He saw the proconsul slowly rise to his feet. Caesar was safe, at least for the time being. But where in Hector’s girdle had those javelins come from?
Lucius got his answer when, out of the roiling dust, came a troop of legionaries, rushing to Caesar’s side. He saw many familiar faces among them. They were the men of the 9th century, with Vitalis at their head. The centurion took one look at Caesar, and then at Lucius. His face first registered shock, and then disbelief.
“How in Juno’s name?” he said in amazement. “Is that you, Lucius?”
Lucius smiled and then nodded to his old comrade. “You came not a moment too soon.”
“Our few numbers landed us a spot in the third line for this engagement,” Vitalis said, “I saw the proconsul under attack.” He then glanced at Caesar who was already conversing with Balbus and several newly arrived tribunes and seemed oblivious to the men who just saved his life.
For an instant, Lucius saw his old comrade in the face of Vitalis. For a moment, the rigid centurion was gone, and his old tent mate shined through. He was genuinely glad to see Lucius, and Lucius him. Then his face drew grave again. He and the other men of the 9th looked worn down.
“We are depleted,” Vitalis said. “We man the rear, but we have seen our share of the fighting this day.” He gestured to the field now swirling with Belgic warriors. “Eleven of our number lie slain out there, where the lines were an hour ago.”
Suddenly Caesar was standing beside them. He had dismissed the tribunes who had presumably run off to relay his orders down the line.
“My thanks, friends,” Caesar said, nodding at both men. “I am fortunate you came when you did.” Then turning to Lucius, he said, “I do not believe I have seen you before, young man.”
Somewhat overawed at being addressed directly by the proconsul, Lucius looked back at him quizzically. Then, he suddenly realized that he still wore the tribune’s garb.
“I am not an officer, sir.”
“You aren’t? Then what is the meaning of this? Who in Hades are you?”
“This is Lucius Domitius, General,” Vitalis said. “He is a soldier in my century. I am Vitalis of the 9th Century, Seventh Legion.”
“Your names sound familiar,” Caesar said in a suddenly disinterested tone, his focus already turned back to the battle lines. “My thanks again to you both,” he said dismissively.
Lucius knew that he had to speak now, or he might not get the great man’s ear ever again. “Uh, general. My opportune arrival was not a coincidence.”
Caesar acted as though he had not heard him and began moving to a small mound to get a better view of over the heads of the fighting legionaries. Lucius followed after him.
“Senator Valens has betrayed you, General,” Lucius finally said.
This got Caesar’s attention, and he wheeled around to look into Lucius’s eyes, almost angered at the distraction.
“He conspired with the Nervii, general,” Lucius continued. “He paid your bodyguard to murder you when the battle turned against you.”
The proconsul stared at Lucius but said nothing, his eyes intense as he put the pieces together in his mind. After a few long moments of consideration, the comprehension of the scope of the plot registered as clearly on Caesar’s face as if Lucius had rung a bell.
Caesar then drew in close to Lucius and said under his breath, “Not a word of this to anyone, young man. Is that understood?”
Lucius nodded, slightly confused. Then, as Lucius watched, a smile appeared on the proconsul’s face, as if the plot were now behind him and he was suddenly a new man. Caesar saw the shield that had been knocked from his hands and stooped to pick it up.
“Now, Lucius Domitius, of the Seventh Legion. Do you know what it means to inspire men who are near the breaking point?”
Lucius shook his head.
“They need inspiration, Lucius,” Caesar said, gesturing to the beset legions. “And what better inspiration than to see their commander fighting in the line alongside them.”
Lucius shrugged and nodded, though he was not sure that was entirely true. He had stood in the battle line many times and had never had the wherewithal to know who was standing either side of him, much less get encouragement from the bloody general. The only encouragement any soldier needed was that of survival of himself and his comrades.
Caesar laughed at Lucius’s blank expression, taking it for nervousness. “Then let us go and save this army!”
Then, gesturing for Vitalis and the other men of the century to follow as well, Caesar hefted the shield and led the small band of legionaries into the fray.
XXIX
The Ninth and Tenth legions were pursuing the Atrebates through the forest, the river and the din of the battle left behind them. Shields, spears, and helmets littered the forest floor, thrown away by the shattered warriors as they fled. When the centurions were not looking, legionaries stooped to take up the finer quality items. The Atrebates had been largely scattered, but there were still groups large enough to chase down. Every now and then, a sharp cry would float across the woods as an exhausted Belgic warrior was surrounded and skewered.
The legionaries moved through the forest at wide intervals to cover more ground, a moving carpet of bronze helmets steadily advancing behind the broken foe.
Generals Labienus and Fabius rode behind the advancing Tenth Legion, keeping an eye up in the trees for any straggling Belgae who may have climbed into a tree to take a suicidal shot as they passed beneath. Labienus had lost count of how many hundred dead Belgic warriors he had seen with eyes open in a final expression of terror. Most of the brave ones had died on the battlefield. The rest were frightened youths too foolish to know what they had gotten into or old men whose legs were too feeble to outrun the conditioned legionaries.
Though he was following Caesar's instructions in taking the Ninth and Tenth so far from the battle, Labienus was still worried. Separating the army in the face of the enemy went against every principal of arms he knew. He often found himself glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a messenger from Caesar riding hard with orders to break off the pursuit and return to the main body. But none came.
The forested hills to the south masked the sound of the battle well. Every so often he would make out the call of a distant horn, but he had no way of knowing how the battle fared. He assumed all was going well, and that Caesar had been successful in bringing the right under control, otherwise would not Caesar have recalled him?
A spate of raised voices up ahead suddenly got Labienus's attention. A century of legionaries had encountered something and had formed a circle around the threat. Labienus steered his horse closer such that he could see over the soldiers' heads, and was stunned to see a stocky, mustachioed man clad in mail and wielding an axe. He looked nothing like the Atrebas warriors the legionaries had been pursuing, but their blood was up and they were in a mood to kill.
"For the last time, you turd from a goat's arse," the man said indignantly, after being prompted by a centurion to identify himself. "I am Divitiacus, chieftain of the bloody Aedui. I've got information that can't wait, so you better bloody well take me to your general, right now!"
Labienus instantly recognized him.
"Let him through!" he commanded. "I know this man."
"Labienus, I am glad to see you" Divitiacus said. "Doesn't anyone teach your men the difference between an Aedui and a Belgae?"
The century parted to let the chieftain pass, and then at the order of their officer continued searching for more Belgae to slay.