Fronto glanced across at Caesar, whose expression suggested that the fight was far from over yet. He gestured to one of the mounted messengers who waited nearby. “Get to the cavalry commanders. Tell them to leave the wagons and form up their men. Varus is still in recovery, so speak to his second. I want his wing to skirt the camp as fast as they can and cut off any survivors fleeing to the Rhenus. Galronus needs to take his men to the right of the field, along the river bank and deal with those men trying to get the rafts into the water. This fight ends here.”
Labienus turned to Caesar, a frown of concern creasing his face. “And once they’re surrounded and with no escape, general?”
Caesar turned a flat expression on his senior officer.
“They aren’t just warriors, Caesar. This is three whole tribes who came across the Rhenus. There are women and children, old folk and babies. We need at least to try and behave like civilised soldiers.”
A flash of anger passed across Caesar’s face at the scarcely concealed accusation of barbarism.
“Very well, Titus. If you want to save their old folk, go and try. Obtain their surrender.”
“But Caesar? You need to call off the pursuit first.”
The general’s cold eyes regarded Labienus with steely dispassion.
“I will do no such thing. I have to consider the likelihood that you will not even get their attention. I will not give them time to regroup and face me properly.”
Labienus glared at Caesar for a moment and then turned and rode off down the hill, kicking his horse into speed as he raced toward what had now become a scene of slaughter and mayhem. Fronto turned to Atenos.
“We’d best get back to the Tenth and try and rein them in a bit” he said quietly, glancing at Caesar and hoping his words had been quiet enough to go unheard. But the general was paying him no attention, his gaze instead was locked on the two wings of cavalry that were now marshalling on the low rise and beginning to move down to their assigned tasks.
The camp resembled a mass grave as the two officers picked their way through it. All the wounded barbarians had been dispatched by the second and third waves of assaulting legionaries, and most of the Roman casualties had now been moved off by the capsarii and the medical orderlies, stretchered back up to the three great surgical tents being raised on the hill.
Fronto and Atenos picked their way through the field of bodies, wondering where the Tenth would be now. The sounds of distant fighting still echoed from the far end of the camp, and the two men made toward the sound as swiftly as they could.
The bodies that littered the ground were so numerous that it was impossible to not pay a certain amount of attention as they hurried through and Fronto noted with some distaste as he moved just how many of them appeared to be the women and children of whom Labienus had spoken. It seemed that not only had the attacking legionaries been less than selective with their targets, but also the Germanic tribesfolk had done nothing to try and shelter their civilian counterparts, the warriors having run alongside them and many women and children being left to die as the warriors ran.
A distant call from a buccina identified the location of the Tenth and the two men angled off to the south, towards the river Mosella. A sound like distant thunder told them that Galronus and his cavalry were converging on the very same spot.
The sounds of fighting became gradually louder and more distinct as they neared the river and finally, pushing their way past a large, partially collapsed tent, Fronto and Atenos laid eyes on the scene at the water’s edge.
A detachment of legionaries — what looked like roughly half a legion in total — had pinned the barbarians against the waterside. The standards and flags identified the detachment as being composed of men from the Tenth and the Seventh, while Galronus’ green cavalry wing, even as Fronto watched, crashed into the barbarians’ flank along the river, jabbing down with their spears and scything out with swords, their organisation and fighting style still very much Gallic, as yet untempered by too much Roman influence.
With some dismay, Fronto noted that once again the barbarian force consisted of warriors, but also of women, children and old folk, and yet all of them seemed determined to fight back, women wielding weapons stolen from the dead, children swishing and stabbing with sticks, throwing stones, or hefting other makeshift weapons.
The reason for their combined and desperate defiance lay beyond, protected from the Roman attackers by a sea of flailing people: two dozen sizeable rafts, each large enough to carry twenty or more people, were being manhandled into the water, still tied to the bank with ropes to prevent them rushing away downstream. Even as Fronto watched, the first raft began to float out into the water. The occupants had no oars but, using heavy poles, they pushed the raft out into the deeper, fast flowing water before throwing the poles to the bank for the next group, then dropping their arms into the water and scooping their way out into mid-river.
The rafts were just as likely to return to this bank further down or hurtle downriver until they flowed out into the massive channel of the Rhenus as they were actually to cross here, but that seemed of little consequence to the fleeing folk before him.
Fronto paused.
“What are you thinking?” murmured Atenos next to him.
“I’m trying to decide whether Labienus is right. Perhaps we ought to just let them go. Look at them. They’re in a panic and they’re mostly civilians. This lot aren’t going turn round and regroup. They won’t stop running and swimming until they reach the east bank of the Rhenus again.”
Atenos nodded.
“It would be breaking the general’s orders, though, sir. And these people are invaders. Don’t forget that.”
Fronto turned to his centurion friend in surprise, but nodded.
“You’re right. And, of course, slaves help pay for the campaign too. Come on.”
Breaking into a jog, Fronto and Atenos made their way to the scene of fighting, shouting at the rear ranks of legionaries to step aside, making for where they could see a group of standards wavering. Slowly, they managed to push through the crowd until they spotted Cicero’s ornate helmet and white plume near the standards. Angling towards him, Fronto hauled men out of the way.
“Cicero!”
The man was busy bellowing orders to his men and threats to the barbarians only twenty feet away and roaring their defiance in guttural tongues.
“Cicero!” Fronto bellowed again as the two men reached the small command group. Two of Cicero’s tribunes finally spotted the mud-spattered legate and his centurion and tugged at Cicero. The Seventh’s commander turned and noticed Fronto.
“The bastards are getting away, Fronto. We can’t kill them fast enough to get to the rafts.”
Fronto nodded.
“Galronus’ cavalry are here now and they’re pushing along the water’s edge. They’ll cut the enemy off completely in a few minutes. Maybe three or four rafts will get away. That’s all. Once their escape route’s gone, they should surrender!”
Cicero smiled grimly and turned back to his men, shouting orders and encouragement.
“Had a bit of a fall, legate?”
Fronto turned to see Fabius standing nearby, a cold smile on his face. The centurion was liberally spattered with blood and wielded a gladius in one hand and his vine staff in the other.
“Horse threw me in the fight.” His eyes strayed down suspiciously to the man’s waist, expecting an empty scabbard where the man’s pugio should be, but he was a little disappointed to note that the hilt of the dagger rose proud from the sheath.
Fabius nodded a faint bow and then turned and pushed his way back into the fight. Fronto glared after him until he was lost from sight in the press. He would be willing to put money on the fact that, if he found Furius, the other veteran’s dagger sheath would be empty.