“You are too late, you impudent boy!” Porcius said, his eyes wild as he cackled up blood. “The signal is given! Caesar will die!”
Standing a few paces away, the centurion was confused by the dying senator’s behavior, but the centurion did not have long to ponder it. A heartbeat later, the tribune’s gladius was buried deep in the fat senator’s chest, and the senator laughed no more. The centurion watched as the tribune extracted the bloody weapon and grabbed up a fallen legionary’s shield. Then, using the dead senator’s giant belly to step up onto the horse, the tribune mounted and galloped off at full pace toward the battle.
As the centurion stared after the strange, unknown officer, he wondered how he might explain this should one of his superiors ever ask him how Senator Porcius met his death.
XXVIII
Arrows sailed past Caesar at a disturbing rate, loosed by Belgic archers attempting to bring down the prominent officer in the red-plumed helmet riding behind the Roman lines. As Caesar rode amidst the chaos that was the right side of his army, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was little order, and the troops were not being used to their full effect. In many places, the Roman and Belgic lines swirled together, and in many places were entirely indistinguishable. Here and there, large groups of slashing and stabbing Belgae had managed to penetrate all the way to the third Roman line. Caesar could see that the flanking movement by the enemy had been executed with most devastating results. The first line of the Seventh Legion no longer existed, and the press of the enemy had forced the remaining lines into those of the Twelfth. In many places the troops of both legions were pressed together so tightly that shield overlapped shield, and the soldiers could not find gaps through which to deliver the necessary jabs with their deadly gladii. The spear-wielding Belgae were taking full advantage of this hindrance, some standing on the backs of their comrades, or even the bodies of the fallen, to thrust their spear points over the Roman shields and into the necks and faces of the legionaries behind them. While the far right of the line was scantily manned and near to being overwhelmed where the two legions came together, the Roman lines overlapped four and five deep in some places, such that the troops in the rear ranks stood completely useless, serving only as victims to the incessant shower of enemy missiles. This inadequate positioning of force was nearing disastrous consequences as the Belgae assaulted the far right. Only a single cohort, refused at an angle to hold off the flanking enemy, stood between the Belgae and the Roman rear.
It was here, at the angle, that Caesar found Balbus.
The legate was sitting helmetless on the ground, near his standard, only a few paces behind the embroiled lines. A man, whom Caesar knew to be Balbus’s personal physician, hovered over him, examining a bleeding contusion on his forehead. Through half-opened eyes, Balbus saw Caesar’s approach and attempted to sit up straighter, the pain of the movement evident on his face.
“Where is Septimius?” Caesar called, after dismounting and approaching the wounded legate. Caesar had not seen the legate of the Twelfth anywhere along the line.
Balbus shook his head. “I do not know. I believe he fell early on. Berserkers have broken through several times, trying to slay the officers and seize the eagles. I have assumed command of both legions.”
Back down the line, the eagle of the Seventh stood firmly planted in the ground and surrounded by a blood-spattered honor guard of legionaries ready to protect it from any enemy warriors that might try to seize it. Judging from the number of Belgic corpses lying on the ground before them, the legionaries had already fought off several such attempts. Not far from them, the eagle of the Twelfth stood, similarly guarded.
“You have let things get out of hand here, general!” Caesar said disgustedly as he surveyed the disorder in the entangled ranks.
“We were overwhelmed on the right,” Balbus managed to say defensively in his semi-conscious state. “I sent word to you for help, Caesar. Where is it?”
“Order must be regained,” Caesar said, ignoring the question. He knew full well that he should have listened to Labienus, that he should have pulled back at least one of the legions on the far left and sent it to bolster the right, that he should not have sent them charging across the river and off to who knows where to rundown the insignificant enemy that had been shattered on the left. Caesar considered his options. The Eighth and Eleventh legions, in the center, were facing a newly invigorated enemy charge and were barely holding their own. They could not spare a single man. Labienus, on the other hand, was somewhere in the forest across the river with two legions. If only he could be recalled, his legions could arrive on the field practically in the rear of the Belgic lines. Then, it would be the Belgae that would have to worry about their own escape route.
“Marcellus!” Caesar called to one of his aides, never taking his eyes from the battle. “Marcellus?”
When the aide did not respond, Caesar turned irately, but was instantly taken aback. He and Balbus saw it at the same time and both men gasped.
Caesar’s two aides were still mounted, but they were quite unable to respond. Their faces were contorted in pain as they gurgled up blood, two feet of red steel protruding from each man’s chest. Behind them, grimacing Gallic bodyguards withdrew the deadly blades, allowing the twitching bodies to fall to the ground. In the moment that Caesar’s mind registered the betrayal, several things ran through his thoughts at once. Why did he only see three mounted Gauls where there should have been twenty? Who had paid these three to betray him? Where was Valens? Had he not been riding just behind him?
As Caesar weighed all of these things in the space of a heartbeat, he saw the killer look in the eyes of the third Gaul, whose sword had yet to be blemished. Caesar knew this man intended to slay him. This was confirmed when the Gaul shouted a war cry and drove his mount straight for the dismounted proconsul. The links in the Gaul’s long mail shirt clanked loudly as his horse quickly covered the short distance, and his sword was poised for the killing stroke. Caesar ducked out of the way at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the murderous steel that cut through the air a hands-breadth from his head. In the sudden move, he lost his step and fell to the ground. He was just struggling back to his feet when the other two mounted Gauls charged at him.
“Help, damn you!” Caesar heard Balbus’s voice call in an attempt to get the attention of the nearby ranks of legionaries. “Help the proconsul!”
But the din of battle was too great. Balbus’s pleas were swallowed up by the clatter of a thousand swords on as many shields, the cries of fighting men, and the screams of the dying. Balbus himself could hardly stand, so he was of no use, but the physician took the cue from his employer and ran to place himself in the path between the charging Gauls and the proconsul. The physician drew his sword to face the attackers, but he was no warrior. He held the weapon as awkwardly as if it were a piece of wet hemp. His feeble stroke was effortlessly batted away. An instant later, a muscled arm made a downward swing, and a longsword cleaved the physician’s skull to the nose.
Caesar saw now that the first Gaul was coming back again, and the other two would be on him in moments. The sacrifice of the physician had given him time to draw his own sword, but what could he do? He was a thin man, middle-aged, and never considered to be a powerful warrior in any respects. He had some skill with the sword, but his primary weapons had always been his mind, his craftiness, and his steadfastness when all prospects looked bleak. The Gauls that now surrounded him had shoulders twice the breadth of his. He had hand-picked them himself for their youth and strength. They had ridden with him for the entire spring campaign. He knew their ferocity, and what they could do to an enemy. He had seen them choke Belgic warriors with their bare hands. How could he hope to face them in combat?
The three Gauls looked down at him, and then at each other, apparently undecided on which should have the honor of slaying him. Even now, with death so close, Caesar could not help but wonder who could have put them up to it. It had to have
been a wealthy man, for only an excessive offer would have enticed them away from the plunder and pay they had been guaranteed in Caesar’s service. And Caesar had paid them handsomely. He was not sure what bothered him more, the betrayal or the fact that he had wasted a good forty denarii a piece on these scoundrels.
“Get on with it!” Caesar snapped at them.
The Gauls smiled at each other, and then the largest of the three coaxed his horse forward, casually raising his sword high for the killing blow. Caesar thought for a moment about trying to deflect it, but then the thunder of hooves, very close and very fast, broke his concentration.
“General!” a voice shouted behind him.
Caesar turned to see a tribune, riding at full gallop, and charging at the Gaul. The tribune held a legionary’s shield by one hand, and this he hurled at Caesar. The shield landed at Caesar’s feet, and he quickly took it up and ducked behind it. The large Gaul had saved his sword stroke for the oncoming tribune, but at the last instant, the tribune reined in his horse and dropped to the ground to stand beside Caesar behind the shield. Both peered over the top of the shield with swords in hand as the Gauls approached.
“Are you mad, young man, giving up that mount?” Caesar exclaimed.
“I am a foot soldier!” the tribune said simply. Then, as Caesar tried to digest that, the young man commanded. “Shield up! Higher!”
Caesar obeyed instantly, just as the first Gaul made a pass. The bone-shattering blow that followed nearly knocked the boss from Caesar’s hand. The impact from the longsword was powerful enough to open seams in the plywood, allowing light to shine through, and his hand ached as though it had gone under a stone mill. He suddenly realized that the tribune had crouched low as the Gaul had passed, and had issued powerful blows of his own, but at the legs of the charging horse. The gladius had dug deep into the beast’s flesh, cuts delivered with skill and precision, especially from such a short weapon. Now the horse stumbled. It protested as its rider desperately pulled on the reins to keep it standing. Seeing his chance, the tribune bolted from the cover of the shield, leaped into the air, and brought his gladius down two-handed into the Gaul’s back. Mail links parted. The man’s longsword fell from his hand, and a rush of blood ran down his side, painting his leg and his horse’s coat dark red. The Gaul’s eyes grew wide with pain when the gladius was withdrawn, and then the eyes lost their life entirely when the tribune’s blade, sweeping in a wide arc, separated the man’s head from his shoulders.
While Caesar’s one defender was momentarily occupied, the other two Gauls rushed at him with swords swinging. Again, Caesar brought the shield up to protect him, but this time the double blow of the powerful longswords carried it away. It flipped in the air several times, landing several paces away. He was now completely unprotected. Wheeling their mounts around, the Gauls raised their weapons. Caesar instinctively ducked, expecting to be hacked to pieces by the longswords at any moment.
He held his breath, but the swords never came.
Instead, he heard two men grunt above him, and then felt their large frames fall from the saddle and impact the ground beside him with a crash of their mail armor. Caesar looked up to see that both men were dead, their bodies transfixed with at least three javelins each.
Standing beside the body of the Gaul whom he had decapitated, Lucius had watched helplessly as the two remaining bodyguards had attacked Caesar. He was only a few paces away, but they might as well have been miles. There was nothing he could do. Then, as he had watched the big Gauls raise their swords for the killing strike, javelins had come out of the dust, several of them. Enough ran true to kill the Gauls in their saddles, and he breathed a heavy sigh as he saw both men fall from their mounts.
He saw the proconsul slowly rise to his feet. Caesar was safe, at least for the time being. But where in Hector’s girdle had those javelins come from?
Lucius got his answer when, out of the roiling dust, came a troop of legionaries, rushing to Caesar’s side. He saw many familiar faces among them. They were the men of the 9th century, with Vitalis at their head. The centurion took one look at Caesar, and then at Lucius. His face first registered shock, and then disbelief.
“How in Juno’s name?” he said in amazement. “Is that you, Lucius?”
Lucius smiled and then nodded to his old comrade. “You came not a moment too soon.”
“Our few numbers landed us a spot in the third line for this engagement,” Vitalis said, “I saw the proconsul under attack.” He then glanced at Caesar who was already conversing with Balbus and several newly arrived tribunes and seemed oblivious to the men who just saved his life.
For an instant, Lucius saw his old comrade in the face of Vitalis. For a moment, the rigid centurion was gone, and his old tent mate shined through. He was genuinely glad to see Lucius, and Lucius him. Then his face drew grave again. He and the other men of the 9th looked worn down.
“We are depleted,” Vitalis said. “We man the rear, but we have seen our share of the fighting this day.” He gestured to the field now swirling with Belgic warriors. “Eleven of our number lie slain out there, where the lines were an hour ago.”
Suddenly Caesar was standing beside them. He had dismissed the tribunes who had presumably run off to relay his orders down the line.
“My thanks, friends,” Caesar said, nodding at both men. “I am fortunate you came when you did.” Then turning to Lucius, he said, “I do not believe I have seen you before, young man.”
Somewhat overawed at being addressed directly by the proconsul, Lucius looked back at him quizzically. Then, he suddenly realized that he still wore the tribune’s garb.
“I am not an officer, sir.”
“You aren’t? Then what is the meaning of this? Who in Hades are you?”
“This is Lucius Domitius, General,” Vitalis said. “He is a soldier in my century. I am Vitalis of the 9th Century, Seventh Legion.”
“Your names sound familiar,” Caesar said in a suddenly disinterested tone, his focus already turned back to the battle lines. “My thanks again to you both,” he said dismissively.
Lucius knew that he had to speak now, or he might not get the great man’s ear ever again. “Uh, general. My opportune arrival was not a coincidence.”
Caesar acted as though he had not heard him and began moving to a small mound to get a better view of over the heads of the fighting legionaries. Lucius followed after him.
“Senator Valens has betrayed you, General,” Lucius finally said.
This got Caesar’s attention, and he wheeled around to look into Lucius’s eyes, almost angered at the distraction.
“He conspired with the Nervii, general,” Lucius continued. “He paid your bodyguard to murder you when the battle turned against you.”
The proconsul stared at Lucius but said nothing, his eyes intense as he put the pieces together in his mind. After a few long moments of consideration, the comprehension of the scope of the plot registered as clearly on Caesar’s face as if Lucius had rung a bell.
Caesar then drew in close to Lucius and said under his breath, “Not a word of this to anyone, young man. Is that understood?”
Lucius nodded, slightly confused. Then, as Lucius watched, a smile appeared on the proconsul’s face, as if the plot were now behind him and he was suddenly a new man. Caesar saw the shield that had been knocked from his hands and stooped to pick it up.
“Now, Lucius Domitius, of the Seventh Legion. Do you know what it means to inspire men who are near the breaking point?”
Lucius shook his head.
“They need inspiration, Lucius,” Caesar said, gesturing to the beset legions. “And what better inspiration than to see their commander fighting in the line alongside them.”
Lucius shrugged and nodded, though he was not sure that was entirely true. He had stood in the battle line many times and had never had the wherewithal to know who was standing either side of him, much less get encouragement from the bloody general. The only encouragement an
y soldier needed was that of survival of himself and his comrades.
Caesar laughed at Lucius’s blank expression, taking it for nervousness. “Then let us go and save this army!”
Then, gesturing for Vitalis and the other men of the century to follow as well, Caesar hefted the shield and led the small band of legionaries into the fray.
XXIX
The Ninth and Tenth legions were pursuing the Atrebates through the forest, the river and the din of the battle left behind them. Shields, spears, and helmets littered the forest floor, thrown away by the shattered warriors as they fled. When the centurions were not looking, legionaries stooped to take up the finer quality items. The Atrebates had been largely scattered, but there were still groups large enough to chase down. Every now and then, a sharp cry would float across the woods as an exhausted Belgic warrior was surrounded and skewered.
The legionaries moved through the forest at wide intervals to cover more ground, a moving carpet of bronze helmets steadily advancing behind the broken foe.
Generals Labienus and Fabius rode behind the advancing Tenth Legion, keeping an eye up in the trees for any straggling Belgae who may have climbed into a tree to take a suicidal shot as they passed beneath. Labienus had lost count of how many hundred dead Belgic warriors he had seen with eyes open in a final expression of terror. Most of the brave ones had died on the battlefield. The rest were frightened youths too foolish to know what they had gotten into or old men whose legs were too feeble to outrun the conditioned legionaries.
Though he was following Caesar's instructions in taking the Ninth and Tenth so far from the battle, Labienus was still worried. Separating the army in the face of the enemy went against every principal of arms he knew. He often found himself glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a messenger from Caesar riding hard with orders to break off the pursuit and return to the main body. But none came.
Rome: Fury of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 22