He turned to face the front again.
“You can call it barbaric or wrong and you may be correct in doing so. But it served a purpose, as Caesar intended. He never does anything without thinking it through.”
Labienus nodded sadly.
“I can see that you truly believe that, Marcus. I hope that the day when you realise he’s gone too far is not the day you realise that you’ve gone too far as well. Sooner or later the general’s going to cross the line permanently.”
But the taciturn legate remained facing resolutely away, his silence a powerful statement about his mood. Labienus rode alongside for another minute or so and finally shrugged, hauling on the reins and drawing his mount out of the column. His eyes narrowed suddenly and he turned back, keeping pace with the column once more as the dusty scout on his fast Gallic horse converged with the column. His eyes rising beyond the man, Labienus could distinctly see half a dozen other scouts pulling back to the column. Another ambush? There shouldn’t be any more according to the information Priscus had torn from the captives.
“Ho! Over here.”
The scout, tracking the call, spotted the armour and plume of a senior officer and veered toward him. Moments later, the man came alongside and slowed his sweating horse to match the column’s sedate pace, saluting somewhat half-heartedly, as the irregular scouts were wont to do.
“Commander. I report finding enemy camp.”
Labienus nodded seriously, his eyes slipping sideways to see Fronto turn and pay sudden attention.
“What have you found? Details. Were they prepared? Were you spotted?”
“Enemy not know we come. Busy with meal. No defences; just picket. Not see us. Caesar get easy fight.”
Labienus nodded with satisfaction. Fronto couldn’t help his lip curling a little contemptuously. It was all well and good to condemn the general’s tactics in favour of a peaceful solution, yet the senior commander couldn’t help but nod appreciatively at the prospect of taking the enemy unawares, regardless.
“You’d best get back to the general. He’ll want to pass out the orders.”
”What about you, Fronto? You need to be there too.”
Fronto, shaking his head, pointed back along the line. “Everyone else has some manoeuvring to do. Not the Tenth. We stay at the front.”
As Labienus moved off toward the command section, beyond the first three legions where Caesar and his staff rode, Fronto watched the scouts converging on the column.
Riding quietly, his mood dark, Fronto heard the distinctive and purposeful clearing of the throat behind him only on the third time it happened.
“What?” he snapped quietly, not even turning.
“That was a somewhat unprofessional exchange, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.” Carbo murmured quietly from behind.
“I find it difficult to care right now.”
There was an uncomfortable silence which, Fronto knew, denoted Carbo taking a mental pause before saying something his commander didn’t want to hear.
“I fell the men back out of earshot as soon as I realized you weren’t going to stop, sir, but you have to remember not to show divisions between those in command in front of the men, and not to talk about them as though they’re sheep whose attitude can be manipulated with a few stinking barbarian heads.”
“But they can, Carbo.”
“Yes sir. I know that and you know that, and in all likelihood a lot of them know that, but there are some things you just don’t say in front of the men.”
Fronto, his anger beginning to boil over, turned to his chief centurion, but the open sincerity and utmost concern in the man’s pink, shiny, bald face was so utterly disarming that he found himself deflating and calming down before he even realized it.
“You’re absolutely right, of course, Carbo. Thank you as always. For watching my back, I mean.”
“My pleasure sir. Wait til you get your sword stuck into a few stinking naked tribesmen. It’ll all be alright then.”
Fronto couldn’t help but smile. It was quite astounding how easily Carbo and Atenos, the new training officer, had managed to fill the gaping hole left by the transfer of Priscus and the death of Velius over a year ago. Already he wasn’t at all sure what he would do without the good natured pink face of Carbo interfering in his affairs.
By the time his mood had risen enough to pay attention once more to the world around him, Fronto could see the army moving into position as per Caesar’s pre-arranged orders. The bulk of the cavalry had fallen back to protect the baggage train, their tactics being less useful in an assault on a camp than in a pitched field battle. Only the blooded and vengeful cavalry of Piso, currently serving under a promoted prefect, would be given a direct hand in the fight. The Tenth remained in central position at the front, while the Eighth moved into position on their left and the Fourteenth on their right.
Three columns of legions, with the Seventh, Ninth and Thirteenth following on behind and the Eleventh and Twelfth, along with the vengeful cavalry alae, in the third wave that would seal the trap and prevent escapes.
Fronto squinted into the distance, wishing he could already see the enemy. But they would be in view soon enough. Wishing he could dismount and send his horse back to the commanders, he plodded forward for a couple more minutes until the command section’s buccinae began to blare out the order to pick up to double speed.
Time to run.
Time to fight.
Chapter 7
(Camp of the Germanic invaders by the Moselle River)
The scout had been accurate about the state of the enemy camp — that much was obvious as the Eighth, Tenth and Fourteenth legions crossed the brow of a low hill at a double speed march and caught their first view of the enemy encampment splayed out before them.
The camp of the invading tribes took the form of a misshapen oval, the shorter arc at the southeast eaten into by the course of the wide, fast MosellaRiver. The only concession to defence was a low embankment at roughly thigh height, spotted periodically with watchfires that still burned in the daylight, doubling as cooking fires, throwing numerous columns of dark smoke into the sky. Clearly the barbarians had no fear of attack. More fool them.
As the first ranks crossed the hill, the pace of the attack changed from being set by the command section to the leading officers and, as Fronto bellowed out the order for the charge, relayed by standard bearers and musicians, he could hear the same commands being echoed among the other two legions.
The pace doubled again, the legions settling into a uniform, organised run. They were already half way down the gentle incline to the barbarian camp when the first cries of alarm went up among the tents, wagons and cooking fires.
Fronto smiled in grim satisfaction. Even the legions, the most organised and efficient fighting force in the world, would stand no chance of mounting a concerted defence in the time they had. Disorganised barbarians were simply doomed.
To their credit, a number of bulky, muscular warriors managed to grasp spears or swords from somewhere and clamber up onto the mound in time to meet the advancing legions, but as a defensive force they would be as effective as wheat to the scythe.
Fronto, his horse keeping pace with the front ranks of the legion, was suddenly aware of the drum of other hooves and glanced round to see that two of the tribunes of the legion had moved forward to accompany him. Tetricus had served with the Tenth since the first days in Gaul — a very unusual choice for a junior tribune, who would usually serve the one season and then return to climb the cursus honorum in Rome. But then Tetricus was, like Fronto, a born soldier and a genius engineer — a fact that had led to Fronto promoting him to the position of senior tribune this spring in the absence of Caesar’s unfortunate nephew. Crito, next to him, had now served two seasons, declining the chance to return home last year. They were two good men to have with you in a fight.
Carbo was bellowing encouraging phrases, each more graphic and belligerent than the last, firing his men’s blood. Atenos, one of
the senior centurions and the Tenth’s chief training officer, had his teeth bared like some wild animal moving in for the kill.
Pride.
That was what Fronto always felt going into battle with the Tenth. He personally disliked riding into combat while his men marched, but Carbo’s constant badgering about how an officer should act in front of his men had finally begun to take its toll. Besides, Fronto reminded himself as the legions surged across the last few yards to the rampart, he wasn’t getting any younger. Priscus took every opportunity to remind him that he was now the oldest serving officer after Caesar himself.
Suddenly the time for thought was past.
The legions reached the camp of the Ubii, the Usipetes and the Tencteri like a swarm of glinting steel locusts, flowing over the feeble defensive embankment with barely a drop in the pace. Fronto hauled on Bucephalus’ reins and kicked, launching the beast into the air and clearing the rampart with the two tribunes at his back.
The ranks of armoured men poured through the camp, all pretence of formation and order thrown to the wind as they tore along open grass between the multi-hued tents, hacking down fleeing barbarians. Some men pushed their way into the tents as they passed, many finding the occupants still struggling to pull on boots or draw weapons.
It was slaughter, pure and simple.
Fronto and his tribunes pushed on toward the centre, occasionally swiping out with their swords and maiming or dispatching a warrior — some of whom struggled to face them while others ran, having clearly abandoned all hope of defending the camp.
Minutes of battle passed in bloody carnage before Fronto found himself somewhere deep in the heart of the Germanic camp, spying the enemy’s baggage that stood in disordered piles among carts and grazing beasts. Legionaries surged through the camp to his left and right, some bearing the standards of the Tenth, some of the Eighth or Fourteenth, with other legions close behind them.
The first the legate realised of the trouble he was in was when Bucephalus reared in pain, a neat red line sliced across his shoulder. Fronto, never the most capable horseman, struggled for only a moment before losing his grip on the reins. The four-horned saddle held him tight for a moment, bruising his hips and smashing the breath from him as he jerked this way and that.
Bucephalus was rearing and bucking, smashing out with his powerful hooves at the three men making a concerted effort to put spears into the Roman officer before them. Another spear point jabbed into Bucephalus’ neck — far from a killing blow; more an accidental strike — and the great black horse bucked once more, finally sending Fronto flying from the beast’s back as one of the wood and leather saddle horns gave under the pressure and broke.
The world blurred blue, green, red and silver in a nauseating and repetitive sequence as Fronto hit the ground hard and managed to curl into a roll at the last minute, his sword thrust out to one side to prevent accidental wounding.
His head spun as he finally came to rest on his back, the breath knocked from him and a headache that felt like a four-day hangover already slamming at the inside of his skull. Blinking repeatedly to try and clear the painful, dizzying semi-blindness, Fronto just caught sight of the large shadowy shape of Bucephalus hurtling back through the alarmed crowds of legionaries. Even in the depth of battle and the fug of confusion he found time to be grateful to Fortuna that the steed, gifted to him three years ago by Longinus, had fled the scene more or less intact.
Suddenly a shadow was above him, lunging down with a spear. Desperately, he rolled to his left as the spear slammed into the turf where he had just been. In a panic he brought his sword round to try and deal with the man but, even as he did, a pilum punched through the man’s chest, hurling him back out of sight, flailing and screaming.
Then legionaries were swarming past and across him, swords out, shield bosses punching into unprotected faces. A familiar huge and muscular figure in a harness of medal discs appeared above him, a grin splitting that wide face beneath the bulky blond moustaches. Atenos reached down with his free hand and grasped Fronto’s wrist, hauling him up from the floor with as little effort as a man lifting a child’s wooden doll.
“Trouble, sir?”
Fronto reached up and gingerly touched the back of his head, concerned that he might find a sizeable hole there leaking brains, but found only an intact skull with a little blood matting the hair.
“Screw Carbo. Next time I do this, I do it on foot. That bloody horse is more dangerous than a thousand barbarians.”
Atenos grinned at him again and patted him on the back with enough force to make him stagger a little.
“We’ve got them on the run anyway, sir. Looks like they’re mounting a bit more of a defence in the other half of the camp, though.”
“Everything running smoothly?” Fronto asked quietly as he moved his arm in circles, wincing at the muscles pulled during his fall.
“Mostly. Haven’t seen the other tribunes since the three of you passed us just inside the defences, though.”
Fronto peered into the chaos around him. Shouts, crashes and the clang of steel on iron rang out from the northeastern end of the camp. The legionaries now swarming through this area bore the standards of the Ninth and Seventh. Of mounted tribunes there was no sign.
“You’d best get back to your century, Atenos. I’m going to try and find Tetricus and Crito. They were with me a couple of minutes ago, so they can’t be far.”
Atenos shook his head. “My men are already in the thick of it with the rest. My optio can keep them in line, and you’re in no state to go staggering through an enemy camp alone.”
As if to prove his point, the towering Gaul let go of Fronto’s shoulder that he’d been clasping for the last few moments and Fronto lurched to the side and almost fell. With a wide smile, Atenos grasped him again and held him steady until the legate nodded.
“Come on.”
The baggage area of the enemy camp had seen some of the fiercer combat through the slaughter and, though the barbarians were being constantly pushed back and were offering little in the way of resistance, the bodies here had mounted up to create piles three deep in places.
The site of the Tribunes’ last position was not hard to spot.
Tetricus’ white mare lay amid the bodies, a broken spear shaft protruding from her neck. Crito’s bay steed lay still only a few yards further on. Try as he might, with a lump rising in his throat, Fronto couldn’t see a sign of an officer’s armour or uniform among the bodies, and they should be easy enough to spot, given the scarcity of Roman corpses among the dead.
“Over here” Atenos shouted, beckoning to Fronto. His heart pounding, Fronto stepped through the gore and scattered bodies to where the large Gallic centurion stood pointing down into the murk.
Amid the churned turf and mud, slick with blood, lay a body face down and splayed out. Fronto reached down gingerly to the figure in the crimson tunic and the burnished cuirass and gently hauled on him, turning him over.
Crito.
A powerful blow from an axe had punched through the bronze armour and deep into the chest, leaving a long, jagged rent in the metal through which mangled insides oozed in recent death. The officer’s head lolled at an uncomfortable angle, his neck likely broken as he fell.
Fronto felt a surge of relief that the body was Crito and not that of Tetricus, and berated himself silently for such an unworthy thought.
“Fronto?”
His head snapped round at the mention of his name and it took the legate a long moment to spot the source of the sound.
Tetricus’ short, curly hair appeared from the shadow beneath a wagon, a face that was paler than it should be beneath the mass of dark curls, looking up at him with obvious relief. Fronto felt a weight fall away from his shoulders as he stepped forward.
“If I have to tell Caesar that I found you hiding under a cart, he’ll send you home, you know that?” he said with a grin. Next to him, Atenos was frowning and, as Fronto noticed, he squinted into the sh
adows to see what had caused the centurion such concern.
Tetricus was hauling himself along the ground out from the shadow of the wagon with the pale, taut face of someone in great pain. Again, Fronto felt his heart lurch as he stepped forward urgently. Atenos joined him and they reached out to help Tetricus from his hiding place.
As the large centurion helped the man up, Fronto saw the wash of blood that poured down the tribune’s leg from a vicious thigh wound, the hilt of a bloody knife still protruding from it; saw the limp left arm and the jagged, blood-coated shaft that stuck out of the rear shoulder of Tetricus’ cuirass.
“For the love of Venus, they did a number on you.”
Atenos, next to him, shook his head. “Look again, sir.”
Fronto blinked and looked at Tetricus again, wondering what it was he was supposed to be seeing. The man was pale, having lost a great deal of blood, but he would live. The chances were good that both arm and leg would make it through, so long as the medicus did a good job. After all, the armour had prevented…
Fronto’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer. What he’d taken for a barbarian spear head beneath the thick coating of blood and mud was nothing of the sort. The bent and broken shaft that projected from Tetricus’ shoulder was all that remained of a Roman pilum, the shaft broken off. Already knowing what he was going to see, his eyes dropped to the leg wound. Again, beneath the mud and blood, the shape of a Roman pugio dagger hilt was unmistakable when he looked closer.
“Who?”
Tetricus winced as he tried to put weight on his leg, but Atenos reached out and took a firm hold of the tribune.
“I don’t know. Someone stabbed me in the thigh while I was still on the horse and pulled me off. We were in a thick mass of fighting, and I couldn’t see who it was — there were legionaries and officers all round me. My horse ran forward and I staggered to my feet to go catch her when something hit me in the back and knocked me flat. I must have passed out for a minute or two, ‘cause when I came to the fighting had moved on. I hauled myself under the nearest cart and waited.”
Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4 Page 15
