Every farm and village for more than fifteen miles in any direction had been stripped of its stores, and the legions had been forced to become ever more daring, skirting the swamps that surrounded the enemy and moving many miles beyond them into uncertain territory to find the scarce foodstuffs needed to supply an army in the grip of winter.
Today, luckily, the army had discovered a healthy cache of food in the form of a large farmstead hidden in a depression in the woods and kept secret by geography. As with almost everywhere in this benighted land the farmers had gone, joining the enemy civilians secure in the deep forest, and had taken with them whatever they could carry, along with all their animal stocks. Yet even then, what had had to be left behind was worth more than gold to the hungry and poorly-supplied Roman force: a cart that would have to be pulled by cavalry mounts, sheds full of stored hay, grain, veg and more.
Varus watched the men throw another armful of hay into the cart, strands and chaff flying loose even in the rain. He really ought to shout at them. They were wasting forage and space, and would pay for their sloppiness later. But shouting at them was the job of their centurions, who were in one of the huts, and he just didn’t have the energy. For while the forage parties had been drawn in rotas from the four legions and their cavalry escort had been drawn in a similar fashion from the various native levy tribes, Varus and his small cadre of regular cavalry and officers had spent most of their waking hours out on patrol with the groups. It was not that the native officers couldn’t be trusted, but they had a tendency to run a little wild and to overextend without a Roman officer to remind them of their orders. Regular cavalry officers played the important role of a mediary between the native commanders and the legionary centurions they were protecting.
Today was the turn of the Remi. There was a large group of Lingone cavalry as well, somewhere off to the north with men from the Eighth, but here at this perfect little find the steadfast and long-serving Remi protected the Ninth.
Varus lifted his gaze from the men rushing back and forth with sodden fodder and his eyes played across the water-logged fields to the edge of the woods. The wide, shallow vale was in principle surrounded by forest, but in truth, while both side slopes were thickly wooded, the head of the valley was only thinly dotted with trees and large rock formations, a small river tumbling down to cut through the flat and feed the farm. And downstream the trees closed in again, but left a space some hundred paces wide on each side of the water. A greensward that looked inviting even in the miserable weather.
The Remi had separated into groups, small detachments of thirty men in very Roman formations, each set in position watching an area of surrounding woodland for trouble. Varus had to chuckle. If there was any doubt that the Gallic peoples would one day fully integrate with Rome, he would point the doubter to the Remi auxiliaries who had, over the course of eight years of war under the eagle, adopted Roman formations, training, ranks, and even to some extent equipment. If things kept going the way they were, in half a decade it would be impossible to distinguish between the Remi riders and the Roman regulars.
Perhaps half the Remi contingent that had come out today were split into these small native thirty-man turmae, and the other half remained in a solid force downstream, watching that greensward, knowing as they did that if an enemy came in force, they would have to come along that valley. Unlike the legionaries, who had downed shields and were running independently about their work, the Remi sat astride their horses, still in tight formation down there at the valley end, ready for action.
He understood. For the legions, this was just the latest in a long list of engagements in Gaul. There was nothing special about this conflict. But the Remi, for all their experience with Caesar’s army, were of the Belgae. These lands were ancestral Belgae lands, and the Bellovaci were their neighbours. Remi civilians were as much at risk from this enemy rising as the Romans or the Suessiones who had been the rising’s initial target. To the Remi, this was personal, and they were prepared for the fight. Even eager for it. To that end, the Remi force here was led by not one of their nobles, but two. One – a prince of their tribe, no less – officially commanded, though he deferred to the experience of the older commander who accompanied him in the manner of a cavalry general. And both were sitting with that formation, watching for the enemy. Hoping for the enemy, Varus suspected.
‘Nearly finished here, sir,’ announced one of his decurions, trotting over from the sixty-man regular formation Varus had brought. The commander looked back at the men and noted that most were now sheltering from the rain, awaiting the command to form up when their centurions emerged, while odd figures still scurried back and forth, loading the last few things they could find that might be of use.
‘Good. Don’t know about you, but I’m sick of being wet through.’
His gaze swept back to the end of the valley and the Remi force gathered there. He frowned.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
The decurion peered into the rain and paled. ‘Enemy, sir.’
The Remi had seen them too. Half a mile, perhaps, down the greensward, an enemy force was approaching. As Varus tried to pick out more detail, he ignored the commotion among the Remi auxiliaries in between. There were quite a few of the enemy. Not a huge army, but enough to pose a threat to the Remi force facing them. And they were clearly prepared for cavalry. The force bristled with long spears. Far more than one would expect among a people who generally preferred the edge of a sword to the tip of a spear. That suggested to Varus that they had armed specifically to take on horsemen. Indeed he realised that they were honking carnyxes as they approached, smashing metal on metal and drumming on wood, making the loudest din they could achieve, the sounds echoing back and forth among the trees, hemmed in and amplified by the valley walls. Noise. Horses – even trained cavalry horses – could get very nervous around too much noise. Not the din of battle, to which they were used, but the rhythmic battering of ritual noise. Most would hold steady, but in a tight formation it only took a few horses rearing and bolting to cause chaos.
Indeed, as Varus watched, the commotion increased and three horses, riderless, raced from the rear of the formation out into the wide fields of the valley.
‘Decurion, send riders out to the pickets. Have every other group form up at the farm with us and warn the others that they will need to pull back and join us at a single call as fast as they can.’ The decurion nodded and trotted off to relay the orders to his men, and Varus waved to the two legionary officers who had finally emerged from a hut.
‘Centurion. Enemy sighted down the valley. Get your men moving with the cart and we’ll protect your back. Once we’re up the valley head slopes we’ll be safe from the bulk threat and we can retreat to camp in good order.’
The centurion saluted and began blowing his whistle, bellowing orders, but Varus’ attention had been grabbed by one of his scouts, whose ‘oh, shit’ under his breath had still been loud enough to hear. He turned back to the action and his heart fell.
‘No, no, no, no, no. What are you doing?’
The Remi were moving. And not just moving, they were rising to a charge.
‘What are they doing sir?’
‘They are letting pride and anger rule their heads, trooper.’
‘They’ll be in the shit when they hit those spears, sir.’
Varus nodded. ‘The Remi are nothing if not brave.’
‘Do you think they might actually win, sir?’
‘Not a hope, trooper. They’ve been goaded into a trap. Look.’
Peering down the valley, he and the soldier could now see the rest of the enemy, filtering down through the trees at the valley sides, moving to flank the Remi. It would be a slaughter. And it was too late to do anything useful about it, even though he had to try. He turned and gestured to the other decurion. The legionaries had formed up quickly and the cart was already moving for the relative safety of the valley head. The way the enemy had set up the ambush they were kitted for a fight in
the open, expecting to massacre the forage party and its cavalry in the farmland. He had to hope they would break off pursuit if the party was prepared for them and already on high ground. No war leader would want to fight up the rocky slope and the various small waterfalls against a veteran Roman shieldwall. No. Once the foragers were out of the valley and up the slope they would be safe.
And the stupid, suicidal charge of the Remi would buy them the time they needed.
But he had to try and save them, or at least some of them. The leaders, if no one else. He realised with mixed relief and sadness that while at least Galronus – the Remi prince and strongest of all their horse commanders – was safe in Italia with Fronto’s family, both Prince Vertiscus, who commanded this force, and Atis, his general, were close relations of Galronus – the prince a brother, he thought?
‘Decurion, gather all the remaining Remi pickets and half the regulars and help get that cart up the valley head. We’ll be along presently.’
As the officer saluted and sent out other riders to form up the scattered Remi, Varus gestured to his musician, standard bearer and the thirty-man turma. ‘Come with me.’
Kicking his steed into life he began to race towards the action.
It was already a disaster. Even as the moments passed in a thunder of hooves and the small relief force approached the edge of the farm fields and the riverside grassland, he could see how few of the Remi might possibly make it out of that mess alive.
Damn it. How could they have let this happen? The Bellovaci had changed the whole engagement now. It was no longer a waiting game. If they were prepared to attack the foragers, the Romans would have to do something about it or become very hungry as they waited for Trebonius and his legions.
As they rode, he looked across at his musician. ‘Can you remember the Remi recall?’
It was to be hoped. There was a standing fraternal competition among the cavalry units to try and remember and mimic one another’s calls. It had begun years ago as a bet over Gallic beer, but Varus and his officers had fostered the wagers and the games, recognising the value in having such disparate groups able to recognise each other’s’ calls, despite the wide array of melodies.
The musician frowned as he jolted up and down with the horse’s gait, trying to dredge his memory. The Remi’s calls went out on a horn not dissimilar to the Roman cavalry tuba, and the man took a deep breath, bracing himself against the jolting of the horse, and put the tuba to his lips.
The melody of the call sounded at once both familiar and odd to Varus. He had heard the Remi calls so many times over the eight years of war, and now that he heard it again he recognised it, but it sounded somehow lighter and airier on the Roman instrument.
Without waiting for the order, the musician timed his breath with the horse’s motion, taking deep breath after deep breath and repeating the call again and again.
They were rewarded with some commotion at the rear of the Remi force. A number of men had responded to the calls and were trying to extricate themselves from the disaster. Four men fell even as they tried to turn, but a few dozen riders had managed to break free of the fight and were racing towards the Romans. Varus held up his hand to halt his men. There was nothing to be gained from riding into the fray. All they could do now was try and save as many Remi as they could. As the horses fell to a walk and then formed up carefully, he gestured to the musician. ‘Keep blowing that bloody tune until they’re all with us or dead.’
As the Remi recall blared out repeatedly, Varus waved the fleeing auxiliaries into position with them, watching as more and more of the doomed horsemen tried to leave the battle and join the Roman officer.
Spears lunged, lifting men from their saddles and dropping them into the mire to be hacked to pieces and trampled by desperate horses. The more enterprising Bellovaci with the long Celtic blades were swiping them at waist height, severing and breaking horses’ legs to bring beast and rider down together, where they could be stabbed again and again. Where were the leaders?
Varus tried to peer past the approaching Remi survivors, and finally caught sight of young Vertiscus, who was still in the heart of the action, bellowing war cries and he brought down his sword to left and right, each rise of the blade sending a shower of crimson into the air to mingle with the falling rain. He was frenzied, killing like a man possessed. But even as Varus watched and somehow hoped that such insane bravery and strength would bring the favour of the gods and turn the tide, Vertiscus stiffened in his saddle and leaned to the left and the commander could see the spear that had taken him in the side being pushed in ever deeper. Astoundingly, the young Remi prince, even with the shaft inside his ribcage shredding organs, managed to swipe down and destroy his killer. Then the prince was gone, pulled from the saddle down into the murk. His heart in his throat, Varus peered desperately into the melee, searching for a sign of their general, Atis. When he saw him all hope of Remi survival was dashed, for Atis wore a snarl of defiance even though his body was long gone and his head, surmounted by a distinctive golden eagle helmet, bobbed around on the tip of a spear.
‘Damn it. Alright. Move out… at full speed. Catch up with the forage party and back to the fort. Now.’
‘Commander?’ gasped one of the fled Remi, frowning and pointing back at the other Remi who were still attempting to leave the chaos and join up with the Romans who had seemingly come to rescue them.
‘We’ve no time to save the others. Come on.’
As the troop burst into life, racing back across the fields towards the legionaries, who were already at the valley head and trying to goad the cart, drawn by two cavalry horses, up the slope, the musician, exhausted, looked across at his commander, noticing the dark scowl on Varus’ face.
‘We couldn’t save them all, sir. You know that.’
‘I don’t like leaving brave men, however foolhardy, to buy our escape with their lives.’
‘You saved a hundred Remi or more, sir. No one could have hoped for better.’
Varus nodded, saving his breath as he rode. When he got back to camp, and once he’d reported this disaster to the general, he’d have to write an unpleasant letter to Fronto in Massilia, bearing news of the deaths of Galronus’ family.
Shit on the Bellovaci!
* * * * *
Varus smiled grimly as the Condrusi scout delivered his report. Though Nemesis was a goddess generally reserved for gladiators and the betrayed, Varus would tonight pour a good libation to the lady of vengeance for delivering unto him that for which he had wished.
The Bellovaci were coming again.
Following the disaster that had reaped a heavy toll on the Remi the previous day he had reported wearily to the general and had been surprised at the venom with which Caesar had greeted the news. The proconsul valued the Remi highly, their tribe the only one in the whole of Gaul who had remained loyal throughout the entire eight year campaign. On hearing of the deaths of the nobles and of near half a thousand Remi riders, rather than dismissing the matter, or fuming incoherently, Caesar had snarled and asked Varus what they could do to avenge the fallen. The commander had been so taken aback by the vehemence of the general that it had taken him half an hour of deep thought to come up with the answer.
The general had liked his plan, had approved it immediately, and given him free rein to put together whatever he needed.
It had taken just hours, with enough good local scouts, to locate another untouched farmstead close to the enemy position. And so he had taken out the same men as yesterday – those who had witnessed the demise of the Remi and knew what they were up against.
Those men of the Ninth even now were busy loading a cart in the blessed dry morning, shields and pila stacked ready for collection. Two of the strongest horses were already in the traces ready to take the laden cart to safety. And the centurions were watchful and ready, even while they played the part of the blissfully unaware foragers. No enemy would recognise them for the same people as the previous day, of course, an
d other forage parties had been out and about since then anyway. But this one had been designed to draw the enemy’s gaze through its visibility, slowness, position and proximity to their camp.
Six of the best scouts in the army, all drawn from tribes who knew the area, had ranged around the periphery watching for the enemy, expecting a similar trap. Indeed, the terrain was almost an echo of yesterday, the farm lying in a low valley surrounded by trees. The main difference here was that there was no easy escape up a slope at the head of the valley. A trap sprung here would likely finish the lot of them, and that fact had, fortunately, been enough of a lure to draw the enemy.
Again, small units of pickets surrounded the valley in an oval at watchful positions, and the other half of the Remi force sat at the entrance to the farmstead, where the stream ran on down the valley between wide green banks. It looked almost exactly as it had yesterday. And it had tempted the Bellovaci, whom the scout announced were even now moving up the valley and filtering down through the woods. Varus thanked the man for his efforts and sent him in a circuit giving the nod for the first phase of the action to everyone involved.
Then he sat to wait with his men.
It had to look the same. Tempting. But the Remi would have to hold back this time. He had spent an hour impressing upon them that very thought. Seven hundred Remi had ridden out today instead of the twelve hundred the previous day, and they had been the very same men – the survivors, who had spent the night in rituals to their own vengeance spirits. And now they once again played the picket roles and sat among the group at the foot of the valley.
Varus watched that force carefully as news of the approaching enemy was relayed to them by the scout and he tensed for a moment, then exhaled gratefully as he noted the hundred or so Remi survivors sit restive but still, awaiting the enemy. He’d half expected, despite his lecture, that news of the enemy would send them racing off down the valley in search of bloodshed. But they sat there, surrounding his little surprise like the pastry around a pie. Enticing. Tasty.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 17
