Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (21 page)

* * * * *

It had been
two hours. It felt like half a lifetime, but in actual fact it had
been just two hours since Varus had last been here. He glanced
ahead at the line of poplar trees on the hill and could just make
out the heaps on the grass in the distance that were all that was
left of some of Caesar’s best horsemen.

The general
had surprised and irritated Varus. Instead of being incensed and
planning retribution and extreme violence as the cavalry commander
himself, Caesar had merely stroked his chin and muttered
“unfortunate…”

Bloody
unfortunate? But in a curious way, now that he looked back on it,
the general was right. Insensitive, but right. They had lost a
number of cavalry, but they had found out a great deal about not
only the landscape, but about the enemy into the bargain. While the
Romans were facing odds of perhaps five-to-one, they were
considerably better than the ten-to-one they were expecting. Once
word of that had begun to spread in the camp, the atmosphere had
improved no end. It had taken only a few minutes for Caesar to
decide on his course of action, and only a few more for Varus to
set it in motion.

Leaving only a
small group of mixed regular and auxiliary cavalry in camp, Varus
had divided the main mounted force into three sections. The first
had set off first, riding hard along the river bank to the west,
and skirting round behind the ridge. They should be able to
completely bypass the Belgae and then they would be free to head
north and search for the rest of the enemy. The second had been
given the most dangerous task: to head east along the river bank
and across the edge of the marsh and actually harry the front lines
of the enemy. They would not only be able to test what they were up
against, but also to confirm whether the ground was viable for an
assault.

And the third
section, commanded by Varus, was the punitive group. Heading
directly for the centre and the line of poplars, Varus would
revenge himself on the barbarian ambushers. With a smile of grim
determination, he used gestures to relay his commands to the
prefects following him. As he pointed silently, two large groups
peeled off from the main force and rode off east and west at a
tangent.

The remaining
force, around eight hundred strong, marshalled in the centre at the
base of the slope. At further commands they split into two units,
wheeled their horses until they were back-to-back, and then began
to walk their steeds at a slow, steady pace toward the woods to
either side.

“
Bastards had better still be in there, eh sir?”

Varus looked
over at Casco and nodded.

“
They are. I can feel it. Nemesis is with us today.”

Another
command rang out and the ranks of cavalry raised their javelins
into a throwing position. Moments later they heard the sound of the
conflagration starting. The two groups that had separated had set
fire to the furthermost edge of those concealing thickets. Smoke
rose ominously from among the foliage and Varus watched with
growing satisfaction.

A minute or so
passed and then the shouting began. At first, shouts of alarm, and
then some of panic. The blaze tore through the dry woods, leaping
from tree to tree like a wave.

As the Romans
sat tensely, the first desperate warrior burst from the
undergrowth. The look of relief on his face quickly slid away to be
replaced once more by panic. Having escaped the dreadful fire
sweeping through the thicket, he now found himself facing hundreds
of angry Roman cavalrymen. He opened his mouth to shout a warning
back into the woods and the first javelin caught him full in the
face before he could issue a sound. The second javelin took him
through the chest and hurled him back to the grass.

“
Don’t waste your throws! One at a time, and mark your
man.”

Another figure
appeared from the woods, and then another. Quickly now, warriors
began to emerge, some choking from the effects of the smoke that
roiled under the green canopy. And yet it was less like a military
action or even a punitive attack than like a hunt, or even a game.
Not a single figure managed to break the tree line and walk four
steps before he was hit by a javelin; sometimes two.

The steady
flow of men escaping the flames grew over a minute or so and then
began to decline. Certainly there must be a lot of corpses there by
now. The front rows of cavalrymen had cast their javelins and more
that had been passed from the rear ranks. Probably four hundred
javelins had gone. Allowing for wasteful throws and misses, there
would likely be two hundred and fifty to three hundred barbarians
littering the grass before the woods. Likely more had been consumed
by the flames that were now visible. Almost the entire wood was
ablaze at this point, and the firing units with their extinguished
torches were now riding to rejoin their commander.

Varus smiled
coldly. On the assumption much the same had happened at the other
side, behind them, that would be six or seven hundred dead
barbarians. A fitting revenge for the hundred and fifty or so Roman
dead below the hill. Caesar would be pleased, anyway.

He waited
until his men were ready and then gave the order to form up.

Before he
turned his horse away from the field, he gave a last regretful look
at the littered heaps of men and horses. If only they could sort
out a burial detail, but that was a job for the infantry, and after
the danger was over. With a sigh he gave the command to return to
camp.

Prefect
Lucilius gritted his teeth and briefly regretted accepting command
of the right flank. His thousand horsemen, almost entirely composed
of Gaulish auxiliaries, stamped and snorted and chattered behind
him. The other prefects and decurions watched him expectantly.

Lucilius had
commanded more than one ala of cavalry before. Indeed, at Vesontio
last year, he’d been one of Varus’ most favoured officers, but that
was in battle. This seemed wrong. Cavalry were used as part of a
grand battle plan or to harry and mop up. No Roman general in his
right mind pitted cavalry alone against a solid enemy force with no
infantry support.

He shook his
head. It was well known that Caesar thought in curves and not
straight lines. The general assigned officers to largely permanent
positions, which seemed to suit the infantry. He maintained a
regular cavalry attached to his legions, which was unheard of, even
among the great innovators like Marius and Scipio. But sometimes
the general’s decisions seemed just a little too dangerous; even
bordering on the insane.

“
How am I going to do this?” he asked himself quietly, glad
that the rest of his officers were far enough back to allow him
thinking room.

The terrain
allowed for a safe riding width of perhaps seven or eight hundred
yards; not much room to manoeuvre a large cavalry force, certainly.
And even from here he could see the glistening and glinting of the
streams and pools that dotted and crossed the grass. He offered a
quick prayer to Fortuna that Varus knew what he was doing and that
what faced him was just standing water and not swamp.

So… how to
arrange a trial assault on the Belgae on a narrow strip of land
between a reedy river bank and a swamp; a narrow strip of land that
might, itself, be marshy and treacherous. And all of this in front
of a waiting force of Belgae who had a clear view of them coming.
Caesar and Varus must be mad! And Lucilius must be an idiot for
accepting this command.

He frowned. On
the bright side, given the narrowness of the assailable area, they
would only be facing a thousand Belgae at a time. An idea was
beginning to form. Turning, he waved to the nearest of his
prefects, a thoroughly Romanised Aedui nobleman. The man rode out
forward and joined him on the rise. In full Roman uniform, with
short hair and a clean shaven face, the slight accent to his Latin
was the only thing that marked the prefect as a non-citizen. He’d
even taken a Roman name.

“
Septimius… you know the tribes of Gauls and Belgae,
yes?”

The prefect
nodded soberly.

“
Most of them.”

“
And these Belgae are supposed to be the most dangerous,
violent and warlike of the lot, yes?”

“
Them and the Germanic tribes, yes. When they’re not fighting
someone else, they fight themselves. It’s all they do:
fight.”

“
So…” Lucilius frowned. “It shouldn’t be too hard to goad them
into a fight then?”

Septimius
laughed.

“
I suspect it would be harder to force them to stand
still.”

“
Alright, then.” The commander smiled. “Let’s go give them a
fight. Sound the advance.”

The prefect
saluted and returned to his men. Moments later the musician on his
horse at the rear blew out the call to advance and the alae walked
their steeds forward. Lucilius remained stationary until the line
reached him and then kicked his horse into action, falling in with
the front line. Slowly, like the inexorable tide, the cavalry
poured down the gentle slope toward the flat open ground before the
Belgic lines.

Manoeuvring
carefully in order to maintain formation, the cavalry stepped onto
the flat, rotating into blocks that fitted the terrain.

“
Here we go” muttered Lucilius quietly to himself as they moved
into the damp, glinting grass. The first fifty yards or so were
tentative, each rider warily watching the shallow pools and
trickles as they walked their horses.

Lucilius
glanced ahead, squinting to make out the lines of the Belgae. The
barbarians were rushing around, gathering several men deep in a
front line. As the prefect watched, spears were raised defensively.
Any direct attack could be very short and very unpleasant.

His confidence
grew as the cavalry trotted through the shallow puddles and pools
and splashed across small streams. Varus had been right: the ground
between the marsh and the river had dried out fairly well in the
last few weeks.

The decision
made, he smiled a determined smile and turned to the officers
beside him.

“
Sound the charge but rein in at a hundred yards for a volley.
Pass the word; and no calls on the horn in case anyone there knows
our signals.”

The officers
nodded and shouted the commands down the line to their decurions,
who relayed beyond. Within a few seconds the entire cavalry broke
into a run, the front lines pulling away first, but the rest
gradually falling in and catching up like a landslide. Lucilius
laughed as he rode. This was the kind of mad stunt that old
Longinus used to pull.

Rapidly, the
intervening space between the two armies narrowed and the commander
found himself so into the rhythm of the charge that he almost shot
out ahead as his troopers reined in to a sudden halt. Clicking his
tongue in irritation, Lucilius turned his mistake into a show,
wheeling his horse sideways and flicking an insulting hand gesture
at the Belgae. To either side of him along the lines of horsemen,
the front two ranks let fly with their javelins.

The Belgae,
confused as to why the Romans had halted their charge so suddenly,
stared wide-eyed at several hundred javelins that suddenly arced
out from the front lines. All along the wall of men, warriors
shrieked as they were pierced and flung back into the crowd with
the force of the blows. They were so tightly packed the Romans
couldn’t have missed.

The front line
of the Belgae bulged ominously. Lucilius smiled. One volley and
they were already wanting to break their lines and attacks. With a
widening grin, he turned to his officers.

“
Let’s repeat the process a few times and see how fast we can
get it. I want to piss these barbarians off enough that they’ll do
anything.”

Nodding, the
prefects and decurions passed down the orders and the entire
cavalry turned their back on the enemy and rode peacefully back
across the wet, grassy ground.

Once they
reached the slope at the far end, Lucilius waved his arm.

“
Same drill. No orders or calls. Everyone knows what they’re
doing. Those men who’ve now cast their javelins to the back and
make way for the next rows. This time I want that volley the moment
you stop. Then straight back. Don’t give them a target!”

The men around
him grinned in anticipation.

“
Alright. Charge!”

This time he
allowed the troopers to charge past him and took a position at the
rear, where he could observe the results.

True to their
training and efficiency, the cavalry thundered across the open
space and came to a sudden halt, a volley of hundreds of deadly
shafts arcing out from the lines and dropping with horrifying
accuracy into the mass of Belgic warriors. Without waiting to see
the results, the cavalry wheeled and rode back to the far end of
the grassy stretch.

Once again,
the line of the Belgae bulged, this time in three places. Lucilius
rubbed his chin reflectively. They’d get one more charge or maybe
two before the barbarians decided they couldn’t take it any more
and broke formation.

“
Again, but quicker!”

This time, he
stayed on the lower reach of the slope and observed from a
distance. The Belgae had best attack soon anyway. They only had
enough javelins for probably three more volleys.

He watched
with satisfaction as the same manoeuvre produced the same result:
hundreds of dead warriors and bloodthirsty pushing and shoving as
the Belgae nobles fought to prevent their tribesmen running after
the Roman horsemen. With a grin he surveyed the ground near the
enemy line while his troopers returned. The repeated charges had
churned up the wet grass leaving slick and dangerous mud. That
should be helpful. A cavalry trooper would be much more stable in
that mess than a foot soldier.