Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (45 page)

Damned if you do…

Centurions and optios and veterans to the rear was appalling tactics. They would have to fight off the pursuing infantry and back-step at full pace in line with the testudo. There was a good chance they would lose most of the officers and veterans, but they were the only men who stood a chance of pulling it off.

The trouble they were in made itself all the more evident as the first blows from spears and swords struck even as the testudo was forming for the retreat.

As soon as the last shield 'clonked' into position, a shout from a helpful legionary at the front brought the command to move and the entire formation began to retreat back towards the army, jogging at speed up the lower slope of the valley's southern side, skirting the pits and caltrops. The going was more than a little difficult and it gave Balventius a sense of immense pride even at this horrendous moment that his men were so professional and well-drilled that they kept a uniform pace and the shields in place despite the gradient and the rabbit holes and more that threatened to ruin their retreat.

Balventius' world shrank to that of a testudo soldier: a hot, sweaty, stinking metallic world mostly of darkness, with cracks of light between the shields and one single slit ahead at eye level through which he could see the spear points of the Eburones continually lunging at the formation, trying to hit the gaps and take out the men.

Half his concentration was taken up with walking backwards at the brisk pace and managing not to separate from the rest of the formation or trip over them and bring the whole group down. It was a credit to the Eighth how well the veterans and officers were coping with the near-impossible manoeuvres.

The downside was that that left only half their attention for the following Eburones.

As they neared the range of the missile weapons once more the sounds of stones, slingshots, arrows and the occasional cast spear cracked, smashed and pinged on shields everywhere, Every ten heartbeats or so there was a squawk as a spear punched through a raised shield with the added weight of gravity and pinned the wielder's shield to his arm and his arm to his torso, or a stray arrow or sling shot hit between the cracks and maimed a soldier, felling him among the press of men, who had no option but to walk over him and on to the east.

The rear rank began to find the going all the harder as they were forced to step backwards over their fallen comrades.

And then the first disaster struck. One of the Eburones chasing them swung a huge decorative axe which bit into the shieldwall, almost severing an optio's arm. As the warrior yanked the weapon back it ripped two of the shields from the line, along with a sizeable piece of the forearm. The spearmen around the axe-wielding warrior immediately leapt on their opportunity and jabbed with their weapons, striking home again and again into the bodies of the two men whose shields had gone, inflicting a dozen horrendous wounds to each man, ripping ragged holes in necks, faces, chests, groins, bellies and legs. The optio and the veteran disappeared with screams, lost in the ranks of howling Gauls as the testudo moved on, two of the men from the middle turning to try and take their place.

But the damage was already done. Two enterprising Eburones cast their spears into the gap and one replacement legionary fell while turning, bringing down his closest companions. The formation foundered and slowed.

Across the right side of the line a lucky or very well-aimed spear-thrust punched through a shield and when hauled back yanked the shield out of the line, the legionary behind it finding himself pulled bodily from the formation and onto the ground before the enemy.

As the formation began to reform and fill the gaps to move on, Lucanius suddenly howled - a sound of sheer anguish and horror that drew Balventius' gaze. In shock, he watched the senior centurion who had led the entire engagement cast his shield aside and fall out of line. Lucanius lunged towards the figure of the unfortunate legionary, who was now being hacked to pieces by another axe man.

Something triggered in Balventius' memory and he remembered disapproving of Lucanius pulling strings to transfer his son into his own century. It never did a man good to be serving in the same unit as his family, as was evidenced by the terrible scene now unfolding. Forgetting his duty to the entire cohort, the panicked Lucanius ran at the enemy in a vain attempt to save his son.

It was stupid.

Clearly the lad was already dead. His neck was half severed from a single axe blow and his head lolled to one side as it sprayed a torrent of crimson across the man busy cutting off his other limbs with the half-moon blade.

"Shit!"

It was almost as bad as Lucanius's own stupidity, but Balventius was already out of formation himself, shield held high to ward off the spears as they thudded towards his face. Jamming his sword into the handy little crack in one of the shield struts that he'd cultivated for just that purpose, Balventius reached out and grasped Lucanius' wrist as the man raised his sword.

"Not now!"

The centurion was beyond reason, however, and simply pulled himself from Balventius' grasp, throwing himself at the hedge of spears. He never landed a blow. The first spear caught him in the armpit, throwing him back and to the ground, catching in his mail. As Lucanius' sword fell from his grasp, two of the Eburones grabbed his legs and started hauling him into the mass of howling barbarians.

Balventius watched in impotent horror as the centurion disappeared, screaming, beneath the mass of enemy warriors.

The second disaster was, by his own actions, Balventius' fault. He'd broken the rules in trying to rescue Lucanius in the same way the short sighted father had done in an attempt to save his son; and just the same as both of them, Balventius now paid the price for his breach of discipline.

A spear thrust slammed into his right thigh just above the knee, severing muscles and ripping free of the side of the leg in a shower of flesh and blood. The primus pilus staggered and almost fell, a hand grasping his shoulder and hauling him back into the formation. Just as he limped and lurched into the line, raising his shield against other attacks, another spear thrust smashed into his left thigh, close to the hip. His legs vanished beneath him, fiery pain coursing through his system, neither leg having the strength now to support him.

Balventius felt himself fall; felt the searing agony of his severed muscles. He felt hands grasping him.

Idiots!

If they didn't leave him they wouldn't be able to close up the line. They had to drop him. Summoning up all his strength, he threw his shield at the enemy, yanking his blade from its place as he did so. Lucanius never had the chance, but Balventius would take a few of the bastards with him. With the last of his strength, he wrenched himself free of the grasping legionaries and felt his legs fail; felt himself falling again. His hand remained tight on his sword ready to jab at anything that came within reach.

Something struck him on the head and he had the faint impression of his brains leaking out of his head as they ran, liquid-like, down his face and into his good eye.

Blackness descended to escort him to Elysium.

* * * * *

Cotta was watching the worst military debacle of his generation unfold before his very eyes. Sabinus had ordered Balventius to take a force out west, which was clearly a move destined merely to sacrifice a sizeable force of veterans to the enemy. He should have stopped the mad bastard issuing that order and still he'd stayed quiet. And yet, the one-eyed old bastard who led the Eighth had been on the very verge of achieving the unachievable. He'd been about to break through the Eburones and open the way to leave the valley.

And Sabinus had panicked.

The reforming of the Eighth after a cohort's departure had left the western edge of the Roman formation loosely manned and they were coming under increasingly heavy attack. Deciding that the lack of Balventius' single cohort was endangering the rest, Sabinus had sounded the order for that advance to fall back into position again.

Cotta had been speechless.

If he had been Balventius, chain of command or not, he would have kept pushing on to the west and tried to get to safety. It certainly didn't bear thinking about what the scarred veteran would say to his senior commander if they lived through this. He might well kill him. Cotta wouldn't blame him; might even hand him the sword with which to do it.

And the astounding thing was that, despite the fact that a successful fall back from that awful advance was impossible, again, Balventius and his men seemed to have carried it off. From his mounted vantage point, Cotta had watched as the advance force reappeared around the edge of the cavalry defences in a testudo formation and returned to the Eighth's ranks. When he found the old centurion later he would not have the words to put over how impressed he was.

Moreover, it had steeled Cotta's resolve.

This mess had gone on too long. Sabinus may be the man in command, but he was becoming increasingly useless. Panic and desperation were now informing his orders rather than reason or pride. He was issuing conflicting commands and the army was being steadily battered into submission by missile attack throughout.

His gaze fixed on Sabinus, sitting tall and proud.

Wheeling his horse, he pushed his way through the mass of despairing legionaries to the senior officer. Sabinus turned as he approached.

"Yes?" A barked, harsh single word.

"Are you going to order the general retreat?"

"Don't be an idiot, Cotta. We…"

"We are in the shit up to our necks, Titus. It's retreat or die. If we can make it back to the camp, we might have a chance. Only a small one, but a small one's better than none at all."

"I will not…"

Again, Cotta interrupted. "Then I will."

"What?"

"I am assuming command. You are not in a fit state to order these men."

Sabinus started to splutter, his face turning a puce colour in rage. Ignoring him and feeling finally at peace with a decision he should have made an hour - or even a day - ago, Cotta turned away from him and pulled himself up in his saddle, clearing his throat to address the legions as loud as his voice would carry.

The order never came.

A lucky sling bullet smashed into Cotta's face, striking just between the nose and the right-hand corner of his mouth. In shock, the legate tumbled from his horse, shattered teeth embedding themselves in his tongue and the roof of his mouth, pieces of jagged jawbone driven into his throat.

He gagged on blood. The pain was indescribable.

Three legionaries stooped to help him up and he looked in agonised astonishment to see Sabinus peering at him with a look that spoke of both satisfaction and pleasure. Paying him no further heed, Sabinus began to bellow out orders again.

Cotta struggled. He seemed to be able to grunt and gurgle and nothing more, and every attempt felt like he was gargling with broken glass while the lower half of his face burned as though in a furnace. A capsarius was suddenly next to him trying to reach into the ruins of his mouth. Cotta, agony making it hard to concentrate, batted the man aside. This was too important. He tried to tell the man he needed something for the pain, but it came out as a wavering gurgle.

"Your teeth sir? I need to pull the shards."

Gurgle. Cough, grunt, howl, gurgle -
just stop the pain
!

"The jaw will mend, sir."

Oh for the love of Venus
!

"I think he wants some pain killer" a helpful legionary butted in. Cotta nodded emphatically, glancing briefly at Sabinus, who was busy elsewhere.

The capsarius looked at his patient for only a moment before reaching into his satchel. Selecting the small glass vial of viscous liquid formed from henbane and mandragora mixed with honey and grape mulch, he tipped it slowly and with painstaking care, trying to measure a dose into a wide, flat spoon. Seeing the look in the officer's eyes, he hurriedly unstoppered the vial and tipped more than two doses' worth directly into the ruined mouth - possibly even three or four. It was dangerous in such concentration and high quantity, but at least it would hit his system quick, particularly entering his blood through the wound.

By the time the capsarius had scurried off to treat another wounded man, Cotta was already starting to experience a strange calm. While he could feel a rising wave of nausea, his pulse seemed to have slowed and the pain was receding at a rapid speed. He could feel himself starting to drift...

Damn the bloody physician. He'd overdosed him!

Somewhere through his drifting fug of calm, Cotta realised the missiles were no longer falling and the sounds of battle around him had ceased.

Spinning round in a manner that made him dizzy and raised the nausea to almost unbearable proportions, Cotta tried to focus. Something was happening on the hill. Two figures that swayed and blurred were moving in front of the others. He had the feeling one of them was speaking, though all he could hear was his own blood thumping.

Grunting and mumbling, he tried to ask the helpful legionary who was still holding his shoulder what was going on. Something in his face must have conveyed the question. The legionary swallowed.

"Their king is offering us terms, sir."

King? What king? Terms?
He mumbled something.

"We're to lay down our arms and the killing will stop" the legionary added, a note of desperate hope in his voice.

Cotta shook his head - a movement that caused him to cough up a hefty pile of vomit. His mouth no longer hurt at all, but he was so sick and dizzy and couldn't think! Couldn't work out…

Lay down their arms
?

Cotta's mind filled with images of an enslaved legion at the mercy of the druids that were supposedly behind all of this. The very notion made him sick again.
No. They mustn't! It would be suicide!

Shaking his head, he began to make urgent noises at the legionary, trying to tell him what must be done. The order must not be given. Must
not
!