Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (49 page)

He turned, but
his leg, so pale from blood loss it had taken on a blue tint,
buckled and gave way beneath him, causing him to collapse to the
floor. He grasped the baldric of a nearby legionary and used it to
haul himself up.

Caesar looked
him up and down and shook his head, smiling.

“
I don’t think you will.”

He rapped a
nearby second-line legionary on the shoulder. The man turned
irritably and, as he saw who it was, came to a cramped salute in
the press of men.

“
What’s your name, soldier?”

“
Naevius, sir!”

“
Well, Naevius… I’m putting you in charge of your primus pilus.
He fights like a lion, but he’s so badly wounded he can hardly
move. Your task is to make sure he stays calm, away from the
action, and alive long enough for me to be able to decorate him
when this is over. Got that?”

The legionary
saluted again and then grasped the centurion to support his weight.
Baculus glared at both he and the general and then sighed and gave
up, just before his legs did. Caesar turned to Galba.

“
This will need every ounce of courage and pride your men have,
legate. I need you in the middle of things, shouting encouragement.
I, on the other hand, will be at the front, with the
standards.”

“
Sir…” Galba shook his head. “You can’t do that. You’re the
only person on this field that we really cannot afford to
lose.”

“
That, legate, is very charming and a little sycophantic. Given
our circumstances, if we don’t do something big, it will make no
difference how important any of us are.”

Galba nodded.
If the slight put-down in the general offended him, he showed no
sign.

“
Very well, sir. I shall head to the rear of the column and try
to hold the legion together as we move.”

Caesar
smiled.

“
Signifers? To me… Rally on me!”

As the general
turned and began to push his way through the rapidly-diminishing
unit, the standards of various centuries bobbed through the crowd,
converging on the northern area of the struggling unit. Once the
general had reached a position in the third line of men, he waited
for the signifers to arrive. There should have been fifty nine
standards throughout the full legion. A quick count and he could
see twenty four… no, twenty five. Taking a deep breath, he called
out.

“
Call out if you are a signifer for the First
Cohort!”

Seven voices
replied.

“
And the Second?”

Four men.

“
Third?”

Six
voices.

“
Fourth?”

Not a voice
was raised above the background din of battle.

“
The Fourth Cohort is gone?”

He sighed.
What he’d thought he could turn to a rousing speech was, instead,
drawing attention to the losses they’d encountered and the danger
that none of them would live to see the sun go down. Change of
tactic…

“
The Twelfth has valiantly held a flank against overwhelming
odds on its own!”

Rousing… it
had to be rousing.

“
The Gods themselves would tremble before the spirit and might
of this legion, who I have been proud to fight
alongside.”

There was a
chorus of low cheers.

“
But now, it is time to save ourselves; to preserve what
remains of this glorious unit. We must push aside this sea of
unwashed and bloodthirsty apes as a stable hand sweeps aside the
excretions of a horse, and we must join with the Eleventh. I will
lead this push, alongside the signifers of the Twelfth. We will
show the Nervii that they may throw a million barbarians at us, but
we are Rome, and we will not be snuffed out!”

A massive
cheer went up as he finished. In a final, defiant gesture, he
jabbed his gladius high in the air, turned and pushed his way into
the frontline. The gens Iulia could disappear into obscurity with
the death of its greatest son on this bloody field, but if the
great Caesar was to die in battle, it would be in the thick of it
where he would be remembered. The wound in his leg throbbed and, if
he held his leg at certain angles, threatened to collapse him, but
he gritted his teeth. Baculus had been fighting with far worse.

“
Push! Make for the Eleventh!”

With no
apparent regard to his personal safety, the general gritted his
teeth, raised his shield, and threw himself into the fray. To
either side, the men of the legion renewed their attacks, heaving
with their shields, no longer holding them as steady as possible to
fend off blows, but rather to bodily push the lines of the Nervii
back away from them. Slowly, almost interminably, the wave of
frothing barbarians gave slightly, and the men of the Twelfth
managed a single step forward.

“
Again!”

As the men
heaved and pushed, slashing and stabbing as room allowed, there was
another shift, like the collapse of sections of a cliff into the
sea. The Legion surged forward a few steps, taking advantage of the
opportunity. Caesar stepped forth himself, carefully, aware of the
wound in his leg that threatened to fell him with every pace, in
line with the front wall of men, ducking and stabbing at a
barbarian who lunged for his face. The man howled as the general’s
sword slid deep into his chest, grating slightly between the ribs.
As Caesar tried to pull the blade back, the front mass of Nervii
shifted again and the warrior fell backwards behind his fellows,
taking the officer’s very fine blade with him.

“
Damn it!”

The general
raised his shield slightly. He could reach round and take a sword
from one of the men behind him, but the action might leave him open
to attack. Instead, he braced his legs, grunting at the pain as the
wound on his calf pumped out his precious lifeblood. Ignoring the
pain and discomfort, he leaned in against his shield, keeping his
head down enough that he could only just see over the bronze edging
strip of the scutum below the guard of his helmet. Taking a deep
breath, he bellowed “Push!”

Trusting to
the men beside him to achieve a similar force, the general put
every ounce of his weight against the shield, planting his legs
behind him and heaving against the turf. Behind him, a
quick-thinking signifer took advantage of the fact that the general
was ducked and low, and raised the standard with its ornamental
spear-point, stabbing with it over his commander’s head and
impaling the face of one of the barbarians.

“
Good man! Keep going!”

The general,
down in the darkness behind his shield where no one could see him,
suddenly realised that he was grinning like an ecstatic boy. There
was something truly refreshing about the prosecution of a battle
when you were one of many compatriots with a simple,
straightforward task, no matter how hard that task might be. His
mind found a clarity it rarely managed in the knowledge that, right
now, all that was required of him was to push and survive until he
found there were Romans in front of him instead of barbarians. No
plans, no treachery, no bureaucracy or argument. Just men relying
on each other and all pushing the same way.

Briefly, for
one moment in the heat of battle, Caesar found that he understood
men like Fronto and Labienus. There was a simplicity and a purity
in battle that held a lure when compared with the thorny
complexities of politics and was not always any more dangerous.

“
Come on, men. Just a little further.”

Of course, he
had no idea how far they must go; possibly further than was
realistically possible, but something had to be done.

Once again
there was a roar and the Roman line heaved forward, stepping
forward once… twice… three… even four paces. The general risked
looking up for a moment, ducking back urgently as a great blade
swung past, almost removing the top of his head.

He could see
the standards of the Eleventh ahead. Straining, he listened over
the roaring of his men and the general sounds of battle. Crispus
and his officers were bellowing out commands and the two legions
were slowly converging as the Eleventh tried to push far enough to
join with them.

He ducked once
more and heaved, pushing at his shield, noting with concern that so
much damage had now befallen the great wooden cover that he could
actually see points of daylight through it. That could not be
good.

Above him, the
signum lanced out once more and stabbed into another barbarian.

Just a few
more minutes…

* * * * *

Labienus
grimaced. It looked very much like they wouldn’t make it. The
Twelfth were so seriously depleted, perhaps down to a quarter of
their number, and still surrounded by a veritable sea of Belgae.
Even if the Tenth ran like racehorses they would still have to
fight their way through the Nervii to relieve Caesar’s legion.

He fretted as
he ran with the Tenth, still in good formation, down the slick and
bloody slope of the north bank and began once again to wade across
the river. Despite the trouble the Twelfth were experiencing on the
flank, the day looked hopeful for Rome now. Rufus could deal with
the Atrebates, even if it meant just chasing them off. Balbus and
Crispus were still heavily embroiled in combat, but things were
going enough their way that the Belgae had committed every man they
had, with no reserves to be seen across the field. With the Roman
reserves surely only moments away, the battle would be theirs.

But unless
they did something quickly, the Twelfth would be gone by then,
along with Caesar and any hope for a glorious end to the campaign.
Without the general, a new governor would be selected for Cisalpine
Gaul, the legions would be withdrawn, possible no longer funded,
and everyone would go home, probably without much in the way of
booty either. Sad, really, that so many men and their families’
futures relied on the one patrician busy fighting for his own
life.

Clambering up
the opposite bank, he waved his cornicen over.

“
Sound the muster. I need to think.”

The musician
put out the call and the Tenth and, as they returned to the south
bank and began to form into their contubernia, centuries and
cohorts, Labienus found a low natural mound and stepped onto it for
the best view he could manage. What would Fronto do?

He could just
make out a crest in the midst of the fighting that would be either
Balbus or one of his tribunes, or perhaps one of the staff fighting
alongside them. Up by the furthest end of the fighting he could
make out a small unit who seemed very irregularly organised, being
led by a couple of officers. No sign yet of Plancus and the
reserves.

He fretted
again. What to do? Labienus was a career soldier. Oh, he’d dabbled
in politics far more than Fronto, but only to secure military
positions for himself. He had almost as much command experience in
the field as Fronto and Balbus, so he damn well should be able to
think of something.

He sighed as
he realised the Tenth were almost formed behind him, and he’d have
to have an answer in a few seconds. It looked bad for soldiers to
have to wait while an officer faffed and dallied.

He needed to
see this from an objective view. He tried to imagine how an eagle
would see the scene. The corner of the camp where the action was
going on was like a disjoined ‘L’ where the long side was the
strung-out line of the Twelfth, surrounded by the Nervii on all
sides. The short side was the compact Eighth and Eleventh, fighting
only on the one side.

He frowned and
squinted at the legions in combat. He knew what he’d be doing if he
was in command of the Twelfth or the Eleventh. Surely they must
have figured it out. Caesar and Crispus between them could outthink
Minerva. They had to close up and form a solid ‘L’ with no gap.
Then he had a plan.

Squinting, he
watched carefully. Behind him, someone cleared his throat.

“
Shh!” he said irritably.

Labienus
frowned. He couldn’t quite make it out in that complex press of
human bodies. He suddenly became aware of the comforting figure of
Priscus beside him.

“
You got good eyes, Priscus?”

The primus
pilus of the Tenth shrugged.

“
Good enough, sir. Why?”

“
Can you see any movement over there?”

Priscus
frowned.

Moments passed
tensely by.

“
The Twelfth are moving down toward the Eleventh. Not sure how
they’re managing in that position, but I swear they’re
moving!”

Labienus
nodded.

“
I thought so. And I think the Eleventh are doing the
same.”

“
I believe you’re right, sir.”

He cleared his
throat again and spoke in a low whisper.

“
Sir, the men are waiting for orders…”

Labienus
nodded. As he turned, there was a satisfied smile on his face.

“
Here’s what we’re going to do, gentlemen…” he said to his
men.

* * * * *

Rufus stood at
the very crest of the hill, where he could see every inch of the
battlefield. The Twelfth were still in trouble, but Labienus and
the Tenth were closing to help and, best sight of all, a great
number of men had appeared in the distance, moving alongside the
wagon train on both sides, not at a march, but at a run. The
Thirteenth and Fourteenth would take the field any minute. Good,
because the rest of the fight would certainly have to go on without
the Ninth.

He turned once
again to look down on the scene.