Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (44 page)

He frowned and
rubbed his temple.

“
Someone’s got to deal with them. Can you take command here?
Lead the Tenth?”

Labienus
nodded. “Of course, but what will you do?”

Fronto
smiled.

“
I’m going to take the Sixth Cohort only and go save the wagons
and guard our rear.”

Labienus
shrugged.

“
Sounds dangerous, but good luck.”

Fronto
grinned.

“
Titus, we’re in the middle of a battle. Danger’s kind of the
norm, don’t you think?”

He scoured the
rear ranks of the Tenth and spotted their chief centurion.

“
Lucretius? Call your cohort to order and follow
me!”

The centurion,
a veteran with snowy-white hair that made him look considerably
older than he truly was, saluted, and began shouting orders to his
subordinates. Moments later, he strode back from the assembling
cohort.

“
What’s up, sir?”

Fronto pointed
up the hill to where the enemy were already now converged on the
carts, which had come to a stop, the column being held up by the
attack.

“
Trouble with the wagons. We’re going to save the day, as
usual, Lucretius.”

The centurion
nodded and turned to his men.

“
At the double-time, to the wagons! Prepare to charge on
arrival!”

Fronto smiled
and drew his sword. As the legionaries began to half-march,
half-run towards the wagons, he fell in beside them. He and
Lucretius picked up their pace to reach the front of the relief
column as they ran. The centurion grinned at his commander.

“
Did you know that the soldiers think you actually look for
trouble to get involved in, sir?”

Fronto
laughed.

“
It’s not a long way from the truth, Lucretius.”

As they closed
on the enemy, they could see in much more detail what was
happening. Two columns, each of perhaps seven or eight hundred
warriors, had broken cover after the main attack and made straight
for where they assumed the staff officers to be. Having arrived,
they had either discovered their error and decided to attack the
wagons instead or, more likely, had not yet discovered, in the
large staging area of wagons and riders, that the command unit were
not present.

Next to
Fronto, Lucretius bellowed “Attack!”

The cohort
roared as they swept past the officers. Fronto was momentarily
taken aback, expecting the traditional slowly advancing shield
wall. But then, Lucretius was right. Adapting to the situation, a
shield wall would be no good here as the warriors swarmed around
and over the wagons, killing their drivers and the oxen drawing the
vehicles.

Taking a deep
breath and raising his shield protectively, Fronto shouted a quick
prayer to Nemesis and, aiming for the nearest wagon’s assailants,
ran forward.

There was no
strategy to the attack. As men to both left and right struggled,
the result was, for Fronto, a foregone conclusion. There were maybe
fifteen hundred Belgae here, but there were five hundred Romans,
and they were more disciplined and better equipped.

Fronto reached
the wagon and saw a Nervian warrior with a spear thrusting up at
the rider, who was squirming in his seat, trying to avoid the
vicious point. The legate ran up behind the attacker and drove his
gladius to the hilt in the man’s back just below the right shoulder
blade. The body went limp and fell to one side. As it did, Fronto
juggled his sword into his shield hand and grabbed the falling
spear. With a grin, he passed it up to the wagon driver.

“
Pick a few off!”

The man
grasped the spear gratefully and began to thrust down with it into
the warriors at the far side as Fronto returned his sword to the
correct hand. There was a noise behind him, just a faint grunt, and
pure instinct led the legate to duck to the left and spin. As he
did so, the warrior that had been closing behind him thrust out his
sword into the empty air where, a moment earlier, Fronto’s kidney
had been.

The man
lurched forward in surprise as his blow foundered, and Fronto
stepped neatly in from the side and drove his blade into the man’s
neck just at the base, above the man’s tunic. It took some effort
to haul the sword back out of the man as he collapsed, dead
instantly, his spinal cord severed.

Fronto glanced
around. There were a number of men nearby who presented ready
targets and were not currently occupied by the legionaries, who
were working their way efficiently toward the wagons.

He lunged for
the nearest man, obviously one of the wealthier warriors, for he
could afford a helmet and was fully dressed in good quality
clothes. The bearded barbarian took a stance that surprised Fronto,
reminding him more of the crouch of a gladiator circling his
opponent than a Celtic warrior in the midst of a pitch battle.

“
Oh, come on!”

He stabbed at
the warrior with his gladius and the man desperately turned the
blow aside with his large, unwieldy Celtic blade. Fronto readied
himself for a counter-attack and stared in astonishment as the
warrior turned and fled among his own men.

“
What the hell is going on?” he asked of nobody in
particular.

The situation
here was rapidly coming under control. The Nervii who had attacked
the column of carts seemed to have lost heart and, as Fronto
casually dispatched another warrior, they broke and ran; not from
the field, but to join their comrades who were pressing the
legions. Fronto looked up at the man on the cart who was wielding
his spear with great relief.

“
I presume you can handle things now?”

“
Yes sir.”

Fronto
nodded.

“
Get all the wagons marshalled here and as soon as each one’s
in position, get the drivers and staff armed and in position to
protect them from any other attack.”

The soldier
saluted.

“
Oh,” Fronto added as an afterthought, “and send someone back
past the train to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions and tell
them to pick up the pace. Tell them we’ve engaged the Belgae and
we’re in the shit. They need to join the Twelfth on the right flank
as soon as they’re here, alright?”

The man nodded
and turned to his companions to begin calling out the orders.

Fronto nodded,
satisfied with the situation at the rear, and located Lucretius and
his standard bearer and cornicen.

“
I think we’re probably done here. The rearguard will be here
shortly and I doubt there’s any more enemy units lurking around the
rear. We should get back to the Tenth.”

The centurion
nodded and gestured at the Cornicen, who sounded the recall.
Pausing only to dispatch the few surviving fallen Belgae, the Sixth
Cohort rallied to the standard and formed into centuries. Lucretius
gave further orders and the cohort turned and moved off at a fast
march to rejoin the fighting on the left flank, with Fronto running
alongside.

As they
reached the rear ranks of the Tenth, Fronto was surprised to see
Labienus and Brutus in conversation with Caesar. He growled under
his breath.

“
Lucretius, get to work.”

The centurion
saluted and then filtered the Sixth Cohort back into the lines of
defenders, bolstering the numbers, while Fronto marched irritably
across to the group of officers.

“
Problems?”

Caesar turned
to him and blinked.

“
Not problems, Fronto. All my senior officers are with the
legions and I need to be apprised of the situation.”

Fronto
growled.

“
The situation is that we’re in the shit. Labienus is supposed
to be commanding the Tenth while I was away, not reporting to his
commander. The situation’s a bit perilous for wandering around the
battlefield and passing the time of day.”

Caesar glared
at him and ground his teeth but before he could speak, Fronto
pointed back in the direction from whence the general had come.

“
The Twelfth are seriously outnumbered, hard pressed, and have
no support. In that position, morale plays as much a part as
strength, numbers, or discipline. How much of a morale boost do you
think it gave them to see their commander desert them and wander
off across the battlefield to go chat to another
legion?”

Caesar’s
opening mouth closed again. For a moment he looked astonished, and
slowly his anger was replaced by grudging acceptance.

“
What do you suggest, Fronto?”

“
If you hold any hope of pulling our arses out of the fire
today, we need the Twelfth to hold until the relief arrives. It
might do them some good if all their officers pitched in and
helped. In fact, we’ve got enough officers here, really. I could
use Labienus, but Brutus might be of use over there.”

Caesar nodded
slowly.

“
I agree, yes. A show of bravery and ‘mucking in’ from the
officer corps. Come, Brutus.”

With the
briefest of nods at Fronto, the general and his young companion
strode back across the battlefield towards the beleaguered Twelfth
Legion. The legate watched them go and then turned back to Labienus
and rolled his eyes.

“
Shall we get back to the real work?”

Labienus
smiled at him.

“
Only you could get away with scolding your commanding officer
like a naughty child, Fronto. You do make me laugh
sometimes.”

* * * * *

Paetus stared
at the man in front of him. He’d known Fronto for years and the
legate hadn’t even recognised him. Oh, certainly he was wearing
Belgic gear and he’d grown a beard, but surely that couldn’t
disguise him that easily.

The plan had
failed. That was clear from the moment the two ambushing units of
Nervii had left the woods. The wagons had rolled into view and the
warriors had charged, but there was no mounted command unit, just
the rear end of the Twelfth Legion and then the carts. The bastard
had changed the marching order. How did he know?

It hadn’t
stopped the Nervii and their allies anyway. They’d missed the
opportunity of removing the commanders but, given the amount of
preparation that had gone into this attack and the level to which
they and their allies had now committed themselves, there was no
point in changing plans or calling off the attack. They outnumbered
Caesar’s army and had the advantages of surprise and preparation.
They could win this anyway, without taking down the staff.

The
disappointment to Paetus was crushing. Now he would have to stay
through the entire battle to make sure that Caesar did not escape
alive. Tricky, though, as it was possible that, even when the
Nervii won, they would take issue with Paetus for the failure of
his plan. Still, he could worry about that when it happened. Right
now, he had other issues…

Fronto.

The legate of
the Tenth faced him with gladius and shield like a true soldier of
Rome, unstoppable and efficient. Paetus felt the panic rise in his
throat. Oh, he’d trained as a soldier, of course, but for many
years now his days and nights were a constant flow of comfortable
chairs, scrawling figures on wax tablets, and planning from behind
a desk. It had been years since he’d even drawn his sword and the
recent exercise he’d undergone couldn’t replace the fighting skills
and instinct he’d long-since lost.

He dropped
into what he hoped was a combative stance. Since Fronto hadn’t
recognised him, he might get away with this. Hell, he really didn’t
want to kill Fronto, even if he thought for even a minute that he
could. Fronto was one of very few people in Caesar’s army who
actually seemed to care.

The legate
grinned at him and the smile was horrible. Paetus could suddenly
understand how Fronto achieved his reputation and respect. It was a
wonder the enemy didn’t flee just at his scowl.

In a blur of
movement, the legate lunged at him. It was like watching a snake
uncoil, he was so damned fast. In a desperate move, Paetus swung
his sword at Fronto’s attack and managed by some miracle of luck to
knock the blade away. He stared for a moment at the legate and,
turning, ran like a cowardly child from a bully, back to the
west.

Around him,
several other Nervian warriors were now fleeing the scene, though
they were doing so with determined looks and there was evidently no
fear or cowardice involved as they ran to regroup with their
countrymen attacking the legions. Paetus, unnoticed among their
number, ran on and, as the warriors turned and joined the Atrebates
who were busy swarming over the defences of the Ninth and Tenth,
the frightened prefect continued on past them and into the woods
from where the attack had been launched.

* * * * *

Crispus pushed
his way through the lines of his men, the noise around him
deafening as the Eleventh fought for their lives among a press of
screaming, bloodthirsty warriors. The legate, educated and bright,
thin and well-groomed, was currently a sight that would have sent
his mother into fits.

Fronto’s
influence was clear to those around him these days. His tone had
matured as he deliberately fought to keep his mannerisms military
and forthright, where his family had always taught him to hold
himself as an orator. He now moved with the deliberate and powerful
certainty of a soldier. But mostly, the change was clear in his
appearance.

The bronze
cuirass, embossed with the head of medusa, now carried more than a
dozen dents, one of which had actually punctured the metal. Some of
the leather pteruges hanging from his shoulders and belt were
missing or cleaved off half-way. His tunic was smeared and dirty
and one sleeve hung raggedly down, his sword and shield bore the
rents, dents and viscera of a warrior in the fiercest of
battles.