Vae Victis

by Francis Mulhern

  Noise behind him. The sudden stampede of feet and deep throated roar of the Gauls. Quintus knew instantly that the left edge of the Roman defence had buckled. He growled. The druid remained motionless and Quintus took another deep, slow, breath. He saw thousands of deeply coloured square shields trotting across the ground behind the charging naked warriors. The first attack was wild and fast but the Gauls had a wall of shields coming towards the Romans. He gulped back, fear starting to prickle at his innards. Cavalry thundered across his vision, wheeling to his left towards the water, the glint of metal flashing through the dust as the horses began to kick towards the Roman flank. Gods he thought, the Gauls are better prepared than he had even begun to consider.

  “You will not take me alive” he said slowly as he stared into the eyes of the mad druid.

  “You will be burned as a sacred offering to Taranis” stated the druid as if it was a fate that Quintus could not avoid. “The tree that will take your ashes to the gods has been chosen” the druid said as a long streak of blood rolled down his chest and dripped to the floor, the red liquid seeming to slow as it fell from his body. Quintus had no idea what the druid meant, but he knew that he needed to either die fighting or escape by killing this barbarian.

  “Then I choose death here on this battlefield” he said slowly as he advanced towards the druid, his steps slow and even as the druid watched him approach. With a short step he thrust the sword at the druid, the man swaying left and right as the sword approached and dancing out of range as the sword whipped at him. Quintus stepped to the left to flank the man, but he was too quick, his dagger catching Quintus on the thigh as he slipped back and then forwards as the thrust came.

  “No” screamed Quintus as he took a deep breath and made his final decision, the only decision left to him, he would not die here on this battlefield. He flinched his body forwards, flicking his shoulder and noting the Gaul slip backwards as he did it. Then, without any thought other than saving his skin he launched his sword at Aengus causing the druid to jump backwards in surprise, and turned and fled, his arms pumping and his legs thrusting as he charged at the back of the Gauls who were attacking the failing Roman defences. The moments grace gave him five yards and he was into the melee and through into the Roman line before the angry screams of Aengus could be heard above the spears of the surprised Romans.

  “Close the line” he screamed as several bloody faces turned to him. “Who’s in charge” he yelled as he doubled over and fell to his knees gasping for breath.

  “Him” a dented helmeted soldier said as he thrust his spear back into the face of a snarling Gaul, another bearded warrior instantly taking his place.

  Quintus stared at the blood-spattered face of Tricostus, who was standing like a statue and calling the men to hold the line, his voice was weak but it was acting as a talisman to the men around him.

  “Sir” Quintus yelled as he stepped in front of Tricostus, his eyes staring far into the distance over the heads of the phalanx and those of the deep knot of Gauls who were pushing the Romans back towards the river. “Sir” he yelled again as the Tribune turned his eyes to him.

  “Fabius” he said. “Fabius?” he asked this time as recognition seemed to come to his dull eyes.

  “We need to retreat” Quintus yelled as a Centurion behind the Tribune screamed in agreement, his face telling Quintus that he had suggested the same several times. Quintus noted that despite the blood covering the Tribunes armour his sword remained sheathed and his hands were clenched tightly at his sides, the smell of urine came to his nostrils as he dropped his eyes to the wet tunic below the bronze armour.

  “The river” Quintus said as he gripped Tricostus’ arm and pulled at him, looking over at the water where hundreds were already fighting a losing battle, most already dead as the Gallic attackers splashed knee deep into the water to hack at the edges of the Roman line, enormous horses thrashing into the water and long, bright, swords hacking into the backs of the fleeing men.

  “Shall I give the order?” the Centurion called as he ran a quick spear thrust into the shoulder of a white-haired Gaul who had managed to get between the two men in front of the commanding officer.

  Tricostus’ eyes glazed again as Quintus called to the Centurion “do it man, it’s our only hope.” A blur crossed his eyes as a thick iron hammer disappeared into the head of Tricostus, heavy iron splitting his skull and embedding itself into his neck as a red-haired brute clambered over the bodies of the two men standing in front of the now falling body of Tricostus. Quintus stared at the bloody mess that had been the head of Tricostus before his eyes fixed on the screaming face of the Gallic leader. He recognised Brennus instantly and turned to run as the Gaul tried to grab his arm, only held back by the form of the Centurion pushing the dead body of his former commander into the Gallic chieftain as he ran past Quintus screaming the order to run.

  It was mayhem, bodies scrambling and cursing, pushing and twisting as they ran the fifty yards to the river. The cold hit Quintus like a blade as he crashed into the fast-flowing river, the water already red from hundreds of corpses which were floating past as he launched himself into the water, gasping mechanically for air, not caring how noisy his lungs were as the men around him thrashed for their lives. Horses were everywhere, snorting, their riders yelling, the flashing movement of swords crashing into soldiers’ heads. A pair of bulging eyes stared out of a lifeless head as Quintus yanked at his bronze breastplate, cursing how tight it was and how heavy. As his feet started to find water, not the river bed, he felt the weight shift off his shoulders and he kicked out into the river, ducking under the water to avoid being seen by the Gauls. Romans were taught to swim from a young age and he knew it would take him no more than a few minutes to get across the river, if he survived. He hoped the Gauls were poor swimmers as he was hit by the trailing leg of another Roman escapee, the kick causing him to lose his stroke and curse out loud. All around him men thrashed in the water, the noise sounding like a hailstorm as the blood red water thundered in his ears. He noticed the Centurion kicking at a Gaul who had grabbed his leg and swung his long iron sword at him, the water killing the stroke and the Centurion fleeing as the Gaul slipped back in the water.

  Two, three, four strokes and Quintus came up for air searching the far bank and seeing men streaming out of the water and running for the forest. He gulped a cold mouthful of water and after coughing for a second started to laugh as he stroked, his mirth echoing against the thrashing noise of thousands of Romans swimming for their lives. As ridiculous as it was his fear was gone and elation gripped him, he had survived.

  A kick in his side made Quintus grunt. Then a sudden searing pain shot into his thigh as he felt cold iron slice into his leg. Then again. He screamed, his head dropping into the water as he gulped a deep cold mouthful of the foul-tasting liquid and came to a stop, a Roman swimming over him, cursing and swearing at him as he struggled past. He felt another sharp pain in his shoulder and twisted in the water, his eyes blinking furiously.

  “You cannot escape the gods, Quintus Fabius” said the bobbing head of the druid Aengus as he plunged the curved dagger into Quintus’ arm with a cold smile.

  ************

  Chapter 8

  “The gods have deserted us” cried an anguished voice two lines back from the heavy hand to hand fighting at the crest of the hillock.

  Lucius turned and gripped the man by his shoulder leathers, twisting him and pushing him away from the line as the man’s eyes bulged with terror. “Shut your mouth, soldier” screamed Lucius as another stone thrown by the Gauls crashed into the man behind him. “Keep your lines” he screamed back at the men around him, all grunting noisily with the effort of the battle.

  Over to his left he had watched as he saw the battle begin to turn against the Romans. He had watched as Sulpicius had been hit from behind by the naked priest and had turned to stare open-mouthed at the instant noise of thousands of screaming Gauls as they charged across the flat land towa
rds the centre of the Roman line. He had deployed more men down the hill towards the centre before the screaming horde had turned to the left in their thousands and run straight at his lines. He’d seen Quintus Fabius struggling with the druid and he had quailed at the sight of the Romans floundering as the naked Gauls simply over-ran their spears, getting into the phalanxes and splitting the soldiers, slicing through them. He saw a long thin line of Gauls trotting along behind the main bulk of naked warriors, a line of thick rectangular shields which moved like a snake across the ground. He gulped and licked his top lip as sweat started to pour down his face. The Gallic cavalry turned and began to race for the river. He saw in an instant what the Gauls were going to do and he took a long slow breath, they were beaten. Whatever he considered he could see no way out of this. The Gauls had been too clever for them. He looked to the skies and closed his eyes for a moment, mumbling a prayer to Jupiter before staring back into the valley below him.

  The officers turned to him and called for orders as he watched the Romans being slaughtered on the plain below. The left flank of Roman phalanxes had burst from their positions, a few valiant knots of men fighting to the death as the Gauls simply over-ran them. An enormous Gaul with a six-foot iron rod tipped with a thick hammer had ploughed the weapon straight through the head of the Tribune Tricostus and the soldiers had quickly turned and fled. Armour was thrown to the floor as the men had streamed into the freezing river. Many plunged in and did not reappear, others thrashed white foam as they kicked for the far bank. Lucius found himself whispering luck to them all before he was, almost, awoken by the scream of a mad-eyed Gaul as he thrust a thick iron-tipped spear at his face. Lucius ducked to his right, the spear clattering along his helmet as a legionary grabbed the spear and fell to the floor grappling with the Gaul. Twisting his body Lucius thrust his sword into the Gauls naked back, yelling a curse as he crunched the blade to the left and the Gaul screamed his dying words.

  “We must flee” called the voice of Marcus Manlius from behind him as Lucius retrieved his sword and stared in horror at the scene below him. All across the plain the Gauls were slaughtering Romans, ripping heads from bodies and screaming as they held them up in the sky. Thousands of men were struggling through the water, Gauls thrashing at them with long swords, the bright sunlight sparkling on the polished bronze of thrown armour and the river streaming red with blood. The enormous Gaul with the hammer was turning his men towards the hill. The decisive moment had come, the Roman line had been split.

  “Now” hissed the voice of Manlius, his eyes connecting with Lucius as his eyes darted left and right as more Gauls crashed through the thin defensive lines at the base of the hill and charged up at his own reserve line.

  “Slow reverse” called Lucius as he nodded to Manlius and spat with a grunt into the face of the dead Gaul at his feet. “Move!” he called. The noise was deafening, the soldiers thrusting, cutting, pushing and shouting. Men slipped and were trodden on by their own soldiers, their death screams hardly audible in the din as the Gauls continued to scream as they charged up the hill. Lucius watched as Narcius and his Eagles stepped through the defensive lines as they appeared from the reserves where Sulpicius had placed them, slicing into the Gauls with a spray of red as the Gauls died screaming.

  As the round shields of the Eagles placed a barrier around the phalanx most of the young soldiers turned and started to flee, the older soldiers battering those that were close enough to them to hold them back as they tried to rush past. Angry shouts preceded the slow melting of the lines, Lucius losing his sword to a heavy iron axe as it crashed through his blocked parry and knocked him to the ground. The Gallic face went from elation to stunned shock as Narcius’ sword crashed through his neck and the Centurion pulled the body back, launching it into the oncoming tide of Gauls.

  The Gauls seemed to halt momentarily as the Eagles held their line, some turning and running down the hill where the killing and looting was easier. Lucius was dragged to his feet by Narcius whose blood covered face nodded over the officer’s shoulder and said, “I think we should follow him.” Lucius twisted to see Manlius and his entourage disappearing over the crest of the hill and rushing down the far side towards the waiting horses by the woods.

  “Bastard” spat Lucius.

  “No” replied Narcius. “We have lost. He has done the right thing” he gripped Lucius and pushed his arm back gently but firmly, his eyes locking onto the one-time Military Tribune. “Go, sir. We will hold the line and retreat as proper Romans. Show these big bastards how we really fight” he said with a manic grin as he gritted his teeth and turned away without waiting for a reply.

  Lucius looked to his left quickly and saw a scene of utter devastation. Ten thousand Romans had been on the left flank, less than half that number were either crossing the river or racing into the woods on the far bank. The rest lay, mostly headless, below him. The centre line was gone completely, the scene total chaos. And here on the hill most of the soldiers had turned and fled, maybe a thousand men retreating slowly and in order as they held the remaining Gauls who had not turned and gone in search of easier pickings in the valley below them. Without thinking he turned to the remaining officers and gave the command to retreat before he glanced to Narcius, his eyes catching his old friend with a grateful nod before he turned and ran after the fleeing Manlius.

  ************

  Narcius called the march as the men began to step backwards. Retreating was dangerous at the best of times but dealing with men a head taller than you and twice as broad with heavy swords, axes and all manner of iron-tipped death was almost impossible. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the officers and men racing across the grass to the woods and watched as the left edge of his defences started to crumble, the newer men falling to the long, heavy-handed battering, swords of the Gauls. If the Gauls didn’t stop to hack the heads from his fallen men he knew they would have over-run him by now. He thanked Fortuna for the small mercy and re-gripped his blood-soaked sword as he called another step, eyes flicking left and right as he did so. A sense of calm came to him as he took a slow breath and looked to his right, the older soldiers holding steady as the Gauls fell under their quick swords and clever use of shields. We can beat them his mind said as he thrust his sword into the forearm of a huge bearded man with white, mud-caked hair, his blue eyes screaming as the sword twisted and snapped his arm with a splintering crack. If only we had Marcus and more Eagles he thought as he turned back to the left to keep an eye on the weakest point of his retreat. He knew he had to give the signal for a full retreat soon, the Gauls in the centre of the battle on the plain were now pointing up at the hill, some starting the slow run towards him that presaged death to his soldiers.

  “At the count of ten it’s every man for himself” he screamed as the older men grunted agreement and picked up the pace of the killing strokes to clear as much of the Gallic threat as they could before the inevitable command came. Gauls began to drop more rapidly, the axe thrusts landing limply on the wooden shields before the Romans stepped in and pushed three feet of iron through the guts of the screaming Gallic foes.

  A particularly large Gaul threw his axe at a legionary two men in front of Narcius, the weapon spinning before clattering into the wooden panels and crashing through them, splitting the wood into two as the legionary stumbled into the man behind.

  “Now” screamed Narcius, the shout barely heard as the Romans screamed one last attack before turning to run, most throwing their heavy shields at the Gauls as they did so. Inevitably some men fell as the Gauls side-stepped the shields and dived onto their prey, their desire to capture the heads of the slowest Romans helping others to gain five or ten yards before the Gauls could give chase. Narcius hung back a step and dragged the fallen legionary whose shield had been split, from the floor. “Run” he yelled as he side-stepped a swipe from a long gore-encrusted sword and thrust his shorter weapon into his attackers’ ribs, the satisfying crunch bringing a grimace to the man’s face before he
fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Without waiting he turned and ran, angling to his left and slicing his sword into the neck of a Gaul who was kneeling over a dead body hacking at the head. The Gaul toppled to the floor, the look of surprise on the decapitated face bringing a smile to Narcius as he ran by.

  Ahead small knots of men were still fighting a retreat as clumps of Gauls had caught up with them, the men still working in their units of eight as Camillus had taught them. Narcius felt a sense of pride as he watched the men working as one, twisting the Gauls to the right before striking hard into their unprotected left-hand sides, killing them and then running for the trees.

  Suddenly loud cheers came from behind, great shouts of joy which rolled across the valley as if a great clap of thunder had come from the heavens. Two Gauls fell to the Romans as they turned their heads to the noise as other men turned from the fighting and stepped back. Narcius had reached the knot of men he had seen working so well together and came to a standstill as they lifted their heads and peered away to their left and towards the river. The Gauls were no longer charging after them and Narcius, as his lungs filled from his rapid breathing, turned to see where the noise was coming from and why.

  “Come on” said a man to his right, but Narcius shrugged him off, wiping the blood from his eyes and straining to see what was happening. The plain was etched with blood, spots of white showed where bodies permeated the land and the ground was alive with the milling of triumphant Gauls, each man screaming his war cries to the heavens.

  “Sir” said the man. “Now before they set the horses after us” he said, more calmly but still urgently.

  “Wait” Narcius said angrily as his nose started to drip sweat from the run. He blinked three or four times. “What is that?” he asked quietly as the soldier came and stood next to him. “What is it?” he said again as he gulped and suddenly realised exactly who it was.