Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  Finally, he began to see the movement of a vast seething army of men, largely naked or dressed in those curious long trousers such as the Gauls wore, painted and adorned with bronze or even gold where their status warranted. Every man seemed to be armed with a different weapon, like an unruly mob hastily dragged from their beds to save their land. Even in the haze of the downpour it was hard not to be chilled at the number of them.

  They would be no match for a Roman legion in top fighting condition, even at two-to-one odds. But at the moment it was at best touch-and-go as to which side would gain the advantage and Fronto knew as well as any experienced commander that morale was half the battle. The army that thirsted for blood would push all the harder and an army that broke was lost in that instant. It was sadly a little too obvious which force had all the morale on that field.

  The Roman lines, invisible somewhere behind the mass of warriors, were making only the noises of a group of men fighting for their life: grunting, yelling, screaming, occasional horn calls or bellowed commands. There was no roar of defiance; of the might of Rome, nor the silence that was sometimes called by a commander to frighten the enemy — a totally noiseless armoured advance was a disturbing sight for anyone.

  The Britons, on the other hand, were in full spirit, bellowing their war cries and howling their blood lust, exhorting their strange Gods to help them drive these hated invaders from their island, heedless of the rain battering their oft-naked skin. Likely the inhabitants of this accursed island viewed heavy rain as the normal weather for any time of the year. Fronto found himself wondering whether there were druids among them. It seemed that any Celtic force gained a dangerous amount of heart when they knew they were in the presence, and had the support, of that bunch of weird blood-drinking goat-humpers.

  Closer now they crept, passing the boles of trees only ten or twelve yards from the edge. The field was becoming clearer all the time, the denser foliage at the periphery returning the roar of driving rain on green leaf.

  Fronto felt a slow smile creep across his face as he took in the situation. The Britons had held nothing back in this, their apparently last ditch attempt to drive Rome from their shores. The bulk of the men — nobles and warriors alike — pushed and struggled to get to the Roman lines, formed in a mass. Their cavalry had apparently charged en masse on this flank at the north side of the field, expecting to break the Roman ranks. Whether it had been Caesar’s decision or that of the senior centurion among the Tenth’s ranks there, the Roman lines had pulled the age-old ‘fake flight’ manoeuvre, apparently breaking under the cavalry’s charge, but then consolidating again to slow their advance and enveloping them, wrapping them in a circle of steel. A small reserve cavalry force remained at the rear, on the far — southern — edge of the fight, but not enough to swing the battle. The nobles had all joined the throng, leaving their chariots in the hands of the drivers who, unaware of the approaching danger, had brought them toward the forest’s edge to watch the battle progress and wait for the call from their masters.

  There was a chance, then. As long as the centre, a joint command of the Tenth and the Seventh, could hold against the much greater numbers of their enemy, there was a chance.

  Glancing across at Carbo, Fronto tried to use his hands to mime the shape of a chariot, drew a line across his throat, pointed to himself and held up two fingers. Carbo nodded his understanding and turned, gesturing for the centurion of the second century to follow their legate. Like a flowing river of shining steel through the forest, the cohort separated, nine centuries forming on Carbo near the forest’s edge. The remaining century moved to Fronto’s location, where he repeated his mime until they all nodded.

  With a last motion to Carbo, urging him to wait, Fronto gestured to his century and they spread out along the line of the trees in their eight-man contubernia, each group opposite one of the waiting chariots. As soon as he could look along the line and see that they were in place and all movement appeared to have ceased, he made the motion to attack.

  The chariot drivers were oblivious; all their attention locked on the battle before them, they were hopelessly unprepared for a sudden attack from behind. By the time Fronto and his eight man unit reached the nearest chariot, the man was only just turning in alarm at the sound of jingling metal above the driving rain. His yell of panicked warning was cut short and became the gurgle of a man with an opened throat as a particularly energetic legionary bounded up onto the yoke, his shield hardly inconveniencing him as he plunged his gladius into the Briton’s neck, wrenched it free, and dropped down the far side without pause into a puddle of mud churned up by the vehicle’s wheels and horses’ hooves. For good measure, a second legionary put his blade in the driver’s ribs just to be sure, dragging him down from the traces to die on the sodden turf.

  Two more men from the contubernium hurriedly cut the horses free of the vehicle and smacked them on the rump, sending them running from the field in panic. This last was, strictly speaking, unnecessary, the chariots having been rendered ineffective with the loss of the driver, but the wanton destruction emboldened the legionaries and gave them much needed heart.

  A quick glance left and right told much the same story all along the forest’s edge. Of the ten parties that had sortied from the trees, only two had been forced to make a fight of it, their targets more alert than the others, and three of the contubernia had already moved on to take other chariots out. One or two of the vehicles that stood to the western edge of the field were making a run for it, and Fronto briefly considered ordering that they be chased down, but reminded himself that this was about a quick win, not a thorough trouncing — let them go.

  Now, Carbo’s men were moving out of the tree line, filtering between the useless chariots and forming up into shield walls one century at a time, twenty men wide and four deep. Already Fronto’s contubernium was moving on to a chariot that was busy wheeling and making to leave, but which had neither the time nor the space to evade the onslaught.

  Glancing around, Fronto tried to see what was happening elsewhere. The enemy’s reserve cavalry had apparently noticed the sudden danger from the wing and were forming up to come and meet them but behind them he could see the shapes of armoured legionaries emerging from the forest to the south: Cicero had arrived.

  Calls were now going up among the horde of Britons, warning of the danger from the flanks. The warriors began to turn at the edge of the mass and form a front against this new threat. The reserve cavalry, preparing to charge Fronto’s cohort, was suddenly warned of the newly-arrived force behind them and dissolved into chaos, some of the riders turning to attack this fresh army, while others kicked their steeds into life and continued their original charge.

  Such it always was with a disorganised army. The reserve cavalry had still been a strong enough force to punch through either new cohort, but having become divided and without the advantage of a system of officers and signallers, the force had neatly split into two groups, neither of which would have the strength to break a Roman advance.

  With a wave at the centurion of the second century, Fronto signalled him to pull the men back into formation, but the well-trained soldiers were already finishing off the last of the chariots within reach and moving towards their standard, the glinting silver decorated with sprigs of greenery from its difficult passage through the woodland.

  Cornu blasts and the cries of officers from the far side of the field revealed that Cicero’s cohort were moving against the far flank at a run. Carbo, ever the long-sighted officer, had slowed his own men so that all the advancing centuries could fall into step, allowing time for Fronto and his men to catch up and join them and, above all, letting their comrades beyond the enemy horde know that they had arrived.

  Even as Fronto listened, he could hear the rhythmic battering of gladius on shield from all along his cohort’s line. There would be no surprise to this attack; the enemy had had sufficient warning from the chariots’ destruction to turn and face them, and so Carbo was
sending a strong signal to the beleaguered centre of the Roman lines that help had arrived.

  Sure enough, even as Fronto and his century began to form up and move at a jog to plug the gap Carbo had left them, an answering roar arose from the Roman force as they fought with renewed vigour, aware that they were no longer on the defensive.

  The tone in the enemy also changed, though not enough. There were cries of dismay, but as many cries of defiance as the mass of warriors turned almost inside out to present three faces, leaving a clear way only to the west.

  Fronto met up with the line only ten yards from the waiting Britons and shuffled along to find a spot between his century and the next where he wasn’t ruining a centurion’s formation.

  “Respectfully, sir” an optio called from behind his men, where he was busy using his stick to prod them into a straighter line, “but you need to fall in at the rear, sir.”

  Fronto stared at the junior officer in disbelief.

  “You what, soldier?”

  The optio didn’t even bend under the malice of Fronto’s gaze.

  “Orders of the primus pilus, sir. On account of your knee, sir.”

  The legate’s glare simply hardened as he struggled to come up with a spiteful enough reply, but already the line had closed in front of him. Fronto was closer to his legion than most legates, but he was still a world apart, while their primus pilus might as well be Mars himself wielding a thunderbolt and no legionary would be about to defy the man.

  Fronto realised he was standing glaring at a man who had already moved his attention back to his own men, and determined to have this out with Carbo the moment they were in private. His thoughts were interrupted a moment later by the tremendous crash of two armies meeting in a line of bloody violence.

  Galronus, chieftain among the Remi tribe and commander of an entire wing of Caesar’s auxiliary cavalry force rubbed his hair to rid it of the excess water as his horse danced impatiently. “How far?”

  “Not far” his best scout shrugged the rain from his shoulders as his horse came to a halt and it took Galronus a moment in the torrential downpour to see the grin on the man’s face.

  “What?”

  “You don’t recognise the ground, sir?”

  “Don’t try my patience, Senocondos. I am tired, saddle sore, and now I find we’re on the trail of a damned war band!”

  It had been two and a half days since he and the small cavalry command had left the lands of the Atrebates, riding as fast as they dared for the south east coastline. The local chieftain had taken some persuading and the promise of very heavy future concessions, but had not been averse to dealing with Roman commanders. Now, four hundred horsemen travelled with eight hundred mounts, changing beasts regularly to see them arrive fresh and capable for action.

  Better than that, the Atrebate nobles’ sons who led the contingent under his command knew the land well enough that their return journey had been a lot shorter and more comfortable than the horrible ride into the unknown west over a week ago.

  And only half an hour ago, weary and becoming aggravated with the incessant bad weather, the riders had happened upon the unmistakable trail of a large force that had recently passed by in the direction of the Roman landing site.

  “Apologies, lord. This is land we scouted when first we landed. Caesar’s camp is less than half a mile distant. We can follow the trail and it will lead us there.”

  Galronus’ jaw hardened. The freshness of the trail suggested that any meeting between this force and the Roman expeditionary legions was likely still in progress. If it was already over, then it would have to have been a massacre one way or the other. Those possibilities didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Keep to your tired mounts!” he called to the men gathered around him. “As soon as we are close enough to hear the battle, change mounts and set the worn horses to graze. Then we muster and charge.”

  One of the young Atrebate nobles shook his head. “If we do not tether the horses, they may bolt. These are strong, noble and costly beasts.”

  “And your fathers and their chieftain have donated their services to our cause. You will follow my orders, or you will dishonour the lord of the Atrebates in your defiance.”

  Satisfied with the look of sullen and grudging acceptance in the young man’s features, Galronus squared his shoulders and sat straighter.

  “Quickly now. To the coast and battle!”

  Fronto stormed along the line of fighting men. Despite having apparently issued the order to his men to make sure their legate stayed safely out of trouble, Carbo was inaccessible, fighting somewhere in the front line where Fronto could hear his bellowed commands even though he couldn’t see him.

  The men of the cohort might have effectively locked him out of their fight, but there would come a point where the line of legionaries came to an end, where the way had been left for the Britons to escape the field.

  For a few minutes, Fronto had wondered whether that would truly be likely. The enemy had fought them with unending vigour and seemed undaunted by this ‘boxing in’ of their army. But in the last minute the atmosphere had changed subtly. That breaking point had almost been reached. He could feel it crackling in the air like the promise of lightning.

  Sure enough, there, a few yards ahead, the last century in the cohort had been fielded at double the density and only half the width, providing extra protection for their own flank — it was not unknown for a surrounded enemy to outflank their own attackers. Had the Britons worked it out, it could have been easy enough for them to send out a large enough force to break around the edge of the Roman line and start smashing them to pieces.

  Fortunately, a combination of two elements kept the flank safe. Firstly: the enemy’s chaotic nature where, rather than thinking on the grand scale of how to win a battle, the Britons were simply falling over each other to get at the nearest Roman, while their cavalry flittered uselessly amongst them and around the edge — scattered and ineffective. Secondly: years of drilling and practising under first Priscus and then Carbo had kept the Tenth not only strong and disciplined, but also adaptable and able to think for themselves when required. On the very flank, the primus pilus had placed his most trusted veterans, interspaced with his biggest and strongest men. Behind them, in the subsequent rows were fast men capable of responding to threats speedily and efficiently. Every time the enemy tried to break the end of the Roman line through brute force they encountered only the mean and brutal response of Carbo’s bear-like veterans. Every time a small group attempted to move around them to turn the flank, a highly mobile force of legionaries appeared as if from nowhere to deal with them.

  It was working.

  It was also where Fronto would be able to join the fight without being pushed out.

  “Cavalry!”

  Even as he’d started to pick up the pace to reach a fighting position, nearing the end of the line, Fronto looked up at the shout from a nearby legionary and saw a force of hundreds of Celtic horse bearing down on them from the woodlands. It appeared the Britons were not alone.

  “Hold the line. Don’t worry about that cavalry” Fronto bellowed. “Just hold the line!”

  Yet despite his command, the legate was no longer sure about making a fight of it at the line’s end. If that cavalry came in at a charge and chose to hit this particular position, he’d be trampled before he even had a chance to bloody his blade.

  Tucking his gladius under his shield arm and stepping back away from the fight, Fronto reached up to the amulet supposedly representing Fortuna and gave it a little caress for luck as his eyes roved this way and that, trying to take it all in. A groan was rising from the Roman ranks as they realised that Celtic reinforcements meant it was almost certainly over, though the officers back at the main legion force were still pushing their men as the buccina and cornu blasts confirmed.

  And then the strangest thing happened.

  Even as the Roman force began to sag with the dire expectation of death, a bello
w of something unintelligible arose from somewhere in the crowd of Britons and was echoed back and forth until it became a moan of despair. The few horsemen who were still free at the periphery of the fight made to escape, running not for the relief force, but obliquely, into the woods.

  Fronto stared as the mass of footmen broke in an instant and began to flee as best they could. His eyes followed them and paused for a moment on the newly-arrived cavalry. Blinking, he focused on the force once more. No, his eyes had not deceived him: that was a Roman banner among them.

  Galronus!

  Even as the allied cavalry slammed into the fleeing Britons driving them into a frenzy of fear, Fronto straightened with a grin — the tables had just turned unexpectedly.

  Determinedly, he collected his sword from beneath his armpit once more and took a step forward. Was he being stupid? Though Galronus’ cavalry had almost sealed in the enemy within a neat box, there were still gaps where the Britons leaked out making for safety as best they could like water bursting from holes in a dam, and he’d made his way to a position directly between them and their objective.

  Most of the Britons, however, were now purely intent on escape, fleeing past him, heedless of this lone Roman officer and flowing around him like a stream around a rock as he kept his shield forward to ward off any stray blades while he slashed and struck at the figures running to either side of him.

  A blow struck his back and he wondered for a moment whether it would be mortal. It would be a truly awful fate to die and be buried in this wet, forbidding, sickening land.

  “Watch your back, sir.”

  Blinking, he realised that the blow had not been an enemy weapon, but rather a legionary falling in at his side, protecting him. Even as he nodded at the man, a similar thump announced the presence of a soldier at his other side, effectively forming a small shield wall on his position. Did Carbo’s interference know no bounds? Now men were being sent from the cohort to protect him? Somewhere deep in his soul, Fronto started to seethe.