As the Remi recall blared out repeatedly, Varus waved the fleeing auxiliaries into position with them, watching as more and more of the doomed horsemen tried to leave the battle and join the Roman officer.
Spears lunged, lifting men from their saddles and dropping them into the mire to be hacked to pieces and trampled by desperate horses. The more enterprising Bellovaci with the long Celtic blades were swiping them at waist height, severing and breaking horses’ legs to bring beast and rider down together, where they could be stabbed again and again. Where were the leaders?
Varus tried to peer past the approaching Remi survivors, and finally caught sight of young Vertiscus, who was still in the heart of the action, bellowing war cries and he brought down his sword to left and right, each rise of the blade sending a shower of crimson into the air to mingle with the falling rain. He was frenzied, killing like a man possessed. But even as Varus watched and somehow hoped that such insane bravery and strength would bring the favour of the gods and turn the tide, Vertiscus stiffened in his saddle and leaned to the left and the commander could see the spear that had taken him in the side being pushed in ever deeper. Astoundingly, the young Remi prince, even with the shaft inside his ribcage shredding organs, managed to swipe down and destroy his killer. Then the prince was gone, pulled from the saddle down into the murk. His heart in his throat, Varus peered desperately into the melee, searching for a sign of their general, Atis. When he saw him all hope of Remi survival was dashed, for Atis wore a snarl of defiance even though his body was long gone and his head, surmounted by a distinctive golden eagle helmet, bobbed around on the tip of a spear.
‘Damn it. Alright. Move out… at full speed. Catch up with the forage party and back to the fort. Now.’
‘Commander?’ gasped one of the fled Remi, frowning and pointing back at the other Remi who were still attempting to leave the chaos and join up with the Romans who had seemingly come to rescue them.
‘We’ve no time to save the others. Come on.’
As the troop burst into life, racing back across the fields towards the legionaries, who were already at the valley head and trying to goad the cart, drawn by two cavalry horses, up the slope, the musician, exhausted, looked across at his commander, noticing the dark scowl on Varus’ face.
‘We couldn’t save them all, sir. You know that.’
‘I don’t like leaving brave men, however foolhardy, to buy our escape with their lives.’
‘You saved a hundred Remi or more, sir. No one could have hoped for better.’
Varus nodded, saving his breath as he rode. When he got back to camp, and once he’d reported this disaster to the general, he’d have to write an unpleasant letter to Fronto in Massilia, bearing news of the deaths of Galronus’ family.
Shit on the Bellovaci!
* * * * *
Varus smiled grimly as the Condrusi scout delivered his report. Though Nemesis was a goddess generally reserved for gladiators and the betrayed, Varus would tonight pour a good libation to the lady of vengeance for delivering unto him that for which he had wished.
The Bellovaci were coming again.
Following the disaster that had reaped a heavy toll on the Remi the previous day he had reported wearily to the general and had been surprised at the venom with which Caesar had greeted the news. The proconsul valued the Remi highly, their tribe the only one in the whole of Gaul who had remained loyal throughout the entire eight year campaign. On hearing of the deaths of the nobles and of near half a thousand Remi riders, rather than dismissing the matter, or fuming incoherently, Caesar had snarled and asked Varus what they could do to avenge the fallen. The commander had been so taken aback by the vehemence of the general that it had taken him half an hour of deep thought to come up with the answer.
The general had liked his plan, had approved it immediately, and given him free rein to put together whatever he needed.
It had taken just hours, with enough good local scouts, to locate another untouched farmstead close to the enemy position. And so he had taken out the same men as yesterday – those who had witnessed the demise of the Remi and knew what they were up against.
Those men of the Ninth even now were busy loading a cart in the blessed dry morning, shields and pila stacked ready for collection. Two of the strongest horses were already in the traces ready to take the laden cart to safety. And the centurions were watchful and ready, even while they played the part of the blissfully unaware foragers. No enemy would recognise them for the same people as the previous day, of course, and other forage parties had been out and about since then anyway. But this one had been designed to draw the enemy’s gaze through its visibility, slowness, position and proximity to their camp.
Six of the best scouts in the army, all drawn from tribes who knew the area, had ranged around the periphery watching for the enemy, expecting a similar trap. Indeed, the terrain was almost an echo of yesterday, the farm lying in a low valley surrounded by trees. The main difference here was that there was no easy escape up a slope at the head of the valley. A trap sprung here would likely finish the lot of them, and that fact had, fortunately, been enough of a lure to draw the enemy.
Again, small units of pickets surrounded the valley in an oval at watchful positions, and the other half of the Remi force sat at the entrance to the farmstead, where the stream ran on down the valley between wide green banks. It looked almost exactly as it had yesterday. And it had tempted the Bellovaci, whom the scout announced were even now moving up the valley and filtering down through the woods. Varus thanked the man for his efforts and sent him in a circuit giving the nod for the first phase of the action to everyone involved.
Then he sat to wait with his men.
It had to look the same. Tempting. But the Remi would have to hold back this time. He had spent an hour impressing upon them that very thought. Seven hundred Remi had ridden out today instead of the twelve hundred the previous day, and they had been the very same men – the survivors, who had spent the night in rituals to their own vengeance spirits. And now they once again played the picket roles and sat among the group at the foot of the valley.
Varus watched that force carefully as news of the approaching enemy was relayed to them by the scout and he tensed for a moment, then exhaled gratefully as he noted the hundred or so Remi survivors sit restive but still, awaiting the enemy. He’d half expected, despite his lecture, that news of the enemy would send them racing off down the valley in search of bloodshed. But they sat there, surrounding his little surprise like the pastry around a pie. Enticing. Tasty.
What a pie…
As he waited, he finally heard the booing and clattering of the enemy carnyxes and spears. Things were slightly different today, of course. The enemy came openly this time, including those in the woodland. They did not expect the Romans to fall into the same trap twice, but then they had no
need
of a trap this time. They outnumbered the Remi and had beaten them once. And this time there was nowhere for the forage party and the cart to run. They had no need of subtlety, so they came in force and openly jeering their neighbours, the heads of Vertiscus and Atis, identifiable by their helms, bobbing around on spears at the front of the column just to goad the Remi.
It worked. Two or three of the Remi reacted just too predictably, but their new commanders called them back, and reluctantly they fell into position once more. This time, the Roman auxiliary force would play the part of the lure and the surprise, and it would be the Bellovaci who experienced the panic.
The enemy closed.
‘Now sir?’ asked the musician next to him, who Varus had put on double pay after his service yesterday.
‘A few heartbeats more, I think. Let’s get them too close to back out. I want them committed before they realise their mistake.’
The musician nodded, but he put the tuba to his lips ready anyway, breathing deep and slow.
Varus watched.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
The Bellovaci force was beginning to ripple and shake in a manner he recognised. The warriors were itching to get to the fight and were starting to move, straining at the leash as it were, while their leaders held them back ‘til the last moment. Any time now they would break and charge. And Varus needed to spring his surprise first, for the enemy would be harder to break when they were already at a run.
Now or never.
‘Give the first call.’
The tuba rang out immediately and with the precision of acrobats at a festival in the forum, Varus’ combined force changed immediately.
The legionaries dropped everything they were doing and grabbed their shields and pila, forming up at the downstream edge of the farmyard. The picket units began to move. Those at the valley head began the landslide, riding to the next group along, who geed up their horses and joined them as they rode to the third, collecting them and riding for the fourth, and so on. In a matter of heartbeats, the strung out picket units were combining and moving towards the field of battle, turning into a formidable unit as they did so.
But they were just the dressing of the dish. The pie was still the heart.
And now the crust cracked.
Those Remi survivors from yesterday peeled away from the force to either side, becoming the anchor point for the assembling pickets, where the combining forces would gather. The Bellovaci faltered, uncertain of whether to charge, unable to comprehend what was happening and why the front ranks of the Remi force had peeled away.
And then it became apparent to the enemy that only those few front ranks had been Remi at all.
At the centre of that unit – the filling of the pie that Varus was about to cram down their desperate gullets – Caesar’s infamous German cavalry bellowed their ululating, howling war chants as they moved to charge.
‘Second call if you will, Decimus.’
It had to be done quickly. The Germans would hardly wait for the order. Indeed, they were already moving. As the second call went out, the two centuries of the Ninth began to jog at double time to join the fray, their forage forgotten. The gathering pickets were almost in position now. By the time they had gathered in two units to either side of the valley, the legionaries would be there, and so would Varus’ regulars. That meant that the third call would signal two hundred legionaries, sixty regular cavalry and five hundred vengeful Remi combining to serve as the rear-guard, taking any surviving Bellovaci on and butchering the lot.
If there
were
any survivors!
The regulars began to trot forward towards the violence.
A thousand German cavalry, already infamous throughout Gaul and Belgae lands as takers of grisly trophies, were now riding hard at the Bellovaci, snarling and whooping. In theory, they stood no more chance than the Remi had yesterday. In practice, Varus knew upon whom he would place his wager. The Remi had been brave but had ridden gleefully, unthinking, into a trap, while the Bellovaci had been prepared and eager.
Not so, today.
Today, the Germans were entirely aware of what they were riding into, and had no fear. Only hunger and anger. And the Bellovaci had been taken completely by surprise. As was so often the case with war, the unexpected had a worse effect than strictly necessary, purely due to the natural propensity for the surprised man to panic.
The Germans hit the Bellovaci like a battering ram, completely heedless of the spears that the few rallying enemy brought to bear. Varus watched as one German took a spear in his shoulder and simply ignored it, riding down the bearer and hacking at two then three then four men even as he shed his own blood with every drum of hooves.
The effect of the charge was impressive. The Bellovaci force shattered like a dropped vase. Those on the periphery fled into the woods, shrieking for their gods to save them. Some even made it. Varus watched as a number of the Germans, despite having been given extra training in Gallic and Roman cavalry manoeuvres, fell naturally back into their native fighting style, slipping from their steeds once they were in the thick of things and laying waste to anyone they found who was not one of their own.
The shrieks Varus could hear were not the cries of the wounded and the dying. The commander had heard such sounds so many times in his career that he knew them well. Nor were they the sounds of panic and fear. They were the shrieks of agony that more often accompanied the work of a master torturer.
Though at this distance he couldn’t see what the Germans were up to, he had seen them fight many times now and could picture the scene. Tearing off jaws to use as torcs, hacking off ears, severing fingers for prizes, putting out eyes just for the feel of the wet pop.
The Germanic cavalry were animals. They were
worse
than animals. They were demons given human form. They were simply the most terrifying thing Varus had ever witnessed on the battlefield. And while they were rarely fielded, when they
were
allowed to slip the leash, the effect they had on the enemy was like a hungry fox in a chicken coop.
All cohesion among both armies was gone. The centre of the valley was a mass of struggling man, some still on horseback, others fighting on foot even as the Germanic horses kicked and bit, their own bloodlust every bit as sharp as their riders’.