above the shoulder and in shock and pain the horse had stumbled to a halt before rearing. The sudden stop, however, had dislodged the commander from his saddle mid-charge.

  His mind whirling, the action around him a smudged mess, Galronus reacted the only way he could. To fall to the floor here, amid a cavalry battle, was to be trampled to death for certain. As his horse reared and collapsed behind him, Galronus let go of both spear and shield and grabbed for the first thing he could reach.

  The enemy warrior gasped in surprise. He’d barely noticed the Roman horsemen as he turned to attack and had instantly pushed him from his thoughts as the man’s horse was stuck with a passing spear, but it appeared that the man was far from done.

  Galronus clung desperately to the horse’s bridle with his left hand, gripping the saddle horn with his right as his legs dangled, his feet brushing the ground and bouncing painfully along.

  In an urgent reaction, the Sotiate warrior brought his shield arm down, the edge of the heavy wood smashing into Galronus’ shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him. The man was trying to manoeuvre his spear over the top so that he could jab down at the burden that clung to his horse’s flank.

  Gritting his teeth, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and the turf tugging at his feet, the Remi commander tightened his grip on the bridle, letting go with his right hand and swinging loose, bringing up his legs so that he hung by one hand from the horse’s neck, knees bent and facing the man whose spear was slowly passing over the top in an arc.

  In a fluid move, he drew the broad-bladed Roman dagger from his belt and hooked it beneath the strap that passed from the saddle around the horse’s girth. Two sharp tugs was all the sharpened blade needed, and the leather snapped with the t
remendous strain put on it from above.

  The rider, his spear ready to plunge down at his unwanted passenger, squawked in shock as he plummeted from the side of the horse, knees still gripping the suddenly detached saddle.

  Galronus watched as the man fell away, disappearing with a shriek beneath the hooves of two other struggling horses.

  Changing his grip on the bridle, the commander vaulted up and onto the bare back of the horse, grasping the reins. The priority now was to removing himself from danger. With no saddle, he would find it difficult to manoeuvre without being unhorsed and, with only a dagger to hand, he was of precious little use in the current melee.

  Wheeling the beast, he rode for the clear ground to the rear, turning once he was safely free of the fight.

  The battle was all but over. Trapped between the steel wall of the Seventh legion and the vicious and well-trained auxiliary cavalry, the Sotiates had lost many of their men and had already pulled away toward the front of the column.

  Even as he watched, the last few struggles ended as the enemy warriors fell or retreated, the entire remaining force disengaging and racing along the Roman lines, down the gentle slope into the valley.

  The Remi officer heaved a sigh of relief and reached up to his tender shoulder. The chain armour had been torn apart by the blow as though it were merely old wool. The tunic beneath was torn and blood soaked the material. At least nothing appeared to have been broken, but for the next few days any movement of the arm would bring exquisite agony.

  Wincing, he withdrew his hand and trotted forward, watching the fleeing enemy. His officers looked at him expectantly and he shook his head, smiling at the looks of disappointment from those men whose blood was already up.

  Riding on past, he reached the vanguard to find the officers in deep discussion.

  “And that’s where their chief settlement should be?”

  A tribune nodded.

  “We believe it lies where this river meets the main water of Aquitania, legate.”