Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  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 returned 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 horses 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.

  The horse screamed in impossible pain at the gruesome task being performed on its belly, and bucked. The man, his work done, took the opportunity to step out and away before the beast came back down, with Varus tumbling away from the stricken mount.

  The commander hit the ground heavily, making his best attempt to roll and come up into a crouch as training dictated, but realising that something was wrong. It took a moment of utter confusion to realise that his horse’s flailing hoof had caught his helmet a glancing blow and, as he reached up to unfasten the strap and let the painful, dented helm fall to the ground, releasing his throbbing head, he also became aware that only one of his arms had obeyed his brain.

  A glance at his other arm showed a gleam of sharp white amid the crimson mess that was his forearm.

  A landing his old riding tutor would have beaten him for. Appalling!

  His brain was starting to swim with the pain-killing euphoria of battle — often the only thing that saved a soldier’s life when badly wounded and in a sticky situation.

  He was suddenly aware that the barbarian who had gutted his horse from underneath was now approaching him, blade held forward, coated to the waist in the slick of horse’s blood that had sluiced down over him. Varus felt a terrible rage infecting his mind though, unlike these crazed barbarians, he knew battle-rage for the double edged gift it was and his sheer will channelled it into a hard, cold urge to make this man pay for the death of his lovely mare.

  No sword. He’d lost both sword and shield during the fall. The shield, of course, would have been what broke his arm as he landed. He should have let it go. But the sword he’d simply dropped.

  A quick glance and he could see his expensive, carved and etched cavalry blade lying in the blood-soaked grass some ten feet away. Too far.

  The barbarian was on him. The blade flashed out, quick as a snake striking: once… twice… thrice.

  On the third lunge, Varus stepped calmly forward into the blow, coming alongside the man’s arm, and brought his elbow down on the man’s wrist, numbing the barbarian’s joint with a blow that sent waves up Varus’ own arm. The barbarian’s horse-gutting knife fell to the grass and the man stared in surprise at this Roman who’d appeared on the verge of death and totally helpless and unarmed a moment ago.

  With a growl, Varus’ good arm reached out and grasped the barbarian by the throat, his grip squeezing instantly with all the strength of a man who has spent twenty years using that fist to cling on to the reins of a startled mount or swing a heavy sword from horseback.

  The man’s gristle, cartilage, muscle, bone and soft tissue crunched and ground into a pulp in Varus’ tightening grip. His eyes bulged and his face turned purple and then grey, his head flopping at an angle, indicating that he’d kicked his last and that the jerks Varus could feel were those that came in death.

  Calmly, with steely eyes, Varus let go and the dead thing dropped to the ground before him.

  “That’s for Hyrpina. I raised her from a foal.”

  Turning slowly, he took in the situation. Despite the loss of a number of horses due to the unpleasant tactic of the enemy, the Gauls and Romans were winning out. Few of the enemy remained and at a shout they disengaged and ran to their beasts. One of the decurions called an order to chase them down, but it went unheeded in the chaos. No one had the urge or the energy to follow.

  As Varus watched, the Germanic warriors remounted in a smooth jump and, gathering the reins of the unmanned beasts, left the scene with every horse they had brought. Varus looked at the remaining twenty-odd men. He’d lost two Romans and about fifteen Gauls.

  With a cry of the sheerest agony, he yanked loose his neck scarf and pushed his broken arm into it, forming a temporary sling. His eyes streamed with the pain and he had to bite down on his lip with every movement that rubbed the raw wound on the rusty-coloured wool. With a wince and held breath, he retrieved his fallen sword and gestured with it.

  “Mount up and move — two to a horse if you have to. Let’s get back to Piso.”

  As one of
the Roman riders closed, he reached down and helped haul Varus onto the back of his steed, trying not to jostle his bad arm in the process.

  Perhaps Fronto and his bleak mood had been right about today.

  Piso had done a sterling job of consolidating the Gallic forces as they converged on his wolf standard. Each bolstering unit of three hundred horses and riders had joined the massed ranks, sitting in ordered rows, the front lines with their spears levelled and ready, the rest with the tips raised safely.

  Varus watched as he hurtled across the grass with his small battered unit, twenty two men sharing only fifteen horses. The Germanic tactics had been brutal and horribly effective. What it said about tribes that were supposed to hold the honour of individual combat in the highest esteem, he couldn’t say. It was apparently dishonourable to fire an arrow at an enemy, or sling a stone, but to gut his horse from under him and then pick off the downed rider seemed perfectly acceptable.

  The ranks of near five thousand horsemen were drawn up in their alae of three hundreds, with only a little manoeuvring room between the units. Piso had carefully withdrawn from his original position to the most open area of fields with no fences or ruined buildings to hamper his cavalry. It was a sensible, safe tactic.

  The Germanic attackers had abandoned their missile troops somewhere above the tree line, where the sling-wielding peasants were probably already running for their tribes’ camps. Now, the barbarian horsemen had drawn up in groups to three sides of the Roman forces.

  Varus’ initial estimate had been roughly accurate. There couldn’t be more than a thousand of them. And they’d herded the Roman forces back into a group at the centre, but left open a side for the cavalry to escape?

  Clearly they did not expect to crush the overwhelming superior forces, then. So what? Frighten them? Do enough damage to make Caesar stop and consider their offer? Anything was possible with these crazed people.