Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (46 page)

Velius
shrugged.

“
Pick any century. They’re all full of madmen. You’re
infectious, you know.”

Fronto
nodded.

“
Then pick a century each. Velius, you take the standard on the
far left; Priscus, the centre. I’ll take the right, as I want to
signal Balbus and Crispus when we’re done.”

Labienus shook
his head.

“
You know this is mad, Fronto.”

The legate
nodded.

“
Mad and necessary. Have fun.”

He turned and
strode off to the right flank of the Tenth. Scanning up and down
the ranks for a centurion, he spotted the familiar white hair of
Lucretius wiping his brow, his helmet off. Lucretius’ century were
in the rear line and currently unoccupied.

“
Lucretius!”

The centurion
turned and saluted, coming to attention.

“
You and your century want to join me on a suicide
mission?”

“
Is that really a choice, sir?”

Fronto
laughed.

“
Not really. We’re going to break out of the line, make for the
nearest enemy standard, and kill their leaders.”

The centurion
grinned.

“
That’ll shake ‘em, sir.”

Without
waiting for orders, he turned.

“
Sixth Cohort, First Century: Report to the rear!”

The seventy or
so remaining members of Lucretius’ century fell out of the line and
assembled in formation and at attention in the open space of the
camp’s interior. As they did so, Fronto strode to the rear line
directly opposite the standard he could see wavering, bronze and
shining, above the enemy, and accosted the closest legionary.

“
In a minute, the whole line will have to part to let a century
through. We’re going to push out of the line. Pass the word down to
be ready.”

The soldier
saluted and spoke hurriedly to the men around him, as Fronto turned
back to the century behind him. Lucretius was standing to attention
with his men.

“
Alright, here’s what we’re going to do” he announced. “The
line’s going to open as we march through towards the front. As soon
as we’re three men back from the enemy, I want the century to drop
into testudo formation, four men wide. Lucretius and myself will
take central positions at the front. The moment we’re in formation
and the front line opens, I want a charge, maintaining that
formation. We can’t afford to open any gaps, as we’ll be surrounded
by the enemy. That means the rear will have to take position and
walk backwards…”

He gestured at
the optio. “That’s your position. Bear in mind you’re going to have
to charge backwards. Can you do it?”

The optio
shrugged.

“
Can’t guarantee the line will stay closed while we charge,
sir. We’ll do our best, but I can guarantee that as soon as we slow
to a march, any gap will close.”

Fronto
nodded.

“
Do whatever you have to. They’re a dense mass, so they
probably won’t have room to drop to the ground and attack under the
shields. We just need to get there. Once we’re there we kill anyone
well-dressed, armoured, or holding a standard. If we can do that,
we form up and hold tight until the legion marches to meet us. If
this works, Labienus will push the legion forward as soon as he
sees the standards go down. If we’re lucky, we’ll still be alive
when they get to us.”

The soldiers
of Lucretius’ century continued to stand, stony faced, not a single
man showing a hint of fear. It always made Fronto proud to see the
quality of his men.

“
Alright. Form up, four abreast.”

He collected
one of the spare shields from the armament piles behind the ranks
of men, stepped next to the centurion and smiled.

“
See you in Elysium then, eh?”

Lucretius
nodded.

“
Hopefully a few years away, yet, sir.”

Fronto gritted
his teeth and raised the shield, drawing his sword.

“
Open ranks!” he called to the Tenth and the lines of men
pulled aside like a tide retreating over wet sand, leaving a space
for the column to march through. As the two officers led the column
into the lines of legionaries, the discipline of the Roman military
once more impressed itself on him. Row after row of densely-packed
legionaries stepped aside and opened a path as they advanced
forward through the ranks of the Tenth.

After what
seemed like an eternity of marching, Fronto saw the fighting ahead,
the front ranks of his men lunging, stabbing and shield-barging;
even head-butting where the opportunity presented itself. As he
watched, lucky barbarian blows landed between the shields and
figures fell, only to be replaced by a legionary from the rank
behind, causing a line of men of that cohort to step one rank
forward.

And then there
were so few men in front of him that he could see the contorted,
hungry faces of the enemy as wool-clad or naked warriors swung with
swords or stabbed with spears.

“
Testudo!”

With a crash
of shield upon shield, the century fell into formation, four
shields forming a front wall, with each man along the side creating
a solid shield wall down the side. Unusually for a testudo, there
were not enough shields to create a complete roof, but this
particular manoeuvre was unlikely to come under arrow fire. Fronto
held his sword up and ready to shove through the narrow gaps
afforded by the curvature of the shields.

Suddenly the
front ranks of the Tenth opened and Fronto found himself face to
face with a screaming, naked, blue-painted Celt.

“
Charge!”

The century,
still in formation, picked up to a fast pace and slammed into the
enemy who were trying desperately to make use of the sudden opening
to break the shield wall.

The sheer
momentum of seventy heavily-armoured men running with shields to
the front carried them into and through the first few ranks of the
enemy, Belgic warriors staring in surprise and panic as they were
quite literally battered to one side and ploughed out of the
way.

After a
moment’s initial push, however, the pace of the testudo began to
slow, as the momentum waned and the mass of enemy bodies around
them increased. Now began the work that was the forte of the
legion. As the testudo moved forward at a slow, heavy plod, Fronto
began to lash out with his blade through the available narrow
openings. He could barely see what he was attacking, his view was
so restricted by the protective shields, but he felt the blade bite
into flesh time and again.

Slowly, pace
by pace, the century moved on, deeper into the mass. Legionaries
would be dying, he knew. They’d be lucky if they lived long enough
to reach the standard, let alone kill the men around it. Of course,
the discipline and training of the Roman military meant that each
time a soldier fell, he would be replaced by his nearest
compatriot. The testudo would gradually shrink as their numbers
fell, but the wall of shields would close after each death.

Fronto felt
something clatter off his helmet. Damn, that was close.

Behind him to
the left there was a shriek and for just a moment he felt the
ominous expanse of air where a man had been, and then a moment
later another man was in that place and there was the reassuring
‘clunk’ of a replacement shield slotting into the gap.

How long would
this take? He couldn’t spare the time to look around and see how
far they’d come and, even if he could, he wouldn’t have been able
to see past the rows of legionaries with shields and the press of
barbarian warriors beyond.

He would…

Suddenly the
world next to him opened up to chaos. A well aimed blow had landed
between the curved shields and had carved a great gouge in
Lucretius’ face. The centurion was dead before his knees buckled
and he hit the ground. Fronto and the other front man to his right
swung their weapons like madmen to prevent the assailant from
managing to pull apart their formation and then thankfully,
suddenly, the soldier from the second row managed to step forward
over the fallen officer’s body and slot his shield into place.

Fronto
grimaced. The loss of any man was always unfortunate, but the loss
of a good veteran centurion was particularly lamentable, though
common, given the impressive mortality rate among the
centurionate.

Suddenly,
through the narrow gap between shields and over the heads of wild,
screaming barbarians, Fronto saw a golden boar on a pole waving
back and forth. They were almost there.

“
I see it lads! Push!”

With renewed
vigour, the depleted century barged and heaved their way forward
through the enemies and suddenly Fronto found himself face-to-face
with a man in a bronze breastplate and a strangely-horned helmet,
screaming wilding and gesturing with his sword. The area around the
leaders of the Atrebates was relatively open, giving them enough
space to deal with the job of commanding their army, such as it
was.

“
Now, lads!” he cried. “We’ve got ‘em. Open up and form a
protective circle.”

As Fronto
moved his own shield to the side and prepared for straight combat,
the remaining men of the century opened up behind him in a
crescent, pushing their way in among the Atrebates’ command party
while maintaining a curved line of shields against the rest of the
enemy.

Fronto kept
his eyes on the nobleman or bodyguard or whatever he was, but cast
a quick, satisfied glance past him to see that other men were
already engaging another well-dressed man and the
standard-bearer.

The warrior, a
bulging-eyed man with red cheeks and an impressive moustache,
screamed violently and lunged with his sword, too restricted by the
sudden press of Romans to make a good swing with it. Fronto threw
the shield in the way and such was the power of the man’s blow that
the blade tore through the shield and wedged in among the fractured
wood and leather. Almost contemptuously, Fronto twisted the shield
and ripped the sword from the surprised barbarian’s hand.

As the man
stared and then reached in a panic for the smaller blade at his
belt, Fronto took the opportunity of an undefended opponent and
lashed out twice, quickly, with his gladius. The first blow caught
the man in the belly, the second in the arm as he spun. The chief
or guard was as good as dead now. He’d certainly be dead within the
hour at the latest, but this whole push was all about the look of
things. The Belgae had to see their leaders die, ignominiously and
in pain.

Fronto stepped
forward and towered over the slowly-collapsing man, raising his
sword for a killing blow when a sudden explosion of white-hot pain
in his left arm spun him around. A well-thrown spear had ripped
through the protective layers at the top of his shield and had gone
straight through his arm, breaking the bone in the process, and
into his shoulder next to the armpit.

It was a lucky
blow for the victorious Celt but, really, luckier for Fronto. Three
inches higher and it would have gone straight through his neck.
Fronto winced and gritted his teeth, trying not to shout in pain.
The command group of the Atrebates was gone, and the legionaries
had formed into a protective circle around him and the three other
soldiers that had dispatched the leaders and their companions.

As he spun
around in pain, he noted, even in his predicament, that the circle
was tightening as the men created a solid shield wall against the
enemy. Somewhere back at the Roman lines, the cornicens called the
advance and a roar went up.

Fronto dropped
his gladius to the floor and reached round to grasp the spear just
below the head. His mind was beginning to feel a little fuzzy. He
made an unsuccessful attempt to pull out the spear and grunted in
pain, collapsing to his knees. Suddenly, hands were helping him
up.

“
Gettoff! Just get this bloody thing out of me.”

“
Are you sure, sir?” a legionary enquired quietly.

“
Get it out!”

There was a
commotion going on among the Atrebates and Fronto caught out of the
corner of his eye the sight of pila arcing through the air and
coming down among the barbarians. He gritted his teeth and let out
a whimper as two men pulled on the spear shaft and the blade came
out of his shoulder with a ‘slurping’ sound, followed by a gobbet
of blood.

“
Lie down, sir.”

“
What?”

“
I’m the capsarius for this century and I know what I’m doing,
sir. Lie down!”

Fronto,
starting to feel distinctly faint, collapsed to the floor, the
jarring of the shield on his broken and impaled arm making him
shriek.

As soon as he
was down, the medic picked up a heavy Belgic blade and took a swing
downward, severing the spear shaft close to his arm. The shock that
ran through Fronto drove him into immediate and blissful
unconsciousness and he was still in the dark bosom of Morpheus
while the Capsarius grasped the spear head and pulled the shaft
through the arm, removed the shield and splinted and bound his
legate.

Around him,
the defensive circle tightened again as the surviving eighteen men
of the century tried to defend their position against an angry, but
increasingly panicky enemy.

* * * * *

Labienus was
close to the front of the charge. Whoever Fronto’s second most
senior centurion was, the man had been adamant that Labienus should
not be endangered and had argued him into staying in the third
line. What was it with the Tenth? It was as though Fronto’s
insolence and disobedience had spread like a disease through his
men.