Fronto growled.
‘Galronus said the Atrebates, the Aduatuci and the Nervii were the ones to watch. He was bloody right.’
He frowned and rubbed his temple.
‘Someone’s got to deal with them. Can you take command here? Lead the Tenth?’
Labienus nodded. ‘Of course, but what will you do?’
Fronto smiled.
‘I’m going to take the Sixth Cohort only and go save the wagons and guard our rear.’
Labienus shrugged.
‘Sounds dangerous, but good luck.’
Fronto grinned.
‘Titus, we’re in the middle of a battle. Danger’s kind of the norm, don’t you think?’
He scoured the rear ranks of the Tenth and spotted their chief centurion.
‘Lucretius? Call your cohort to order and follow me!’
The centurion, a veteran with snowy-white hair that made him look considerably older than he truly was, saluted, and began shouting orders to his subordinates. Moments later, he strode back from the assembling cohort.
‘What’s up, sir?’
Fronto pointed up the hill to where the enemy were already now converged on the carts, which had come to a stop, the column being held up by the attack.
‘Trouble with the wagons. We’re going to save the day, as usual, Lucretius.’
The centurion nodded and turned to his men.
‘At the double-time, to the wagons! Prepare to charge on arrival!’
Fronto smiled and drew his sword. As the legionaries began to half-march, half-run toward the wagons, he fell in beside them. He and Lucretius picked up their pace to reach the front of the relief column as they ran. The centurion grinned at his commander.
‘Did you know that the soldiers think you actually look for trouble to get involved in, sir?’
Fronto laughed.
‘It’s not a long way from the truth, Lucretius.’
As they closed on the enemy, they could see in much more detail what was happening. Two columns, each of perhaps seven or eight hundred warriors, had broken cover after the main attack and made straight for where they assumed the staff officers to be. Having arrived, they had either discovered their error and decided to attack the wagons instead or, more likely, had not yet discovered, in the large staging area of wagons and riders, that the command unit were not present.
Next to Fronto, Lucretius bellowed ‘Attack!’
The cohort roared as they swept past the officers. Fronto was momentarily taken aback, expecting the traditional slowly advancing shield wall. But then, Lucretius was right. Adapting to the situation, a shield wall would be no good here as the warriors swarmed around and over the wagons, killing their drivers and the oxen drawing the vehicles.
Taking a deep breath and raising his shield protectively, Fronto shouted a quick prayer to Nemesis and, aiming for the nearest wagon’s assailants, ran forward.
There was no strategy to the attack. As men to both left and right struggled, the result was, for Fronto, a foregone conclusion. There were maybe fifteen hundred Belgae here, but there were five hundred Romans, and they were more disciplined and better equipped.
Fronto reached the wagon and saw a Nervian warrior with a spear thrusting up at the rider, who was squirming in his seat, trying to avoid the vicious point. The legate ran up behind the attacker and drove his gladius to the hilt in the man’s back just below the right shoulder blade. The body went limp and fell to one side. As it did, Fronto juggled his sword into his shield hand and grabbed the falling spear. With a grin, he passed it up to the wagon driver.
‘Pick a few off!’
The man grasped the spear gratefully and began to thrust down with it into the warriors at the far side as Fronto returned his sword to the correct hand. There was a noise behind him, just a faint grunt, and pure instinct led the legate to duck to the left and spin. As he did so, the warrior that had been closing behind him thrust out his sword into the empty air where, a moment earlier, Fronto’s kidney had been.
The man lurched forward in surprise as his blow foundered, and Fronto stepped neatly in from the side and drove his blade into the man’s neck just at the base, above the man’s tunic. It took some effort to haul the sword back out of the man as he collapsed, dead instantly, his spinal cord severed.
Fronto glanced around. There were a number of men nearby who presented ready targets and were not currently occupied by the legionaries, who were working their way efficiently toward the wagons.
He lunged for the nearest man, obviously one of the wealthier warriors, for he could afford a helmet and was fully dressed in good quality clothes. The bearded barbarian took a stance that surprised Fronto, reminding him more of the crouch of a gladiator circling his opponent than a Celtic warrior in the midst of a pitch battle.
‘Oh, come on!’
He stabbed at the warrior with his gladius and the man desperately turned the blow aside with his large, unwieldy Celtic blade. Fronto readied himself for a counter-attack and stared in astonishment as the warrior turned and fled among his own men.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked of nobody in particular.
The situation here was rapidly coming under control. The Nervii who had attacked the column of carts seemed to have lost heart and, as Fronto casually dispatched another warrior, they broke and ran; not from the field, but to join their comrades who were pressing the legions. Fronto looked up at the man on the cart who was wielding his spear with great relief.
‘I presume you can handle things now?’
‘Yes sir.’
Fronto nodded.
‘Get all the wagons marshalled here and as soon as each one’s in position, get the drivers and staff armed and in position to protect them from any other attack.’
The soldier saluted.
‘Oh,’ Fronto added as an afterthought, ‘and send someone back past the train to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions and tell them to pick up the pace. Tell them we’ve engaged the Belgae and we’re in the shit. They need to join the Twelfth on the right flank as soon as they’re here, alright?’
The man nodded and turned to his companions to begin calling out the orders.
Fronto nodded, satisfied with the situation at the rear, and located Lucretius and his standard bearer and cornicen.
‘I think we’re probably done here. The rearguard will be here shortly, and I doubt there’s any more enemy units lurking around the rear. We should get back to the Tenth.’
The centurion nodded and gestured at the cornicen, who sounded the recall. Pausing only to dispatch the few surviving fallen Belgae, the Sixth Cohort rallied to the standard and formed into centuries. Lucretius gave further orders and the cohort turned and moved off at a fast march to rejoin the fighting on the left flank, with Fronto running alongside.
As they reached the rear ranks of the Tenth, Fronto was surprised to see Labienus and Brutus in conversation with Caesar. He growled under his breath.
‘Lucretius, get to work.’
The centurion saluted and then filtered the Sixth Cohort back into the lines of defenders, bolstering the numbers, while Fronto marched irritably across to the group of officers.
‘Problems?’
Caesar turned to him and blinked.
‘Not problems, Fronto. All my senior officers are with the legions and I need to be apprised of the situation.’
Fronto growled.
‘The situation is that we’re in the shit. Labienus is supposed to be commanding the Tenth while I was away, not reporting to his commander. The situation’s a bit perilous for wandering around the battlefield and passing the time of day.’
Caesar glared at him and ground his teeth, but before he could speak, Fronto pointed back in the direction from whence the general had come.
‘The Twelfth are seriously outnumbered, hard-pressed, and have no support. In that position, morale plays as much a part as strength, numbers, or discipline. How much of a morale boost do you think it gave them
to see their commander desert them and wander off across the battlefield to go chat to another legion?’
Caesar’s opening mouth closed again. For a moment he looked astonished, and slowly his anger was replaced by grudging acceptance.
‘What do you suggest, Fronto?’
‘If you hold any hope of pulling our arses out of the fire today, we need the Twelfth to hold until the relief arrives. It might do them some good if all their officers pitched in and helped. In fact, we’ve got enough officers here, really. I could use Labienus, but Brutus might be of use over there.’
Caesar nodded slowly.
‘I agree, yes. A show of bravery and ‘mucking in’ from the officer corps. Come, Brutus.’
With the briefest of nods at Fronto, the general and his young companion strode back across the battlefield toward the beleaguered Twelfth Legion. The legate watched them go and then turned back to Labienus and rolled his eyes.
‘Shall we get back to the real work?’
Labienus smiled at him.
‘Only you could get away with scolding your commanding officer like a naughty child, Fronto. You do make me laugh sometimes.’
* * * * *
Paetus stared at the man in front of him. He had known Fronto for years and the legate had not even recognised him. Oh, certainly he was wearing Belgic gear and he had grown a beard, but surely that could not disguise him that easily?
The plan had failed. That was clear from the moment the two ambushing units of Nervii had left the woods. The wagons had rolled into view and the warriors had charged, but there was no mounted command unit, just the rear end of the Twelfth Legion and then the carts. The bastard had changed the marching order. How did he know?
It had not stopped the Nervii and their allies anyway. They’d missed the opportunity of removing the commanders but, given the amount of preparation that had gone into this attack and the level to which they and their allies had now committed themselves there was no point in changing plans or calling off the attack. They outnumbered Caesar’s army and had the advantages of surprise and preparation. They could win this anyway, without taking down the staff.
The disappointment to Paetus was crushing. Now he would have to stay through the entire battle to make sure that Caesar did not escape alive. Tricky, though, as it was possible that, even when the Nervii won, they would take issue with Paetus for the failure of his plan. Still, he could worry about that when it happened. Right now, he had other issues…
Fronto.
The legate of the Tenth faced him with gladius and shield like a true soldier of Rome, unstoppable and efficient. Paetus felt the panic rise in his throat. Oh, he had trained as a soldier, of course, but for many years now his days and nights were a constant flow of comfortable chairs, scrawling figures on wax tablets, and planning from behind a desk. It had been years since he had even drawn his sword and the recent exercise he had undergone could not replace the fighting skills and instinct he had long since lost.
He dropped into what he hoped was a combative stance. Since Fronto had not recognised him, he might get away with this. Hell, he really did not want to kill Fronto, even if he thought for a moment that he could. Fronto was one of very few people in Caesar’s army who actually seemed to care.
The legate grinned at him, and the smile was horrible. Paetus could suddenly understand how Fronto achieved his reputation and respect. It was a wonder the enemy did not flee just at his scowl.
In a blur of movement, the legate lunged at him. It was like watching a snake uncoil he was so damned fast. In a desperate move, Paetus swung his sword at Fronto’s attack and managed by some miracle of luck to knock the blade away. He stared for a moment at the legate and, turning, ran like a cowardly child from a bully, back to the west.
Around him, several other Nervian warriors were now fleeing the scene, though they were doing so with determined looks and there was evidently no fear or cowardice involved as they ran to regroup with their countrymen attacking the legions. Paetus, unnoticed among their number, ran on and, as the warriors turned and joined the Atrebates who were busy swarming over the defences of the Ninth and Tenth, the frightened prefect continued on past them and into the woods from where the attack had been launched.
* * * * *
Crispus pushed his way through the lines of his men, the noise around him deafening as the Eleventh fought for their lives among a press of screaming, bloodthirsty warriors. The legate, educated and bright, thin and well-groomed, was currently a sight that would have sent his mother into fits.
Fronto’s influence was clear to those around him these days. His tone had matured as he deliberately fought to keep his mannerisms military and forthright, where his family had always taught him to hold himself as an orator. He now moved with the deliberate and powerful certainty of a soldier. But mostly, the change was clear in his appearance.
The bronze cuirass, embossed with the head of Medusa, now carried more than a dozen dents, one of which had actually punctured the metal. Some of the leather pteruges hanging from his shoulders and belt were missing or cleaved off halfway. His tunic was smeared and dirty, and one sleeve hung raggedly down, his sword and shield bore the rents, dents and viscera of a warrior in the fiercest of battles.
And the men around him cheered as he passed; a commander so close to, and beloved of, his men that Crispus could do no wrong. He grinned at a centurion as he pushed past.
‘Just like harvest, eh, Publius?’
The centurion laughed.
‘Reapin’ time, sir…’
Crispus continued on, his eyes fixed on the crimson plume among the helmets ahead.
‘Balbus?’ he called, and the heavy-set legate of the Eighth turned toward him as he raised his shield to ward off a blow. The older officer, himself involved in the front line of combat, noted the approach of his peer from the Eleventh and pulled back from the worst of the fighting, allowing the line around him to close up.
A moment later, the two officers had retreated from the men desperately defending the low, partially-constructed rampart against the tremendous force that had swept down the hill and across the river. Even though that central army was the largest concentration of the enemy on the field, Crispus could see the reserves of the Belgae waiting on the north bank to see where they were needed.
‘It would appear that these barbarians will not break, unlike the Belgae we’ve faced before.’
Balbus nodded.
‘They’re a hardy lot, and I think we’ll have to kill the lot of them. There’ll be no surrender.’ He sighed. ‘My main worry is that this could go either way. There’s a lot more of them than us, but we’ve got experience, equipment and formation. It’s worryingly possible that we’ll all just keep hacking at each other til there’s nobody left on either side.’
Crispus nodded.
‘We’ve got to do something. We have to turn the tide and start pushing them back rather that just holding them off.’
Balbus shrugged.
‘There’s precious little hope of that. The Twelfth are pinned down and unlikely to hold unless the reserves arrive, and we’re facing a large force, with another behind it. Even Rufus and Fronto are too beleaguered to do anything.’
The younger legate shook his head thoughtfully.
‘Not necessarily. That’s why I pulled out of the line and came to find you. I’ve been scanning their ranks, and I noticed the standards.’
‘What about them?’ Balbus asked, intrigued.
‘Those facing us are not Nervian ones, but the wolf standards of the Viromandui.’
‘How in the name of Minerva do you know that?’
Crispus shrugged.
‘I spent some time with the Remi auxiliary officers early in the campaign, talking to them about their countrymen. It seemed wise.’
‘Alright, so we’re facing the Viromandui then.’
‘Mostly, though there are, I believe, Nervii supporting them; and the reserve across the river are Nervii. I don�
�t know what tribes Fronto and the others are facing, but that’s not my point.’
‘Then what is?’ Even Balbus, a tremendously patient man, was beginning to become tetchy with the loquacious young legate.
‘Well, my friend, as our centurions wear crests for identification and are accompanied by the signifers, the Belgae leaders wear gold and armour and tend to be found around their own standards.’
Balbus frowned.
‘So we know where their leaders are, then.’
Crispus smiled.
‘And if we know where their leaders are, and we can manage to get to them, there’s a possibility that we can break the spirit of the tribe.’
Balbus’ face split slowly into a wide grin.
‘The Twelfth can’t do much with that information, but we have to tell that to Fronto and Rufus. Come on.’
The two legates almost ran across the empty interior of the camp toward the Ninth and Tenth, who were deeply embroiled in combat.
* * * * *
Varus stared down the slope at the horrible events unfolding across the water. The legions were clearly in trouble. As he watched, he saw a unit pull away from the flank and run to aid the baggage train that had suddenly come under attack. He growled and looked around himself. He and the thirty six surviving cavalrymen on this side of the Belgae’s barrier had rushed to the wooded edge of the slope during the initial confusion and hidden themselves from the view of the enemy.
Thousands of Belgae lay between them and the river, let alone the legions beyond. There were still thousands of cavalry beyond the hill where they had charged blindly, but the part of the Belgic reserves that had formed the fence from the spiked barriers were now manning it with long spears to prevent Varus’ men from rejoining the battle.
He could not see what was going on, but he knew his officers. By now the alae would have reformed out of sight over that hill and would be moving either east or west along the river to find a way to bypass the reserves, cross the river, and rejoin the battle.
But in the meantime, that left thirty seven horsemen in a perilous position, hidden from the view of the enemy reserves and cut off from their compatriots. He ground his teeth and nudged the trooper next to him.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 84