What a pie…
As he waited, he finally heard the booing and clattering of the enemy carnyxes and spears. Things were slightly different today, of course. The enemy came openly this time, including those in the woodland. They did not expect the Romans to fall into the same trap twice, but then they had no need of a trap this time. They outnumbered the Remi and had beaten them once. And this time there was nowhere for the forage party and the cart to run. They had no need of subtlety, so they came in force and openly jeering their neighbours, the heads of Vertiscus and Atis, identifiable by their helms, bobbing around on spears at the front of the column just to goad the Remi.
It worked. Two or three of the Remi reacted just too predictably, but their new commanders called them back, and reluctantly they fell into position once more. This time, the Roman auxiliary force would play the part of the lure and the surprise, and it would be the Bellovaci who experienced the panic.
The enemy closed.
‘Now sir?’ asked the musician next to him, who Varus had put on double pay after his service yesterday.
‘A few heartbeats more, I think. Let’s get them too close to back out. I want them committed before they realise their mistake.’
The musician nodded, but he put the tuba to his lips ready anyway, breathing deep and slow.
Varus watched.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
The Bellovaci force was beginning to ripple and shake in a manner he recognised. The warriors were itching to get to the fight and were starting to move, straining at the leash as it were, while their leaders held them back ‘til the last moment. Any time now they would break and charge. And Varus needed to spring his surprise first, for the enemy would be harder to break when they were already at a run.
Now or never.
‘Give the first call.’
The tuba rang out immediately and with the precision of acrobats at a festival in the forum, Varus’ combined force changed immediately.
The legionaries dropped everything they were doing and grabbed their shields and pila, forming up at the downstream edge of the farmyard. The picket units began to move. Those at the valley head began the landslide, riding to the next group along, who geed up their horses and joined them as they rode to the third, collecting them and riding for the fourth, and so on. In a matter of heartbeats, the strung out picket units were combining and moving towards the field of battle, turning into a formidable unit as they did so.
But they were just the dressing of the dish. The pie was still the heart.
And now the crust cracked.
Those Remi survivors from yesterday peeled away from the force to either side, becoming the anchor point for the assembling pickets, where the combining forces would gather. The Bellovaci faltered, uncertain of whether to charge, unable to comprehend what was happening and why the front ranks of the Remi force had peeled away.
And then it became apparent to the enemy that only those few front ranks had been Remi at all.
At the centre of that unit – the filling of the pie that Varus was about to cram down their desperate gullets – Caesar’s infamous German cavalry bellowed their ululating, howling war chants as they moved to charge.
‘Second call if you will, Decimus.’
It had to be done quickly. The Germans would hardly wait for the order. Indeed, they were already moving. As the second call went out, the two centuries of the Ninth began to jog at double time to join the fray, their forage forgotten. The gathering pickets were almost in position now. By the time they had gathered in two units to either side of the valley, the legionaries would be there, and so would Varus’ regulars. That meant that the third call would signal two hundred legionaries, sixty regular cavalry and five hundred vengeful Remi combining to serve as the rear-guard, taking any surviving Bellovaci on and butchering the lot.
If there were any survivors!
The regulars began to trot forward towards the violence.
A thousand German cavalry, already infamous throughout Gaul and Belgae lands as takers of grisly trophies, were now riding hard at the Bellovaci, snarling and whooping. In theory, they stood no more chance than the Remi had yesterday. In practice, Varus knew upon whom he would place his wager. The Remi had been brave but had ridden gleefully, unthinking, into a trap, while the Bellovaci had been prepared and eager.
Not so, today.
Today, the Germans were entirely aware of what they were riding into, and had no fear. Only hunger and anger. And the Bellovaci had been taken completely by surprise. As was so often the case with war, the unexpected had a worse effect than strictly necessary, purely due to the natural propensity for the surprised man to panic.
The Germans hit the Bellovaci like a battering ram, completely heedless of the spears that the few rallying enemy brought to bear. Varus watched as one German took a spear in his shoulder and simply ignored it, riding down the bearer and hacking at two then three then four men even as he shed his own blood with every drum of hooves.
The effect of the charge was impressive. The Bellovaci force shattered like a dropped vase. Those on the periphery fled into the woods, shrieking for their gods to save them. Some even made it. Varus watched as a number of the Germans, despite having been given extra training in Gallic and Roman cavalry manoeuvres, fell naturally back into their native fighting style, slipping from their steeds once they were in the thick of things and laying waste to anyone they found who was not one of their own.
The shrieks Varus could hear were not the cries of the wounded and the dying. The commander had heard such sounds so many times in his career that he knew them well. Nor were they the sounds of panic and fear. They were the shrieks of agony that more often accompanied the work of a master torturer.
Though at this distance he couldn’t see what the Germans were up to, he had seen them fight many times now and could picture the scene. Tearing off jaws to use as torcs, hacking off ears, severing fingers for prizes, putting out eyes just for the feel of the wet pop.
The Germanic cavalry were animals. They were worse than animals. They were demons given human form. They were simply the most terrifying thing Varus had ever witnessed on the battlefield. And while they were rarely fielded, when they were allowed to slip the leash, the effect they had on the enemy was like a hungry fox in a chicken coop.
All cohesion among both armies was gone. The centre of the valley was a mass of struggling man, some still on horseback, others fighting on foot even as the Germanic horses kicked and bit, their own bloodlust every bit as sharp as their riders’.
‘Third call, please,’ he smiled to his musician, who let the notes soar. Even as the regulars closed on the valley end, along with two centuries of the Ninth and five hundred angry Remi, the battle was already won. He gave the orders and the backup force began to move in. The legionaries slipped into the woodland to either side, clambering up the hill at speed, chasing down those Bellovaci who had fled up there. They had orders to pursue the fleeing enemy until the fourth call, which would signal the end of the fight.
The rest – the regulars and the Remi – moved forth to the rear of the engagement, staying out of the fight initially, for fear of falling foul of the oft-indiscriminate Germans, but then starting to pick their targets and take out those few small groups of Bellovaci who were managing to rally at the periphery in the hope of achieving something.
The floor of the valley was littered with the dead, which belonged overwhelmingly to the Bellovaci. It had been a massacre on a scale far surpassing the loss of the Remi yesterday. At a guess, three times as many enemy lay dead today as allies had been lost yesterday. And the dying was not over, even if the battle had already clearly been won.
The cavalry fought on and Varus, despite having decided to stay out of it, soon found himself in the thick of the action, hewing limbs and hacking into Belgic torsos with the long blade of a Gallic design he had long since adopted as his weapon of choice. He revelled in the kill, picturing what Commius would think if t
he Romans went back to camp opposite their position parading a thousand Bellovaci heads on spears.
His sword rose and fell, swept and hacked. Twice he took blows to his shield arm which splintered the wood and leather, and once he felt a stray spear tip rake across his ribs, tearing the links of his chain mail and bruising his side while drawing no blood.
And suddenly it was over. He lifted a boot and pushed a gurgling warrior from his blade, freeing it, only to discover that he was alone in a sea of death and mutilation, the ground spread with corpses and the crying wounded – again, almost all enemies. It was a victory of Titanic proportions. And the Remi were revelling in it, taking their time in dispatching the enemy wounded and enjoying every shriek.
The Germans were gone, howling for blood further along the valley, but he cared not. They had been given their briefing and then turned loose. They would harry the Bellovaci all the way back to their camp, and he allowed them to do it. The sight of the Germans slaughtering the fleeing men and the rest drowning in the swamp as they ran trying to find the safety of their hill would destroy the enemy army’s morale, almost as surely as the realisation of what they had truly faced had done to the ambush today.
He had no doubt that most of the Germans would come back alive and laughing, wearing parts of their fallen foes as decoration.
He shuddered.
With a nod to his musician, he had the last call blown, which would bring in the pursuing men so that the force could gather up the forage and make it back to camp. Caesar would be pleased tonight. And so would Nemesis, who would receive more than one libation after dark this eve.
Breathing heavily and allowing his muscles to relax, the cavalry commander walked his horse out into the field again, into open space, and then took in the scene. Again the scale of the victory was brought home with the carpet of dead Belgae who were now being looted by the vengeful Remi.
And the legionaries were reforming ready to leave, after gathering the last few things for the cart.
And the scouts…
One of the scouts was riding towards him fast. His heart skipped a beat and then began to thump fast and heavy. Please, Nemesis, don’t let something mar this day. Not now.
He chewed on his cheek as the Suessione rider drew up and halted his horse, nodding his head in salute.
‘What news?’
The scout smiled, and Varus felt that sudden surge of tension he’d experienced evaporate again.
‘Commander, I have news that legate Trebonius is closing. He and his army are one day away and will be in camp by nightfall tomorrow in line with the general’s plans. His forward scouts were just over the hill from here, seeking Caesar’s position.’ The man gestured with a thumb over his shoulder to where a small group of tired-looking horsemen were making their way towards him.
Varus grinned.
Time to unsettle the enemy all the more.
‘There are a few Bellovaci still alive among the fallen. Take my decurion here and go stop the Remi killing them all. Make sure that some poor bastard overhears you revealing this news and then we’ll move out. I’d love to see what happens in the enemy camp when that man limps home telling his friends that three more legions are on the way.’
The decurion, sitting next to him, frowned. ‘Sir? The general wanted the enemy unaware until the force arrived, I thought.’
‘He did. But with this victory things have changed. We’ve flayed their arse now and the panic will be spreading among their ranks. If we foster it and increase it, we’ll keep them off-balance until the time comes to finish things.’
As the decurion saluted and rode off with a few men and the native scout to leak the news of Trebonius to the enemy wounded, Varus stretched and winced at his bruised ribs.
Time to finish Commius and his rebellion and get back to winter quarters.
Thank you, Nemesis.
* * * * *
‘They’re not moving,’ Brutus murmured, staring at the Belgic hill across the sea of mist. ‘Why aren’t they moving?’
‘It seems they are resolved to fight,’ Varus replied quietly.
The two men peered across the white blanket that filled the valley and separated the two fortified camps in the damp early evening air. The sounds of the final touches being added to Mamurra’s bridge drifted up, slightly muffled by the fleecy fog. The bridge was in place, despite such perfectionist attention, as was simply attested by the vanguard of the Eighth legion who even now spread out on the slope before the enemy camp, falling into position in battle array, ahead of the original schedule, given the enemy’s new tactics of harrying the forage parties, which had continued in small measure despite the loss of over a thousand men to Varus’ trap and the Germans’ bloodlust. The brutal horsemen had pursued the enemy right into the swamp, leaving a river of blood in their wake and butchering the last few under the watching eyes of the Bellovaci camp. Men had died, falling into the sucking muck of the morass rather than succumb to the trophy taking serrated blades of the Germans.
‘I’d hoped they would flee at the sight of the bridge and with the knowledge of Trebonius’ approach. Perhaps you should not have had word of it leaked to them?’
Varus nodded. ‘I had thought it would make them run, but the Belgae are made of stern stuff.’
The news had come in at dawn that the enemy camp had shrunk in size, though not in number of fighting bodies. The Bellovaci and their allies had used the cover of darkness to send their wagons and supplies, and their wounded, through secret safe routes in the swamp and away into the safety of the forest with the women and children. But the warriors had remained, and now they stood before their defences, watching the Romans crossing the bridge.
‘I fear we miscalculated,’ put in Caesar, stepping his white mare forward and falling in on the far side of Brutus. ‘I had hoped to surprise them, but I fear that was a doomed enterprise anyway since they had begun forays and actions against our foragers. And Varus here had the ingenuity to attempt to break them with panic. But I suspect that all we have managed to achieve between us is to harden their resolve and force them to dig in. Now we face a difficult fight up a brutal slope against a well-defended position. Even without having to toil through the mire first, that will be a very costly battle, and at this stage in the pacification I am loathe to lose half a legion in what is, in essence, still just a minor rising.’
Varus nodded gloomily.
‘So what do we do, general,’ Brutus sighed.
‘We have no choice. We must bring across the legions and fortify once more, awaiting Trebonius. He should be with us by nightfall tomorrow, according to reports. Once we have all the legions present, we will look at ways of dislodging them from the hill.’
As the general watched the legion forming up on the far side, Varus and Brutus shared a look and the cavalry commander flicked his gaze across the white sea to the assembling legion on the far side, then up the high, steep slope to the watching hordes of the Bellovaci and their fortifications beyond. The fact that Caesar could only suggest they ‘look at ways of dislodging them’ was telling. The general always had ideas, was always one step ahead of reality in his strategy. If he had nothing at this stage, then there would be no stroke of genius. The only option would be a direct assault uphill into the enemy. It would be costly, and it would be brutal, but the enemy were done for and they had to know that. Why didn’t they run?
Because, of course, they knew that the moment they turned their backs, the Roman cavalry would cut them down. They had learned the value of Caesar’s horse the hard way. Rather than breaking their morale, Varus’ victory had hardened their resolve and left them knowing they couldn’t run.
He sighed. There would be little use for his cavalry on such a slope anyway. This assault was a job for the infantry, gods protect them.
* * * * *
Late that evening, Varus and Brutus leaned on the wattle fence of the hastily thrown-up rampart. The new camp on the Bellovaci hill’s lower slopes was little more th
an a standard ditchless marching camp. The swampy land of the valley and limestone that lay beneath the soil of the hill made any attempt at a defensive ditch impossible, and the rampart was correspondingly unimpressive. Rather than spend half a day ferrying heavy timbers across the bridge, the fences had been stripped from the strong camp across the valley and re-erected here on the low mounds as a cursory defence. If the enemy descended that hill, it would be down to the weight of numbers and the discipline and bravery of the men, and any victory would owe nothing to the fortifications.
But no one believed the enemy would rush them. Even those men on guard at the rampart stood easy watching the smoke rise from the camp atop the hill, the light of the torches bobbing around here and there. The enemy had retired to their camp as the sunset faded, lighting their fires and torches, and all the Romans could now see were the figures of the guards walking back and forth on the enemy rampart.
It was depressing to say the least, watching the secure enemy and knowing the fight that had to come. Varus had wracked his brains throughout the evening for a way to instil panic among the Belgae and cause them to flee. But they were locked in a countdown to an inevitable conflict. Caesar could come up with nothing better than a direct assault and, while the enemy knew that this would mean the end of their rebellion and death for every man on the hill, they could hardly flee, for turning their backs on the legions and Varus’ cavalry would mean too many deaths for no gain.
‘Maybe we could find the hidden passages through the swamp at the far side that they used to move out their wagons?’ Brutus mused.
‘Nice thought,’ Varus replied, ‘but even if we could find them it would take forever to get even a cohort through them and into position behind the enemy. It would take half a day to get our force on that side of the river, and they would see us coming long before we had enough men behind them to make any kind of assault. It would take hours to get the men through the swamp, which we could never manage unobserved. If they are anything other than utterly dim, they will be watching those routes carefully.’
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 18
