Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (11 page)

A very quick rough estimate in his head now suggested that almost half the attacking force had separated to wage their own private wars, and not only was it therefore not a given that the enemy would consider the attack enough of a threat to engage their own horse, but it was also now a worrying possibility that the Treveri might come after them and win…

Ahead, what was left of the main cavalry attack was still skirting the main force, heading for the Treveri horse and their commanders at the rear, and Gritto scanned the crowd of his own men as he rode until he spotted the standard that betrayed the position of Messirios.

It was dipping to the left!

Though he had absolutely no idea of the signalling systems the natives used, if indeed they used any kind of signalling at all, given their propensity to chaos, an intentional dip of the standard to the left could only signal a move that way, as it would with a Roman unit.

And that meant straight into the bulk of the infantry.

Gritto felt his spirits sink even further - if that were at all possible, since they were already bounding along at ground level and cutting a furrow in the grass. If the prince turned against the main force, so would all his men and his allied chiefs. Then they would be engaged with the wrong group. Very likely the enemy cavalry would not even bother to commit and would just watch the fun, given that the infantry that would be dying would be the mercenary bandits anyway, and not their own tribesmen.

How could that Mediomatrici moron be so short-sighted? He would cost them the battle.

In the most futile of gestures, Gritto tried desperately to shout for them to hold their course, waving his spear and almost gutting one of the nearest Gauls in the process. He might as well have been throwing mouldy cabbages at the walls of Rome for all the difference his attempts were making.

His heart raced. The legate Labienus and commander Quadratus were relying on this attack. If it failed, what should be a short, surgical cut would turn into a chaotic slaughter on both sides. And, far more important than that, Gritto would be decommissioned, chastised, punished and then sent home in disgrace, where Aurelia would never speak to him again, her father would call off their betrothal, and his own parents would push him into some awful administrative role.

The thought of spending the rest of his life shuffling and shelving scrolls with records of public works brought on a worse fear by far than that of simple death.

He had to do something to make this work.

The Gallic horses were larger than his Roman one - Roman cavalry preferred the easier trained and more even-temperamented smaller beasts - so he could hardly make his presence felt and was barely visible among the crowd. But his horse was a noble beast, trained in the Roman military and therefore so obedient that he barely had to twitch his knees to make his intentions felt. And he knew that the Gallic steeds were more angry, more nervous and considerably more awkward.

He would have to
make
his presence felt.

Raising himself as best he could, he locked on to the position of the prince’s standard and noted its location and then, taking a deep breath, leaned forward over his steed’s neck and held his oval shield out in front at an oblique angle. Keeping his spear point up, so as to avoid accidental wounds, he kicked his faithful steed onwards, driving it as hard as he could.

He felt the shield smack into the Gauls slightly ahead of him, who were moving as fast as they could in the chaos, but not with the speed and purpose of Gritto and his smaller beast. The shield bounced off a man’s leg and the angered Gaul, either not realising whose shield it was, or more likely not caring, smashed his sword down on it as Gritto pushed and heaved past.

Then he was out between the two horses ahead, his shield battered but in place. The angry shout of the Gaul whose knee he had hurt rang out behind him but he ignored it, aiming for the position he remembered the standard to be and driving on the horse as hard as he could. He felt the shield bounce off the haunch of a larger horse and sensed the beast veering off, away from this discomfort. That rider of the animal roared at his steed and tried to turn back, only to find Gritto there, pushing past, shield up and yelling imprecations in Latin.

The push went on. Another three times, four, five, and he had actually received a punch and a kick in the process, but had forged ahead through the mass of horsemen by sheer control of his horse and force of will.

Slowing for a moment, he risked rising above the shield and was both surprised and relieved to see the standard of Messirios bobbing about almost in front of him. The horses had already turned slightly off-course, heading for the infantry. Any moment now, the prince would give the command to go from a messy gallop to an unrestrained charge, and then it would be too late to stop them.

Even if the prince would consider listening to him, it was exceedingly unlikely that he would hear him in the din. A moment of undecided panic, and Gritto settled upon a course of action, somewhat regretfully dropping his shield and spear among the running horses where they were immediately trampled and smashed to pieces.

Driving his horse on for that standard, he elbowed aside a Gallic nobleman, who in return delivered him a sturdy kick to the thigh in anger. A push, a lunge, and suddenly he was next to the standard bearer. The Gaul, his drooping moustaches bouncing comically with his gait and the breeze, his head topped with a bronze helm that looked as though a metal seagull had impaled itself on the tip, had not even noticed he was there, too intent on watching the prince a few paces ahead, waiting for the nod.

Aware that he might just die for his presumption but seeing no other choice, Gritto reached out and delivered the hardest punch he could muster to the upper arm of the standard bearer. The Gaul let out a yelp, the blow - as intended - deadening his arm for a moment and causing him to lose his grip on the shaft. As the Gaul’s head swung round in a mix of shock and anger, Gritto grasped the shaft of the falling standard and raised it high, tipping it to the right once, twice, three times.

The course of the attack changed instantly, and after a matter of mere heartbeats Gritto found himself on the periphery of the force, along with the Mediomatrici prince, his standard bearer, and his personal cadre of noble warriors.

The standard bearer raised the sword he had held in his other hand ready to bring down on this sudden attacker, but faltered as he recognised the uniform of a Roman officer, the sword quivering in his shaking hand high above them.

Prince Messirios seemed to have realised that something was amiss, and had turned to look at the scene behind him, his eyes wide as he realised his army were veering off to the east, skirting around the enemy. His eyes, blazing, fell upon the Roman officer holding his royal standard and he barked something furiously in his own tongue.

Gritto felt his heart skip a beat, knowing that the heavy Gallic sword was poised to fall on the prince’s command and that when it did so, it would smash open his head like a ripe melon. He realised that he was probably ashen faced and gawping like an idiot and forced his open mouth shut, lowering his brows into an expression of arrogant defiance such as the one his father seemed to have permanently affixed to his face.

‘Indutiomarus!’ he snapped and, to try and make his point all the more obvious, used his free hand to mime a cantering horse (though in all fairness it probably more resembled a drunken spider) and then pointed over the enemy to the cavalry at the rear.

For a long moment, the prince of the Mediomatrici glared at him in anger and finally, showing no sign of letting up his fury for even a moment, nodded and turned his horse away, racing off to catch up with his men as they skirted the Treveri army.

The Gaulish standard bearer lowered his sword with a glance after his departing lord and punched the Roman heavily in the arm, retrieving his standard before riding off to join his compatriots.

Gritto sat for a moment rubbing his arm and watched the fruit of his labour as the attack moved back on track. After a few more heartbeats, though, a rising noise attracted his attention and he realised that the nearest group of mercenary killers among the enemy force were moving out to try and attack this now-lone Roman on his small horse. It occurred to him in the blink of an eye that his shield and spear were somewhere back across the hoof-churned grass, smashed and splintered, and that defending himself against this bunch with just a sword was plain suicide.

Drawing his blade anyway, he wheeled his horse and raced off to join the cavalry attack - preferably somewhere safe and near the back.

Now it was time for a short and brutal attack and the rest was down to the commander and his small mounted force at the ford.

* * * * *

Quadratus gestured to the slope leading up from the river. According to what might laughably be called ‘the sun’ which shone as little more than a pale reflection of the moon in the marble grey sky, they were roughly at the position where the river curved around north of the fort. The scout’s initial suggestion that they turn at the ford had proved less than helpful in the commander’s opinion given that, despite the season, the rainfall had tailed off in the last couple of days and the river’s level had dropped sufficiently to reveal two more of the seven known fords in this area as opposed to the only one visible the past few days.

Still, the scout had been insistent as to which shallow strand was the ford he’d meant, and the sun never lied about directions, so Quadratus had little choice but to accept his appraisal.

The scout nodded at his commander’s gesture and cupped a hand to his ear meaningfully.

Quadratus tried to steady his thumping heart and listened carefully. The general mob noise of battle was all he could hear, and it sounded exactly the same to him as it had the past three times they had paused to listen since nearing their objective.

No. Different, now that he concentrated. The main clash of battle had become more distant, muted by the tense bulk of the army gathered between. The other cavalry force had drawn the Gallic riders away to the far side of the field as they had intended. It was the only explanation.

With a nod, Quadratus had his signifer wave the standard and ready for the advance. The unit would move up the slope as quietly as possible to maintain the element of surprise until the very last moment, and would then break into a charge as soon as they could see the command party and target the Treveri leader.

With quiet speed, the horsemen urged their mounts up the rise, which at this point seemed to be so much higher than when they had descended to the river, perhaps twice as high in fact. Logic dictated that the same plateau could only be the same height above the same river, but clearly something about the landscape had thrown out that particular bit of logic and the rise was difficult on horseback. Quadratus was immensely grateful, though, that he was climbing it rather than trying to coax a horse safely
down
it.

He was impressed with the Gauls in his small force on two counts: firstly their surprising level of control over their mounts. The ease with which the auxiliary volunteers mounted the slope took him quite by surprise, and a number of them could have taught his regulars a thing or two - though in fairness, when it came to the act of joining battle, the reverse would certainly be true.

The second was that the units were not vying with each other for prime position in the coming fight, which was the normal Gallic way, each man desperate for the most glorious and prestigious kill. Instead they were holding to their given formations almost as tightly as his own regular ala, each unit staying in position behind his lead.

If he were to be uncharitable, he might suspect that to be a matter of letting him and his men fall into the shit first…

Quadratus was the first to crest the slope, with his regulars arrayed behind him and his signifer by his side, standard lowered so as not to give any more advance warning than necessary

‘Oh, shit.’

It had been the signifer that had spoken, but he had voiced Quadratus’ own thoughts.

Certainly most of the enemy cavalry had been committed to the far side of the plateau to deal with the more major cavalry feint. Only a few hundred at most had stayed with the command group and that would not have been a great issue. The problem was that the Gallic commanders were fleeing the field, with that remaining cavalry about them. And that meant riding for the ford.

The result was that Quadratus crested the ridge at a steady pace only to see several hundred Gallic cavalry, along with their chieftains, musicians and signifers, bearing down on him at breakneck pace. A little more worrying than that was the fact that behind them, he could see the bulk of the Treveri force turning and taking to their heel in his direction too.

The other cavalry attack had been
extremely
effective.
Over
-effective, in fact. It had totally broken the already-flagging spirit of the Treveri army, and the entire force was now turning to leave the field, only to find Quadratus - and his roughly two hundred and fifty men - directly between them and the ford.

Desperation gripped the commander. Suddenly things looked rather worrying, and they had perhaps a count of thirty at best before the Gallic cavalry reached them. Would the Treveri slow to engage, or…?

A slow smile spread across his face as he realised the approaching riders, rather than slowing down, had increased their pace! They were moving to charge the Romans. Idiots.

He was suddenly filled with a smug sense of relief that over the past day he had given the auxiliary cavalry extensive tuition in the various calls, orders and standard relays for different manoeuvres, not knowing what Labienus had planned. The result was that he could be relatively confident that he had a good Roman command over the native force behind him.

‘Sound the ‘halt’ and the ‘form line’.’

The signifer had the effrontery to look puzzled, but his professionalism prevented any real insubordination, and he waved the standard madly. For a moment, Quadratus worried whether the Gauls under his command would manage to form up as intended, but their control over their beasts was truly excellent, and in a matter of heartbeats the bulk of his force was forming a line only two riders deep at the crest of the ridge, others still arriving up the slope behind them and falling in to make a third line where the terrain allowed.