THE INVASION OF GAUL (67 page)

As the last horsemen in front of them broke away or died, Varus and his small unit reached a charge and spread out enough to allow a sword swing. He had to give credit to their opponents. The chieftains did not run, merely readying their weapons for combat. The footmen, presumably their own guard, levelled their long spears. As he bore down upon them, Varus recognised the danger. The bristling long spears would wreak havoc with a charge. Pulling hard on the reins, Varus stopped in his tracks, shouting out a halt to the rest of the unit. The regular cavalrymen reined in sharply after their commander, as did many of the auxilia. Some of the Gauls, eager and undisciplined charged straight at the group.

Varus turned his head away from the grisly sight. He hated to waste men or horses. Both were valuable.

Glancing around, he could see the situation was turning grave for the German chieftains. To his left the reserve force and a few of the cavalry were driving the German wing from the field. To his right, the German mass was being forced back into the ‘U’ of their wagons. Varus turned and lowered his blade.

“
Do any of you speak Latin?”

One of the horsemen manoeuvred his horse out ahead of the others.

“
I talk little.”

Varus nodded.

“
You are finished here. Over. Understand?”

The German grinned a defiant grin.

“
Many of us. Much left.”

Varus shook his head.

“
You are finished. Surrender now. There’s no need for you all to throw away your lives. Surrender and I’ll guarantee I will do my best to see that you return to your lands across the Rhine.”

There was a great deal of conferring among the barbarians, and then the spokesman stepped his horse further forward.

“
We not surrender to you. You fight us.”

Varus sighed. So much for diplomacy. He called out a number of orders very quickly in Latin; too quick, he hoped, for the German to have followed him. Behind him the regulars and some of the Gauls formed up with their swords at the ready. The rest of the auxiliaries moved out to the edge and levelled their spears.

“
One more time. We don’t need the bloodshed. Will you surrender?”

The barbarian chieftain merely snarled in response and threw his horse forward into a charge. Varus, disciplined as always, waited for the man, neatly sidestepped his mount and swung with his sword. The Chieftain continued on between the regular cavalry as he slowly topped forward over his horse’s mane and then slid from the saddle and bounced along the ground before coming to a rest finally in a broken and painful position.

Varus turned back to his men.

“
Release!”

The Gaulish auxiliaries cast their spears in unison at the footmen protecting the chieftains. As many of the missiles struck home, the protective ring around the men fell away.

Varus held the chieftains in his gaze. Without a glance at his men, he gave the order in a low, quiet voice.

“
Take them.”

Varus merely sat astride his horse, viscera still running down the blade of his sword and dripping to the turf. The cavalry swarmed past on either side, bearing down on the chieftains, intent on destruction. Varus knew when to take the lead and when to let his men off the leash. There were times when soldiers needed a free hand to take out their anger and hatred over the loss of comrades or personal injuries. He looked up only once at the destruction ahead of him. Afterward they would loot the bodies and carry the gold back to their camp for their own personal funds. Such was the way of things. Varus would go back empty handed and face the judgement he’d called down. For all Crassus’ change, Varus had disobeyed orders and had insulted a senior officer, and was under no misconception of what that would mean.

As his eyes gradually focused on the grisly scene, he noticed something he hadn’t been able to see between the horses and the men. A Roman. A man in a military tunic among the few survivors still fighting for their lives against his men. A momentary worry caught him and he called out at the top of his voice; a halt to the fighting.

As the cavalry drew back, surprised, the three remaining German warriors took the opportunity to drop their swords and surrender. Between them the Roman stood, his tunic dirty and bloody and torn, his arms tied together behind him. Varus rode forward, gesturing to his men to deal with the prisoners. He frowned at the Roman.

“
Who are you?”

The man struggled to stand proud, though painfully and was still hampered by the way his arms were tied.

“
I’m Marcus Mettius. Staff officer of Caesar.”

Varus stared. Everyone knew of Mettius and of Procillus and their capture by Ariovistus, but no one had ever expect to see them alive again.

“
What of Procillus?”

Varus dismounted and approached the officer.

“
I don’t know whether he lives or not,” the man replied. “We were separated immediately. I must report to Caesar.”

Varus smiled as he reached round and cut the man’s bonds.

“
Caesar’s chasing men halfway to the Rhine by now. I think you’d best come back and see the medicus before the general returns. Use my horse. I’ll lead him and we’ll get you some clean gear.”

Mettius smiled a relieved smile.

“
Thank you, but I can walk. As we go, you can tell me who
you
are and what’s happened since I was taken.”

* * * * *

Fronto had left Caesar and ridden round the back of the infantry to the centre where the third line of the Tenth had been massed. By prior arrangement with the other officers and much to Fronto’s personal dislike he had agreed that, since he would be scouting for Caesar’s staff, he would take position with the third line and command the reserves when they went in. As such, he had stood by his horse, holding the reins and talking to young centurion Pomponius throughout the entirety of the assault on the German line. He seriously doubted they would need the reserves. This was it. Almost certainly the last action this campaigning year, and he’d missed out. The legate spat on the floor and grumbled.

Pomponius waited until Fronto was looking away and then rolled his eyes skywards. He was getting sick and tired of the legate complaining. Most soldiers were happy to wait in the reserve. The chances of being skewered or sliced were so much slimmer.

“
Sir, if you’re bored why don’t you go and see the support staff. I’m sure they’re at least
doing
something, so you could get involved.”

Fronto glared at Pomponius.

“
I’m not so desperate to shout at people that I want to watch quartermasters and medics screwing things up.”

Pomponius merely smiled and arched one eyebrow. He may be relatively new to the ranks of the centurionate, and even relatively new to the Tenth, but like all the officers of the legion, he knew the legate very well by now. Fronto saw the raised eyebrow and sighed.

“
Alright, I’ll go and see the support. If anything remotely exciting happens, have someone come and get me. At least someone back there’s going to have some wine.”

As Fronto stomped off toward the rear, Pomponius smiled again and contemplated what life could have been like with a commander who
didn’t
care.

Fronto wandered into the makeshift hospital where the action was already fast and revolting. The battle had been going for less than half an hour and casualties were not in short supply. Probably in the same amount of time the battle would be over, not like that protracted siege with the Helvetii. He cursed again and tapped irritably on his sword hilt. He was surveying the general carnage when his eyes lit on a familiar face.

Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth, sat on a slight hummock in the grass with a distressed capsarius tending to some kind of wound. Fronto grinned and made his way toward the battered old centurion. The man was covered in blood and clearly a lot of it was his, though beneath the crimson stains the man was as pale as a Vestal virgin at an orgy.

“
Balventius. Been in the wars?”

He slumped to the grass next to the wounded man.

“
Some bastard German got me when I wasn’t looking.”

Fronto smiled again.

“
I take it he doesn’t look as well as you.”

The legate glanced over the centurion’s shoulder to examine what the capsarius was doing.

“
Sweet Fortuna, that’s deep!”

As Balventius nodded, the capsarius tutted irritably.

“
If you keep jerking around like that I’m going to end up sewing your lung to your heart, now will you
keep still
!”

The centurion glanced up at Fronto from his slightly hunched position.

“
Are the Tenth not moving?”

Fronto gave his customary growl.

“
Most of them are, but I’m commanding the reserve.”

Balventius turned his head, causing muttering from the medic.

“
How long are you going to be? I’ve got a unit out there with no commander.”

The capsarius almost dropped his last stitch.

“
You must be bloody joking. You’ve lost enough blood to fill an amphora. You’ll be lucky if you can walk fast without fainting. And there are twenty six stitches across your shoulders with a long, deep wound. The first time you swing or lunge, you’ll rip ‘em all out and I’ll have to start again from scratch. And
that’s
if you don’t lose enough blood to drop dead on the journey back. You’re out of it centurion, I’m afraid.”

With an exaggerated tug that caused Balventius to wince, the capsarius finished sewing the wound.

“
Does that mean you’re done?”

“
I’ve just got to bandage you now.”

Fronto leaned forward and spoke to the medic.

“
I’ll help and, for the record, this man’s almost certainly had worse wounds.”

Balventius nodded.

“
Sorry, doc. There’s no way I’d be staying back here unless I was missing a leg or something. Just get me bound.”

He looked up at Fronto again.

“
If you rally want to do something useful, sir, could you find one of these waste-of-good-air quartermasters and get me another mail shirt?”

Fronto nodded and, standing, wandered away from the valetudinarium until he found one of the quartermasters directing several immunes in unloading weapons and armour from a cart. Spotting mail shirts passing around, his eyes lit on a shirt of fish-scale mail.

“
What’s the chance of me getting hold of one of those?”

The quartermaster snorted derisively and then turned and realised he was speaking to a senior officer.

“
Sorry sir. All the scale’s spoken fer. Very popular with officers sir, and ‘arder to get than chain. I can let yer ‘ave some chain right now though. ‘Ow many d’yer need?”

Fronto grinned.

“
How many shirts have you got put aside to make a little packet on, though? Two? Three?”

The quartermaster, a slightly overweight centurion assigned to the Seventh, looked taken aback and wounded for a moment before a brief flash of guilt made it to his face.

“
Well, I suppose I could let yer ‘ave one o’ the reserve stock, sir, but I’d ‘ave ter buy another one in ter replace it, and they ain’t cheap.”

Fronto nodded and grinned.

“
I think I can probably cover it. You know me, yes?”

“
Yer legate Fronto o’ the Tenth. I seen yer sir.”

Fronto smiled again.

“
Then put my mark against the shirt. I’ll take it now and drop the money off after the battle.”

The quartermaster ummed and ahhed and dithered for long moments, contemplating being left one shirt down by Fronto, then sighed and reached over. Picking up the shiny scale shirt, he passed it to Fronto.

“
Don’t go getting’ yerself killed today, sir. Yer owe me fer a good scale shirt.”

Moments later, leaving the unhappy quartermaster grumbling as his men continued to stockpile gear, Fronto wandered back in to the valetudinarium, the heavy armour, scales of steel sewn over leather and chain, draped over his arm. He wandered around until he found Balventius, fully bandaged, struggling to pull a tunic down over his ruined shoulders.

“
I don’t know how you expect to fight when you can even dress.”

The centurion grunted.

“
It’s just a bit tight with these bandages on. The bloody capsarius refused to help me. Said he wouldn’t help me hasten my own death. That’s a nice shirt. What do I owe you?”

Fronto grinned.

“
I’ve got a fair bit put away at the moment, so call it a gift.”

Balventius glanced out of the corner of his eye.

“
Oh yes, the wager money from you and that Gaul. I made a packet myself. Well thanks. Soon as I’m suited up I’m off to the front again. You coming sir?”

Fronto shrugged and winced. It had been months since he’d suffered his wounds to the Gaul in the ring, and they still ached most of the time and hurt like hell some of the time. He couldn’t imagine what Balventius was made of to want to go back in like that.