The Liger River, here one of the widest and most impressive in Gaul, wound like a silver serpent, gleaming in the moonlight, from left to right. Some five hundred paces wide, it was here and there interrupted by sand banks, and yet it was still a breath-taking sight in the silvery glow. And directly ahead stood the objective of the fleeing Andes. Over the preceding years, having campaigned in the area more than once, the legions had constructed a bridge here to replace what had been a native ferry service, the position such a strategic one, just downstream of the confluence of the Liger and Vinana rivers. It was a strong bridge, built to last. It had been useful at times for the movement of troops and goods, though now it was clear that it had also facilitated an invasion of Pictone lands by their neighbours across the river.
But it was not the silver ribbon of the Liger that drew his breath from him, nor was it the powerful bridge stretched like a blackened arm, reaching across that wide watercourse. What made him rein in sharply was the battle, or rather the lack of it.
The enemy had reached the Liger clearly not long before Caninius and his horse had arrived on the scene, and they had begun to cross, their rear ranks forming up as best they could to hold off the pursuing Romans. As hundreds of Andean warriors fled across the timbers of the bridge, their compatriots bravely held their rear, and did it well. Their sheer numbers and the prevalence of spears meant that they had formed something of a phalanx against the legionaries of the Fifth, who were keeping their distance, unwilling to close.
And well they might not. Cophus had done well forming his men facing the enemy, but only an idiot would have ordered the Fifth to charge that wall of shields and spears. Both sides were exhausted from the flight to the river, but the Romans were armed only with swords and lacked the pila they needed to try and break the shield wall. Indeed, they would be slowly recovering from their run as they watched in irritation their enemy flee to safety. There were simply too many Gauls and they were too well equipped to contemplate launching an attack, and so the Fifth watched them leave.
Caninius hammered his fist on his saddle horn in irritation.
The sons of whores were going to escape.
His gaze rose from the fight to the forests on the far side, in the Andes’ own territory. Once the enemy were in among those trees all hope of stopping them was gone. As his sight dropped again to the conflict, he frowned. His eyes had caught some kind of movement, which seemed odd, given the darkness and the depth of the woods across the river.
He peered up intently again.
And then he saw them.
Cavalry pouring along the north bank of the Liger. Roman cavalry, seemingly, and an awful lot of them. Many alae of auxiliary horse and even some regulars, as attested by the standards visible in the bright moonlight, recognisable as Roman despite the distance. How had Roman cavalry appeared on the northern bank?
It mattered not who they were or how they came to be there. The fact was that they were there and that changed matters.
Not for the better, though.
Curse that mysterious cavalry.
The fleeing Andes reaching the far side of the bridge were scattering into smaller groups and vanishing into the forest that lurked above the river bank, but as the Roman cavalry arrived and began to seal off the northern end of the bridge, the whole thing began to choke up. Vicious fighting broke out between the fleeing natives and the horsemen at that far end, and things remained at a tense stand-off at the southern end, but that wouldn’t last for long.
While Caninius had no desire to see the enemy get away into the trees, he had only intended to harry them and pick off the rear ranks as they fled, for the enemy still outnumbered him by at least three to one, and were better equipped for the fight. And now that enemy had had their escape route sealed and were left with no choice but to fight. The Fifteenth were coming along behind but it would be many hours yet before they arrived, and there was little doubt in Caninius’ mind: unless he ordered a general retreat, the Fifth would be obliterated long before the other legion reached them.
And, of course, if he
did
order the retreat, that mysterious wing of cavalry would be butchered in due course. The idiot horse commander had doomed either himself or the Fifth, or potentially both of them.
‘Come on.’
‘Sir?’ The tribune who had been fussing throughout the journey looked astonished.
‘A Roman general doesn’t run from a defeat. He falls on his sword in disgrace. If I’m going to lose a legion here, I’m going with them. I’d rather decorate a Gaul’s spear tip than face the general and explain this to him. Let’s get down there and join the action.’
The tribune was shaking his head. ‘Sir, that’s insane.’
‘Just draw your sword and fall in with the rest, Plautius.’
Resigned to the unpleasant fate that awaited, Caninius formed up his seventy or so horse and gave the order. The slope was long but gentle, the chalk escarpment peeling off to the right and the copse left behind as they descended to the field of battle. Even as the riders moved up to a canter, the fighting ahead had started. The Gauls, now desperate, knowing they were trapped, began to throw spears and loose arrows into the tired Fifth, who sheltered painfully behind their shields, taking whatever punishment the Gauls cared to throw at them.
Gallic carnyxes were sounding their calls now, noises like cattle with terminal flatulence echoing out across the river and the near bank. They were joined by cavalry horn calls from the far side and the blaring cornua of the Fifth, sounding the command to surge forward into hopeless battle. The noise was, frankly, astonishing. It had to be hard for the bulk of the soldiery to pick out their individual calls between the hundred different instruments going and the general noise of battle.
A thousand paces to go. The slope was gradually flattening out as they descended towards the action. What use seventy cavalry might be in the coming nightmare was beyond Caninius, but he was determined that if the Fifth were to go out, they would ruin the Andes forever in the process. All they had to do was kill three men each. With less reach to their weapons. After having travelled near forty miles in twelve hours – about the maximum pace a commander had ever put his men through. With no hope of victory…
He cast up a quick prayer to Mars, his patron god, for his aid in the coming clash.
The musicians of the three forces were truly ruling the air over this battlefield in a war of their own.
His ear picked something up and registered it for long moments before it began to nudge his brain and draw attention to what it had heard. Then ear spoke to eye, and Caninius dragged his attention from the fight across the field and to the east.
He stared in bafflement.
More horns had joined in the cacophony, and there, glittering in the silvery moonlight, trod the ranks of Rome, moving at a standard march and crossing the grass like an inexorable tide, bearing down on the left flank of the enemy.
Eagles glinted in the silver sheen, backed by dark flags that would be red in daytime, but appeared dark grey by the light of the moon. Gleaming standards led what appeared to be two legions in all their glory. Fabius! Somehow he’d not marched on Limonum, but had known to come to the Liger crossing instead. Was the man omniscient?
Even as he boggled, Caninius’ mind performed a simple, happy calculation. The numbers were now more or less even and the enemy was trapped. Moreover, the way the new legions were moving, they were reasonably well rested. The tables had just turned on the Andes in the most astounding way. Where a moment earlier the legate had foreseen only brutal death or an ignominious visit to Caesar, suddenly he now saw the end of the Andes and their blasted incursion. Rome would be victorious.
He whooped.
The new arrivals on the field had been seen now. The Andes broke into a panic, many trying to push past their friends onto the crowded bridge, others being hurled or knocked from the bridge to splash into the dark waters where the ones in mail shirts sank without trace and the clothed or naked ones began to swim desperately downstream away from the clash. The unlucky ones hit a mudbank and broke apart before sinking slowly into the sucking murk.
The defensive line facing the Fifth collapsed, and the centurions took advantage of the change to make their move, the legion piling into the enemy and hacking, stabbing and slaying everywhere they could despite their exhaustion. Only the enemy’s right flank was open, and even there only a short stretch of it, close to the river bank. Andean warriors were fleeing across the grass or into the comparative safety of the water.
The cavalry on the hill around Caninius were cheering now, all having drawn themselves to a halt around their commander.
‘Thank you Mars. Thank you Fabius,’ grinned Caninius, and then turned to his small cavalry force. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s get stuck in and help the tired Fifth.’
Behind him, the tribune was shaking his head again in disbelief. ‘They’re beaten sir. You don’t have to do this now.’
Caninius laughed, and couldn’t help but notice a faint edge of hysteria in his own voice. ‘You’re absolutely right, Plautius, I no longer have to do this. Now I
want
to do it. Come on.’
The tribune stared in horror as his legate drummed his heels into his horse’s flanks, urging the beast on into a run towards the chaos below, where the Andes were now in disarray, some fighting a desperate last stand while others threw down their weapons in an attempt to surrender, and yet more waded out into the dangerous waters of the river in the hope of achieving freedom.
The battle had only just begun, but it was already over.
* * * * *
Varus wiped the blood and sweat from his brow and sagged in his saddle. ‘The timing was lucky. It could have gone horribly wrong, but it was the only way I could think of to defeat the Andes without them fleeing back into their woodlands and vanishing – and that’s something interesting. How familiar are you with tribal standards?’
Caninius and Fabius exchanged a blank look and shrugged. Varus rubbed his sore neck and gestured to the far side of the river, where precious few of the enemy had managed to make it into the woods and flee. ‘There were a lot of different signs on display down there, but among the boar standards that are symbolic of so many tribes, the few ‘twin horses’ of the rebel Pictones and the wolves of the Andes, there were quite a few spread-winged eagles.’
‘
Roman
?’
‘Not quite,’ Varus leaned back in his saddle. ‘The eagle is also a tribal symbol of the Carnutes.’
‘Surely for the love of Jove the Carnutes wouldn’t dare raise a sword against Rome again? Not so soon after Caesar stood on their necks this winter?’
‘It would certainly appear imprudent,’ Varus sighed, ‘but I spent plenty of time riding among the Carnute lands in the winter, and I know their standards. There were Carnutes in that army, which helps explain why it was so large. The Andes are a smaller tribe, and the rebel Pictones were few. Being bolstered by the Carnutes would give them both the numbers and the confidence to take on a Roman force. I also note with some interest that no Carnute standards can be found with those taken in the fight. Somehow the Carnute elements managed to melt away. It’s possible there are still Carnutes among the prisoners, but they will be all-but impossible to identify.’
‘We’re going to have to deal with them then.’
The cavalry commander nodded wearily. ‘They seem to be a tribe that simply do not learn from their mistakes. They’ll need to have this one explained to them rather forcefully.’
‘Should we contact Caesar?’
Varus glanced at Fabius with a frown. ‘No. You’re the senior commander in the field here. Labienus prosecutes wars in the general’s name and only apprises Caesar of the situation when he’s already won them. It is
your
decision.’
Fabius nodded unhappily, clearly uncertain about making command decisions on that level. ‘Then we’ll have to send at least a legion into Carnute lands to chastise them.’
Caninius, gore- and mud-spattered, turned to Varus, a weary smile on his face. He looked tired, but then every last man on the field looked exhausted. ‘The next question is what to do with the captives. Take hostages of the powerful, ransom others, and take a slave tithe before sending them back to be resettled, I suppose,’ he murmured. ‘Though sending them back is asking for another rising, especially if they think they can count on the Carnutes for aid.’
Varus looked across at Fabius meaningfully and the legate nodded in return.
‘I think we can safely anticipate Caesar here, Caninius. There’s been something of a shift in standard policy. Send the weak, the old, the children and the women back to their homes. Anyone who’s strong enough to wield a spear should be roped together and sent to Massilia, along with a half share of all spoils. The rest can go to the men.’
Caninius whistled through his teeth. ‘You think that’s Caesar decision.’
‘Trust me.’
‘Well it’ll prevent future unrest, I suppose. You’ll do the same with the Carnutes?’
‘I will. Leaving them broke, undermanned and unarmed seems to be the only way to keep them down,’ Fabius grumbled. ‘For now, let’s get things wrapped up here and get to camp. There are plenty of tribunes who sat at the back during the fight who can deal with the clean-up. Those of us who drew a sword and rode with Mars need some sleep. Then after we’ve had some time to recover we can arrange a march into Carnute lands. How far is your camp from here?’