Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (42 page)

“
You!”

Fronto ran up
to the nearest man, a Numidian archer.

“
Sir?” the man replied in heavy-accented Latin.

“
Go and tell every auxiliary archer officer you can find that
legate Fronto needs them down by the water.”

The man looked
nonplussed for a moment and then saluted, turned, and ran off.
Scanning the group, the legate spotted prefect Galeo tapping his
fingers on his sword hilt irritably.

“
Bored, Galeo?”

The prefect
turned and smiled when he saw Fronto. He opened his mouth to reply,
but Fronto beckoned.

“
Got a job for your lads. Come with me.”

As Galeo gave
the order, he ran to join Fronto who was already jogging back down
the slope. Moments later the archers were catching them up. One of
the benefits of light, unarmoured auxiliaries was the speed with
which they moved. Fronto stopped just outside the line of working
men and pointed.

On the
opposite hill, carnage was taking place. As Galeo followed his
gaze, he saw a great tree trunk descend, flattening everything it
rolled across, wiping out a group of panicking cavalry and then
disappearing into the river with a splash.

“
Where do you need to be to reach them?”

Galeo
shrugged.

“
We can hit them from near bank.”

“
Then do it!”

As the prefect
ran forward with his men, who began to stretch strings and release
deadly missiles high across the opposite slope, Fronto turned and
looked back and forth between the camp and the cavalry mess.
Several of their shots were striking home at the Belgae, and the
threat alone seemed to be making the enemy pull back to their
initial line.

“
Sir?”

He turned to
see Decius approaching with his archers. Other units were pouring
through the lines of legionary workers.

“
Get your men to the bank and concentrate your fire on anywhere
the Nervii are looking like they’re about to break.”

The prefect
nodded.

As he turned
back to the works, other prefects rushed past with their units.
There was no need for further commands. The officers could see
where they were needed.

Fronto
grumbled under his breath. Pit traps, rolling logs, disciplined
lines. These were not simple barbarians. These bastards had
tactics. Possibly they’d even learned from what the Romans had done
to the Belgae at Bibrax? He’d had a feeling of foreboding about
today and now it was being borne out. Just from an initial glance
across the river, he guessed that Caesar had lost a quarter of his
cavalry in one horrible minute. Bloody ridiculous. And they’d
hardly seen any of the enemy yet. There were maybe five hundred men
on that ridge. And no standards or chieftains.

Turning to the
men working behind him, he spotted Pomponius, measuring something
incomprehensible.

“
How long ‘til the basic defences can be up?”

Pomponius
looked up in surprise.

“
I’d say about thirty minutes, sir. It’s an enormous camp, but
there’s five legions working on it.”

“
I have a feeling it’s going to be a close thing at
best.”

* * * * *

Paetus smiled
as he adjusted the strange, yet surprisingly comfortable bronze
helmet on his head and re-slung the extremely heavy Gallic blade at
his side. He had asked for armour and been laughed at. Only the
nobles got armour, apparently. Not the ordinary warriors. In fact,
as he’d learned in the days leading up to this, their warriors
often went into battle naked as the day they were born, save the
whorls and swirls and other marks they daubed on their skin.

He drew breath
sharply as one of his many now-healing knife wounds caught
uncomfortably with his baldric. He’d assumed they were trying to
frighten him by telling him they would put him in the front line of
the attack, but here he was, hiding beneath the eaves of the wood,
surrounded by thousands of smelly, sweaty, often disturbingly
naked, Nervii. He had learned since receiving the ‘trust’, such as
it was, of the chieftains that the Aduatuci were due to join them
but were late and may not make it here before the Romans. He looked
up at the sun. Too damn late now, for certain.

The cavalry
had already met with the Viromandui and the Atrebates on the hill
and Paetus’ carefully-worked surprises had devastated the initial
Roman charge. Well, they’d met the visible Viromandui and
Atrebates, anyway.

But the Nervii
lay waiting to spring his main trap.

For a long
moment, Paetus paused. He was a Roman, though dressed and armed
like this few would realise it. It was his duty and pride to march,
and fight, with the legions and yet here he was, about to bring
about their downfall; cause the vicious deaths of thousands of
soldiers and all in the name of… no. Not in the name of revenge, he
reminded himself… in the name of justice, and that was what Rome
should stand for!

I could call
off the attack. One shout and I could save the legions and ruin the
Nervii.

Just one
shout.

But that would
save Gaius Julius Caesar too.

* * * * *

Varus nodded
in satisfaction. The second charge had been what he’d hoped for the
first time. The two columns of cavalry bellowed up the safe zone
where the logs had rolled down and met the forces of the Belgae
just below the crest, engaging in careful, spear-thrusting combat.
Once in combat, the two forces expanded out sideways to meet up,
creating one heavy front again the barbarians. And then the most
unexpected and peculiar thing happened.

The Belgae on
the ridge dropped their spears, turned and fled. Around him, riders
cried out in triumph and raced over the summit, the officers
yelling encouragement. But Varus paused. Something wasn’t right
here. These men wouldn’t flee. Not after what they’d managed to do.
They knew damn well they could crush the cavalry if they worked it
well.

Varus’s eyes
bulged.

“
Retreat!”

He tried to
locate the cornicen but the man had joined a group heading over the
crest. Once more he yelled for a retreat at the top of his voice,
but the triumphant cries of the men and officers drowned him out
and only a few surprised troopers nearby heard him.

“
For the love of Mars, retreat!”

His heart
thumping, he carefully edged his mount up so he could see over the
crest in the bare area between the woodlands. His men were chasing
down the fleeing thousand or so infantry from the ridge, but there
was no one else there. Where was the army of a hundred thousand or
more?

“
Oh no…”

Guttural cries
all around and behind him filled him with dread and he stared.
Large groups of Belgae came running out of the woods to either
side, carrying something. Each group bore between them, sweating
and cursing, a fence or screen made of sharpened stakes, tightly
bound together, almost like a caltrop that was six feet high and
twelve long. As he desperately wheeled his horse in panic, the
Belgae began to drop their horrible screens into lines, creating
one long defence that would clearly prevent the cavalry from
returning to the battle.

“
Rally! To the camp!”

As the few
hundred men he could see turned and rode back downhill, Varus
scrunched up his eyes and let out a string of violent expletives.
This was the problem with using Gallic auxiliary cavalry. No matter
how much you tried to drill legionary discipline into them, they
still had that mad Celtic need to go racing into battle and run
after glory and victory. That was why most of the few regulars were
still here with him and hadn’t crossed the summit alongside the
auxilia.

Well, the
cavalry were lost to him for now. Thousands of men were cut off and
it would be some time before any of them managed to get back. If
the Belgae had planned this much, damn certain that they’d made
sure all easy routes of return were sealed.

As his mind
raced, he heard a roar and his bones filled with cold dread. The
copses and areas of woodland around the hilltop hadn’t just been
home to a few careful surprises… they’d harboured to the whole
bloody Belgic army. What the scouts had deemed impenetrable
woodland had apparently been cleared of undergrowth and had hidden
thousands of warriors. From either side of him, a sea of Belgae
swarmed out from the eaves and thundered down the hill towards the
river.

Fronto would
never have time to finish. The legions were lucky, in fact, that
he’d suggested they worked in their armour, for they’d only have
time to grab their weapons and shields and then this mass of men
would be on them. ‘Hell, I hope Fronto’s seen them.’

He squinted
across the shallow river valley to the camp workings.

“
Oh hell, no!”

The legions
were clearly aware of the danger and were already grasping weapons
and dropping their entrenching equipment, but that wouldn’t save
them. Already the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth were getting into
position where they had been working, but the Eleventh and Twelfth
were a different matter, and had only just begun their work.

Beyond them,
the lines of wagons were slowly appearing over the crest of the
hill and somewhere far behind them were the other two legions.

But what
filled him with dread was the sight of other huge groups of Belgae
rushing out of the trees to either side of the camp; trees that had
been swept only a few hours ago by scouts and deemed impossible to
hide men in due to the deep undergrowth.

Either the
scouts had been horribly mistaken or the Belgae had worked damn
quick.

Varus smashed
his fist on his pommel in anguish. He was being ignored by the
attackers pouring down the hill between him and the river. He and
his few remaining companions presented no great threat, but that
huge charging force of Belgae now stood between him and the rest of
the army.

Chapter 15

(Construction
site by the river Selle)

“
Corona: Lit: ‘Crowns’. Awards given to military officers. The
Corona Muralis and Castrensis were awards for storming enemy walls,
while the Aurea was for an outstanding single combat.”

Publius
Sextius Baculus, veteran of four great campaigns, recipient of the
corona castrensis, the corona aurea and the corona muralis and
Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, spat on the floor and lifted
his vine staff, bringing it down on the back of the legionary’s
legs, hard enough to leave a stinging pain but no damage. The
centurion smiled grimly. The lad should be grateful he didn’t use
the other arm; there was a dolabra in that one!

“
Every rock you drop slows the camp down, so every rock you
drop gets you another belt!”

The legionary
bit his tongue to prevent himself yelping, saluted hurriedly and
collected the large fallen rock. Baculus, never entirely trusting
any other man to do the job correctly, had taken charge of the
procurement party from the Twelfth himself.

A century of
men, his century no less, had split off as soon as they arrived on
site and left the rest of the legion digging and heaving sods of
earth, while they moved hurriedly to the eaves of the nearby
woodland to collect supplies.

Fifty or sixty
of his men, under the control of his optio, had begun cutting poles
and stakes to supplement those that would be arriving in the wagons
shortly; were probably being unloaded as he pondered, in fact. He
could see pairs of men now, carrying heavy lengths of timber
between them and heading back towards the camp.

The rest were
gathering rocks the size of a man’s head and piling them up on
shields to carry back. The rocks would be utilised to line drainage
culverts in the rampart and various other sundry uses.

He smiled
again. Last time they’d made camp, he’d left the job to one of his
junior centurions and they’d brought back what looked like saplings
and gravel. Never delegate something important, as he always
said.

He scanned the
woodland and nodded with satisfaction as he saw men carrying
boulders back toward the heaps nearby.

A flicker of
movement caught his eye as he turned. He squinted into the
woodland. There is was again. Just a little flash of movement back
in the woods. No one would make anything of it. It could easily be
an owl disturbed by the work; but Baculus had survived on the front
line of more battles than he cared to remember and this was
something wrong. Without waiting to confirm his suspicion, he swept
his vine stick, cleared his throat and bellowed: “To arms! Rally to
me!”

Around the
eaves of the woods, the men of the Twelfth, drilled almost
obsessively under Galba’s command the preceding winter, reacted
with perfect military precision. There was no panic; no shout of
alarm. The men merely dropped the timber and rocks they were
carrying and pushed their way through the woodland to get back to
their centurion. Baculus nodded with satisfaction and, as his men
began to congregate around him, squinted into the woods once more.
This time he could see several signs of movement. And they were
getting nearer. Blue. Blue meant Celts. Blue trousers… blue
skin.

“
Form up on me!”

He spotted the
men coming out of the woods and did a rough head count. He could
see around fifty or more men. Given that the century had been under
strength for most of the year, he wasn’t missing many of his
men.

”
Can’t wait around for dawdlers, lads. As soon as everyone you
can see is here and armed, we fall back to the legion; slowly and
calmly, like… there’s rabbit holes and all sorts around here and
one man falling could end it for all of us.”