The killing began.
Unable to keep up the pace and fight back, the majority of the legionaries were forced to merely shift their shields fractionally to take the blows as best they could, no opportunity presenting itself to actually attack their foes.
This, of course, was where the unusual 'box' tactic fell down. Balbus' original plan had called for the men in the centre to now keep the attacking enemy at bay with regular casts of their pila. Due, however, to their nature as a foraging party, the retreating cohort lacked their throwing weapons. There was the faint possibility that the interior defenders could deal with the worst threats through judicious use of the gladius, but even to attempt that was to put the formation in peril, men interfering with the shieldwall and trying to fight through it endangering the stability and pace of the outer line.
Two hundred and fifty three.
The turf rampart with its timber palisade was tantalisingly close now. The square was making for the gate at the centre, directed by the centurion at that side. They would make it, but they would lose a few men. Indeed, the cries of pain were on the increase and a simple glance around was enough to tell him that the shieldwalls were on the verge of collapse. Every fifth or sixth man was falling to barbarian swords, axes and spears and every count of three he saw another body drop into the square's interior, to be instantly replaced by one of the running soldiers within.
Better that than standing and fighting at the woods, though. Twenty per cent casualties would be high for the number of kills they made, but had they stood and taken the attack, there would be precious few left at the end to tell the tale.
Why were the ballistae and onagers at the camp not firing?
Surely they were close enough now for the Fourteenth and the rest of his own men to be launching a counter attack? What were Sabinus and Cotta thinking? Were they thinking, or just gainsaying one another in the command tent?
The gate in the defences was still resolutely shut and, while the number of men at the rampart was increasing with every heartbeat, preparing a defence, there was no sign of missile attack and no sign of the legions opening a way into the camp for them. Were they to be sacrificed for the safety of the rest? Surely not?
The call to halt from the leading centurion came, echoed down the line along both sides. Balventius glanced past him to see that they were now only a few dozen paces from the closed gate.
"Contract the square; three lines."
Around him every other man stepped back and the square closed to half the size, second and third lines taking position behind the shieldwall, forming a more traditional defensive unit with much less open space at the centre. Suddenly, the attacks of the barbarians were causing far fewer casualties and, now immobile and free to fight, the men in the wall began the butchery that was the Roman legion in open ground facing a rabble.
Again, Balventius' gaze wandered around. He itched to get stuck in to the hairy, disorganised bastards that were slaying his boys, but the situation was not yet apposite. He had to be on hand to modify the cohort's tactics, depending on the changing status of the fight. At least the standards were all secure and safe. Even if the entire cohort fell, the enemy would never get away with them, with a camp full of legionaries looming above them.
Again, he wondered why that camp was so still. Why the ballistae were not firing? They would have a job to miss the enemy at this range, so densely packed.
His answer came even as he pondered on the next possible move. Over the din of sword on sword and sword on shield, the rumble was the first hint. As he felt his pulse quicken, the ground began to tremble, the turf responding to the pounding of hooves.
"Have at 'em lads!" he bellowed, as the cavalry rounded both corners of the camp, having issued from the gates along those sides, undetected by the enemy. At least the two senior officers had put some damn thought into it, then.
Only a tiny portion of the cavalry forces available in Caesar's army had been assigned to this location, of course. The cavalry these days - mostly Gallic auxiliaries - numbered almost as many men as the legions. But even the fifteen turmae of Bellovaci horsemen with three years' experience in the Roman military, now eschewing much of their own gear, armoured in Roman mail shirts and with lances and shields, presented a frightening sight. More than two hundred riders appeared from each side, smashing into the outer edge of the Germanic force, picking off the rear ranks and then riding away, having landed a heavy blow to the attackers. Riding off along the turf away from the fight, they wheeled. Those whose spears remained intact and in hand prepared for a second charge; the rest drew their own traditional Celtic long swords and prepared to sweep them low and take heads.
The attack faltered. Like the ripple of a stone dropped in a pool, word of the cavalry attack on their rear swept forwards through the mass and finally reached the men hammering down blows on the shield wall.
"They're breaking!" Balventius bellowed. "Give 'em a good reason!"
With renewed vigour the legionaries, given heart by the change in their fortunes, started to kill with the viciousness and fury of wronged men.
The cavalry managed another harrying strike on the outer edges, their attack forcing the barbarians to turn and provide a second front. Most of their spears were now broken and used. The rest of the cavalry swords now came out and the horsemen turned, urged on by their Belgic chieftain officer yelling something in his own guttural tongue - something that was completely incomprehensible to Balventius yet was clearly some sort of biological curse involving male body parts. Roaring, they made for a third charge.
That attack barely connected.
The barbarian warriors had broken and were already running for the trees. Despite their numerical superiority in a direct attack, they could not maintain the fight on both fronts and their morale melted away under the scornful gaze of the legionaries at the rampart.
One of the centurions somewhere on the side facing away from the camp had to bellow the order to stand fast as his men surged after the departing barbarians. Long moments passed while the enemy flooded away from them down the slope towards the woodland where the Eighth had so recently been cutting timber.
From his vantage point - and given his natural tallness - Balventius could see the carnage along the slope. Close to their position lay perhaps a hundred barbarian bodies, mostly dead, but with the odd badly wounded man writhing in agony among them, gripping his gut to hold in his bowels or clutching a stump of a limb that fountained crimson on to the churned turf. Beyond that, the slope told a different story, four of every five bodies wearing the mail and red tunics of legionaries. The butcher's bill for this would be high, but all-told the action had been a success. Had they stayed, most would have died long before the cavalry reached them.
The men stood, still in formation, panting and groaning, stretching worn muscles and watching the last of the fleeing figures melting away among the trees. There looked to be considerably less leaving than had initially arrived, which felt good when balanced against the steel and crimson on that slope. The cavalry had pulled into their turmae to either side, their commander having called them in and prevented his men from pursuing, showing the restraint that those auxiliary natives had attained after serving with the legions for years. Good man.
Even as he watched, the last enemy figures disappeared from sight. His wandering gaze, attuned to danger, immediately caught sight of what could be a fresh threat.
Off to the right, at a tangent, a second group of men had crested the hill. This group, however, bore all the hallmarks of a Gallic force - signs that he'd failed to see among the first. A group of two dozen riders in gold armbands and jewellery, armoured in bronze and dressed in fine wools, accompanied by the ubiquitous carnyx and boar standards. Behind them came a small force of warriors on foot, presumably the noble or chieftain's personal guard.
"What in the name of Juno do this lot want?"
* * * * *
Quintus Titurius Sabinus, Lucius Aurunculeius Cotta, and
Titus Balventius, the commanders of the forces encamped in what had quickly become known as 'shitty valley' stood on the rampart by the gatehouse as the remaining men of the beleaguered cohort and their cavalry saviours poured through the gate and into the camp to safety.
Across the open ground, the Celtic riders had reined in and now sat some seven hundred paces from the defences, their carnyx issuing 'deflating pig' noises. Cotta, frowning, leaned across to a lesser officer who stood close by at the palisade.
"Optio? Your men are Gauls. You know what that signals?"
The optio turned to face the commander and shook his head. "Not me, sir. Born twenty miles north of Rome me, sir." Ignoring the irritation on Cotta's face, he turned to a legionary with an unfashionable drooping light brown moustache.
"Aegidius? You're a Gaul. Know that tune?"
"It's a call for talks, sir."
Cotta nodded, his irritation fading. "Do we assume this lot are the Eburones, then?"
"Seems likely" Sabinus agreed. "Shall we go meet them?"
Cotta shook his head. "My senior tribune is the man who Caesar used to send to them as an ambassador. Assigned him to me specially against just such possibilities." He turned to the small knot of tribunes standing at the far side of the gate.
"Junius? You know him?"
"It's either Cativolcus or Ambiorix. Possibly both, sir. Can't see at this distance."
"But you've met them before?"
"Yes sir. The twin kings of the Eburones. See, the nation's split into two half-tribes and…"
"Enough of geography lessons, Junius. Take Arpineius and a half century of men as an honour guard and go speak to this king. Find out if he was involved in that mess and what he wants."
Junius and his junior tribune swung up into the saddles of their horses that stood tethered near the gate with the rest of the officers' steeds, called a centurion across and gathered half a century of the tidy, undamaged Fourteenth. Opening the gate, they rode and marched out of the camp and across the wide swathe of body-strewn grass towards the royal party.
Balventius stood watching as the parties converged and fell into calm negotiations with a minimum of the gesticulation that seemed traditionally necessary for a Gaul to express himself adequately. Gritting his teeth, the senior centurion closed his ears to the sound of Sabinus and Cotta disagreeing on some new matter. He could hardly influence the decisions of his superiors, so it was safer not to become involved in the first place.
Almost a quarter of an hour passed before the Roman ambassadors turned and made their way back to the camp, passing beneath the gate just before it shut tight. As the soldiers returned to their assigned positions the two tribunes clambered from their beasts and up the slope to the rampart top.
"Report?" Sabinus ordered.
"It is Ambiorix of the western Eburones, sir. He was trying to reach us before any harm befell us but as he neared the camp, he discovered us under attack, so he stayed out of sight in the woodlands until the battle had resolved."
"Brave man, then, this Ambiorix?" Sabinus sniffed.
"With respect, sir, he has perhaps four dozen men. He could not have hoped to come to our aid."
Cotta nodded. "But what did he have to say?"
"He came to warn us, sir, that the Germanic tribes are crossing the Rhenus."
"He might be a little late for that."
"He claims there's a lot more than that, sir. He reckons it was an advance party out looking for him that accidentally found us. Apparently king Cativolcus has sided with some big conspiracy of chieftains against the Romans. They're drumming up support from all over the place and even invited the German peoples across the river to come and join in pushing us all the way back to Rome."
Sabinus nodded. "Priscus' general revolt he's been warning was coming. Caesar seemed to think it would be held off until a new campaigning season. Seems Priscus was right to be concerned."
"It's a little worse than that, sir" Tribune Arpineius chipped in.
"How so?"
"If he's right, this Ambiorix claims it's not just the eastern Eburones and the Germans, or even the Treveri and Ubii and Nervii and several others we'd not heard of. He reckons it's half the tribes of northern Gaul. They're planning to rise up simultaneously and take all the winter garrisons at once, while we're all spread out so that we can't come to each other's aid."
"Then why is he here and telling us this?" Cotta narrowed his eyes. "If the legions are about to be annihilated and half his tribe are the chief instigators, why put himself in such danger and not join in or at least sit back and watch us die. He can't be that loyal. No one's that loyal."
Junius shook his head. "Ambiorix has always been one of the staunchest, sir. I've met him a dozen times and more over the past three or four years. Half his oppidum speak Latin. They have our traders amongst them. He wears tunics embroidered in Mediolanum and cloak-pins from Magna Graecia, sir. He's as pro-Roman as they come. Even makes the Remi look like savages."
Cotta looked unconvinced but Sabinus nodded.
"So what is he intending to do about it? Is he here seeking sanctuary with Rome? Seems short-sighted if we're about to be wiped out."
"He's fleeing west and south, sir, into the heart of Roman control. It's too dangerous for him here now, since he's known to be one of Caesar's strongest supporters. He hears that Cicero's legion is a couple of days southwest. He's taking his family that way and begs you to bring your legions with him."
"I'll bet he does" Cotta laughed. "With half the Germanic peoples nipping his backside and only two score warriors I'm quite sure he'd quite like to have seven thousand legionaries around him. I think we'd best bolster the defences and wish him luck."
Sabinus shook his head. "Hang on, Lucius. If he's right, the only hope for the army is to consolidate our forces. We could be back with Cicero in two days at a run, if we travelled light. Then we'd have twelve thousand men. Better odds, I'd say."
"If he's right. It's a lot to bet on the fidelity of a barbarian" Cotta snorted, unaware of the angry silence forming among the soldiery around him, the majority of whom were of pure Gallic blood, albeit southern.
"What's your opinion on this, Junius? You know the man."
The ambassadorial tribune pursed his lips. "He's never played us wrong. He's been Caesar's man in the northeast, keeping an eye on the lower Rhenus for three years now. He's supplied riders for our army and grain for the men. He's a man who prides himself on his honour and honesty. I cannot believe he would betray us."
Sabinus spread his hands. "See? Your problem, Cotta, is that you still think of all the Gauls as barbarians. Look around you. Who do you see manning these walls, for all their Roman kit? Who sit astride those horses? Gauls. All of them. We may not be able to trust the Germanic tribes, but you have to be able to look at the Gauls and see allies as well as enemies - Labienus has been hammering that into us for years now. He thinks this entire situation can be diffused without resorting to war. He believes the Gauls are ready to become a client state with Roman funding and support. Men like Ambiorix are the pins around which all of that turns. We have to keep them on-side."
"I don't like it. His arrival at the same time as those Germans was too convenient."
"They were looking for him, Cotta. Of course they were close."
"Listen. We can get word to Cicero by rider in less than a day, so in two days we can have word from him. That means that in four, he could have contacted Caesar and we could have word from the general. Just four days! Less if the couriers take changes of horse and ride like the wind. It would be not only a breach of our orders to abandon this position, it could be suicidally dangerous if that man on that horse is not telling the truth. The chances of the entire nation rising up and managing to take out all of the garrisons within the next four days are ridiculously small. We would have had word of more than just this. Priscus would know - the man's been investigating this Gallic uprising for a year. Let's just sit tight and wait for word from Caesar."
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Again, Sabinus shook his head.
"If we sit tight and they're close enough that their front ambushing forces are already on us we could be facing half the population of the tribes across the Rhenus by tomorrow morning. I for one have no intention of making a glorious last stand here just to stick rigidly to our orders. We need to start trusting our allies, Cotta."
He threw his arms out expansively. "If the whole of Gaul is catching fire as Priscus believes, then there's no reason to doubt this man's word when he brings us tidings of rebellion, and we all know it would take precious little nudging to push the Germanic tribes against us. They've been itching to chastise us ever since we hammered Ariovistus all those years ago, let alone for our forays across the Rhenus last year. The king's only giving us the information Priscus has been expecting. If he tells us that Gaul is rising and we need to uproot, then we should listen to him."
Cotta turned and gripped Sabinus' upper arms in a way that drew an angry glance from the commander.
"It is precisely because of the general rising of which he warns us that we cannot trust him. Don't you see? I have nothing against the Gauls" he added, glancing round warily at the legionaries who were exuding an unhappy silence. "In general I would like to offer trust first until betrayed, but with what we believe to be happening, we just don't have that luxury. We need to dig in and send to Caesar for orders. That is what the general would want!"
Balventius opened his mouth to speak, unhappily wondering whether the time to interject had come, but Sabinus waved a dismissive hand and spoke, his voice raised enough to carry to most of the men nearby.
"You can stay here and dig yourself in all you wish, Cotta. You will find that when the barbarians come we will be cut off. Seven thousand against half a million. They would not even need to fight us. They could just starve us. We have no supply train in place, our foragers have not managed to bring in more than a week's rations, and we will get no supplies from allied tribes while under siege by them."
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 32