The enemy army had been estimated at roughly forty five thousand warriors. That was drawing on every capable man from numerous tribes. This, then, was perhaps an eighth of the entire enemy force. Its destruction would certainly weaken the enemy, but the true opportunity here was the destruction of morale. Whichever of the two enemy leaders was here, his death or capture would wreak havoc on the spirit of the remaining enemy.
But it would have to be done carefully. If the enemy knew the Romans were aware of the trap they might pull back to their camp, or their leader might depart. The Roman force would have to give the appearance of falling into their trap until the last moment.
Tearing his gaze from the enemy’s temporary encampment, he wheeled his horse and picked his way carefully back through the woods, taking a slightly circuitous route to make sure he did not bump into that same rider following his cavalry. Time to report to Caesar and plan a little surprise for the Bellovaci.
* * * * *
Correus of the Bellovaci watched his sister-son Andecamulos riding towards him with a hungry look and smiled. It warmed him to think that his people were so confident and content with their lot. It went some way to allaying his fears over this entire situation.
Months ago, Commius of the Atrebates had come to him, seeking an allegiance in defiance of Rome. At first, Correus had turned him away, labelling him an idiot and a troublemaker. After all, he had received more than one overture during the winter from the Arvernian and Cadurci nobles who had led all the peoples to disaster last year, seeking to begin a new rising, and he had solidly rebuffed their proposals. The Belgae were now the only strong people left in the land, and what did they care for the plight of the southern tribes who had already crossed the last river once and were now trying to swim back to life?
But Commius had been persuasive. He had stood before the Bellovaci council and his honeyed words had hooked the interest of so many nobles that Correus could do little to dissuade them. Commius had pointed out how the Bellovaci had suffered under Roman campaigning less than a decade ago, reminding them of a debt of blood still owed. Then he had brought their memory to a moment last year when the Bellovaci had sat on the hill opposite Alesia and watched the revolt fail before leaving and returning to their own land, appealing to their sense of pride in that they had come for war and left without prosecuting it fully.
And as if blood-debt and pride had not been enough, he appealed to their greed.
He had pointed south and east to Suessione lands, who were bound to the Remi, and reminded the listeners that those tribes had surrendered their liberty to Rome, tying themselves to Caesar, and for their betrayal of all the free peoples they had been made rich. The Suessiones lived in comfort and ease, surrounded by the best goods Roman money could buy while the Bellovaci lived a frugal life unfettered by Rome’s trappings.
Pride, guilt, debt and greed had turned almost every head among the Bellovaci’s nobles, and once Commius had stepped out of the council chamber, Correus had held his moot. Even his son and his nephews had been in favour of throwing in their lot with Commius. The tribe would annex the lands of the Suessiones and take their goods, defying the Remi and their Roman masters.
Correus had had no doubt that such a move would bring him in direct conflict with Rome again, and he had argued with his people, but they had been adamant. And now, he was truly beginning to regret having let the Atrebate king silver-tongue his nobles. Despite the Bellovaci’s best laid plans, the Romans had moved in response to Remi messengers so quickly that Correus’ people had had little time even to impose themselves upon the Suessiones, and had instead found themselves under attack by a Roman army that had marched at unbelievable speed from the western lands and into their own.
He had been nervous to find himself and his people trapped on the hill with Caesar’s army digging in opposite him. He had waited patiently for Commius to return from across the Rhenus with his new allies and had been scornful and disappointed at the meagre reinforcements the man had succeeded in securing. So as the Romans moved on them, with three more legions close behind, Correus had taken his tribe through the marshes and retreated to his second position of strength, hoping to weaken the Romans through lack of supplies. If he could keep their foragers from securing sufficient food, and in terrain where their armoured ranks could not perform their deadly shield wall manoeuvres, he might be able to hold, and even beat, Caesar’s army.
Commius had been all for skirting round the enemy and trying to hit them from the rear, but Correus knew how effective the Roman scouts could be, and had no doubt that they would be aware of such a move before it could be effectively prosecuted. So he had come up with the trap. He had relied on the Roman scouts finding one of his carefully-placed riders and discovering the location of the baggage. In their deprived and ill-supplied state, the Romans could hardly resist the opportunity to take the carts. Correus had put two hundred of his very best warriors, led by his own son, down with the vehicles and had taken personal command of the ambushing force. Six thousand men waited here, camped, with two thousand more, split into two groups close by, as reserves.
The best of the tribe awaited the arrival of the Romans. Almost nine thousand trained and experienced Bellovaci warriors, tempered in the fire of decades of war. He had left the rest with Commius at the camp, the weaker warriors and those who were too influenced by the Atrebate king’s honey tongue to comprehend reality. But when they took the Roman scouts and foragers and placed their heads on spear points, then rode back to the camp, even the faintest hearts would remember their strength and see Correus, not Commius, as the leader here.
The time, it appeared, had come.
Andecamulos was not just his sister-son, but was also the leader of the scouts who kept watch on the forest for the Roman soldiers. And the young man, his braids flying behind him, was clearly coming with news. Correus straightened.
‘Nephew.’
The young warrior bowed his head. ‘My king. The Romans approach.’
‘Their numbers?’
‘Perhaps a cohort. No more than half a thousand.’
Correus huffed. ‘So few? Do our supplies not merit the attention of a legion? I had hoped to put many thousands to the sword today. Still, at least we will have a victory to bolster our people and they will have a defeat to cripple theirs.’ He turned to find his brother, who was sitting close by. ‘Give the order quietly.’
The man nodded and rode off, throwing out gestures to the groups of warriors. Pausing only long enough for a cleansing preparatory breath, Correus rode forth to his chosen position. At the edge of the valley in which their supplies sat, he reined in among the trees with an excellent view of the potential field of battle. Even as he waited, he could see signs of the others falling into position. Six thousand men came to a halt in a U shape around the supply valley, ready to fall upon the Roman foragers.
The following wait was interminable. Twice he had to send messages to sections of his army to pull back further into the trees, as they had become visible to the shrewd eye. Finally, he was satisfied that his people were in position.
The warriors down with the carts and wagons were doing an excellent job of looking entirely unprepared for trouble.
And the legion came.
Andecamulos had underestimated by a little. There were nearer a thousand than five hundred, and Correus smiled in relief. Their death would be a horrendous blow to Roman pride and morale and a real boost to his army’s. The Roman commander had clearly decided that surprise was the key to overwhelming the meagre defence force in the valley, and his son reacted instantly to the appearance through the edge of the forest of red-garbed, steel-clad legionaries. The civilians moved back through the supplies, to the ravine that ran to the main camp, while the two hundred veteran warriors steadied themselves for the onslaught.
The Romans poured from the trees onto the springy turf, where they began to reform into their regular, organised units without losing any speed of their approach. Proba
bly two cohorts of Romans bore down on the warriors before them, outnumbering the Bellovaci defenders by some four or five to one.
The Romans looked eager, but then of course they did. It would be a slaughter. Apart from the eight thousand other warriors waiting in forest, that was.
‘Signal Bitucos and Helicon. Once we move out, I want the reserves to close in behind them and cut off their escape. No Roman leaves the valley alive.’
The rider he had addressed nodded and picked his way through the trees out to one of the wider paths where he could thunder across to the reserve commanders with their orders. The horseshoe of Bellovaci would pour from the woods, surrounding the Romans, and the two thousand reserves would close the circle behind them.
A massacre.
He watched, tense, as battle was joined down in the valley, the front ranks of the Romans reaching the veteran warriors while the rear lines were still emerging and forming up. All around him, Correus could feel the tense urgency of his men. They all wanted to move. None of them liked seeing the best of their men in such a dangerous position. But they had to wait. They could not spring the trap until the Romans were fully committed and could be surrounded.
It felt like centuries passing, watching the Romans with their brutal efficiency cutting down the greatest warriors of the Bellovaci, though his son and the men there were making good account of themselves, taking a number of the enemy with them.
Finally, the Romans were all on the grass and formed up, and the woodland behind was devoid of further arrivals. Tense, eager to put an end to these armoured foreigners, Correus held up his hand and with a cutting motion swept it downwards.
A carnyx honked at the signal and its sombre melody was picked up at half a dozen places around the valley. With a sigh of relief to be actually doing something, Correus rode his beast out of the trees and to the top of the slope above the Romans. The valley in which the supply carts sat was surrounded by slopes like this, as well as the narrow river, and even as he began to edge his mount slowly and carefully down the incline, the rest of the ambush emerged, those on horses also picking their way down carefully while the majority of the warriors on foot simply charged headlong, heedless of the danger of falling, turning ankles and breaking necks.
It was like a landslide in a horseshoe shape.
Correus listened carefully to the calls. He could hear the Roman centurions putting out their orders, followed by the whistles and the dip and swipe of the standards to relay the commands to any who hadn’t heard. He was surprised not to hear the Romans order the retreat, though it bothered him not at all, as the two thousand-strong reserve forces emerged from the woodland behind the Romans and sealed them in.
He heard various commands he recognised and even as he picked his way towards the fight saw them being carried out by the centuries of men.
Contra-equitas!
Centuries were forming themselves into a specialised form of the ‘tortoise’ formation that was designed to counter cavalry, the entire unit presenting a flat face of shields at two angles, bristling with sharp javelins.
Orbis!
Other centuries of men combined to present a circle some four bodies deep, outward facing and revealing no point of danger to the enemy.
All very good. It would be of no use, of course. They were trapped, and the numbers were simply too uneven. For all their fancy manoeuvres, the Romans would die where they now stood.
At last his horse reached the flat ground of the valley bottom, and Correus joined his warriors in charging the Romans, his bodyguard staying as close to him as they could. The Bellovaci king laughed at the simplicity of it. When it came to this point battle was a joy, for there was nothing to worry about, barring his personal safety. The conclusion was already set. The Romans had lost the moment they entered the valley.
Correus urged his horse forward and made for the large orbis formation, hefting his spear. With a flourish and the practised eye of a seasoned warrior, he selected one of the legionaries whose shield was not quite high enough, and cast the spear, immediately thereafter drawing his long blade. The missile caught the legionary between shoulder and collar bone and threw him back into the formation, but the Romans were quick. Rather that the blow catching the Romans by surprise and leaving an opening in the circle, the man was hauled backwards out of the way and another man was instantly in his place. Correus had fought the Romans more than once, but this was some of the most efficient manoeuvring he had ever seen.
He frowned as the entire orbis, which had been fighting now for perhaps a hundred heartbeats, made one heavy thrust and swipe that forced their enemies to step back and, in the intervening moments before Correus’ men could recover and strike, the entire front line had been replaced by the second. He watched in fascination as the men who had tired at the front gradually filtered to the safest position at the centre where they could rest while their compatriots each moved a line forward.
He couldn’t rely on wearing them out, then…
Still, the Romans were dying. Slowly, and with a higher casualty rate among the Bellovaci than he would prefer, but at least they were dying, and soon there would not be enough to form any kind of defence. Then, the remaining exhausted legionaries would fight their own last, desperate, individual duels until swamped by Correus’ men.
The king’s attention was caught by a booing sound, and he looked up at the reserves, who were not engaging, merely preventing any hope of escape. What were they doing putting out calls? There was no call necessary now until he decided to rein in his men and send them back to the camp.
He frowned, looking for the errant carnyx or horn player, but he couldn’t spot him, for the reserves appeared to be in turmoil. What was going on?
Then, like a cracked dam that has reached its point of structural failure, the reserves broke, flowing from the treeline and into the open ground. Correus cursed Bitucos and Helicon for their unnecessary eagerness. Their involvement was not necessary – they should be remaining in position. The force Correus commanded alone would finish the Romans, but it was important that none escaped.
He took an idle swing at a Roman who happened to be close enough, though his attention was really on the reserve forces. He waved to his carnyx player and shouted to be heard over the din of battle. ‘Go tell Bitucos and Helicon that they’re…’
His voice tailed off as the reserves flooded the valley, flowing like the burst dam around and past the pockets of action. And in that same moment, his eyes caught movement beyond them, and he understood with dreadful clarity.
Four columns had begun to emerge from the trees. They were not moving in shield walls, but in what looked like some kind of parade formation. And he knew why. Because at the front of the columns came the standard bearers, the eagle bearers and the musicians, who, now that they had cleared the woods, burst into a deafening triumphant melody. That sight alone would be enough to make a brave man run, but the fact was that each of the four columns was led by an eagle, backed by a man carrying a flag with the legion’s number.
Four legions!
Suddenly the eight thousand men he had with him seemed a rather feeble proposition, in the face of probably twenty thousand legionaries. And where Caesar’s legions went so went their auxiliary slingers and archers, and – he prayed to Taranis it was not the case, though without any real hope of efficacy – the Remi and other Gallic horse, and even the Germans.
Damn the proconsul. Correus had sprung a trap on the Romans only to find his entire ambush at the centre of their own trap. Staying would mean death for all of them, and if the best of the Bellovaci, and their king, died, then the rest of the force up at the camp would collapse in terror.
‘Signal the retreat,’ he shouted at the musician, but when the man put the carnyx to his lips, he paused, and no sound emerged.
‘Sound the call!’ he repeated with urgency. The Roman orbis had now exploded and reformed into a square which was beginning to push outwards, taking the fight back to the Bellovaci
. They had fresh heart, knowing that their fellows were here. Correus was momentarily distracted as he was forced to defend himself against a giant of a man. As he put the Roman down with some difficulty, he walked his horse a little further from the fray and over to the musician. Reaching out, he grabbed the man by the tunic and almost pulled him from his saddle.
‘Sound… the… retreat!’
But the man was still silent, staring. Correus turned to look at whatever it was that had captured the man’s attention and felt his blood chill.
All around the valley, the treeline had burst into life, more Romans appearing in a complete circle, surrounding the Bellovaci. Damn the proconsul – he had split his legions and sent some ahead to surround them. But his keen eyes picked out the eagle and the flag near the defile that led to the camp. No. A fifth legion. His heart in his mouth, and already knowing what he would see, he raked the ridge around the valley with his gaze until he found the other two eagles with their flags and standards. The Roman general Trebonius had arrived with his three legions. Now, Correus’ eight thousand faced somewhere in the region of forty thousand Romans.
Hope deserted him.
His men were running for the woods, but it was a futile, panicked move. Wherever they fled, there were more Romans waiting for them. Only one small group was free and out of danger, and that very fact gnawed at Correus more even than this unmitigated disaster.
The civilians who had initially fled to the defile had managed to run, and the Romans seemed to be making no effort to pursue them. Sharp of the Roman commander, for those women, children and old men would even now be carrying morale-destroying word of this catastrophe to the camp and the rest of the army.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 20
