Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Then we will bring our forces to bear on them before they can prepare.”

  He noted Galronus and barely gave a glance to the state of the man and his new steed.

  “Good. Have your cavalry form up and chase down those horsemen. I don’t want them to reach their city and give warning of our imminent arrival. Make sure you get rid of them all, though.”

  Galronus blinked.

  “Legate, that is foolhardy at best. We should be moving slowly and carefully, given what just happened, not splitting the force up and riding into unknown territory.”

  Crassus sneered at him.

  “Coward! It was your cavalry and your scouts that gave them this chance. My legion took it away from them again. Now get out there and put down that cavalry.”

  Galronus shook his head.

  “Impossible, sir. They know the terrain and have a considerable start on us. We’ll never stop them all. Besides, they likely had a reserve of scouts watching that are already busy reporting to their leaders. Whatever we do now, they will already be prepared.”

  Crassus issued a low growl.

  “If you will not lead your men down there, I will select someone who will.”

  The Remi officer smiled.

  “Good luck, then.”

  Ignoring the crimson face and the spluttering of the legate, Galronus wheeled his horse and rode back along the line to the cavalry.

  Tribune Tertullus sighed.

  “I warned you.”

  Galronus nodded gently and drew a sharp breath as the capsarius put the final stitch in his shoulder wound.

  “It is his loss now. He can remove me from command, but under the terms of our agreement with Caesar, he can do nothing more to me without the general’s authorisation. I’m quite safe. Safer than ever now, in fact, since I’m not down there on a lunatic errand.”

  Tertullus turned and glanced down the slope.

  The cavalry had been placed under the command of one of the other junior tribunes and had ridden off ahead to chase down the Sotiates on Crassus’ order. The legion, however, was moving at triple time, close behind them.

  Back here, among the baggage train among the few wounded, Galronus and Tertullus sat on a gently-bouncing wagon as it descended the slope, bringing up the rear of the Roman column. It was a rather impressive vantage point, allowing them an unrivalled view of the entire column stretching out ahead and the valley beyond with its steep slopes.

  “Still,” the tribune said, scratching his greying scalp, “it might have been better if you’d stayed with your men. With Sextius commanding them, they’re probably more of a danger to each other than the enemy.”

  Galronus grinned.

  “You’re assuming they’ll do as he says. Most of those men and their commanders are as loyal to me and to Varus as the legions are to Caesar. They are well aware of what my refusal means and they will not put themselves in unnecessary danger. Your Sextius might find he has bitten off a little more than he can chew trying to command a large force of Gauls.”

  The tribune laughed and leaned back.

  “I hope you’re right. From what I hear of Aquitania, we’re likely to need every man we have before this is over.”

  “Hardly,” Galronus said with a sly smile. “Your man Crassus tells me he could charge the very gates of the underworld with his precious Seventh.”

  “Ha.”

  The two men fell silent as the truth of the situation continued to nag at them both.

  Down ahead, something was happening. A blast from a buccina rang out, to be picked up quickly by others.

  “What was that?”

  Galronus squinted off into the distance. A mass of dark shapes were issuing from the trees and copses to either side of the valley.

  “Ambush” the commander said flatly. “I was expecting something like this.”

  The tribune frowned and looked at the activity in the distance.

  “The cavalry are separate from the legion, out ahead.”

  Galronus nodded.

  “My officers were expecting it too. As soon as they saw the enemy, they’ll have pulled ahead to somewhere they can marshal their forces.”

  Tertullus shook his head.

  “There are a hell of a lot of them. The legion could be in trouble.”

  Again, Galronus shrugged.

  “Not my concern anymore. I’m just a passenger now.”

  The tribune narrowed his eyes at the Remi commander.

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do. We need to do something.”

  Galronus squared his shoulders, wincing at the pain in the fresh wound. The capsarius, who had moved on to the next man, turned an angry glare on him.

  “If you undo all my work, when I re-stitch it I’ll sew a coin inside. Sit still.”

  Once again the two men turned their gaze to the activity ahead. The valley was narrow and with steep sides. The auxiliary cavalry had formed up ahead, creating a barrier that prevented the remaining enemy horsemen from rejoining their fellow tribesmen, but remained largely removed from the action.

  It was hard to credit how well the trap had been laid, really. The number of Sotiates pouring down the slopes onto the Roman forces was more than a match, the enemy outnumbering the legion by perhaps two to one. How they had managed to secrete such a large force in such a small area without being spotted earlier was truly marvellous.

  The legion had organised into squares against the enemy coming at them from all sides.

  “At least he’s had the sense to form them defensively” Galronus nodded. “I’d have half expected him to charge them.”

  Tertullus shook his head.

  “I know that the lad has faults, and plenty of them, and that he has little regard for you and your men, but I think that perhaps you do him a disservice tactically.”

  Galronus turned a surprised look on him.

  “Don’t forget,” the tribune said “he pacified the north west with one legion. His methods are a little brutal, but don’t confuse aggression with stupidity. He’s fairly shrewd in terms of actual tactics.”

  The Remi commander looked distinctly unconvinced.

  “What can we do to help them?” the tribune nudged.

  “He’s under-using the forces he has.”

  “What?”

  Galronus shrugged and winced again, sucking in air through his teeth.

  “It’s a common failing I’ve seen in Roman commanders. No disrespect, but most Roman officers concentrate all their energy on the legions, to the exclusion of all others. See how, once the cavalry are out ahead, he appears to have forgotten they exist. While the legion is manoeuvring into the most protective formation possible, what is he doing with the spearmen and archers?”

  Tertullus shrugged. The three thousand or so spearmen and archers had taken position part way up the slope, creating a wall of bristling points that could hold most forces from reaching the support column.

  “They’re protecting the baggage. That’s a common role for them and I, for one, am happy they’re doing so, since we’re sat in one such cart.”

  Galronus frowned.

  “Why are you here? I’m wounded and removed from command, but you’re a tribune. Your place is down there.”

  Tertullus sighed.

  “The legate likes to keep me out of danger if possible. His mother would be furious with him if anything happened to me.”

  Galronus laughed.

  “You Romans have such a strange set of values.”

  He pointed down the slope.

  “What I was trying to bring to your attention is that fully a third of the legate’s forces are standing still on the slope and waiting for the enemy to make for the wagons. The Sotiates might not have any intention of doing so, since they’re too busy slaughtering legionaries by the cartload. Wasteful.”

  “So what’s your alternative?”

  Galronus grinned and stood, wobbling slightly.

  “I may be a passenger now, but you’re
still a senior commander. Let’s take control of the auxiliaries and provide a little support.”

  Tertullus smiled and clambered down from the cart.

  “So what do we do?”

  “You take the archers and I’ll take the spear men. Imagine what damage a thousand arrows could do falling from the top of the valley side?”

  The tribune’s smile widened.

  “We might be able to thin them out quite well. And the spears?”

  “Spears are no use up there, but there are a lot of loose rocks on these hillsides. Imagine the damage a heavy rock could do rolling down that hillside and into a mass of warriors.”

  Tertullus laughed.

  “I see what you mean about not thinking exclusively.”

  Reaching up, he grasped Galronus and helped him down from the cart.

  “Come on. Let’s go and save my nephew’s backside.”

  Chapter 16

  (Iunius: Inland Aquitania, territory of the Sotiates.)

  Gaius Pinarius Rusca licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth in panic. What in the name of all the Gods was he doing here? The closest he’d ever come to fighting was a tussle with a peer who stole his seat at the games when he was a teenager.

  Eight months ago he had been sitting in his cosy little triclinium contemplating his future with the delectable Laevinia and now, standing on this springy turf with his legs shaking uncontrollably and a dangerous slackening around his bladder, he couldn’t believe how excited he’d been to have had his posting to the legions approved.

  His father had served under the elder Crassus years ago and had managed to secure him the most prestigious tribunate within the Seventh beneath the young legate, since when Rusca had spent the past months in Vindunum lording it over the others and turning his ability with numbers and attention to detail to the disposition of units and supply problems.

  A distant bellow of rage brought his attention rudely back to the current situation.

  “Hold the line!” he shouted, noting the way his voice cracked in fear and hoping that no one else had.

  The legate had sent the cavalry on chasing the Sotiates and had marched the legions as fast as they could move in formation down the hill behind.

  They had descended, eager to bring Roman vengeance to these skirmishing horsemen and Rusca had watched from his forward position as the pursuing auxiliary cavalry engaged the enemy once again, only to be completely cut off from the rest of the army as untold thousands of screaming, bloodthirsty barbarians, some wearing wild animal pelts around their shoulders, had poured seemingly out of the very ground to either side of them.

  Rusca’s world had fallen apart. He was a natural mathematician; a studious and quiet young man hoping to achieve at least a minor public appointment back in the city on the strength of his military experience. What he was truly not, he thought, as the embarrassing warm trickle began, was a soldier.

  Crassus himself had been close by and Rusca had been surprised at how the man dealt with the situation. The legate was no older than he and had only served the legions for a couple of years and yet he took control of the disaster like those Cretan bull leapers grabbed their acrobatic steeds and pulled the legion together; like a veteran commander.

  On the legate’s orders, the legion had split into individual cohorts, each forming a defensive square in the face of the charging enemy. Suddenly, and without time to even attempt mental preparation, the inexperienced senior tribune had found himself in nominal command of the Second cohort as they braced for the clash, though in truth, the cohort’s senior centurion was already shouting the appropriate commands, most of the troops largely unaware of even the presence of the tribune.

  The square consisted of shield walls thirty men across and four deep, with the tribune, the cornicens and the capsarii in the central space.

  The Sotiates, wrapped in their pelts, furs, leathers and occasional mail shirts poured down the slope like a shabby sea, crashing against the rocks of the Second cohort with a spray of blood, spittle and sweat and Rusca felt a fresh wave of panic as the shield walls on two sides gave a little under the onslaught, bowing inwards toward the non-combatants in the centre. The scent of urine brought a burning shame to the tribune’s cheeks, though he was sure no one would notice in the general stink of sweat that threatened to make him gag.

  How could there be so many barbarians in all the world? Already the shield walls were under attack by a vast force, and yet all he could see from his central vantage point were yet more and more enemy warriors charging, screaming into the fray.

  “Hold the line!” he bellowed again, aware of how pointless it was as a command. As if the men were about to part and let the sea of Gauls into their midst.

  A commotion drew his attention to the north face of the formation, where a particularly violent assault was taking place, the enemy literally throwing themselves in a blind rage on top of the shield wall, breaking the square. As he watched, a huge barbarian with a broad-bladed axe appeared, the weapon held high above his head, as he stood on the back of a fallen comrade, one foot held firm on a discarded Roman shield, and brought the vicious weapon down in a massive swing.

  Something bounced off Rusca’s cheek guard and rattled around the helmet’s bronze rim, and his sight went black.

  In an urgent and terrified panic, Rusca raised his free hand, his sword arm hanging pointlessly at his side, and wiped desperately at his suddenly blind eyes. What had happened?

  His vision returned as he wiped the excess blood from his eyes and he gagged, realising that the axe blow had sent half the legionary’s head flying through the air in pieces. Stepping back, pale and shaking, Rusca leaned forward and vomited copiously, fresh waves of horror assailing him as shards of bone and fractured teeth fell out of his helmet where they had become lodged following the blow.

  How he remained standing at that point, white, terrified and sick, he would never know, but the young tribune’s world changed in that moment.

  He stared down at the fragments of the unknown legionary on the floor below him and spat the remains of the bile away. Reaching up with a shaking arm, he unlaced his helmet and let it fall, blood-soaked and dented, to the ground with the rest of the detritus.

  Blinking away more of the sweat and blood, he reached down for the crimson linen scarf around his neck, studied it until he found a relatively dry and clean section, and wiped his face, noting with surprise the sheer quantity of blood that was still there.

  He looked around him, his terror having metamorphosised into something different; something beyond mere fear. Rusca was going to die today and now that he knew it, he felt curiously prepared. The legionary who had succumbed to the axe blow had died so instantaneously he couldn’t possibly have felt the pain for longer than a heartbeat.

  The cohort was collapsing around him.

  What had begun as five hundred men had perhaps halved already, and two areas of the shield wall were precariously thin.

  As he watched, contemplating what he could do to help, there was a second violent clash in that same spot, huge powerful warriors leaping onto and across the shield wall with apparent unconcern for their own life. Suddenly, like the bursting of a dam, the shield wall gave, and three wild, growling men burst through.

  The centurion, somewhere off to Rusca’s left, called his orders and the breech was quickly sealed, men pushing from either side until they connected and formed a solid front once again. At a second order, the few free capsarii in the centre, ready to tend to any wounded men who were passed back inside from the line, grasped their swords and stepped forward to intercept the three Gauls who were making straight for the man in the burnished cuirass, clearly the senior officer.

  It took Rusca a moment to realise that they were rushing to protect him and he felt a fresh wave of shame rise on his cheeks. There were men he had met this past half year, men who occupied the same position as he in other legions, who would think nothing of charging, bare-handed, into the enemy at this po
int. Yet here he was being nothing but a burden to the men under his command.

  For a moment, the fatalism that had clouded his thoughts these last moments threatened to drive him into action. It would be nice to go to the Elysian fields knowing that he had made one heroic stand with his men and fought like a soldier.

  Unfortunately his knees didn’t see things the same way and refused to carry him forward, instead trembling uncontrollably and threatening to make him collapse to the ground.

  Four capsarii leapt in front of him, one slipping on the mess of blood, bone and vomit and crashing to the ground, causing a fresh wave of guilt and shame to batter the tribune. The other three ran at the intruders, gladius in one hand and dagger in the other, their shields already discarded to allow for medical duties.

  Rusca watched, shuddering, as the men fought, stabbing, slashing and hacking at the barbarians, who returned the favour, their own swords and axes swinging and slicing. The tribune couldn’t pick out the detail in the flurry of action, his knees barely holding him upright, and the moment he realised that the capsarii had failed, his trembling legs finally gave way, bringing him to a kneeling position, as though penitent. Shuddering, he collapsed to all fours in the filth.

  The capsarii had dispatched two of the Sotiate warriors, but the third seemed to be entirely unharmed as he stabbed down almost casually, ending the life of the man who had been attacking him, and then strode purposefully across toward the tribune.

  The soldier who had slipped in the mess before the tribune was already picking himself up, sword in hand, ready to stand and defend his commander to the last.

  “Get back!”

  The capsarius jumped in shock as Rusca put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him backwards, sliding him to the rear and away from the approaching warrior.

  His father had been a soldier; ten times the soldier he could ever hope to be, and had imparted a great deal of military expertise around the dinner table over the years, particularly when his uncles had been visiting. In this moment, at the end of his life, Rusca could clearly remember one such pearl of wisdom: ‘in battle, anything goes’. There is no right or wrong way. The noble warrior faced his enemy and stared him in the eye as they fought; the noble warrior would allow an opponent mercy if he sought it; the noble warrior looked after his equipment and followed his training to the letter. All good and noble, but the victorious warrior did the unexpected, kicked, bit, head-butted and dodged away. He did whatever he could to be the victorious warrior.