Read Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt Online
Authors: S. J. A. Turney
Tags: #legion, #roman, #Rome, #caesar, #Gaul
The general gave his most predatory smile, his face becoming all the more aquiline as he gestured to the left, to the curve of the hill, where they could now see the Gallic cavalry spreading out across the plain. ‘And give Varus my orders. Tell him to take his entire cavalry and smash that force at his earliest convenience. If he can break their cavalry, we can delay any assault from outside and deal with the oppidum’s inhabitants first.’
Fronto nodded and saluted. This was it, then. The Gauls had made the first move at last.
* * * * *
Varus waved his arm and the musician blew a sequence of notes. Behind them, the second wing of cavalry was almost formed up on the flat grass outside the cavalry fortification. Quadratus’ men were gathered into native units and a few regular turmae, each with their standards and musicians to the fore. A whistle from the back confirmed that the entire force was in place, and the commander looked to either side. To the south, across the Osana river - little more than a wide and shallow stream - Volcatius was drawing his own forces into formation, and to the north, roughly the same distance away, Silanus formed up the third wing.
The noise of thousands of horses stamping impatiently and snorting, mixed with the ever-present smell of dung and oiled leatherwork and the shush and clunk of mail and weapons formed a continual symphony that drowned out the hum of bees and the cheerful birdsong that seemed to fill this place on a summer day. Of course, that would end shortly enough anyway. One of the first casualties of battle was the hum of nature, as mammals and birds alike fled the field for safety.
The entire cavalry force was now deployed and moments from being ready. Varus licked his dry lips and looked across the flat ground ahead. A little over a hundred paces away, the river Brennus flowed from south to north, the twin streams that flanked Alesia flowing into it and adding to a flow that was still little more than a glorified brook in itself. Certainly no impediment to cavalry.
Unlike what lay beyond it.
Perhaps half a mile away, across the flat land, Varus could see the gathered swarm of enemy horsemen. Given the
mob
attitude of the enemy commanders, it was almost impossible to guess at numbers, beyond the fact that they far outstripped his own. The clomping of hooves on the compacted earth announced Quadratus’ arrival at the van.
‘This will be a tough fight.’
Varus nodded.
‘Might I ask where the Germans are?’ Quadratus asked, with the characteristic nervousness the Roman officers generally exhibited when speaking of that dreadful yet effective cavalry unit.
‘I’m holding them in reserve. Every time they’re fielded they put the wind up whoever we face, and they might be useful if things go badly. But since we’re deploying the entire horse in formation, I doubted a thousand blood-hungry and barely-sentient Germans would help matters at this stage.’
Quadratus nodded emphatically. ‘I bet they were pleased to be told to wait.’
‘Not especially, no. One of their officers punched my courier so hard he broke his jaw.’
The two men smiled at one another, and the whistles went up in quick succession left and right, confirming that all three wings were in position and ready.
‘Ready?’
Quadratus nodded again. ‘Ready, sir.’
‘Then let’s show these barbarians how a well-organized force does it.’
At a gesture, the musician called another sequence of notes and the banners waved, all three cavalry wings moving immediately with the
oiled machine
discipline of the Roman military. By the time the commander reached the low bank of the Brennus and urged his mount down into the chilly, swift flow, the other two wings were closing on an angle and converging with his own. As his horse climbed the west bank of the river and he looked out upon the host arrayed before him, Varus glanced to either side once more. All three wings were coming together now to form one large army. They might not match the numbers of the Gauls, but in terms of tactics and discipline, they were the masters of the field. The front line was perfectly straight and controlled.
The Roman cavalry assembled into their units as the men flooded across the Brennus and Varus watched the enemy, tense, waiting for the calls from the rear to confirm that the entire force had crossed. He felt a ripple of cold air across his neck that raised the hairs, and he raised his hand, somehow knowing what was about to happen.
‘They’re about to charge.’
Quadratus frowned, even as the enemy erupted with a roar and the mass of Gallic horse burst forth, picking up speed as they raced towards the Romans. Varus half smiled. Predictable. They had hoped to catch the Romans while they were still crossing the Brennus, their forces split between two banks. But they would only exhibit such confidence and strength while they believed the Romans to be unprepared. Not confidence, in fact…
over
confidence.
‘Sound the charge,’ Varus shouted.
Quadratus frowned. ‘We’re still divided, sir.’
‘Yes. And they think that’ll make us nervous and weak. We need to keep them off guard. If we hit them, they’ll break, so sound the charge.’
The musician blew the call, which was picked up by the various tuba-bearers among the cavalry, and the force started to move forward. Varus allowed his horse to hesitate for a moment, letting the force catch up so that he fell into the perfect straight line with the foremost attackers rather than running ahead. Quadratus had done the same and was now several places to his left as the cavalry launched forth, bypassing the trot and moving from a walk to a canter and then into a gallop at the simple calls from a tuba bearer. The two large forces thundered towards one another, a large part of the Roman cavalry still crossing the river behind and then racing along to catch up with their compatriots, the rebels moving like a tidal wave of muscle and sinew.
Varus clenched his teeth and allowed himself to rise and fall with his horse’s gait, observing the oncoming horsemen with a professional eye. The Gauls knew their Roman opposition well. There was at least an even chance of them breaking, he figured, when faced with unstoppable Rome. That had been why the Gauls rushed their attack while the Romans were crossing - they had not wanted to allow the Romans time to lead a charge of their own.
As he rode, ripping his sword from its scabbard, Varus threw up three quick prayers to Epona, Mars and Fortuna that he had it right. Around him, the horsemen couched their spears for the clash, bringing their shields to face the enemy.
And then the centre of the Gallic line began to fold inwards.
Varus grinned. That was it: the Gaulish horse had caved under the Roman onslaught before they’d even met, just as he’d hoped. Not all of them, mind. He had to give them credit for that. Much of the enemy left wing was intact, and only perhaps half the right had run. Those who had stopped, however, were now turning tail and racing back towards their original position, and perhaps the slopes beyond, where the infantry awaited. If they thought to lead the Romans into the infantry, they would be sadly disappointed, of course. Varus’ men were disciplined and knew what to do. They would break the force and harry them as they fled, but would stop short of the reserves on the hill and then move back to re-form.
The musicians were still periodically blowing the call to charge, and Varus found himself among a large number of Roman cavalry racing close to the heels of the retreating Gauls. He almost whooped with elation as the first of the fleeing enemy arched his back and screamed, the point of a Roman spear slamming through mail, flesh and ribs and into the soft cavity within. The rout would now turn to a slaughter.
In a heartbeat it all changed.
Suddenly, with an efficiency more Roman than Gallic, the retreating Gallic horsemen pulled into narrow lines as they rode in columns through gaps in the force waiting behind them. Varus had no time to shout a warning.
As the enemy horsemen retreated in those narrow columns, their disappearance revealed what had been waiting behind: walls of Gallic spearmen in a passable Roman
contra-equitas
formation, shields lined up in angled walls to guard against the Roman spears, while their own points jutted out like a deadly hedgepig.
The more enthusiastic of the Roman horsemen slammed into the Gallic infantry, unable to slow due to their elated momentum. Horses reared and screamed, kicking out as they hit the mass of men, bashing gaps in the shield-wall but suffering impalement for both horses and riders all along the bristling hedge of iron points.
The musician was calling the charge to a halt now, at Quadratus’ urgent command.
But it wasn’t over. As the twenty or so Roman horses who had fallen to the contra-equitas flailed and thrashed in agony, the noise of the wounded and dying seemingly filling the air to capacity, row upon row of Gallic archers rose behind the shield-walls and even as they stood, released a cloud of arrows up and over their kin into the Roman ranks. Varus looked this way and that and everywhere his gaze fell, men and horses were dying.
‘Sound the order to fall back,’ he bellowed, and his musician lifted the tuba to his lips just as an arrow thudded into his face, throwing him back in his saddle, dead almost instantly, the instrument falling from spasming fingers. Wrenching his head round in desperation, Varus looked for another musician. How had this happened? Such tactics were unheard of among the Gallic tribes. Then again, plenty of them had spent a season or two fighting among the Roman forces and there would undoubtedly be quick learners among them. But someone in command over there was astute and knew exactly what to expect from the Romans. Outmanoeuvred by a Gaul!
His eyes fell upon another man with a tuba and he bellowed again the order to fall back. This musician took up the call and Quadratus appeared from somewhere unseen, clutching the flights of an arrow that had driven straight through his upper arm, the tip dripping crimson onto his elbow.
‘Where do we re-form?’ the wounded officer hissed through clenched teeth.
Varus heaved in a deep breath. ‘At the river. We can form a healthy line there with the rest of the men, and the bastards can’t spring any more surprises like that on us.’
As if to underline that comment, a second volley of arrows arced up into the air, and the two officers kicked their steeds to speed, racing back east along with their men. Around them, more and more Romans and auxiliaries fell, panicked riderless horses milling this way and that in the chaos, trampling the fallen wounded.
Even as the Roman lines pulled away from the enemy, leaving far too many dead and wounded for comfort, the enemy cavalry came forth again, forming up in the wake of the Roman flight, finishing off those wounded who lay scattered around the ground.
‘They’re coming again any moment,’ Varus shouted, and Quadratus looked over his shoulder, wincing at the pain in his impaled arm as he did so. Sure enough, the enemy were almost in position.
As they neared the river once more, the concentration of Roman cavalry increased exponentially. The entire force would now be across on this bank, and already the musicians were forming up the ranks with calls from their individual commanders. Behind him, Varus could hear the low rumble of the now-pursuing Gallic horse but above that, new sounds caught his attention.
From across the river at the fortifications came the distinctive sounds of battle. The thud and clatter of artillery mixed with the booing calls of the cornicen and the whistles of centurions, all above the rattle and crash and murmur of men fighting. Something was happening there too, then.
Varus turned his horse and lined up with the rest. Next to him, Quadratus took his reins between his teeth and reached around with his right hand, snapping off the arrow close to the skin. Shaking and sweating, he grasped the other side of the shaft, behind the head.
‘Don’t pull it out. You’ll bleed too quickly.’
‘And if I don’t I’ll be too hampered to fight,’ Quadratus said, muffled around the leather reins. Clenching once more, he pulled the arrow free with an unpleasant sucking sound and cast it to the grass. Varus edged his steed closer and undid the pin at his throat, pulling his scarf free and wrapping it around the man’s wounded arm several times and tying it off.
‘Stay alive until you see a medicus.’
‘Well if it’s an
order
,’ grinned Quadratus, still sweating and pale, the reins falling from his mouth. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We defeat them. Or we die trying.’
Quadratus pointed north with his good arm. ‘Looks like their infantry are using this distraction to flank us. The fortifications are about to be hit from both sides at once.’ Varus looked, and could just see a mass of figures skirting the cavalry battle and heading for the river downstream. It was exactly what they’d hoped to prevent, but the cavalry wings could only deal with one nightmare at a time.
‘Nothing we can do about that, for now. We just have to keep their horse busy and hope the legions can hold the walls.’
* * * * *
Fronto ducked behind the wicker fence as an arrow thrummed past him and thudded into the rear wooden post of the tower. As he rose to the fence top once again, gripping the pilum that had been passed up by the legionary on supply duty inside the defences, two Gauls appeared before him, snarling and shouting. One was armed with a Gallic sword and brought it back for a swing, the other with a spear. Fronto quickly noted the spearman’s position and stepped away from it, ducking again, into the path of the swordsman.
The men of his singulares fought along the wall to either side, Aurelius struggling with a particularly large specimen even now. Fronto had refused Masgava’s demand that he stay back from the wall, citing the need to commit every man if they hoped to hold. Thus the men of his bodyguard had taken position with him on the walls and were fighting like lions.
Even after hours of battle, the Gauls had yet to cotton on to the nature of the Roman defences. The swordsman slashed madly at the wicker, attempting to cut through the apparently flimsy defence and get to the Roman behind, only to find his blade turned easily by the flexible-yet-tough woven fence. As the man staggered back, almost slipping down the sharp incline and into the ‘v’ shaped ditch below, Fronto rose once more and jabbed out with the pilum, stabbing the iron point into the man’s neck - the only exposed flesh between his bronze helmet and tight-linked mail shirt. With a scream the attacker plunged down the treacherous slope, snapping the few remaining sharpened branches that jutted out, most having already come loose though having taken hundreds of Gauls with them on their keen points. The ditch into which he fell was already a mass burial waiting to be covered, almost full to ground level now with corpses, severed limbs, weapons and armour, bloodied timber, shredded pieces of wicker defences and mud, blood and shit. The pungent stink of the charnel pit rose constantly in the warm air to cover the defences in its choking stench.