Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (41 page)

Varus spun
around at a loud ‘crack’ and fresh horror overcame him. To the left
and right the enemy had pushed aside wicker screens at the edge of
the woodland to reveal massive tree trunks lying along the crest of
the hill. A rolling tree trunk could do enough damage, but Varus
realised with cold dread that the architects of this nightmare had
left the sharpened stumps of all the branches attached, creating a
rolling mass of spikes that even now had begun its inexorable
descent toward the river. The second wave of attack foundered
instantly, the officers shouting directions that were being
entirely ignored by the men. Those who could were making for the
far left and right flanks to try and evade the rolling nightmares.
Others crowded into the killing zone at the centre, where they were
butchered by the enemy infantry as they neared the crest.

Varus turned
to start crying out orders and found himself face to face with a
warrior at least a foot taller than himself and as much again
broader across the shoulder. The barbarian raised a huge Celtic
blade to strike down at the cavalry officer.

The commander
lifted his unfamiliar, stolen blade in an arm unused to wielding a
weapon in an attempt to block, and the sheer force of the blow ran
down his arm to the shoulder, numbing the joints. He flexed his
right hand and tried to roll the shoulder, wondering whether he
could change sword-arm, but that one was most definitely out of
action. Staggering back, he almost dropped the blade again. Lights
and colours were still flashing behind his eyes. He really was in
no fit state to fight.

The man raised
the great sword once again, this time for a massive overhead strike
that would likely shatter Varus’ own before continuing its descent
and separating him in two. In a flash of instinct, the cavalry
commander lashed out with his foot, delivering the man a hard blow
in the groin.

Shock suddenly
filled the man’s eyes, yet, while Varus waited for him to drop the
blade and double over, the barbarian gritted his teeth and fought
the pain, once more raising the great blade.

‘
What the hell were these people made of?’ he thought to
himself as he stepped back. The man advanced on him again, the
sword still raised high. Another step back. Varus was beginning to
panic. He had no idea what was going on behind him and what he was
backing towards, unwilling as he was to take his eyes from his
assailant.

There was the
distinct possibility he might walk straight back into the pit down
which his poor horse had gone…

He smiled
grimly.

“
Alright, you bastard. Come with me.”

As the
barbarian growled and once more stepped close enough to bring the
blade down, Varus slipped out of his reach yet again. The man was
beginning to become vexed and yet, the commander had to give him
credit, had not only overcome Varus’ unpleasant attack, but had
held enough discipline to keep his blade raised, rather than madly
swinging down at a man who was keeping just out of reach.

Back another
step; back another step; back another step…

And suddenly
Varus’ heel came down with nothing under it. Had he been
unprepared, he would have toppled back into the pit, but that was
not the case; he was very prepared. He regained his balance as the
great barbarian smiled a horrible smile at him and begun to swing
his blade downwards.

Ignoring the
agony in his arm, Varus threw himself forward and into a roll,
directly between the man’s legs. Lucky he was such a big fellow,
really. The warrior staggered, trying to counterbalance the
momentum of the swing that was now suddenly carrying him forward
into the pit by arching his body backwards.

With a vicious
smile, Varus came out of his roll, standing poised. Years of
falling from horses had trained the commander exactly how to
control a fall and a roll. In a matter of a heartbeat he had gone
smoothly from standing in front of the warrior to standing behind
him.

The Nervian
swordsman glanced in surprise over his shoulder.

“
In you go.”

With hardly
any force, Varus gently pushed at the point between the man’s
shoulder blades. With a squawk, the great warrior disappeared into
the deep hole. Varus turned and looked at the chaos around him. It
was odd. The Belgae had not pressed the attack, but were now
picking off those cavalry who were still fighting at the top, and
thrusting their long spears into the wounded Romans on the ground.
They were making no attempt to advance down the slope toward the
river.

Perhaps they
were fighting a defensive strategy? Waiting to see what the Roman
infantry across the river would do.

Realising that
the space around him was opening up, he scoured the grass until he
found a fallen cavalry spear, which he collected before turning and
heading back to the pit.

The warrior,
bruised and irritated, was using the carcass of Varus’ horse to
start his climb out of the hole.

With immense
satisfaction, Varus reached the edge, raised the familiar thrusting
spear, and brought it down as hard as he could. The leaf-shaped
blade entered the barbarian in the ‘V’ between shoulder and collar
bone, and pushed deep through the interior of the man’s torso,
reappearing just above the other hip in a spray of blood.

The man
actually looked astonished. Again, Varus found himself wondering
what these Nervii were made of.

Leaving the
spear protruding from the dying man as he uttered his rustling
death rattle, Varus grasped his sword and took in the situation
with a professional eye. Fronto had obviously been prepared to
support the cavalry for, though the legions were already heaving
sods of earth around across the river, the auxiliary units of
archers that seemed to be the legate’s pet units these days had
taken position on the far bank and were firing off missiles that
were, despite the incline and the distance, remarkably accurate,
ringing off Belgic helmets and thudding into Nervian shields.

Gritting his
teeth he tried to locate all the cavalry standards. Much of the
first wave had been destroyed by the pits and rolling logs. The
latter, only two trees, had left a swathe of horrific destruction
down either side of the hill before splashing into the water and
floating off downstream. A sizeable group of the second wave have
fallen foul of the rolling menace, but most of them and the third
wave had escaped unharmed and were either milling round in
confusion on the near bank or rallying to their standards to one
flank or the other.

Varus glanced
quickly at the line of Belgae. He wanted to call them Nervii, but
they might not be. He couldn’t tell the difference between one
Belgic tribe or another. Who could? The enemy were shouting taunts
at the cavalry, but were holding their solid line. There was
something expectant about the way they worked, almost as it they
were about to leap into action some way. He had to do something
about this. There was nothing he could do to save the wounded being
calmly executed at the summit, but he had to do something.

Jogging down
the hill, his mind still hazy and pained, he fixed on the dragon
standard of Galronus of the Remi. Thank Mars�� a familiar sight. He
ran on and, as he approached, the auxiliary officer hauled on his
reins to control his prancing mare.

“
Sir?”

Varus coughed
with the effort of his run.

“
We need to do something; need to give Fronto time to get the
fort built, and I want to see what the Nervii are up to behind that
crest.”

Galronus
nodded uncertainly.

“
More traps yet? We attack, we die?”

Varus shook
his head.

“
They’ve used up their traps. If they had anything else, they’d
have used it by now. They’re planning something and we can’t give
them time to carry it out. Fronto’s got to get that camp built.
Sound the rally. Get all surviving units back here and formed up.
You!”

He gestured at
the nearest regular cavalryman.

“
Sir?”

“
Go help Fronto with the camp. I need a horse.”

The man looked
uncertain for a moment and then nodded, dismounting. As Varus
vaulted into the saddle, the trooper ran back down the hill and
waded into the water, relief now flooding over him that he wouldn’t
have to try that ascent again.

As the cavalry
units formed up on the call, Varus sat tall in his saddle.

“
I know no one’s very keen to try that again, but we need to
give the legions time to set up the defences. So… we’re going to
charge, but we’re going to do it like this: Two columns, five
riders across. The only place we know there aren’t pits are where
the logs rolled down, so we’ll use those paths as a guide. We
charge up those narrow corridors and then, once we’re ten yards
from the enemy, separate out one horse width and allow the second
row to filter in so that we become a ten-man front. Watch out for
those spears though. They’re deadly with them. So hang your sword
on the saddle horn and go in with your own spears. Anyone who’s no
longer got their spear, take rear positions in the formation. Use
the spears and try and pick them off without getting too close.
Once we’ve taken down the front spearmen, you can draw your swords
and go crazy. Alright?”

There was an
affirmative shout around him. The atmosphere was aggressive. While
nobody relished the thought of that charge once again, the general
anger over the Roman losses was fuelling the need for revenge.

“
But don’t get carried away. Listen out for the call from your
cornicen. The fall back will be given either when Fronto gives the
signal that he’s sorted or we are so deep in the shit we have to.
Be heroes, but not suicidal ones.”

* * * * *

Fronto gave
the cornicen a nod as the Tenth descended the slope to the river
Selle. The engineers that had been sent out with the advance party
of scouts had already placed poles with flags to mark the positions
of the wall corners, along with the gates and, as the musician blew
out the orders, the Tenth at the front of the column dispersed as
they arrived on site and moved left to take position on the western
perimeter where the professionalism of the Roman army took over.
The engineers dropped their shield and pilum somewhere easily
retrievable and began to mark out the edge of the rampart and ditch
with string, while their assistants ran along the lines with groma
setting new flags to mark drainage culverts and so on.

Even before
the lines were measured, the ordinary soldiers collected their
dolabra from their pack and began to dig the ditch in positions
where they knew it to be without markings, and to pile the
excavated earth behind on the line of the future rampart.

By the time
the Eighth Legion began to arrive on the scene, the Tenth were
already at work on the western ditch. At a second series of calls
from Balbus’ command, the Eighth marched straight ahead and began
to work on the northern line. More calls could be heard over the
next few minutes as the other legions gradually arrived on the
scene. The Ninth flanked Fronto on the western wall, curving round
to the south. The Eleventh joined Balbus to deal with the north,
the most important line, facing the enemy. Finally, the Twelfth
appeared to deal with the eastern rampart.

The section
toward the enemy would be completed first. By the time the baggage
train and then the Thirteenth and Fourteenth arrived, most of the
work would be complete.

Fronto watched
for a while with a professional and marginally-interested eye. It
was always fascinating in a way to watch engineers at work, no
matter how many times you’d seen them do this before. But right
here and right now, Fronto felt about as useful as a eunuch at a
Bacchanalia. A legate’s duty was to set the overall orders for his
legion. Once it came down to carrying out those orders, the
centurionate took over and all he had to do was stand around and
look pretty. Well he knew he didn’t look particularly pretty, so it
was time to find something useful to do.

He turned to
Labienus, who was examining the ground across the site.

“
Can you take charge here?”

“
Take charge of what?” laughed the staff officer. “I’m about as
important as you right now.”

Smiling,
Fronto turned and strode out toward the water, ahead of the works.
Assuming things were proceeding according to plan, he’d
concentrated on the Tenth and had barely glanced across the river.
Now though…

“
Oh shit!”

He turned and
pushed his way back past the surprised legionaries, hacking away at
the ground and already making their mark, a foot-deep, three foot
wide trench opening up along the northern and western lines. He
spotted Labienus and Brutus deep in conversation.

“
Varus has hit trouble!”

The two men
turned and squinted past the works. The slope was too gentle for
them to easily see over the heads of hundreds of working
legionaries.

“
Can’t see. What’s happened?”

“
He’s in the deepest of shit.”

Brutus
frowned.

“
Do we mobilise the legions?”

“
No.” Fronto frowned. “We need to get the camp built as soon as
possible. I’ll deal with it.”

Running along
the line of the ditch past surprised legionaries, he finally
spotted what he was looking for: a whole group of white-garbed men
standing around, looking bored. The auxiliaries had no place in the
construction of a camp and were in position on the periphery, not
on guard so much as keeping out of the way.