The decurion frowned.
‘He’s an observer but… he was
expecting
us?’
‘Very good. No surprise as he watches us. No panic on behalf of their supplies. He was
expecting
us. Why?’
The decurion peered into the woodland, remembering how the scouts had followed a fortuitous lone rider out here. He coughed. ‘Because we were
led
here sir?’
‘Top marks, Annius. Take an extra ration tonight. And why were we led here, then?’
.Because… because… it’s a trap?’
‘Exactly, decurion. Now, what I would like you to do is this: as soon as I gather the men, ride back to camp, but don’t report to Caesar until I arrive. I want you to depart with enough visibility that the rider follows you, leaving me free to move unobserved. I will come back to camp and rejoin you shortly.’
The decurion looked less than happy, but nodded nonetheless. ‘Be careful, sir.’
‘You can buy me a drink when I get back.’
Varus waved over the cavalry, moving to a thicker area of woods nearby. As the riders gathered, he nodded to Annius and, with a last look at the lone Belgic rider, slipped behind a large area of scrub, trees and undergrowth, hiding from sight. A moment later the Roman cavalry moved out, and Varus continued to peer between the greenery as the enemy observer followed the group at a discrete distance. The moment the Belgic rider was out of sight and there was no further sign of Varus’ men, the commander moved out into the open, carefully, half expecting another trap.
For that was what this whole thing was.
A trap. Engineered by Commius and Correus, this was just too tempting a target for the Romans, and had been handed to them on a platter.
Once he was satisfied he was alone, Varus walked his horse through the open spaces in the woodland, keeping in sight the rock where the enemy watcher had been. As he reached that spot and peered around, he was unsurprised to find the signs of more than one rider. A number of men had been stationed here. And while it had not rained for two days now, the ground was soft enough from the preceding downpours that the tracks might as well have been painted by a vase painter in red and black. Numerous hoof prints led off towards the north. Slowly, keeping an eye out for other watchers, he followed.
These hoof prints took him two and a half miles into the forest, where finally he rounded a menhir – one of the strange religious stones of the old Gauls – and was afforded an impressive view of what awaited them.
He gave up counting after a hundred and, using that block as a guide, estimated the number of the enemy warriors gathered in the woods ready to fall upon the Romans as they gleefully commandeered the Belgic supply wagons.
‘Not today, my friend,’ he whispered as he scanned the enemy force.
Six thousand, he reckoned. Based on that initial hundred-count, there were around six thousand men waiting to ambush a Roman forage party. Moreover, among the group he could see a small group of Gallic nobles and an honour guard of tough warriors. The ambush had been laid by either Correus or Commius himself and one of those two rebel leaders was part of the force.
The enemy army had been estimated at roughly forty five thousand warriors. That was drawing on every capable man from numerous tribes. This, then, was perhaps an eighth of the entire enemy force. Its destruction would certainly weaken the enemy, but the true opportunity here was the destruction of morale. Whichever of the two enemy leaders was here, his death or capture would wreak havoc on the spirit of the remaining enemy.
But it would have to be done carefully. If the enemy knew the Romans were aware of the trap they might pull back to their camp, or their leader might depart. The Roman force would have to give the appearance of falling into their trap until the last moment.
Tearing his gaze from the enemy’s temporary encampment, he wheeled his horse and picked his way carefully back through the woods, taking a slightly circuitous route to make sure he did not bump into that same rider following his cavalry. Time to report to Caesar and plan a little surprise for the Bellovaci.
* * * * *
Correus of the Bellovaci watched his sister-son Andecamulos riding towards him with a hungry look and smiled. It warmed him to think that his people were so confident and content with their lot. It went some way to allaying his fears over this entire situation.
Months ago, Commius of the Atrebates had come to him, seeking an allegiance in defiance of Rome. At first, Correus had turned him away, labelling him an idiot and a troublemaker. After all, he had received more than one overture during the winter from the Arvernian and Cadurci nobles who had led all the peoples to disaster last year, seeking to begin a new rising, and he had solidly rebuffed
their
proposals. The Belgae were now the only strong people left in the land, and what did they care for the plight of the southern tribes who had already crossed the last river once and were now trying to swim back to life?
But Commius had been persuasive. He had stood before the Bellovaci council and his honeyed words had hooked the interest of so many nobles that Correus could do little to dissuade them. Commius had pointed out how the Bellovaci had suffered under Roman campaigning less than a decade ago, reminding them of a debt of blood still owed. Then he had brought their memory to a moment last year when the Bellovaci had sat on the hill opposite Alesia and watched the revolt fail before leaving and returning to their own land, appealing to their sense of pride in that they had come for war and left without prosecuting it fully.
And as if blood-debt and pride had not been enough, he appealed to their greed.
He had pointed south and east to Suessione lands, who were bound to the Remi, and reminded the listeners that those tribes had surrendered their liberty to Rome, tying themselves to Caesar, and for their betrayal of all the free peoples they had been made rich. The Suessiones lived in comfort and ease, surrounded by the best goods Roman money could buy while the Bellovaci lived a frugal life unfettered by Rome’s trappings.
Pride, guilt, debt and greed had turned almost every head among the Bellovaci’s nobles, and once Commius had stepped out of the council chamber, Correus had held his moot. Even his son and his nephews had been in favour of throwing in their lot with Commius. The tribe would annex the lands of the Suessiones and take their goods, defying the Remi and their Roman masters.
Correus had had no doubt that such a move would bring him in direct conflict with Rome again, and he had argued with his people, but they had been adamant. And now, he was truly beginning to regret having let the Atrebate king silver-tongue his nobles. Despite the Bellovaci’s best laid plans, the Romans had moved in response to Remi messengers so quickly that Correus’ people had had little time even to impose themselves upon the Suessiones, and had instead found themselves under attack by a Roman army that had marched at unbelievable speed from the western lands and into their own.
He had been nervous to find himself and his people trapped on the hill with Caesar’s army digging in opposite him. He had waited patiently for Commius to return from across the Rhenus with his new allies and had been scornful and disappointed at the meagre reinforcements the man had succeeded in securing. So as the Romans moved on them, with three more legions close behind, Correus had taken his tribe through the marshes and retreated to his second position of strength, hoping to weaken the Romans through lack of supplies. If he could keep their foragers from securing sufficient food, and in terrain where their armoured ranks could not perform their deadly shield wall manoeuvres, he might be able to hold, and even beat, Caesar’s army.
Commius had been all for skirting round the enemy and trying to hit them from the rear, but Correus knew how effective the Roman scouts could be, and had no doubt that they would be aware of such a move before it could be effectively prosecuted. So he had come up with the trap. He had relied on the Roman scouts finding one of his carefully-placed riders and discovering the location of the baggage. In their deprived and ill-supplied state, the Romans could hardly resist the opportunity to take the carts. Correus had put two hundred of his very best warriors, led by his own son, down with the vehicles and had taken personal command of the ambushing force. Six thousand men waited here, camped, with two thousand more, split into two groups close by, as reserves.
The best of the tribe awaited the arrival of the Romans. Almost nine thousand trained and experienced Bellovaci warriors, tempered in the fire of decades of war. He had left the rest with Commius at the camp, the weaker warriors and those who were too influenced by the Atrebate king’s honey tongue to comprehend reality. But when they took the Roman scouts and foragers and placed their heads on spear points, then rode back to the camp, even the faintest hearts would remember their strength and see Correus, not Commius, as the leader here.
The time, it appeared, had come.
Andecamulos was not just his sister-son, but was also the leader of the scouts who kept watch on the forest for the Roman soldiers. And the young man, his braids flying behind him, was clearly coming with news. Correus straightened.
‘Nephew.’
The young warrior bowed his head. ‘My king. The Romans approach.’
‘Their numbers?’
‘Perhaps a cohort. No more than half a thousand.’
Correus huffed. ‘So few? Do our supplies not merit the attention of a legion? I had hoped to put many thousands to the sword today. Still, at least we will have a victory to bolster our people and they will have a defeat to cripple theirs.’ He turned to find his brother, who was sitting close by. ‘Give the order quietly.’
The man nodded and rode off, throwing out gestures to the groups of warriors. Pausing only long enough for a cleansing preparatory breath, Correus rode forth to his chosen position. At the edge of the valley in which their supplies sat, he reined in among the trees with an excellent view of the potential field of battle. Even as he waited, he could see signs of the others falling into position. Six thousand men came to a halt in a U shape around the supply valley, ready to fall upon the Roman foragers.
The following wait was interminable. Twice he had to send messages to sections of his army to pull back further into the trees, as they had become visible to the shrewd eye. Finally, he was satisfied that his people were in position.
The warriors down with the carts and wagons were doing an excellent job of looking entirely unprepared for trouble.
And the legion came.
Andecamulos had underestimated by a little. There were nearer a thousand than five hundred, and Correus smiled in relief. Their death would be a horrendous blow to Roman pride and morale and a real boost to his army’s. The Roman commander had clearly decided that surprise was the key to overwhelming the meagre defence force in the valley, and his son reacted instantly to the appearance through the edge of the forest of red-garbed, steel-clad legionaries. The civilians moved back through the supplies, to the ravine that ran to the main camp, while the two hundred veteran warriors steadied themselves for the onslaught.
The Romans poured from the trees onto the springy turf, where they began to reform into their regular, organised units without losing any speed of their approach. Probably two cohorts of Romans bore down on the warriors before them, outnumbering the Bellovaci defenders by some four or five to one.
The Romans looked eager, but then
of course
they did. It would be a slaughter. Apart from the eight thousand other warriors waiting in forest, that was.
‘Signal Bitucos and Helicon. Once we move out, I want the reserves to close in behind them and cut off their escape. No Roman leaves the valley alive.’
The rider he had addressed nodded and picked his way through the trees out to one of the wider paths where he could thunder across to the reserve commanders with their orders. The horseshoe of Bellovaci would pour from the woods, surrounding the Romans, and the two thousand reserves would close the circle behind them.
A massacre.
He watched, tense, as battle was joined down in the valley, the front ranks of the Romans reaching the veteran warriors while the rear lines were still emerging and forming up. All around him, Correus could feel the tense urgency of his men. They all wanted to move. None of them liked seeing the best of their men in such a dangerous position. But they had to wait. They could not spring the trap until the Romans were fully committed and could be surrounded.
It felt like centuries passing, watching the Romans with their brutal efficiency cutting down the greatest warriors of the Bellovaci, though his son and the men there were making good account of themselves, taking a number of the enemy with them.
Finally, the Romans were all on the grass and formed up, and the woodland behind was devoid of further arrivals. Tense, eager to put an end to these armoured foreigners, Correus held up his hand and with a cutting motion swept it downwards.
A carnyx honked at the signal and its sombre melody was picked up at half a dozen places around the valley. With a sigh of relief to be actually doing something, Correus rode his beast out of the trees and to the top of the slope above the Romans. The valley in which the supply carts sat was surrounded by slopes like this, as well as the narrow river, and even as he began to edge his mount slowly and carefully down the incline, the rest of the ambush emerged, those on horses also picking their way down carefully while the majority of the warriors on foot simply charged headlong, heedless of the danger of falling, turning ankles and breaking necks.