‘The Treveri have arrived. I thought my presence might be useful, sir? I should be in full armour I know, but there was not enough time to find it after two weeks of convalescence.’
‘Never mind that. Just try not to look as though the ferryman’s standing in your shadow and make sure you don’t pass out and fall off the horse. It would not convey the right impression.’
Baculus gave a weak salute and waited patiently as the officers mounted and the gate swung ponderously open. The number of warriors arriving across the open grassland to the north had fallen off, and it seemed almost the entire enemy force was here. As the small party of officers rode out of the gate, an honour guard of regular cavalry — along with a few carefully selected local volunteer noblemen — at their back, the centurion peered at the enemy ranks.
He had fought in almost every engagement of any worth in the five years since they’d first stepped into Gaul and felt he knew enough about Gallic warbands to form easy and fast opinions concerning their strength, morale and capabilities, but this was unlike any force he had laid eyes upon in that time.
Since every army they had faced had been formed by one or more major tribe, along with their lesser neighbours, the armies tended to have more than one knot of ‘royalty’ where a chieftain would direct the battle, surrounded by his close kin and personal bodyguard. The main force would be infantry, gathered around and in front of the leaders, usually with the more bloodthirsty or desperate for recognition at the front, jostling for position and itching to get into the fight. Behind them would be the lesser warriors: the older men who had nothing to prove, the farmers who had more to gain by staying alive than by winning prestige, and so on. The equipment would vary according to the wealth of the individual, and there was no rule to say the best armed and armoured would be at the front. In basic terms, it was barely-controlled chaos. The only disciplined force would be on one or other of the wings — the cavalry, mostly manned by noblemen, though again rarely armoured.
Such was the general makeup of Gallic forces.
Not so here.
Only one knot of leadership was in evidence, and that was at the rear, where Indutiomarus and his cronies ‘commanded’ the force. There was precious little evidence of cavalry and what there was seemed to be kept at the rear, in reserve. The bulk of the army, as usual, was formed by the infantry, but they were clearly organised in an unusual fashion, with the typical force — likely the Treveri themselves — at the rear, and the front ranks filled with slavering mercenary killers. These men were heavily armed, for Gauls, many bearing captured Roman equipment. These then would be the criminals and rebels that had flocked to the chieftain’s banner. The Treveri seemed not to be putting themselves forth for the chance of prestige, leaving the front with its dangerous initial clashes to the volunteers who had joined up either through pure hatred of Rome or more likely for the chance of loot that would follow the battle, a distinct gap separating the two groups.
‘Slow down,’ Labienus commanded the party. ‘Let’s give the man time to come out the front and talk to us. I’ve no intention of riding through or past his army to open negotiations.’
‘Seems little point in talking to them at all, as far as I can see, sir,’ one of the tribunes chimed in.
‘I agree that little is likely to come from it other than a little name calling,’ Labienus smiled, ‘but I have some of our most important local nobles with us and I want them to get a good look at this force of vagabonds and murderers so they remember just why they’re here when the fighting starts.’
Baculus nodded his agreement and the party slowed. ‘It looks to me very much like the goat-buggerer has no intention of moving.’
The tribunes, frowning at the language, turned to look disapprovingly at Baculus, though Labienus simply nodded, used to the senior centurion’s outspoken tongue. ‘I suspect you’re right, centurion. It looks like there will be no parlay today.’
‘Then why are we still riding towards them, sir?’ the inquisitive junior tribune hazarded.
‘Tell him, Baculus.’
The centurion rubbed his grey, sweating forehead. ‘Because it’s how things are done in a civilised war, and we want the local royalty to see us as the righteous ones. We do things by the rules and then when the Treveri and their hired bandits fail to meet our standards, the locals will see what they’re facing and steel themselves a little.’
‘Precisely. Now we’re close enough that our allied volunteers can see the quality of the shaved apes at the front of Indutiomarus’ force. Our friends can see that these men are killers, bandits, rapists, thieves and the like, and the sight will confirm what we initially informed them, sealing them to our cause.’
Baculus shook his head slightly as they approached. ‘Something bothers me though, sir. Their army’s more than twice the size of ours and the way it’s formed it should be even less organised and disciplined than usual. And yet look: there’s a gap between the front rank of mercenaries and the rear where the Treveri wait. Why? It’s not like they use our tactics? They’re not going to rotate the ranks during battle, so why the gap?’
The officers and their escort rode slowly towards the line of waiting Gauls, close enough now to pick out the armour and the torcs and arm rings of the warriors, to see their spiked hair and drooping moustaches. Close enough that if Baculus had a rock in his hand, he…
‘Retreat!’ he shouted at the party. The tribunes and the commander turned to face him, frowns creasing their foreheads. Baculus was already turning his beast.
‘Back to the camp!’ he yelled. Labienus turned his frown on the enemy in time to see the front ranks crouch or bow, the gap between the two infantry forces suddenly filling as the archers and slingers that had hidden there rose to their feet, weapons in hand.
‘Mars protect us!’ barked the legate in consternation as enemy weapons were discharged with the hiss and hum of airborne arrows and the zip and whine of sling stones.
Three of the escort cavalrymen, used to manoeuvring their horses in battle, charged forward to protect Labienus, arriving just in time to take half a dozen strikes to their shields that were meant for the Roman commander. Labienus looked in grateful surprise at the three men as he turned his horse to retreat. Two of the men bore the professional straight faces of career cavalrymen. The third tried to smile, but a torrent of crimson erupted from his mouth and he slumped forward over his saddle, his shield falling to the grass below. Two arrows jutted from his back between the shoulder blades where they had ripped straight through the mail with the force of a short-distance blow, and a third stood proud from the back of his neck, driven in so far it had almost emerged from his windpipe.
Labienus rode for the camp, watching the talkative young tribune suddenly stiffen in his saddle as he wheeled his horse and then tumble to the ground, an arrow jutting from his lower back.
Two of the volunteer noble cavalrymen were already down, thrashing about on the ground in agony, their horses bolting for safety, and a third was trying to control his mount, which had taken an arrow in the flank and was dancing in a panic.
A second volley from the hidden archers and slingers began, this time at a sporadic release rate, but now the party was on the move, harder to hit and at a greater range. Another of the regular cavalrymen went down, a sling bullet smashing a dent in his helmet so deep it shattered his skull beneath, and another tribune’s horse was struck, though he managed to keep the pained beast enough under control to head for the fort.
By the time they were out of range of the missiles another half dozen arrows and bullets had struck, but the reduced force at such a distance caused only bruising and stinging pains. Leaving seven men dead or dying on the grass, the Roman ambassadorial party reached the north gate of the camp and rode inside, their horses dancing excitedly.