Firstly the rear groups of Atrebates began to peel off and flee toward the water’s edge, and then more and more broke away like ice in the first warmth of spring. Gradually, the trickle of fleeing warriors turned into a river, and then a flood, and suddenly the Tenth were no longer pushing the Atrebates, but pursuing them.
A roar went up among the men and they began to pick up pace behind the fleeing enemy. Their enthusiasm and pace were so powerful that they almost engaged with the last dozen defenders around their legate before hurriedly peeling off and flowing around them after the enemy.
Labienus bellowed after the centurions “Steady! Form a line again!”
He watched for a moment as the officers reined in the more enthusiastic men and reformed into centuries as they drove on down to the river. Now, the Ninth were alongside and creating an impressive front. Labienus continued to observe the action for a moment and then approached the weary and battle-scarred survivors. He spotted the prone figure of Fronto and for a moment his heart skipped a beat. Then, as he watched, he saw the legate’s chest rise and fall. A soldier crouching next to him came to attention.
“Legate Fronto has been wounded sir. I should get him to the medicus.”
Labienus nodded.
“Will he be all right?”
The capsarius gave a non-committal shrug.
“He should live, sir, but he might lose the arm.”
The staff officer shook his head sadly and thought back with fresh perspective on that centurion refusing to let him take a place in the front line.
“Get him back there straight away and tell the doctor to do whatever he has to.”
Leaving the tired and wounded men of the heroic century to escort Fronto back to the hastily-organised hospital, basic trestle tables in the open air, Labienus jogged after the Tenth to catch up. As he ran, he spotted the primus pilus running at an angle to intercept him.
“Priscus. Glad to see you made it.”
“Only just, sir. You and the lads got there just in time. There were about ten of us left.”
The centurion was bleeding in a dozen places, though none seemed to be bothering him. Labienus was, as always, impressed with the quality of the centurionate.
“And Velius?”
Priscus shook his head sadly.
“Seen no sign of him, sir, but it looks like no one survived there.”
As they caught up with the rear ranks of the Tenth and marched along behind them, Labienus took the opportunity to glance to his right and see what was happening in the centre of the field. It appeared that the panicked retreat of the Atrebates had had a knock-on effect on the Viromandui, and the Eighth and Eleventh legions were even now beginning to move, pushing their Belgae opponents back slowly towards the river. He couldn’t see as far as the Twelfth, but could only hope that the reserves would arrive in time to help them.
Ahead, the Tenth and the Ninth had reached the water and were busily butchering those Atrebates they caught trying to cross. The centurions gave a call and the line stopped. Labienus turned to Priscus and raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
Priscus shrugged.
“They know any further and they leave the main field of battle. They’re awaiting orders.”
Labienus nodded and looked to the left to see legate Rufus and the primus pilus of the Ninth marching toward him.
“Rufus.”
“Sir. The Atrebates are beginning to reform on the far bank. What are your orders?”
Labienus nodded.
“Then we need to break them before they get too courageous again. Pass the word down to the officers. Let the men have a wild, bloodthirsty charge but, if that breaks the enemy, make sure they know to rein in and form up near the crest of the hill.”
Rufus nodded and walked back along the line of men. As Priscus passed the word down, Labienus looked up across the river and could see some sort of obstacle at the top. The enemy were going to be trapped. That meant they’d have to either surrender or die at the top. He took a deep breath and waited. Calls went up from one of the Ninth’s cornicens and were picked up by the other musicians, throughout both legions. A chorus of centurions and optios bellowed simultaneously.
“Charge!”
Labienus watched tensely as the men waded into the water and sloshed across the river as fast as they could manage The first man to reach the far bank was felled by a massive swing with a Celtic blade, the second and third with spears, but then the bulk of the men reached the bank and began to stab and hack at the enemy.
Fresh dismay swept across the Atrebates and they fled up the hill, their army breaking up once again like ice. At the rear of the legion, Labienus took a deep breath and then waded across the river behind his men, drawing his sword as he went.
The Ninth and Tenth swept up the gentle slope opposite. Labienus’ fears that the enemy would be trapped by that strange blockade and fight to the death like cornered rats seemed unfounded. As the rear ranks of the Atrebates reached the obstacles, they hauled the great defences aside and, joining the warriors who had manned them, fled over the hill.
Labienus struggled out of the water onto the bank in time to see the last of the Belgae they were chasing disappear over the crest as the legions formed up just below them.
A voice off to the left attracted his attention and he spun, wielding his sword, before he realised who it was. Varus, accompanied by a number of cavalrymen, came trotting out from behind a cover of trees.
“Labienus! You have absolutely no idea how grateful I am to see you.”
“Varus?” Labienus blinked. “We thought you were gone or dead.”
“Thankfully not. Most of the cavalry got cut off, but I’m hoping they’re on their way back down. Where are you going now?”
The staff officer shrugged.
“There’s still best part of ten thousand warriors up there. Got to either get them to surrender, kill them or disperse them. And Caesar’ll want captives.”
Varus nodded.
“I’m heading back across. Thanks for the rescue.”
Labienus smiled.
“See you soon.”
Drawing a deep breath, he set off once more up the hill after his men. They would have to gain control of the Belgae’s camp over the ridge and take prisoners. Then they could turn round and take on the Belgic reserve from behind and trap them at the river.
He had almost reached the rear lines of the legions, when Rufus came running back down to him.
“What’s up?”
Rufus grasped his shoulder and, spinning him around, pointed back across the river. The wagon train had still not finished arriving, and the reserve legions were not yet in sight. The Eighth and Eleventh were fighting a vast number of the enemy right on the bank of the river, but the Nervii reserve had taken advantage of the sudden gaps in the Roman line and had crossed the river. Even now, as he watched, the Twelfth legion on the flank, already outnumbered around five to one, were suddenly hit by fresh waves of the enemy, this time from behind.
The Twelfth had a nominal strength of five thousand men, but it looked worryingly to Labienus as thought there were not more that fifteen hundred left. And that was where Caesar was. As he watched, the Twelfth reacted with astonishing efficiency to this new threat, closing up so that the rear ranks turned and became a second battle line. They were now entirely surrounded, cut off and hopelessly outnumbered.
“Sacred Mars!”
Rufus nodded.
“What do we do? Head back?”
Labienus shook his head.
“Can’t leave ten thousand Atrebates in control of their camp and with room and time to reform into a unit. You stay and deal with them. Capture as many as you can. Get them to surrender if you can.”
He ground his teeth.
“I’m taking the Tenth back to try and relieve the Twelfth and save Caesar.”
* * * * *
Centurion Baculus stood gritting his teeth in the press of men. Around him his legionaries
fought like lions against unbelievable odds as wave after fresh wave of Nervii fell upon them, hacking, maiming and screaming guttural curses. In the small circle afforded him temporarily while he sorted his latest wound, the veteran officer crouched, settling the shield in most comfortable position possible on his shattered left arm and used his good arm to remove his belt. Wincing, he used the belt to strap the shield tightly to his useless arm, holding the buckle between his teeth as he pulled it tight. Standing once more, he tried to lift the great defensive item, but the arm was too weak. A constant stream of crimson drips fell from his useless fingers. Still, at least he had a shield.
Once more he collected his sword and hefted it. To his left there was a crunch and a gurgling scream as a thrown spear arced over the front lines and came down in the middle of the Roman press, straight through the chest of a legionary.
“This is getting ridiculous!”
Baculus pushed his way back through the press of men.
“Come on, lads. They’re only barbarians. Fight harder.”
Ignoring the shocking pain in his arm, he pushed through the struggling men and spotted waving plumes a little to his right. About bloody time the legate got involved! Galba had been directing things as well as anyone could, given the circumstances, but really the Twelfth was as organised as it could ever hope to be now, and what they needed most was men with swords.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he pushed his way over to the commander and was surprised to realise that the man standing next to the legate in the line and jabbing madly with a sword, smashing his shield into the faces of howling barbarians, was the general himself. Caesar was already dirty and spattered with blood, his white tunic and crimson cloak making him stand out among the darker garb of the legionaries. This whole campaign could go to shit if Caesar fell to a well aimed blow. Who would pay to keep the legion active then? Pompey? Doubtful… and certainly not the senate.
With another grunt, this time of irritation, he made his way quickly over to the two officers and pushed his way in next to the general. If anyone was going to make sure the general survived, it had to be someone Baculus trusted, and the only person he really trusted to fight well and not die was himself.
He moved a legionary aside and took the position, stabbing down at a warrior who was trying to swipe at their unprotected legs.
The general beside him cast him a sidelong glance.
“Thank you, centurion.”
“Sir.”
“You’ve just been back from the attack?”
Baculus nodded.
“Sorting a wound, sir.”
Caesar smiled as he smashed his shield into the contorted face of a Nervian warrior.
“What’s your estimate of our chances?”
Baculus gave a grim smile.
“We’re in shit, sir. I was on the mound back there and I couldn’t see more than three or four centurion or optio’s crests. I think the officers are nearly all gone. We’re down to just over a thousand men now. There’s a tribune back there that’s busy bleeding out. We’re surrounded on all sides and the rest of the army’s all engaged elsewhere. Unless the reserves get here, we’ll be gone in less than fifteen minutes.”
Caesar’s expression became grim.
“That’s a bleak estimate, centurion.”
“Just realism, sir.”
Baculus had to break off from the conversation again as three warriors leapt at the line. One hit Caesar’s shield and knocked the general back heavily enough that the man wobbled and almost lost his footing before heaving the attacker forward again using his shield. The others hit Baculus’ shield so hard he felt his arm almost detach and narrowly avoided blacking out. The third forced his way between the two.
As the men in the row behind them dealt with the warrior who had broken through, Caesar looked Baculus up and down.
“You’ve been wounded twice, centurion.”
“Six times” the man replied with a straight face.
“And you don’t appear to be able to move your shield arm.”
“Broken, sir.”
The general laughed.
“If I had a hundred men like you, centurion, I’d live in no fear of the Nervii.”
“Look there!” a voice shouted.
Both men turned to Galba in surprise. The legate was pointing over the enemy from their position on the slight rise of the incomplete rampart. They followed his gesturing and squinted. A fresh wave of Celtic warriors had appeared around the edge of the woodland nearby; mounted warriors, shouting fresh cries in their unintelligible language.
“They’ll likely cut off the reserves” Galba said, his voice leaden and flat. Baculus shook his head in wonder at how this debacle had come about and leapt forward just in time to dispatch a warrior who’d lunged at the momentarily distracted general.
“I don’t think so…”
Caesar sounded unsure, but slowly a smile spread across his face.
“Look. There are legionary regulars among them. It’s Varus’ cavalry!”
As the three officers fought desperately to keep the line from the howling warriors before them, they caught glimpses briefly over the enemy. Varus’ trapped cavalry had found a way round and back across the river and now came hurtling down behind the Nervii, where they began to harry them, attacking in a charge that swept past the Belgae and picking them off before pulling back out of reach and forming up for the next attack; standard Roman skirmishing tactics.
Baculus drew a deep breath as yet another blow trimmed a chunk from the edge of his shield and gouged a long but shallow line in his upper arm.
Caesar turned at the sound and, as he did so, one of the Nervii facing them swept his long Celtic blade down and across beneath Caesar’s shield. Fortunately for the general, the man’s aim was imperfect and the bone-breaking, limb-severing sword edge clipped the very base of the general’s shield and jumped, scoring a deep rent across his calf in a blow that would, otherwise, have removed his leg. The general disappeared with a squawk and a crash, falling backwards into the press on his buckling leg. Two legionaries immediately went to his aid, while a third stepped in to take his place between Baculus and Galba.
The legate growled.
“Where the hell is Plancus with the reserves?”
“Sir?” a voice called.
Both Baculus and Galba shouted “Yes?” neither willing to take their eyes from the enemy, as they continued to block blows with their shields and stab and swipe at any flesh they could identify before them.
A legionary appeared behind them.
“Sir, the wagoners and engineers are marching across the camp, armed like us!”
Baculus laughed.
“Looks like the reserves are having their job done for them by a load of fat carters! We’re going to be rescued by the support staff!”
Across the gently-sloping camp, three hundred legion-retained civilians, retired legionaries and engineers had dragged swords, shields, helmets and javelins from the supply wagons and were marching in an impressive imitation of a legion toward the rear of the Nervii.
At the front, Sabinus and Cicero, freshly arrived at the field and determined to do what they could to salvage the Twelfth, shouted orders and tried to keep their strange, newly-commissioned unit in formation.
The ‘century’ pulled up with reasonable efficiency forty or fifty yards from the enemy, presented a shield wall as the rear Nervian ranks turned to deal with this new threat, and cast their missiles.
Though few of the ancillary staff had any training, the mass of pila arced up and came down among the mass of angry warriors, causing deaths and cries of dismay. With a roar, a group of warriors veered away from the mass and charged the small group of false legionaries.
The men presented a passable wall and planted their feet apart to withstand the crash as the Belgae barged into them, reeling back momentarily and then putting all their strength into holding the line while they stabbed madly at anything they could. There was no f
inesse or plan to the attack but, in the press of enemy bodies, it was near impossible, even for the untrained, to fail to land a blow.
More of the Nervii began to turn to this new unexpected attack and within half a minute, the support column was being overwhelmed in a similar fashion to the Twelfth. Across the rampart and beyond the battling remnant of the legion, the cavalry began to pull back. The Nervii had finally decided to deal with the incessant gnat-bites that were the cavalry attacks, and had sent a large group of spear-bearers to deal with them.
Baculus pulled himself back from the frontline, allowing a legionary to take his position. The general was upright, but being supported by one of the men. The primus pilus, a tall man already, pushed his way to the highest stretch of incomplete rampart, a mere two feet high, but enough to look over the heads of the legion and take in the situation. The hope they’d felt at the arrival first of the cavalry and then of the support staff slipped away as the centurion realised just how little difference it had really made. They were still outnumbered at least ten to one and the legion was losing a dozen men every minute, despite their defensive stance. The cavalry had been forced to withdraw and were now forming up to charge, though the spear-bearing enemy would make minced meat of them if they tried it. The support staff, brave though the move had been, were now being systematically exterminated by the Nervii rear lines. Even as the primus pilus watched, the rear lines of wagoners fled the scene for the relative safety of the wagons, leaving two unknown officers desperately holding together a rapidly disintegrating unit.
He turned to see what was happening elsewhere. The Eighth and Eleventh were embroiled in fierce fighting on the river bank and their engagement could still realistically go either way. The standards of the Ninth were waving at the top of the hill opposite as Rufus and his men cornered the Atrebates and began to exact a heavy toll on them.
But the standards of the Tenth were descending the hill back towards the river at a run. He smiled and turned to the beleaguered men of his legion.
The Belgae Page 34