On a straight field, Quadratus would never contemplate attempting to stand with around two hundred riders against many thousands of infantry. But this was no straight field, and there was a chance. A good chance.
Still his heart lurched as he watched the endless ranks of the Treveri and their hired killer allies swarm over the crest and down towards the waiting horsemen. They were coming fast. Far too fast for comfort. Any sensible enemy, even fleeing, would take that slope with just a little more trepidation, unless he savoured the thought of tumbling and plummeting, breaking bones and then being trampled by his compatriots.
They looked like they were planning on charging!
No one — absolutely no one — charged an enemy in a river. It was utterly pointless. The current would drag any speed from the attack within five paces of leaving the bank. Charging in waist-deep water was impossible. So why rush headlong down the hill and risk death or injury only to be slowed by the waiting torrent? Surely not because of the other cavalry attack? There had been a lot more of them, for certain, but not enough to send such panic into a vastly superior force.
The rhythmic crunch was faint, but unmistakable, and it brought a smile to Quadratus’ tired face.
After a few more heartbeats, he could hear the Gauls around him chattering away in their own tongue and from the light-hearted tone and the knowing smiles, he could tell that they knew that ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ for what it was.
The waiting cavalry watched the stragglers of the fleeing Treveri begin their dangerous descent. All across the slope men were tumbling and sliding, bringing down knots of their fellows in a painful and damaging fall. Panic had gripped them all and drove them on to the ford and the promise of freedom.
And then at the top, the gleaming line of Roman helmets appeared in perfect ranks, close on their enemy’s heels. Pilum points glinted in the pale sunlight as the ranks halted on the command of a buccina at the very lip of the slope. The long line was broken into two separate sections with a gap in the centre, the entire force stretching from the curve of the river left to the distant knot of trees at the right. Two cohorts at least. An immense force, and certainly one to drive panic into the hearts of an already anxious enemy.
The nearest of the fleeing Treveri suddenly realised what they were coming up against in the river and drew themselves up on the bank, unwilling to be the first to charge into that waist-deep icy water and face the waiting horsemen. The quicker thinking of them began to run up- or downstream along the bank, but already a third cohort could be heard moving off to the south to seal off that path, and the rumble of the victorious Roman cavalry assault could be heard the other way. The Treveri were boxed in and it was quickly becoming apparent to them.
Even as many of their compatriots were still descending the slope beneath the steady, flinty eyes of the legion, Treveri and bandit alike began to throw down their arms in surrender.
Quadratus grinned. The legate was a crafty old sod.
* * * * *
Titus Labienus walked his horse forward between the ranks of the First and Second cohorts, his command party close behind. A musician and his standard bearers accompanied him, along with his camp prefect and the tribunes.
And Baculus.
That man turned up like a bad smell any time anything happened, despite having received direct commands to stay in his convalescent cot from both medicus and legate. But despite the man’s borderline defiance and his bad temper, his tendency to become outspoken when in discomfort, and his pale grey, wheezing and disconcerting illness, it was always comforting to have the veteran centurion close by, and Labienus could hardly deny it. That was why he let Baculus get away with as much as he did.
The small mounted party reached the crest of the hill and spread out as much as possible, the musician and standard bearers — and the tribunes, surprisingly — hanging back slightly to allow Baculus to take prime position at the front. One of the native scouts in his party rode forward to join them at the legate’s gesture.
Labienus peered down at the field before him and felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Treveri standards were in the hands of Quadratus’ men. Though he could not see Indutiomarus, it seemed almost certain the man was captive or dead. Either suited just fine.
‘People of the Treveri!’ he announced, just to make sure he had their full attention, though the majority of the enemy were now looking back and forth despondently between the cohorts atop the slope and the cavalry in the ford and were dropping their weapons to the turf. The native scout relayed a translation in a deep, booming voice.
‘People of the Treveri, you have brought unlawful and unsought war upon the forces of Rome, who are here in this place with the blessing of your own Gaulish assembly to defend your lands from the aggressive Germanic tribes beyond the Rhenus and from the treacherous Eburones.’
He paused to let the scout translate.
‘You have besieged our garrison in contravention of your prior agreements with Rome. The penalty for such transgressions is clearly written as death!’
A number of the frightened Treveri picked up their weapons again, fearing the worst as the translation was relayed.
‘But that penalty has been paid by your leaders,’ Labienus continued ‘whose standards even now rest in the hands of my cavalry. Your king has paid your price, which is fitting, since it was he who led you into this fool’s crusade in the first place. I have no wish to persecute an entire tribe of loyal, peaceful and noble Belgae for the whims of a dangerous fool.’
The crash of more and more weapons falling to the floor spoke eloquent volumes as to the opinions of the surrendering tribesmen.
‘Moreover, I make no distinction in my magnanimity between the great Treveri and the mercenaries and vagabonds who have flocked to their banner. I have conditions for your surrender, and I know that you will not be so foolish as to refuse them, particularly since they are so light.’
Another pause for translation, and Baculus leaned closer. ‘I know this is not going to be a popular suggestion, legate, but you have one of the more powerful tribes in the east in your grasp here, and they’ve already risen against us twice. You have the singular opportunity right now to remove them from the board of the great game entirely.’
‘I will not execute an entire tribe, centurion, who were already wavering in their loyalty to their king in light of their oaths to us.’
‘They wavered for fear of us, sir, not for any oath. And anyway, those who wavered had already left. Those who remain here are the ones who stayed loyal to that royal menace Indutiomarus. And what of the thugs, murderers and thieves among them? You’ll free them too?’
Labienus turned an angry glare on the centurion.
‘I know all the arguments. I heard them all when I consulted the tribunes, including — I note — the value of the prisoners in terms of the slave trade. But I am not Caesar. Caesar may have the habit of executing and enslaving entire peoples, but if we are ever to have Gaul settled like Hispania or Illyricum or Greece, we have to start building bridges more often than we burn them. Caesar’s tactics have led us to five years of stamping out the fires of rebellion on half a dozen occasions each season, and it is time to try and create some sort of lasting peace.’
Turning his attention back to those at the bottom of the slope, Labienus cleared his throat.