“You men are the iron youth of Gaul!” Sacrovir proclaimed. He stood on a makeshift pulpit, Heracles and Taranis standing behind him. Most of the men he addressed were not men at all; they were very young, more like overgrown boys; the sons of Gallic nobles from all over the province.
The majority had been attending school in Augustodunum and had subsequently become hostages of Sacrovir in order to assure their fathers’ allegiance. He had held spectacular rallies, decrying their status as second class citizens of Rome, and expounding upon the virtues of “old Gaul.”
The impressionable young men were swept up on a tide of patriotism and hunger for military glory. These lads were the ones who would form the van of the army; first to engage the Romans, encased in plate armor so as to make them impervious to the javelin and gladius.
“I look into your faces,” Sacrovir continued, “and I see not young boys. Rather I see men of Gaul, valiant youth who will rid our land of the Roman scourge once and for all!” This elicited a series of cheers and battle cries from the assembled host. Sacrovir was indeed proud of his men. While his initial motives for rebellion had seemed selfish and petty in nature, he too had become caught up in the spirit of liberation. His cause was no longer just one of vengeance and personal independence. No, it was bringing liberty and a sense of nationalism to all of Gaul. Once the Roman Army that faced him was destroyed, surely the rest of the province would follow.
He dismounted the dais as a messenger came running up to him. It was Broehain, carrying a brass breastplate in his hands.
“I bring word of General Florus,” the man spoke, his normally stoic face was shaken. “He is dead, his forces routed by a single Roman cohort along with Indus’ cavalry.”
“Impossible!” Taranis spat. “Even if he were unable to enlist the Treveri, his forces still numbered over five thousand men. Surely you are mistaken.”
Broehain presented the breastplate to them. Sacrovir closed his eyes at the sight. Florus’ ornate armor was unmistakable.
“He was a good man,” Broehain said quietly.
Sacrovir could only nod in reply.
“What is worse is not only did we lose his force, but we still have no cavalry!” Taranis observed. He then turned to Broehain. “Did you see any cavalry amongst the Roman ranks?”
“We did,” the man replied. “In addition to their standard compliment, we saw the standards of a cavalry regiment. Not only that, but we fought against them in the mountains. Indus has, in fact, sided with the Romans, as have his men.”
“I gave that man my friendship and my trust,” Sacrovir growled, “and this is how he repays me? We will crush the Romans on the morrow, and I will feast on Indus’ heart before this is over!”
As day broke, Silius sat on his horse, gazing at the massive army the enemy had arrayed before him. As predicted, their heavily armored troops were in two ranks, forming the van of their force. The rest were formed up in a mass on the gentle slope that rose just a few meters above the plain. Thankfully, they had no cavalry to speak of. Only a few of their senior leaders could be seen riding on horses. A man that Silius assumed could only be Sacrovir was riding a splendid charger back and forth in front of the formation. His gestures were wild, and his men were answering audibly with battle cries not heard in a generation.
Silius spat in contempt at the sight and turned to face his men. “What a pity it is the very forces who, not four years ago, vanquished the Cherusci and the hordes of Germania, now have to face such a pathetic rabble that the enemy has marshaled against us! Why only recently the Turani and rebellious Treveri were smashed by a single cohort of this very army. Teach these rebels what it means to violate the peace of Rome. Show them no mercy in battle, but spare them when they flee.4 Into battle Germanica and Valeria!” “Cohort!” Proculus shouted.
“Century!” came the reply from his centurions.
“Advance!”
Without another sound the Germanica and Valeria Legions advanced towards their foe. The first two ranks advanced about twenty meters ahead of the rest, legionaries bearing pickaxes keeping close behind their companions who would provide them with protection while they chopped down Sacrovir’s armored troops.
On the far slope, Heracles watched, puzzled at this strange formation.
“Something is not right,” he said to Belenus. “Look at how their first two ranks are clustered together, well ahead of the main force.”
“I see it,” Belenus answered. “Their files are spaced apart, almost like a skirmishing formation. What could it mean?”
“I don’t know,” Heracles replied. “These Romans have a plan of some sort. Look, the men in the front ranks are not carrying javelins either. What are they up to?”
In the van of the rebel force, Farquhar noticed that something was not right about the Roman formation. Though he could not see the forces behind the front rank, he could clearly make out that these men were devoid of javelins, and the second rank was very close to the first.
“They are not carrying javelins,” he said to Alasdair.
“Perhaps they know we are impervious to them!”
“I wonder.” The young man felt safe, encased in the armor Sacrovir had provided for them, yet at the same time he knew he was severely constricted, his mobility greatly hindered. All around him his companions were chanting ancient Gallic battle cries, beating their weapons against their armor, exhorting their own valor and the impetuousness of the Romans. He then started in with cries of his own and beat his short sword against the small buckler attached to his left wrist.
The legions were advancing slowly and deliberately, the cadence of their steps drowned out by the battle cries of the Gauls. Farquhar beat his weapon harder against his buckler, his chants growing ever louder as he tried to work himself into frenzy. He was fast becoming a man, a man of Gaul, fighting for that noble thing called freedom. The Romans were getting closer, and Farquhar knew it would not be long. He could almost make out the faces of individual legionaries. He eyed the sword that he carried. It was a fine weapon, the best on the line no doubt. It had served his ancestors for generations; would it serve him as well?
Suddenly, and without a sound, the Romans broke into a fast jog. The young nobles noticed that their front rank was in a looser formation than they were told the Romans were used to fighting. Their shields were not linked together, and there was a noticeable gap between their files as the soldiers in the second rank stood directly behind them. The young man became fearful as the gap closed.
Such discipline, he thought to himself. He was suddenly afraid as the foolishness of this venture became clear to him. Vercingetorix and his warriors had failed to break the Romans; what chance did a handful of youths have who had never even seen combat? These men they faced were professionals; battle-hardened veterans who were bred to kill. Farquhar braced himself as his father’s words echoed in his mind. This was, indeed, madness, and there was no escape. For when the Romans were within a few paces, they came alive audibly. Legionaries in the second rank rushed around their companions, each carrying an entrenching pickaxe.
Farquhar became terrifyingly aware of the Romans’ battle plan as he saw a well-muscled legionary rushing straight for him, eyes filled with rage, pickaxe ready to swing. The young man tried to block the coming blow with his buckler, but his armor made him too slow and unwieldy. He gave a cry of pain and the pickaxe smashed through his armor. The sharpened point punctured the side of his breastplate, as well as the bottom flank of his ribcage. He felt his ribs break as his lung was ruptured by the blow. A howl of shock and pain took his breath from him. As he fell to the ground, the pickaxe became embedded in his ribs and armor. He cried out again as he hyperventilated in sheer panic. Blood seeped from his mouth as he felt the pickaxe wrenched from his side. The pain blinded him, and overwhelmed his senses. He lay on his side, his sword lying useless in his twitching fingers.