"Where will you put Labienus, then? South, in Treveri lands? At the southern extent of the Arduenna forest?"
"Yes. With the Twelfth" the general confirmed, sliding a piece across the map. "Again, he needs no supervision." He looked down at the north eastern stretches of Gaul. "That leaves us an arc around the most dangerous region. We have hemmed the area in. Now let us populate it."
He slid the remaining three counters across the map: IX, X, and XIV.
"We have two experienced legions and one relatively green one. And we have a number of experienced commanders left. I am inclined to place the two strongest legions at the centre of this entire web, on the western border of the great forest, where they can come to the support of most of the other legions in short order. That would be the Ninth and Tenth."
Priscus nodded. "My men will be ready and eager, general."
The general rubbed his chin and sat back in his chair. "I hope they can, Priscus. I'm moving you out again. You'll be coming to serve directly on my staff."
Priscus stared at the map. "Then who… no. No, no, no, no!"
"Yes, Gnaeus. Young Crassus will take command of the Tenth. I need you in your advisory and strategic role, much as you are now. Surely you must have noticed that I've been grooming you for the role all year. Only the lack of available legates kept you in command."
"The lack of available 'experienced' legates, you said, general. Crassus is a boy and one, I suspect, with a dangerous temper."
"He is also the son of one of my two most powerful colleagues. With Pompey's grip ever on the increase in Rome, I might need Crassus' support at any time. To that end, I will grant his younger boy all the honours I can. The place he can do the least damage is with my best legion, who will not be swayed to stupidity. Especially since you will not be joining me until the spring. I want you to winter with Crassus and the Tenth and guide him into the role."
"Is there no other way, general?" Priscus stared at the map and then grabbed the legion list and staff list and started to run his finger down them.
"What of the Fourteenth?"
"I shall be posting them to the far northeast, in Eburones territory. It's very much out of the way and not in an area of direct threat, so they should be safe enough. Besides, they being one of the weakest, greenest legions, I am hardly going to place them under the command of a green, weak officer, am I?"
"So who?"
"Cotta. Since Cicero has the Eleventh, Cotta will take the Fourteenth. And with him, Sabinus to keep thing stable. Given their somewhat distant position, I shall also assign a cavalry contingent to Sabinus."
Priscus was still shaking his head at the bleak prospect of grooming that angry-looking boy to command his pride and joy, but something struck him as he peered at the map. "Are you sure about this position here?" He stabbed his finger down at the point where Caesar had placed the XIV marker.
"We have had no reports of unrest from the Eburones. It will be very much a garrison to control the flank of the army."
"It looks bloody cut-off and dangerous to me, general. It's surrounded to the north and east by the Rhenus and beyond that are half a million angry Germanic monsters looking to rip off our heads and piss down our necks."
"I am assured that the river there is far too wide for a force of any size to cross. If anything, it is a better defensive position than most of the others."
"Still looks damn dangerous to me, general. You really interested in my advice?"
"Go on."
"Either pull them back a way to the west or give them the support of a few veterans at the least. Maybe we can move the Ninth or Tenth up there and leave just one legion floating here?"
Caesar pored over the map for a while and finally tapped the position of Gesoriacum. "This is the most stable region, and the Morini are now thoroughly cowed. We will spare half the garrison legion. Five cohorts of the Eighth under the command of their primus pilus can accompany the Fourteenth to their quarters. A few turmae of cavalry too. You approve?"
Priscus looked across the map, shaking his head. There were so many things of which he did not approve that it was hard to know where to begin. But the worst thing was that every moment longer he stared at the map, the fewer alternatives suggested themselves. It was like playing Latrunculi with Carbo. Despite the centurion's face, full of shiny, pink, open honesty, the man was devious as a snake inside a fox when it came to playing complex games. Every time they played, each new move further restricted Priscus until he reached the point where it mattered not what piece he planned to move, he could see why it would lead to him losing the game.
This map was the same.
He could move a commander to another legion, but in the end, each move left a weak legion with inadequate command, or an inadequate officer with a dangerous command, or a good officer with no one to command. It was hair-tearing. The legions could perhaps be better dispositioned, but only by splitting several legions into several-cohort vexillations, and that not only weakened each legion, but raised the number of commanders required. It seemed that Caesar had placed his pieces in the optimum positions no matter how little Priscus liked it.
Besides, something in the general's demeanour had changed following the arrival of his news and Priscus was far from sure that right now was a good time to start arguing with him. There was a strange feeling of tautness about the great man, as though touching him even with a feather might snap him. He scratched his head.
"While Balventius is going to curse me for sending his boys out there with the Fourteenth, sadly I concur, general. Shall I start to write up the orders?"
"Do so, Priscus. Thank you."
With a weary sigh, the soon-to-be-ex-legate-yet-again turned and left the tent.
Chapter Thirteen
Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth legion and pro-tem commander of the five cohorts attached to the Fourteenth, threw his gaze back and forth along the edge of the woods. Despite their veteran status, the men of the Eighth had been the first selected to scour the countryside and commandeer goods, cut timber and gather supplies - ostensibly because they were the most experienced and prepared for whatever might occur. Balventius had little doubt that in reality they suffered for their commander being subordinate to those of the Fourteenth.
Cotta's legion and its accompanying five cohorts had settled into their winter quarters only two days ago and already the tension was beginning to show between the two commanders, each of whom held the same rank and the same position as one of Caesar's staff, despite their specific assignments here. In a way, the allocation of supply harvesting to the men of the Eighth was a blessed relief, as it kept Balventius out of the constant arguments and disagreements in the command tent. While Sabinus held nominal seniority and Balventius was junior to both of them, the handling of his cohorts was still entirely his responsibility and out here, away from the now-fully-constructed camp, things were simple and military.
His gaze swept back to the fort in the distance and he could almost hear the 'frank exchanges of ideas' from here. The fortified winter quarters lay on raised ground some two miles from the river, several hundred paces from the small coppices and thickets that marked the very edge of the great forest of Arduenna. A steep incline away protected the north, but the forest still had to be cut back sufficiently to give a clear surround to the camp - and to supply timber for interior buildings - another thing that Sabinus and Cotta had argued over the necessity of.
The six centuries of the third cohort chopped wood, stripped the boles of their branches, topped and tailed the timber and then loaded the result into the wagons for transport back to the camp. Only one cohort at a time spent each watch out of the camp on such duties, rotating with the others on his orders, despite the urging of Sabinus and Cotta to speed up the process. While supplies were needed in short order, only a fool committed a third of his entire force to such duties at a time.
And so far Balventius had taken personal command of each cohort, barring his own First,
leaving that one to his subordinate. Quite apart from the constant bickering between the commanders, which drove him to leave the camp at every opportunity, something about this place had made him uneasy from the start and Sabinus and Cotta were doing nothing to ease his fears.
And as his gaze made the latest pass of the trees it appeared that those fears had been borne out.
His eye stung from the constant squinting into the sun and the endless clouds of dust rising from the work, but he was alert constantly, regardless. Something first caught his attention on the slope of the low hill off to the copse's right. By the time he had rubbed his eye clear of the dust and focused, he could count more than a dozen figures cresting the hill. Alerted by some unknown sense, he spun only to see other figures rounding the edge of the woods to the far end.
An instant appraisal borne from near five seasons of fighting in Gaul labelled them Germanic. They could be one of the Belgae tribes, but their mad, almost raging scramble towards the fight was symptomatic of those violent tribes from across the Rhenus. They lacked the pomp of the proud Belgae that Balventius had experienced: the carnyx blaring its tortured goat sounds; the waving boar and wolf standards of the Celts; the flanking cavalry that was such a strength of the Gallic tribes that Caesar had been adopting them for years into the Roman force. If they were Belgae or Gauls, they were wild ones, almost as crazed and vicious as the Germanic peoples.
"Ad Signa!" he bellowed. "Fall in to the standards. Enemy in sight!"
The reaction from his veterans was gratifying. The individual centurions, standard bearers and signifers immediately relayed the orders and started gathering their men into formation. Would they have time to beat a retreat to the walls of the fort? Would there be few enough of the bastards for a single cohort to face? The latter question was answered first as the number of men approaching along the flanks increased and he began also to pick out shapes in the woods ahead.
Retreat or die, then. Only an idiot put the honour of the legion above its survival.
Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the ramparts perhaps a quarter of a mile away up a gentle rise. A routing run would be suicidal, but a standard orderly falling back would be equally fatal. If they ran, they presented open targets to all comers, particularly missiles and cavalry. If they formed into a shielded formation and began a step-back retreat, keeping a solid front to the enemy, they would go so slowly they could easily be flanked by the enemy.
A quandary - and one that lasted in Balventius' head for only a blink of an eye. This was why a legion or vexillation needed one commander and not two: decisions needed to be made at the snap of a finger.
After all, if democracy worked, Athens would now be master of the world, not Rome.
Turning, he bellowed the orders for the cohort to form up in a single block, loose at the centre and shieldwall tight at the edge. It was a formation he had used a few times before in similar circumstances - a formation not to be found in any military treatise but devised by he and the legate Balbus. The best in flexible protection and speed.
In two dozen heartbeats the 'box' - as Balbus had called it - was complete.
No retreating shieldwall in a standard formation could hope to achieve the 'full pace' in ordered retreat without becoming entangled with the other lines of men. Barely could they hope to match even the standard military pace in those conditions. The 'box' however, called for a single line of men to create a shieldwall in a square, the rear and right sides of the formation facing in the direction of travel and the front and left still facing the enemy in retreat, so as to provide shield-facing on every front. With only a single line of men, the shieldwall could retreat without danger of colliding with their fellows and this way the entire square could maintain the full pace which would see them back at the ramparts in around the count of three hundred.
The beauty of the formation was that while the shieldwall was extremely weak with only a single line of men enforcing it, the interior of the square was open and loose enough for officers and men to move to wherever they were most needed, even at a run, and react to any pressure on the unit. Moreover, the standards could be kept at the centre and well away from the enemy.
As the cohort began to move - each centurion was now shouting their orders - Balventius eyed the enemy pouring out from the edges of the woodland and appearing among its sun dappled centre. Just over four hundred men formed the 'box', with over a quarter of those - two centuries - in the external shieldwall and the rest jogging loosely in the centre, ready to react, swords gripped tight - pila had not been brought on the foraging mission. Balventius had already estimated about twice that number of barbarians just on the northern slope, let alone those at the far side and those coming through the woods. If the enemy numbers were evenly split it would come down to a six-to-one fight. He had done well to instigate the fall back. Despite the weariness of men who have been at manual labour for over an hour, the cohort was retreating at speed and every shield and weapon was raised and ready.
At his estimate, they would cover over half the distance to the camp before the enemy were upon them, unless they suddenly produced cavalry from some gaping orifice. Briefly, he wondered whether Sabinus and Cotta had stopped arguing long enough to set up the artillery.
One hundred. At the centre of the square, in the most open space and close to the signifers, Balventius took his eye from the ground, risking the rabbit holes and undulations of the gentle slope in order to take in the general situation.
He had underestimated the speed of the enemy. The Germanic warriors were almost on them already.
"Second century to the front, Third to the rear, Fifth and Sixth to left and right respectively. Prepare to repel."
As the men at the centre of the box reordered themselves to face the incoming threat, Balventius glanced once more at the charging enemy. Were they crazed? There could be as many as three thousand of them out there, and certainly no less than two thousand. Even if they had the support of a cavalry unit as yet unseen, while there were clearly enough warriors in the band to swamp his cohort, they must be out of their minds to attack them this close to the legion's winter quarters. Just a few hundred measly paces back up the slope lay a fortified position manned by over seven thousand professional killers, all well-equipped, rested and dug in. Yes, the Germanic lunatics could cut off their cohort, and might just manage to do so before they reached safety, but they must be aware of the danger so close. The chances of them managing to leave the scene of their small victory were miniscule. Were they really so blood-crazed as to throw away their lives to destroy a cohort?
Still, the causes for the attack were moot at this point. What mattered was the battle itself.
"Ready the shieldwall on the left flank. Here they come!"
Balventius cast up a short, sharp and fervent prayer to Mars and Fortuna. The tactic that he and Balbus had prepared for such a situation was a serious gamble and untried against such a sizeable foe. He was about to either buy them a few more paces and cripple the initial attack, or hand the cohort's heads to the barbarians on a platter.
"Ready! Three… two… one… give!"
The timing was perfect, which was a necessary factor in the manoeuvre.
As the front wave of warriors threw themselves at the shieldwall in a group of perhaps twenty five men - ahead of the main bulk of their force - determined to batter down the defences and open the box, every third man in the line put all his body weight into his shield, leaning outwards even as he marched. The men to either side of him withdrew from the shieldwall and fell in behind, opening huge sections of the line to the enemy.
Surprised at the wall they were about to hit opening up the warriors howled triumphantly, some of them smashing into the one-in-three men still in position and coming up dead against their immobile shields. The rest ran, stumbled, tumbled and even fell through the line and into the interior of the box, where the legionaries of the Fifth century awaited them, swords at the ready.
As the sur
prised and apparently victorious warriors staggered around trying to right themselves and choose a target, they were already being systematically butchered by the legionaries awaiting them. Behind them, the left flank shieldwall had already reformed, sealing them in, the legionaries who manned it bracing themselves as they moved against the attacks of those still outside.
The primus pilus smiled with satisfaction. Still performing his three-hundred count, he realised he'd not even passed twenty numbers between the shieldwall opening up and every interloper being downed. By a count of twenty more the formation - which had never paused its run - had moved on, leaving the dead and dying barbarians on the grass in their wake, the rear line of legionaries taking the opportunity to stamp on them with hobnailed boots as they passed.
No time to check that flank once more. He'd have to leave that to the centurions there. The right was about to come under pressure. Had the enemy there seen the manoeuvre? Most likely not - a square of Romans had obscured their view.
"Ready the shieldwall on the right flank. Prepare to receive!"
The same prayer was offered up once more to the two deities who would be watching the fight.
"Ready! Three… two… one… give!"
The back-stepping right flank mirrored the actions of the left, stepping in and opening great holes in the shieldwall to allow the barbarians ingress. As unprepared for the tactic as their brothers had been, the nearest warriors of the barbarian force leapt at the shieldwall and found themselves miraculously and unexpectedly falling through it and into a forest of steel blades awaiting them within. Precious few managed to turn with the hope of fleeing the trap, only to find the wall shutting behind them.
By the time Balventius passed two hundred and ten on his count, a fresh swathe of forty or so bodies littered the slope behind the mobile box.
The problem was that the tactic would not work again. Now, the barbarians were coming at the shieldwall more carefully, not charging headlong. Ever-increasing blows rained down on the shields from warriors running alongside, free to attack without thought for their neighbours.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 31