The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto nodded.

  “It’s a plan, general, but there’s a few suggestions I could make too.”

  “Go on?”

  Fronto sniffed. “Well, if you’re sending the cavalry out front to deal with the enemy scouts across the water, that means the staff will have no escort and protection. You’ll be a lovely little target riding along slowly between the legions and the wagons. One good archer could effectively remove the high command.”

  Caesar blinked.

  “You think they actually could try such a thing?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “Who knows, but I think that, given the odds here, we ought to play it as safe as we can. My suggestion would be to get the staff distributed among the legions, yourself included. That way, not only are you much harder to target, but you’re well defended too. And it might give the lads a bit of a boost to see the staff alongside them. Especially on foot.”

  Caesar frowned for a moment and then nodded.

  “It’s a good idea, Fronto. See to it.”

  “And the other thing,” Fronto said, glancing back over the lines of men, “is that when the legions begin to make camp, usually we have a screen of cavalry and our men have time to re-arm if threatened. With the cavalry away, we can’t afford to have all of our men busy moving earth sods and not easily armable. I would suggest that each man keeps his armour and helmet on while they work and their shield and weapons within arm’s reach. I would like to know that every man can defend himself at short notice.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “You’re being uncharacteristically careful, Fronto?”

  The legate shrugged.

  “This engagement’s making me nervous. Something about it makes my skin itch. Nemesis is trying to tell me something.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “Then tell her to speak up.”

  There was a chorus of nervous laughter; Fronto’s nerves were beginning to spread to the other officers.

  “Very well,” Caesar nodded. “All that we can do, we will do. It’s in the hands of the Gods now, and let Venus who, as you all know, is my grandmother,” more genuine laughter this time, “let her protect us all.”

  Fervent nods around the circle of men.

  “Let’s get the final phase of this march underway, then. Right, Fronto. Where do you want us?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “I don’t suppose it really matters. There are, what?” he performed a quick head count. “There are twelve officers who need to distribute among the legions, ignoring the legates. That’s two a piece and perhaps one a piece with the Thirteenth and Fourteenth at rearguard.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “I will join the Twelfth at the rear of the legions, just before the baggage.”

  The rest of the officers went quiet and looked at each other expectantly.

  “Oh for the love of Venus. What is it with you men and these new legions? Sabinus? You go with the Thirteenth. They saved your life. Cicero? Go with the Fourteenth.”

  He smiled a grumpy smile.

  “Can the rest of you decide what legion to travel with or does uncle Marcus have to smack some bottoms?”

  Sabinus laughed.

  “Just as you say, Marcus. Sorry… uncle Marcus.”

  With a laugh, the officer mounted his horse once more and rode off toward the rear of the column. After brief discussions, the various officers split up and moved to their new positions, those stationed further back riding, while Labienus and Brutus walked their horses forward to the Tenth alongside Fronto.

  As they reached the legion, Labienus accosted one of the legionaries in the front line.

  “Take our horses back to the baggage train and then return to position.”

  The legionary saluted, took the reins, and strode off down the line of men with the three officers’ horses.

  Labienus settled into position with the tribunes at Fronto’s shoulder. Brutus stood next to him, smiling calmly. Fronto grimaced.

  “All ready? We’re the vanguard.”

  Brutus, in his late twenties and fresh faced, squared his shoulders.

  “I look forward to it, Marcus. No offence, Labienus, but being stuck in staff meetings was not what I was looking for when I joined Gaius.”

  Fronto raised his eyebrows. Nobody referred to the general by his praenomen.

  Labienus frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was looking forward to leading a legion. Thought I’d get a chance to play legatus and actually take part, but Caesar’s a very distant cousin and his wife coddles me. Between my own family and Calpurnia, Caesar daren’t put me in a dangerous position. They keep me trapped and tied up in red tape. I’m actually quite looking forward to this.”

  Fronto grumbled

  “It’s still a bad idea. This is not going to go well, I tell you.”

  Labienus laughed.

  “Give it a rest, Fronto. I can see his point. I haven’t actually been in close command of a legion myself for many years, since the Cilician campaign in fact. It’ll do us good.”

  Fronto had to laugh.

  “How can we possibly lose, with this much enthusiasm?” He turned to the Tenth’s lead cornicen.

  “Give the call to march. Let’s get there and see what Nemesis has in store for us today.”

  The musician saluted and blew a complex series of notes that was picked up by the cornicens of the individual centuries throughout the legion and then the other legions to the rear. With an unstoppable gait, the men began to march.

  Fronto relaxed a little as the familiar pace and noise settled around him like a comfortable blanket. At least here and now things were normal, expected, and he knew exactly what to do.

  Smiling, he took a deep breath, inhaling the heady scent of the summer wildflowers. Soon all he would be able to smell was blood and steel, so he carefully registered every facet of that smell and filed it away in his mind for reference. Funny really, he’d not realised how bad his nose was until Balbus had broken it again and Florus reset it. He smiled. Good things came to you in curious packages some times.

  He would have to give Florus a gift when this was all over.

  * * * * *

  Varus reined in alongside Fronto. The cavalry had been riding in force alongside the Tenth for the last leg of the march, their number stretching out across the land to either side as far as Fronto could see. It really was quite impressive.

  “Time to go, Fronto” the commander said, his voice even and professional. “Our scouts say the river’s just over that rise. We need to get on ahead and cross the water to give you time to build the camp. Do it quickly though. There’s several thousand of us, yes, but there are a hell of a lot more of them.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “We’ll be ready as fast as we possibly can, Varus. Don’t do anything too brave and stupid, though. If you land in serious shit, regroup with the legions.”

  Varus returned the nod.

  “Good luck, gentlemen.”

  “And to you.”

  In a manner that ought to have been noted by those members of the legions distrustful of their newly-raised Gaulish brethren, the cavalry were arrayed as a loose mass of men, with the few regulars in Roman red mixed in among their Gallic auxiliary counterparts, as though they were considered equals.

  Now, however, the cavalry commander gave a quick hand signal and his mounted cornicen blew out a series of calls and, like an organised sea of men and horses, the vast array of cavalry around the head of the tenth moved with intricate precision into their new formations. The auxilia became separate alae once more, with the sparse regular cavalry settling into smaller units between them. It was a spectacle to see, like the ridiculously expensive mechanical toys that Greek merchants sold in Rome.

  Moments later, rather than a mass of horsemen gathered around the Tenth, three rows of tightly organised cavalry alae trotted ahead of the column. At a further signal, they broke into a run, leaving the bulk of
the Roman force behind in a cloud of dust.

  Just as Fronto and the officers of the Tenth crested the rise in view of the enemy and began the descent to the site chosen for the camp, Varus and his cavalry reached the water and splashed across it.

  As reported by the scouts, the north bank of the river rose in a slope almost the mirror image of the one to the south, though a little higher and crowned with areas of woodland. At the top of the hill a few Nervii on horseback waited in one of the more open spaces and, as soon as Varus’ men hove into view, vanished over the crest.

  The cavalry ploughed into the river, the water spraying high to the side of each man, churned and thrown by their hooves and soaking the whole force, and Belgae warriors appeared over the top of the hill. On the Roman cavalry splashed, reaching the far bank and climbing from the water quickly, reforming into units as soon as the ground allowed.

  With yells of command from the officers, the cavalry charged once again in formation up the slope, more and more of the Nervii and their allies pouring forth over the crest and issuing from the areas of woodland across the summit.

  With cries to a variety of Gods, the Romans and their auxiliary counterparts closed the distance to the enemy, Varus in his accustomed position at the front edge of the charge. He smiled. They may be brave, but the same mistakes were inevitable in every damn battle with every damn Celtic army. No discipline; no preparation. It all came down to the personal bravery and skill of each individual warrior. How could they ever hope to…

  Varus’ thoughts came unstuck with terrifying suddenness as the Roman charge, sure of their prowess and their superiority, met with the hidden pit-traps carved in the side of the hill by the waiting Nervii in the preceding days and disguised with wicker screens covered in leaves and dry grass.

  Varus’ horse, his pride and joy for five years of campaign, snapped its neck instantly as the front legs disappeared into the hole and the head hit the turf opposite. Varus, his mind reeling hopelessly, was thrown from the four-horned saddle and hurled several yards up the gentle slope. His world exploded in a white-hot burst of pain and shock. As he cart-wheeled over and over before coming to a painful halt, he saw flashes of his men disappearing into the disguised pits alongside the screams of men and horses both.

  With a crash, he came to rest. Experience and professionalism took over and he found his feet, despite the pain of his various cuts and grazes, what felt like a dislocated right shoulder, and almost certain concussion. He had fared better than some of the men he could see as he stumbled, spinning in pain and confusion, to his feet. His eyes scouted the turf nearby, searching for the sword that momentum had snatched from his grasp. No sign of it, but his gaze latched onto the discarded blade of one of his companions. He stumbled towards it and bent to retrieve it with his left arm. The first wave of cavalry had now passed, some number falling foul of the hidden pits, but many more passing them and engaging the enemy. The second wave thundered up behind and slowed enough to avoid falling foul of the same obstacles as the first.

  Varus turned and tried to take in the entire situation. This was one almighty screw-up… Fronto had been right with his bad feeling. These Nervii knew exactly what they were doing and were more than prepared. What should have been a cavalry charge that shattered the resolve of the front line of the enemy had, instead, turned into a bloodbath, the surviving members of the first wave of attack now being systematically unhorsed with long spears and, where that was not possible, the Nervii and their allies were simply butchering the horses beneath the riders.

  Varus spun around at a loud ‘crack’ and fresh horror overcame him. To the left and right the enemy had pushed aside wicker screens at the edge of the woodland to reveal massive tree trunks lying along the crest of the hill. A rolling tree trunk could do enough damage, but Varus realised with cold dread that the architects of this nightmare had left the sharpened stumps of all the branches attached, creating a rolling mass of spikes that even now had begun its inexorable descent toward the river. The second wave of attack foundered instantly, the officers shouting directions that were being entirely ignored by the men. Those who could were making for the far left and right flanks to try and evade the rolling nightmares. Others crowded into the killing zone at the centre, where they were butchered by the enemy infantry as they neared the crest.

  Varus turned to start crying out orders and found himself face to face with a warrior at least a foot taller than himself and as much again broader across the shoulder. The barbarian raised a huge Celtic blade to strike down at the cavalry officer.

  The commander lifted his unfamiliar, stolen blade in an arm unused to wielding a weapon in an attempt to block, and the sheer force of the blow ran down his arm to the shoulder, numbing the joints. He flexed his right hand and tried to roll the shoulder, wondering whether he could change sword-arm, but that one was most definitely out of action. Staggering back, he almost dropped the blade again. Lights and colours were still flashing behind his eyes. He really was in no fit state to fight.

  The man raised the great sword once again, this time for a massive overhead strike that would likely shatter Varus’ own before continuing its descent and separating him in two. In a flash of instinct, the cavalry commander lashed out with his foot, delivering the man a hard blow in the groin.

  Shock suddenly filled the man’s eyes, yet, while Varus waited for him to drop the blade and double over, the barbarian gritted his teeth and fought the pain, once more raising the great blade.

  ‘What the hell were these people made of?’ he thought to himself as he stepped back. The man advanced on him again, the sword still raised high. Another step back. Varus was beginning to panic. He had no idea what was going on behind him and what he was backing towards, unwilling as he was to take his eyes from his assailant.

  There was the distinct possibility he might walk straight back into the pit down which his poor horse had gone…

  He smiled grimly.

  “Alright, you bastard. Come with me.”

  As the barbarian growled and once more stepped close enough to bring the blade down, Varus slipped out of his reach yet again. The man was beginning to become vexed and yet, the commander had to give him credit, had not only overcome Varus’ unpleasant attack, but had held enough discipline to keep his blade raised, rather than madly swinging down at a man who was keeping just out of reach.

  Back another step; back another step; back another step…

  And suddenly Varus’ heel came down with nothing under it. Had he been unprepared, he would have toppled back into the pit, but that was not the case; he was very prepared. He regained his balance as the great barbarian smiled a horrible smile at him and begun to swing his blade downwards.

  Ignoring the agony in his arm, Varus threw himself forward and into a roll, directly between the man’s legs. Lucky he was such a big fellow, really. The warrior staggered, trying to counterbalance the momentum of the swing that was now suddenly carrying him forward into the pit by arching his body backwards.

  With a vicious smile, Varus came out of his roll, standing poised. Years of falling from horses had trained the commander exactly how to control a fall and a roll. In a matter of a heartbeat he had gone smoothly from standing in front of the warrior to standing behind him.

  The Nervian swordsman glanced in surprise over his shoulder.

  “In you go.”

  With hardly any force, Varus gently pushed at the point between the man’s shoulder blades. With a squawk, the great warrior disappeared into the deep hole. Varus turned and looked at the chaos around him. It was odd. The Belgae had not pressed the attack, but were now picking off those cavalry who were still fighting at the top, and thrusting their long spears into the wounded Romans on the ground. They were making no attempt to advance down the slope toward the river.

  Perhaps they were fighting a defensive strategy? Waiting to see what the Roman infantry across the river would do.

  Realising that the space around him was opening u
p, he scoured the grass until he found a fallen cavalry spear, which he collected before turning and heading back to the pit.

  The warrior, bruised and irritated, was using the carcass of Varus’ horse to start his climb out of the hole.

  With immense satisfaction, Varus reached the edge, raised the familiar thrusting spear, and brought it down as hard as he could. The leaf-shaped blade entered the barbarian in the ‘V’ between shoulder and collar bone, and pushed deep through the interior of the man’s torso, reappearing just above the other hip in a spray of blood.

  The man actually looked astonished. Again, Varus found himself wondering what these Nervii were made of.

  Leaving the spear protruding from the dying man as he uttered his rustling death rattle, Varus grasped his sword and took in the situation with a professional eye. Fronto had obviously been prepared to support the cavalry for, though the legions were already heaving sods of earth around across the river, the auxiliary units of archers that seemed to be the legate’s pet units these days had taken position on the far bank and were firing off missiles that were, despite the incline and the distance, remarkably accurate, ringing off Belgic helmets and thudding into Nervian shields.

  Gritting his teeth he tried to locate all the cavalry standards. Much of the first wave had been destroyed by the pits and rolling logs. The latter, only two trees, had left a swathe of horrific destruction down either side of the hill before splashing into the water and floating off downstream. A sizeable group of the second wave have fallen foul of the rolling menace, but most of them and the third wave had escaped unharmed and were either milling round in confusion on the near bank or rallying to their standards to one flank or the other.

  Varus glanced quickly at the line of Belgae. He wanted to call them Nervii, but they might not be. He couldn’t tell the difference between one Belgic tribe or another. Who could? The enemy were shouting taunts at the cavalry, but were holding their solid line. There was something expectant about the way they worked, almost as it they were about to leap into action some way. He had to do something about this. There was nothing he could do to save the wounded being calmly executed at the summit, but he had to do something.