Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (50 page)

The Atrebates
had pushed aside the defences they’d created on the hill and
returned to their camp, but Rufus’ men were ahead of the game. His
primus pilus, a veteran named Grattius and whom, he’d been
informed, had effectively controlled the legion before Rufus’
appointment, had, the moment they reached the crest, split his men
with a simple shout of “Bull horns!”

Immediately,
the cohorts had split into three groups. As four cohorts formed
into a traditional attacking line, two groups of three cohorts
picked up to double pace and arced out to the sides in a long
column, where they began to encircle the retreating enemy who were
dithering in their own camp, unsure of what direction to flee,
given that their world was now collapsing around them.

Rufus gave his
primus pilus an appreciative nod of salute and stood back to watch
the scene unfold like a carefully organised parade. Within a few
minutes, the enemy camp was surrounded by three lines of
legionaries who, as soon as they were in position, formed a solid
shield wall. Rufus smiled at the sheer speed that his legion had
completely enclosed the fleeing Atrebates. Grattius was worth his
pay several times over.

As the enemy
warriors milled around uncertainly, the four cohorts in standard
battle order marched forward to the edge of the slope where they
towered over the enemy. The primus pilus turned to his
commander.

“
Sir? The command is yours to give.”

Rufus stepped
forward to the front of the battle-ready cohorts.

“
Some of you will speak Latin” he bellowed. “At least enough to
understand this…”

He took a deep
breath and deepened his voice as much as he could, like an orator
addressing an open air assembly or an actor in one of the greater
theatres.

“
This battle, your resistance and your war are over.
Ended.”

He waited for
this to sink in; several seconds longer, in fact, hoping that those
who understood him would pass the word.

“
You have only two choices: surrender…”

He tried to
make his voice as flatly menacing as possible.

“
Or extermination.”

There was a
great deal of sudden discussion below.

“
Surrender now and you will live. Many of you could go
free.”

He waited,
tense, for some sort of spokesman to step forth among the
Atrebates. Moments passed quietly, the only sounds the desperate
yet quiet conversation of the enemy and the occasional clanking or
grating of the arms and armour of the Ninth Legion.

And then
suddenly, someone at the far side of the mass screamed something in
the guttural language of the Belgae, and the entire mass charged,
bellowing, at the enclosing circuit of shields.

Rufus shook
his head sadly. Prisoners fetched good money in the slave markets
of Rome. Corpses were only of use to the crows. He turned to
Grattius.

“
They’ve made their choice. Wipe them out!”

* * * * *

Labienus
shouted orders as the Tenth marched against the enemy. They’d
crossed the first part of the open ground at a steady pace but, as
soon as he’d judged the advancing edges of the Eleventh and Twelfth
legions to be a hundred yards from each other, heaving and
squeezing the Nervii out of the intervening space, he’d picked up
to double time. If he wanted this to work properly, it had to be
carefully timed.

They had now
passed the rear ranks of the Eighth, to the cheers of Balbus’ men,
and were closing on the enemy. As they reached a distance of three
hundred paces, he yelled his penultimate command.

At his cry the
centurions and cornicens relayed the orders and the Tenth Legion
suddenly expanded from a column into a line, which lengthened and
continued to do so as they closed. Labienus’ timing was impeccable.
With an audible crash, the Eleventh and Twelfth legions met and
turned their numbers outwards to the enemy in a joint front, while
the Tenth, forming another junction with the Eleventh, turned the
‘L’ of legions into a ‘U’. Suddenly, one side of the massed Nervii
that had been slowly obliterating the beleaguered Twelfth were now
themselves trapped between three groups of Romans.

Labienus
grinned to himself; Fronto couldn’t have done any better. The Tenth
began to roll like a tide over the ranks of the Nervii who, he had
to admit, bore the sudden change in their fortunes bravely. Many
people would have run or downed their arms, but ten thousand Nervii
trapped between three legions with no hope now of victory merely
snarled and fought with renewed vigour.

He found
himself for a moment actually impressed with these men. Fronto was
right; if the future of Gaul was as a province of Rome, these men
would one day make legions that could storm the very gates of
Hades. The idea made him frightened and hopeful in almost equal
measures.

* * * * *

The primus
pilus of the Thirteenth Legion took in the view of the battlefield
with a practiced eye. From his position at the head of the reserves
and the top of the southern slope, he could just see activity on
the far side of the river but, judging by the organised lines of
men, their commanders had the situation well under control.

This side of
the river, however, was chaos. Two legions, the Eighth and Eleventh
by the looks of it, were engaged in heavy combat down by the river
and the Tenth were attacking the enemy on one side, the other
remaining open. Must be the Ninth and Twelfth on the opposite hill
then. Things weren’t going half as badly as the scouts had made
out…

Then he noted
the standards in the deep press of the enemy. Somewhere in the
middle of that huge mass of barbarians, a standard of the Twelfth
raised and dipped.

Alright then;
perhaps there was a problem after all. He waved his cornicen
over.

“
Give the orders. We’re moving at a charge down the eastern
side of the slope. The Tenth have the enemy hemmed in to the west,
and the Eleventh from the north, so if we take the east and the
Fourteenth come straight from the south at them then we can squeeze
them to death between four legions. Best also have someone pass the
plan back to the primus pilus of the Fourteenth.”

The cornicen
saluted and gave the orders to one of the men who ran back along
the line to update the other reserve legion on the situation. As
the man disappeared, the musician began to blow the various command
calls and Pullo took a deep breath.

“
Charge!”

In the worst
part of the field, Baculus stood in the thick press of men, a
legionary holding him upright. The numbers of the Twelfth were
still dropping. The tables had turned and the Nervii were now in
trouble, but even the threat of imminent defeat didn’t seem to be
dampening their bloodlust. Trapped between legions, they just
seemed to be fighting all the harder. At least now there were men
from the Eleventh filtering in among them and bolstering the Roman
numbers.

The soldier
supporting his weight pointed out across the mass.

“
Look, sir.”

Baculus
squinted for a moment and then nodded contentedly. The Thirteenth
had arrived and, after a moment at the crest, presumably weighing
up the situation, they were coming down toward the point where the
enemy were thickest.

“
The relief’s here, lads. Don’t want to give the new boys too
much of a challenge. Let’s kill as many more as we can before they
get here!”

A roar went up
around him and the Twelfth fought on with renewed vigour.

He watched,
grumbling beneath his breath for a minute and then gently pushed
the soldier away from him.

“
Buggered if I’m going to be sitting back and playing with
myself when the relief arrive.”

The soldier
started to argue, but Baculus adjusted the shield on his useless
arm, wincing at the pain in his leg when he crouched, and swapped
the great Celtic blade he currently held for a familiar gladius.
Hefting the latter, he stood with some difficulty, and half-limped,
half hopped through the men toward the front line once more.
Respectfully, though with his face displaying a mix of doubt and
disapproval, an optio he vaguely recognised shuffled to the side as
best he could in the press to make room.

Baculus
immediately swung his torso so that the shield on his broken arm
blocked a blow, and stabbed back at the man, almost toppling in
among the barbarians as his leg buckled momentarily. Two men along
the line legate Galba, previously obscured by the action, leaned
across.

“
What the hell are you doing back in the fight?”

The legate’s
attention was suddenly drawn away once more and he found himself
fighting hard for his life as the primus pilus growled.

“
My job, sir.”

“
You’ve been wounded a dozen times. Back off,
centurion!”

“
I’ll back off when I reach two dozen, sir.”

Glancing
across the enemy, Baculus could see the standards of the Thirteenth
now, bobbing around behind the Nervii and cutting their way in. His
view was suddenly blocked by an enormous warrior, naked and painted
with blue whorls, his great sword raised over his head for a
downward blow. Baculus raised the shield as best he could, trying
not to notice the way the arm strapped to it flopped from side to
side, to ward off the inevitable blow, while stabbing at the man’s
exposed chest. As he felt the blade slide in to the enemy’s torso,
puncturing organs as it went, he noticed too late the spear point
thrusting around the side of the man. In trouble from two
directions, all he could do was try to duck to the side. The spear
point ripped through the chain mail of his shirt and entered his
body just below the bottom rib at his side.

He had no time
to react to the sudden sharp pain, as the great heavy sword of the
mortally-wounded warrior came crashing down on top of his shield
with enough force to drive a man several inches into the turf. The
shield cracked and broke under the strike, the bronze boss turning
the blade aside and preventing what would otherwise have been
clearly a killing blow. Unfortunately, the simultaneous timing of
the attacks caused the centurion’s leg to collapse once again under
the weight and, as he fell to the ground, the spear ripped open the
side of his abdomen in a spray of viscera and links of chain.

“
Bast… bastard” he shouted, struggling to find his feet, but
there was no longer enough strength in him to drag him upright. He
felt arms beneath his shoulders and reluctantly allowed himself to
be drawn back away from the action as another man stepped in to
take his place.

He sat for a
long moment on the turf, staring around him at the legs of the
Twelfth legion, constantly moving and straining in the press of
battle. He was clearly out of the action now. In fact, he couldn’t
actually move his legs enough to change position, let alone
stand.

Well, they
would still either die as heroes or live as victors, but either way
they’d have to do it without him for now.

He smiled as
he started to count off on the fingers of his good hand the number
of barbarians he’d killed. He’d passed twenty when he found he’d
noted one of them twice; the one with the axe. Well it was not a
personal best, but he doubted many here would match the number. His
grim smile widened. The primus pilus was a man who believed he
should be better than any other man in the legion; else that man
might deserve his job.

And, he
thought more soberly, two leg wounds, two to the abdomen, one to
the head and three to the arms. The legate was wrong; eight, not
twelve, unless you counted minor scratches. He was definitely
beginning to feel light-headed; must be the blood loss. Grunting,
he tore a long strip from his tunic and packed the wound in his
side as best he could.

For a long
moment, he wondered if there was a capsarius still alive among his
men and then, blessedly, he blacked out.

* * * * *

Damiacus of
the Aduatuci reined in his horse and held up a hand, lowering it so
the palm was flat to the ground and then sweeping it to the side.
Behind him, a dozen of his best warriors drew their horses slowly
and quietly to a stop and walked them alongside. The chieftain
nodded, his face a mix of thoughtfulness and irritation. He had
warned the damned Nervii time and again against rushing in too
early; he had warned them against trying to protect too much land
and had suggested a line of low cliffs that lay between the rivers
Meuse and Schelde as the perfect land to lay traps and deal with
the Romans. So what if they had to abandon some of their lands to
the southern pigs. Once they’d skinned the Romans and sent the
fleshless remains back to their mothers, the Belgae could retake
their lands.

He
snarled.

Instead, here
he was, sitting atop a hill with a magnificent view over several
miles, including a spectacular panorama of the debacle that
Boduognatus and his Nervii had brought upon themselves. They had
taken a chance and had failed. Had they listened to Damiacus, the
Aduatuci would have been with them further east, but no. They were
too impatient and had paid the price. The day belonged to Rome.

Now he would
have to spit on the corpses of his ‘countrymen’ and call his
cousins and their tribes across the Rhine to come and gut these
catamites from the south.

He gestured to
his men and the warriors turned and rode toward the advancing host
of Aduatuci to order them back east. As they wheeled, they failed
to notice the Roman scouts on a hill nearby, gesturing desperately
at each other before they turned and rode back to their masters
with the news.