Fronto spun round, as though expecting to be able to find the would-be killer in plain sight, but only the occasional straggler from the Eleventh and Twelfth legions moved through the camp here, crouching to dispatch wounded barbarians and to deliver an occasional mercy strike to a fellow legionary who was beyond help.
“When I find the bastard responsible for this, I’m going to tear his face off with my teeth” Fronto snarled, as he reached out to take the other side of Tetricus. “Come on. Let’s get you to a capsarius.”
The three men, Fronto and Atenos all but carrying the wounded tribune between them, crossed the low embankment and moved slowly up the slope toward the Roman command section on the low rise. Caesar and his lieutenants sat on their horses in a small knot, gesturing at the camp below, deep in discussion. The artillery and the support wagons were still arriving slowly on the scene, and being corralled into groups. The medici and their staff were assembling three large tents to serve as temporary hospitals, while a number of orderlies stacked stretchers ready to run down to the camp and collect any wounded they could find.
By the time the three men were almost half way, the medical section had spotted them and two legionaries were running down with a stretcher. As they arrived and gently took control of Tetricus, lowering him to the ground ready to carry him back, Fronto caught one of them by the shoulder.
“Make sure he’s tended first and best.”
The orderly looked for a moment as though he might counter with a sarcastic remark, but caught sight of Fronto’s face and wisely bit it back, nodding instead. Fronto and Atenos waited for a moment, watching the two men rushing Tetricus toward the only finished tent, and then became aware of someone waving at them from the command section.
Changing direction, they jogged up the gentle slope to the officers, where Labienus walked his horse forward a few steps to meet them. Fronto saw the strain in the man’s face and the risen colour that spoke eloquently of the arguments the man had been very recently involved in.
“Fronto? You’ve been in the midst of it. Tell me what’s happening.”
The legate shrugged. “As expected. We caught them completely unawares. They’ve fought a desperate defence across the camp, but it was hardly even an obstacle.”
“Do you think they’d surrender, given the opportunity?”
“I don’t think they’re organised and calm enough to surrender. I doubt they’d even listen to you. My guess is they’ll flee the camp and try and get away. They certainly can’t hold it.”
Labienus sagged, but Caesar, who’d been close by and listening, stepped his own horse forward to join them.
“It looks like they’re trying to float their rafts out into the river. If they can get across to the far bank, they’ll be safe.”
Sabinus, nearby, nodded. “There’s a mass of them at the far side now too. You can just see them. They’re running towards the Rhenus. We’ve broken them completely.”
Fronto glanced across at Caesar, whose expression suggested that the fight was far from over yet. He gestured to one of the mounted messengers who waited nearby. “Get to the cavalry commanders. Tell them to leave the wagons and form up their men. Varus is still in recovery, so speak to his second. I want his wing to skirt the camp as fast as they can and cut off any survivors fleeing to the Rhenus. Galronus needs to take his men to the right of the field, along the river bank and deal with those men trying to get the rafts into the water. This fight ends here.”
Labienus turned to Caesar, a frown of concern creasing his face. “And once they’re surrounded and with no escape, general?”
Caesar turned a flat expression on his senior officer.
“They aren’t just warriors, Caesar. This is three whole tribes who came across the Rhenus. There are women and children, old folk and babies. We need at least to try and behave like civilised soldiers.”
A flash of anger passed across Caesar’s face at the scarcely concealed accusation of barbarism.
“Very well, Titus. If you want to save their old folk, go and try. Obtain their surrender.”
“But Caesar? You need to call off the pursuit first.”
The general’s cold eyes regarded Labienus with steely dispassion.
“I will do no such thing. I have to consider the likelihood that you will not even get their attention. I will not give them time to regroup and face me properly.”
Labienus glared at Caesar for a moment and then turned and rode off down the hill, kicking his horse into speed as he raced toward what had now become a scene of slaughter and mayhem. Fronto turned to Atenos.
“We’d best get back to the Tenth and try and rein them in a bit” he said quietly, glancing at Caesar and hoping his words had been quiet enough to go unheard. But the general was paying him no attention, his gaze instead was locked on the two wings of cavalry that were now marshalling on the low rise and beginning to move down to their assigned tasks.
The camp resembled a mass grave as the two officers picked their way through it. All the wounded barbarians had been dispatched by the second and third waves of assaulting legionaries, and most of the Roman casualties had now been moved off by the capsarii and the medical orderlies, stretchered back up to the three great surgical tents being raised on the hill.
Fronto and Atenos picked their way through the field of bodies, wondering where the Tenth would be now. The sounds of distant fighting still echoed from the far end of the camp, and the two men made toward the sound as swiftly as they could.
The bodies that littered the ground were so numerous that it was impossible to not pay a certain amount of attention as they hurried through and Fronto noted with some distaste as he moved just how many of them appeared to be the women and children of whom Labienus had spoken. It seemed that not only had the attacking legionaries been less than selective with their targets, but also the Germanic tribesfolk had done nothing to try and shelter their civilian counterparts, the warriors having run alongside them and many women and children being left to die as the warriors ran.
A distant call from a buccina identified the location of the Tenth and the two men angled off to the south, towards the river Mosella. A sound like distant thunder told them that Galronus and his cavalry were converging on the very same spot.
The sounds of fighting became gradually louder and more distinct as they neared the river and finally, pushing their way past a large, partially collapsed tent, Fronto and Atenos laid eyes on the scene at the water’s edge.
A detachment of legionaries — what looked like roughly half a legion in total — had pinned the barbarians against the waterside. The standards and flags identified the detachment as being composed of men from the Tenth and the Seventh, while Galronus’ green cavalry wing, even as Fronto watched, crashed into the barbarians’ flank along the river, jabbing down with their spears and scything out with swords, their organisation and fighting style still very much Gallic, as yet untempered by too much Roman influence.
With some dismay, Fronto noted that once again the barbarian force consisted of warriors, but also of women, children and old folk, and yet all of them seemed determined to fight back, women wielding weapons stolen from the dead, children swishing and stabbing with sticks, throwing stones, or hefting other makeshift weapons.
The reason for their combined and desperate defiance lay beyond, protected from the Roman attackers by a sea of flailing people: two dozen sizeable rafts, each large enough to carry twenty or more people, were being manhandled into the water, still tied to the bank with ropes to prevent them rushing away downstream. Even as Fronto watched, the first raft began to float out into the water. The occupants had no oars but, using heavy poles, they pushed the raft out into the deeper, fast flowing water before throwing the poles to the bank for the next group, then dropping their arms into the water and scooping their way out into mid-river.
The rafts were just as likely to return to this bank further down or hurtle downriver until they flowed out into the massive channe
l of the Rhenus as they were actually to cross here, but that seemed of little consequence to the fleeing folk before him.
Fronto paused.
“What are you thinking?” murmured Atenos next to him.
“I’m trying to decide whether Labienus is right. Perhaps we ought to just let them go. Look at them. They’re in a panic and they’re mostly civilians. This lot aren’t going turn round and regroup. They won’t stop running and swimming until they reach the east bank of the Rhenus again.”
Atenos nodded.
“It would be breaking the general’s orders, though, sir. And these people are invaders. Don’t forget that.”
Fronto turned to his centurion friend in surprise, but nodded.
“You’re right. And, of course, slaves help pay for the campaign too. Come on.”
Breaking into a jog, Fronto and Atenos made their way to the scene of fighting, shouting at the rear ranks of legionaries to step aside, making for where they could see a group of standards wavering. Slowly, they managed to push through the crowd until they spotted Cicero’s ornate helmet and white plume near the standards. Angling towards him, Fronto hauled men out of the way.
“Cicero!”
The man was busy bellowing orders to his men and threats to the barbarians only twenty feet away and roaring their defiance in guttural tongues.
“Cicero!” Fronto bellowed again as the two men reached the small command group. Two of Cicero’s tribunes finally spotted the mud-spattered legate and his centurion and tugged at Cicero. The Seventh’s commander turned and noticed Fronto.
“The bastards are getting away, Fronto. We can’t kill them fast enough to get to the rafts.”
Fronto nodded.
“Galronus’ cavalry are here now and they’re pushing along the water’s edge. They’ll cut the enemy off completely in a few minutes. Maybe three or four rafts will get away. That’s all. Once their escape route’s gone, they should surrender!”
Cicero smiled grimly and turned back to his men, shouting orders and encouragement.
“Had a bit of a fall, legate?”
Fronto turned to see Fabius standing nearby, a cold smile on his face. The centurion was liberally spattered with blood and wielded a gladius in one hand and his vine staff in the other.
“Horse threw me in the fight.” His eyes strayed down suspiciously to the man’s waist, expecting an empty scabbard where the man’s pugio should be, but he was a little disappointed to note that the hilt of the dagger rose proud from the sheath.
Fabius nodded a faint bow and then turned and pushed his way back into the fight. Fronto glared after him until he was lost from sight in the press. He would be willing to put money on the fact that, if he found Furius, the other veteran’s dagger sheath would be empty.
A hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly and he looked round to see Atenos smiling.
“The cavalry’s behind them now. It’s over, sir.”
Fronto tried to see across the crowd but, being more than a head shorter than the centurion, he could see little but a sea of milling legionaries.
“They’re cutting the ropes” Atenos said with satisfaction. “You can see the empty rafts drifting out into the water. Arms are getting raised too. Looks like they’re surrendering.”
As Fronto listened, he could hear the distinctive sound of hundreds, even thousands, of weapons being cast to the ground in defeat.
It seemed that it really was over. The invaders had been smashed and beaten, their army destroyed, their camp ravaged. Survivors who made it to safety would be few and far between and there would be a lot of slaves taken. It was not even midsummer and the legions had already achieved their season’s objectives.
Fronto smiled to himself, despite everything. The image of Lucilia and the memory of the warm waters of the bay below Puteoli sprang unbidden to his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to give her the marriage she sought this year after all.
Fronto took a deep breath and, rolling his aching shoulders and wincing at the pains he’d suffered in the fall, glanced left and right at the crimson vexillum flags bearing Caesar’s Taurus emblem in gold, and nodded at the two guards, who opened the flap.
“Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto” announced the cavalry bodyguard, ushering Fronto into the tent.
“Ah, Marcus. I’d been hoping you would deign this meeting worthy of your presence at some point.” Caesar’s expression suggested that there was little intended humour within the sarcasm.
“Apologies Caesar” he replied with as little apology in the tone as he could manage. “I have come straight from the medicus.”
“Your tribune?”
“Tetricus, yes. He’ll live. He may suffer restricted movement in his arm and leg, but that’s what we expect from Roman weapons: killing and wounding efficiency.” His sharp, almost accusatory words echoed throughout the quiet tent and he took a moment to cast his eye round the assembled officers, allowing it to linger on Cicero and his pet centurions. Neither Furius nor Fabius seemed fazed by the words.
“The matter should be investigated, Fronto” Caesar confirmed quietly, “but you must be prepared to accept that it may have been an accident. In the press of war, accidents are inevitable, as you’re well aware.”
Fronto harrumphed and fell into position in a sullen silence, glaring for long moments at the centurions before turning to Caesar.
“The figures appear to be more than acceptable so far” Caesar announced, running a finger down the tallies on the tablets before him. “Currently they stand at forty seven men of the legions, including two centurions, an optio and a tribune, with a little over a hundred being tended by the medical section and nine unaccounted for. The cavalry lost twenty eight men and fifty one horses, due to the barbarians’ unorthodox and effective anti-horse tactics. So, even assuming the worst, we lost less than a hundred men in total. I think we can all consider that a more than successful engagement.”
“And the enemy?” enquired Brutus.
“A little vague. Estimates range from thirty thousand to eighty thousand. Until the men have finished stripping the camp of anything valuable or useful and gathered the dead for disposal we won’t have better figures. We’ll never be able to be accurate, given that the number of tribesmen who were washed away in the currents of the Mosella and the Rhenus or sank without trace due to the weight of their armour will remain unknown. Suffice it to say there were a great deal more of them than us.”
“I see the men are already dipping into the funeral club coffers and building the pyres for the Roman dead” Fronto noted. “Late this afternoon, I suggest you check the wind direction and make sure you stay upwind. It’s likely to get a bit smoky. Didn’t see pyres or pits for the enemy, though?” he added suspiciously.
“They will be left in piles for the scavengers in the wild” Caesar said flatly. Expressions of surprise and consternation rose on the faces of a number of officers, but Caesar blithely ignored them. “Prefect Lentulus?”
A cavalry officer Fronto didn’t recognise stepped out of the circle of men.
“Tell us about the flight of the camp’s inhabitants.”
Labienus stepped out and stood next to Lentulus.
“I can tell you about that, Caesar. I rode out to give them the opportunity to surrender, but this ‘officer’ here refused to rein in his men and stop chasing them, so I couldn’t find a way to address them. In my opinion, this man was not ready for such a command and should be sent back to his ala.”
The prefect shot a sour glance at Labienus and took a step forward.
“As you are aware, general, the men under my command had their blood up. They were seeking revenge on the bastards who had ambushed them in the valley, and that was well known when we were assigned to the fight. Once they had the scent of the fleeing barbarians nothing short of chaining them to the floor was going to prevent the slaughter that occurred.”
Fronto frowned. A look had passed briefly between the prefect and th
e general; a look of recognition; understanding; possibly even approval.
“It was unnecessary and entirely avoidable!” snapped Labienus. Lentulus turned away from Caesar and fixed his glare on the seething senior commander. “Once Commander Varus’ cavalry had cut off their escape route, it was inevitable that my men would take the opportunity to exact revenge for their own defeat and losses. No man — not even you, commander — would have been able to stop them.”
He turned back to Caesar. “And, I will state for the record that, had I been able to prevent it, I would not have done, regardless. The scum got what was coming to them. And with it we’ve ended the presence of the invaders here and achieved what we set out to do.”
Labienus continued to glare coldly at the man, but Caesar clapped his hands and drew everyone’s attention.
“And that is the pertinent point. We have crushed the invasion. Now all that remains is to make sure that it never happens again. I will be organising further strategy meetings in good time but, for now, we should lick our wounds, such as they are, and tot up our successes.” He turned to Varus, who stood tall and steady, despite the sling that held his broken arm tight and the padding beneath his tunic where the hip wound was bound. “I would like you to arrange mounted patrols and scouts to range up to twenty miles each way along the banks of the Rhenus and twenty miles back along the Mosella; long-range scouts out to the south, as well. I want continual and up to date information on the location and movements of the enemy cavalry that we know are still out there. We cannot afford to be taken off guard.”
Varus, standing painfully, his arm tightly slung and leaning on a stick with his good hand, started to rattle off figures and facts and Fronto’s mind began to drift along to the drone of planning. As the conversation hummed slowly around him, his eyes fell on Lentulus, now stepping back into the line, a virtual crackle of angry electricity between him and Labienus. The more he ran his mind back over the statements and the shared looks between prefect and general, the more convinced he became that the man had been following Caesar’s direct orders to wipe out as many of the barbarians as they possibly could and prevent the possibility of surrender. It would, after all, hardly be unlike the general to do such a thing.
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