The line of poplars offered some protection and a clear view across the marsh at the lines of the Belgae. As Varus reached the crest, he drew up sharply.
“What the?”
The prefect by his side stared.
“Where the hell are they?”
Ahead, the marsh stretched out as a barrier of dangerous ground. Beyond lay the camp of the Belgae, stretching across the plain, almost empty and seemingly abandoned. Peering at the mess and squinting, Varus could make out a number of warriors gathered in small groups.
“There can’t be more than a few thousand men there in the whole bloody camp!”
The man by his side said, in much the same shocked voice “but where have the rest gone?”
‘Good question’, the commander thought to himself.
“They can’t have got far” he murmured as he squinted at the camp. “There are far too many fires burning there for them to have been travelling for long. They can’t have been gone more than two or three hours, I’d say.”
This was the highest point within reasonable reach, but the view was fairly restricted by the charred and blackened areas of woodland and thick undergrowth to either side. Frowning, he glanced round at his officers.
“Any of you men good at climbing trees?”
There was a lot of metaphorical shuffling of feet and finally Septimius, the prefect of the Eighth’s cavalry sighed.
“Alright, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”
Walking his horse a few steps, he hoisted himself up until he was standing on the saddle and reached for the nearest solid branch of the tree. With a grunt, he hauled himself up into it. Varus watched him climb, deftly, higher, quickly reaching the narrower, more flexible branches. Above the commander the tree swayed, twigs and leaves dropping and fluttering down among the officers. After a moment, Varus stepped his horse back, so that he could see the armoured figure hauling himself ever higher. With a crack, Septimius stopped, having reached the highest safe point.
“What can you see?” shouted the commander.
“Shit!”
“What?”
“They’re on the other side of the river!”
There was a great deal of rustling and cracking as the prefect clambered and slid back down among the branches, heedless of the cuts and scratches he was acquiring.
“They’re what?” demanded Varus incredulously.
The prefect dropped lightly from the lowest branches and landed on the grass with bent knees before standing straight.
“They must have found somewhere safe upstream and crossed during the night. They’re maybe an hour away from the bridge at the most on the other side!”
“Oh shit.” Varus spat on the floor. “They’ll be able to sever our supply lines and cause havoc.”
In the privacy of his head he offered a quick prayer to Fortuna and added ‘…and hopefully they haven’t intercepted Fronto’s couriers!’
He turned back to Lucilius.
“You did a nice job here yesterday. Think you can repeat your success and clear up?”
The prefect nodded.
“Give me a few alae and I’ll leave that camp charred and covered with Belgic bodies!”
Varus slapped him on the shoulder. “Take yours and three of the auxiliary alae. That enough?”
“More than enough” agreed Lucilius through gritted teeth.
Varus nodded.
“Then I’ve got to take the rest back to camp and warn Caesar. He’ll not have time to mobilise the legions. Sabinus is going to have to defend the bloody bridge on his own!”
Without bothering to give orders, Varus wheeled his horse and began to charge, hooves thundering, back the way they’d come. As he passed the cavalry, his troopers stared in surprise at their commander storming past with an expression of great concern. Moments later, their prefects returned.
Lucilius gestured to several decurions and then pointed off to his left.
“You lot! Form up your units over there. We’ve got a few thousand Belgae to maim.”
As the selected units hurried to move their units into position, Casco, prefect of the Ninth, waved his arm expansively at the rest of the cavalry and then pointed to the retreating figure of Varus.
“Back to camp at a charge. We’ve an army to save!”
Chapter 9
(Caesar’s camp by the Aisne River.)
“Gaesatus: a spearman, usually a mercenary of Gallic origin.”
Fronto rushed from his tent at the alarm call blared out by the command cornicen. Struggling with his cloak for a moment, he gave up in annoyance and let the crimson article drop to the grass outside the tent flap, leaving it waving in the breeze. As he ran to the general’s headquarters tent, he saw the other legates and officers rushing to the rallying point. As he reached the patch of grass outside the tent at the same time as Crispus, he bent double and clutched his knees, breathing heavily.
“What the… hell’s happened?”
As he glanced around, taking everything in, he noticed two horses tethered by the tent flap.
“Varus is back? What happened to the cavalry?”
Crispus shrugged, also taking in ragged breaths.
“I’ve no idea, Fronto.”
As Balbus came to a halt beside them and Labienus appeared, pink-cheeked with the effort of running, the general suddenly threw back the leather tent flap and stepped out into the sunlight with Varus at his shoulder.
“Gentlemen, form up your legions. Galba? I want the Twelfth to take command here and man the defences. Several alae of cavalry should be returning to join you shortly.”
He took a deep breath.
“The rest of you, get your troops moving back to the bridge at the quickest march you can manage. The Belgae have apparently found a fordable crossing point and come round behind us during the night. Sabinus is about to be attacked at any moment by a force of probably a hundred and fifty thousand Belgae on the other side of the river.”
Fronto blinked.
“The sly bastards! How long have we got?”
Varus stepped forward.
“It’s been maybe a half hour since we saw them, and they were less than an hour away then.”
“We’ll never get the legions there in time, Caesar” the legate spat. “Even if we drop everything but weapons and run, we’d be lucky to get to the river in time, but it’ll take hours to get the men across that bridge too. The legions simply can’t get there in time.”
Varus nodded.
“He’s right, Caesar. We should send a dispatch to Sabinus and tell him to get out of there as fast as he can. We’ll have to follow the Belgae and bring them to battle somewhere else.”
“No!”
The force of Caesar’s tone surprised them. The general had gone pale and his teeth ground together.
“No. It’s critical that we stop them here. My plans are being changed for me, and I won’t have that. I can’t leave this place right now and if we let them loose they have free reign with the Remi; they can burn their crops and attack and loot their settlements. What use Fronto’s hard work getting the Remi on our side if we let them go now?”
A thought seemed to strike the general and he smiled at his legate.
“Fronto.”
“Sir?”
“Think you can repeat your Bibrax triumph back at the main camp today?”
Fronto frowned.
“You mean take the missile troops and actually engage a huge army of Belgae with them? There were maybe thirty thousand Belgae there. There’s five times as many here! Respectfully, only a mad arsehole would try it!”
Caesar smiled a lop-sided smile.
“Well?” he prompted.
A grin slowly slid across Fronto’s face.
“I’ll need more men this time. There’s a lot more Belgae.”
Caesar nodded.
“Get every light auxiliary unit from every legion. All the archers, slingers and spear throwers. They’re all unarmoured light troops.” He
addressed the assembled legates in front of him.
“Go now and get all your light auxiliaries to form up on the plain as fast as you can.”
Another thought seemed to strike him as the legates turned to head back to their legions.
“Labienus? You take temporary command of the Eighth. Balbus? I want you to go with Fronto and take command of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth in the camp. They could be useful.”
Balbus nodded, though worry darkened his eyes. Fronto could understand that. They were about to take two untried legions and the lightest of the auxilia into battle against a foe that would seriously outnumber them.”
The general turned back to Fronto.
“Get there as fast as possible and engage them, Fronto. You don’t have to defeat them; just hold them there until the rest of the legions can engage.”
Varus cleared his throat.
“Caesar? The cavalry can get there in time to help as well. Permission to accompany Fronto and his men?”
The general nodded.
“Very well, Varus.”
He regarded the three commanders in front of him.
“The bridge would slow the rest of the legions too much, but if the Belgae can find another way, so can we. I shall take the Eighth, Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh as fast as we can along the river to the east. If a hundred thousand barbarians can ford it in a few hours, the legions should be quicker. You three keep them busy at the bridge and we will come round behind them and seal off their escape route. Once we have them trapped between us, I think things will quickly go our way.”
Fronto nodded. A quick glance and he could see how quickly and efficiently the Roman commanders had organised their legions. The main forces were already forming up. The light auxiliary units were being rushed out to the side, where they were gathering in a much looser formation, waiting for their commander.
Caesar smiled.
“Good luck gentlemen. I shall see you on the south bank.”
The three officers saluted and, as the general strode off toward the regulars, Fronto turned to Varus and Balbus.
“Varus: collect your cavalry and break speed records in getting to Sabinus. Tell him we’re on the way and not to do anything stupid! Balbus? You’d best take a horse and get to the fort. You’ll need to tell Plancus what’s happening a few times until it sinks in and then start the legions moving across the bridge as soon as you can. We’ll need all of you on the other side of the water where it’s flat; it’s the only terrain legionaries and cavalry can operate safely in.”
Varus grinned. As Caesar’s cavalry commander, he was aware that he theoretically outranked all the legionary legates but, for some reason, if felt natural to be ordered around by Fronto. The man had a talent for leadership. When he shouted, even the senate would stand to and obey.
“My pleasure. See you at the fort.”
Fronto turned to Balbus.
“Be careful with them. We don’t know how well prepared they are for real battle.”
Balbus smiled.
“It’s about time they got the chance to find out. Hurry along now, Fronto. You’ll have to catch us up quickly.”
As Varus and Balbus rushed off to find a horse for the legate and rejoin the cavalry, Fronto sighed. He was legate of the Tenth Legion, and here he was, deep in the campaigning season and he’d hardly spent any time with the Tenth at all. Priscus was itching to get involved in a fight, but all he got to do was the day to day tasks of legionary command. Fronto, on the other hand, was about to undertake his second hard fight of the season, commanding auxiliary troops only. He regarded the force gathering nearby and smiled. Fortunately, promotions and transfers had been delayed in the current circumstances, so at least he knew he was fighting alongside good men.
As the units were formed up, he quickly ran back to his tent and grabbed his sword, shield and helmet. He stopped for a second and looked down at the red cloak lying outside the door. He’d ignored it and run across the fine material with muddy, hob-nailed boots twice. He smiled sadly at the messy item. What was it with him and cloaks? Jamming the helm on his head, he started to jog down to the gathering units.
There were perhaps three or four thousand men there altogether. Mostly Numidians, either armed with short bows or spears, along with the familiar Cretan archers and the deadly Balearic slingers. Much like the force he had at Bibrax, but more than three times the size.
“Decius!”
The prefect turned and grinned as Fronto bounded up the gentle incline towards him.
“D’you know, when I was told all the auxiliary foot troops were being called to service, I had a feeling I’d see you shortly, sir!”
Fronto laughed.
“You remember those Belgae we fought off? Well now we get to kick them and all their mates around a bit.”
He squared his shoulders and straightened his sword by his side before addressing the force gathered around him.
“Senior officers to me!”
A dozen or so prefects rushed out of the press of men and came to attention at the front, saluting. Fronto noted the knowing looks on the faces of Galeo and Pansa. What was this reputation he seemed to have acquired?
“Men? We’re about to go into action alongside the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions and the Cavalry against more Belgae than you can wave a shitty stick at. I need to see the same kind of strength and bravery I saw at Bibrax. But we need to run to get there in time to save Sabinus and his men.”
He took a deep breath.
“So no dawdling! Prefects? Get your units back to the main camp at a run and form up above the river.”
The officers in front of him saluted and started bellowing commands at their men. Fronto watched as the lightly-armed and completely unarmoured men began to move off at a steady jog toward the south. As the nearest unit of Cretans started to run, Fronto sprinted alongside and fell in next to their prefect.
“Enjoying life in the limelight, Decius?”
Momentarily, he concentrated on the turf in front of him as he felt that familiar twinge in his ankle. Damn it. Almost two decades of fighting with the legions and he’d sustained no lasting injuries. Then one bloody fight last year and he gets bitten in the ankle by a mad German woman and almost hamstrung. That ankle had never been quite right since. He became aware that Decius had replied while he concentrated on the ground. Ah well. At least his nose felt good these days.
“I’ll need brilliant ideas from you lot before we engage. The way I reckon it, there’s going to be a hundred and fifty thousand mad, bloodthirsty Belgae on the other side of the river, and all we’ve got will be a couple of thousand veteran legionaries under Sabinus, ten thousand green, untried legionaries under Balbus and Plancus, maybe five thousand cavalry under Varus, and three thousand missile troops. That’s… what? Twenty thousand against a hundred and fifty? Slightly unnerving odds, eh?”
Decius grinned as he stared off into the distance.
“Maybe, but we’ve got fortified defences, a narrow bridge to defend and the height of the northern bank for advantage.”
He turned his grin on Fronto.
“And, of course, we’ve got us!”
Laughing, the two men ran on alongside the Cretans with their bows.
* * * * *
By the time Fronto reached the camp, standing on the high ground and overlooking the bridge and Sabinus’ fort, the action had clearly already begun. In this lofty position, Fronto swallowed hard as he viewed a disaster of epic proportions in the making.
Sabinus had his cohorts secure yet trapped behind the walls of the small but defensive fort. There was no hope of him being able to sally forth and do any damage at this time, as the near side of the fort was bounded by the river, quick flowing and the darkness of the water suggesting dangerous depths. The other three sides were being assailed at close range by a veritable sea of shouting Belgae. There were, indeed, so many barbarian warriors that the observers had to look carefully to make out the fort walls under the press
of bodies. The rearguard force that Sabinus had been left with fought desperately over their defences, stabbing and slashing madly at anyone they could reach. In Fronto’s professional opinion, Sabinus’ force would be gone in half an hour and the fort left as kindling. From the look of things, the Belgae had moved faster than Varus had expected. They must have been here before the other Romans arrived.
Balbus’ reserve force would be precious little help. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions were still mostly on the north bank, a small group desperately trying to create a bridgehead at the far side in the face of many thousands of barbarians. They were failing dismally. If Crassus or Caesar had been here, they would likely have placed the blame firmly with the new, green, Gallic legions. Fronto, on the other hand, could see this for what it was. Two legions crammed into a narrow space, desperately attempting to break out in the face of impossible odds, most of them still trapped on the bridge or the near side. The Eighth or the Tenth would be doing no better in these conditions. Had Fronto been in charge of the Belgae, he’d now be trying to collapse the bridge, but at least that thought seemed to have escaped the barbarian chieftains. The bridge was big and strong, but not big enough to carry out a battle on.
Varus had clearly arrived just in time to get himself cut off and trapped. His cavalry had made it across the bridge in the face of the charging barbarians and were now milling about in the middle distance on the edge of the Belgic army, too isolated to try anything truly useful. As Fronto watched, he could see them doing what they could to harry the enemy, skirmishing and casting javelins into the middle of the mass, but little they could achieve would make any real difference without infantry support. At best they would annoy the Belgae and whittle down their numbers a little.
The way things were currently going, the fort would fall to the Belgae in around thirty minutes, the dead would pile up at the far end of the bridge and the legions would remain blocked up until it finally occurred to the barbarians to destroy the entire structure, drowning a few hundred legionaries and rendering the rest ineffective. The cavalry would engage in quick bursts, but once the Belgae completely held the far bank and had rendered the river uncrossable they would turn and massacre Varus and his men before waiting for Caesar to arrive.
The Belgae Page 18