In less than a heartbeat, the tribune was on top of him, rolling the large man over onto his back, disregarding his screams of pain. Then, looking down into the senator’s eyes with his gladius held at the man’s fat neck, the tribune’s face twisted in a rage.
“I know Valens sent you, not Caesar!” the tribune shouted, slapping the wide-eyed Porcius across the face. “Isn’t that right! Tell me I’m right!”
The centurion did not know if he should go to the senator’s aid or help the tribune.
“I – I can’t feel my legs,” the senator blubbered between labored breaths.
This drew another vicious blow from the tribune.
“Answer me, you fat piece of mule dung! Who sent you?”
The tribune threatened to strike him again, but the senator finally spoke.
“Yes!” Porcius shouted, raising his pudgy arms to protect his face. “Valens sent me! Valens made me do it! Jupiter’s mercy, I can’t feel my legs!”
The centurion had now made up his mind not to interfere. He also wanted to hear more. Guessing that this information might be sensitive, he ordered his men away.
“What is your plan for Caesar?” the tribune demanded.
“I don’t know what you mean?” Porcius said meekly. “Please don’t strike me again!”
Lucius then held the point of his gladius to Porcius’s bare belly which was sticking out beneath his armor and through a large tear in his tunic.
“How does Valens intend to kill Caesar?” Lucius said again, fully determined to gut the senator if he lied again.
“The bodyguard,” Porcius mumbled finally, his eyes averted to the shaft of blood-stained steel. “The Gauls in Caesar’s bodyguard. Some have been paid to slay the proconsul.”
“Where is Valens? Where is he, damn you?”
Porcius did not answer, and Lucius stood to view the battlefield, stamping one boot down hard on the senator’s belly as he rose. As the senator coughed and fought for breath from the blow, Lucius desperately searched the field for Caesar’s standard. He scanned each embroiled legion, from right to left, trying hard to discern the hundreds of different swaying standards amidst the thick cloud of dust that hung over the melee. He could not see the left side of the field, from a row of hedges, but then, a break in the haze allowed him to see a band of riders passing in the rear from the left side of the Roman line to the right. He instantly recognized Caesar’s red plumed helmet and scarlet cloak at their head. The proconsul was flanked by two knights, which Lucius knew to be Caesar’s own aides. Not far behind, a lone officer, outfitted much like Caesar, followed with the Gallic bodyguard. From the way the man sat his horse, Lucius instantly identified him as Valens. As Lucius watched the distant riders, he saw Valens raise a hand bringing the bodyguard to a halt, while Caesar and the two aides rode on unaware. Valens said something to the sword-bearing horsemen and, when he finished, only three of the bodyguard continued on after Caesar. The rest followed Valens in the opposite direction, back toward the left side of the line, and once again hidden by the hedgerow. In the swirl of dust left by the horses, Lucius caught sight of a strand of blue fabric floating in the wind, as if it had been dropped by one of the riders.
As Lucius puzzled over the actions, he heard a high-pitched laugh behind him. Turning, he saw Porcius laughing hysterically, exposing blood-covered teeth. The senator lay on a piece of higher ground that had allowed him to observe all that Lucius had.
“You are too late, you impudent boy!” Porcius said, his eyes wild as he cackled up blood. “The signal is given! Caesar will die!”
Standing a few paces away, the centurion was confused by the dying senator’s behavior, but the centurion did not have long to ponder it. A heartbeat later, the tribune’s gladius was buried deep in the fat senator’s chest, and the senator laughed no more. The centurion watched as the tribune extracted the bloody weapon and grabbed up a fallen legionary’s shield. Then, using the dead senator’s giant belly to step up onto the horse, the tribune mounted and galloped off at full pace toward the battle.
As the centurion stared after the strange, unknown officer, he wondered how he might explain this should one of his superiors ever ask him how Senator Porcius met his death.
XXVIII
Arrows sailed past Caesar at a disturbing rate, loosed by Belgic archers attempting to bring down the prominent officer in the red-plumed helmet riding behind the Roman lines. As Caesar rode amidst the chaos that was the right side of his army, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was little order, and the troops were not being used to their full effect. In many places, the Roman and Belgic lines swirled together, and in many places were entirely indistinguishable. Here and there, large groups of slashing and stabbing Belgae had managed to penetrate all the way to the third Roman line. Caesar could see that the flanking movement by the enemy had been executed with most devastating results. The first line of the Seventh Legion no longer existed, and the press of the enemy had forced the remaining lines into those of the Twelfth. In many places the troops of both legions were pressed together so tightly that shield overlapped shield, and the soldiers could not find gaps through which to deliver the necessary jabs with their deadly gladii. The spear-wielding Belgae were taking full advantage of this hindrance, some standing on the backs of their comrades, or even the bodies of the fallen, to thrust their spear points over the Roman shields and into the necks and faces of the legionaries behind them. While the far right of the line was scantily manned and near to being overwhelmed where the two legions came together, the Roman lines overlapped four and five deep in some places, such that the troops in the rear ranks stood completely useless, serving only as victims to the incessant shower of enemy missiles. This inadequate positioning of force was nearing disastrous consequences as the Belgae assaulted the far right. Only a single cohort, refused at an angle to hold off the flanking enemy, stood between the Belgae and the Roman rear.
It was here, at the angle, that Caesar found Balbus.
The legate was sitting helmetless on the ground, near his standard, only a few paces behind the embroiled lines. A man, whom Caesar knew to be Balbus’s personal physician, hovered over him, examining a bleeding contusion on his forehead. Through half-opened eyes, Balbus saw Caesar’s approach and attempted to sit up straighter, the pain of the movement evident on his face.
“Where is Septimius?” Caesar called, after dismounting and approaching the wounded legate. Caesar had not seen the legate of the Twelfth anywhere along the line.
Balbus shook his head. “I do not know. I believe he fell early on. Berserkers have broken through several times, trying to slay the officers and seize the eagles. I have assumed command of both legions.”
Back down the line, the eagle of the Seventh stood firmly planted in the ground and surrounded by a blood-spattered honor guard of legionaries ready to protect it from any enemy warriors that might try to seize it. Judging from the number of Belgic corpses lying on the ground before them, the legionaries had already fought off several such attempts. Not far from them, the eagle of the Twelfth stood, similarly guarded.
“You have let things get out of hand here, general!” Caesar said disgustedly as he surveyed the disorder in the entangled ranks.