“Are you sure, sir?” a legionary enquired quietly.
“Get it out!”
There was a commotion going on among the Atrebates and Fronto caught out of the corner of his eye the sight of pila arcing through the air and coming down among the barbarians. He gritted his teeth and let out a whimper as two men pulled on the spear shaft and the blade came out of his shoulder with a ‘slurping’ sound, followed by a gobbet of blood.
“Lie down, sir.”
“What?”
“I’m the capsarius for this century and I know what I’m doing, sir. Lie down!”
Fronto, starting to feel distinctly faint, collapsed to the floor, the jarring of the shield on his broken and impaled arm making him shriek.
As soon as he was down, the medic picked up a heavy Belgic blade and took a swing downward, severing the spear shaft close to his arm. The shock that ran through Fronto drove him into immediate and blissful unconsciousness and he was still in the dark bosom of Morpheus while the Capsarius grasped the spear head and pulled the shaft through the arm, removed the shield and splinted and bound his legate.
Around him, the defensive circle tightened again as the surviving eighteen men of the century tried to defend their position against an angry, but increasingly panicky enemy.
* * * * *
Labienus was close to the front of the charge. Whoever Fronto’s second most senior centurion was, the man had been adamant that Labienus should not be endangered and had argued him into staying in the third line. What was it with the Tenth? It was as though Fronto’s insolence and disobedience had spread like a disease through his men.
After only half a minute’s argument it had become clear to Labienus that he was not going to win this argument, even if he ordered the man to stand aside.
As soon as the call had gone up, every soldier who still had access to a pilum had cast it in a shower of deadly iron. The dismay at the death of their leaders and the capture of their standards was already shaking the morale of the Atrebates. The sudden horrifying rain of missiles caused an uproar and, by the time Labienus shouted the order and the Tenth began to push forward, the Ninth following suit on their left, panic was beginning to grip the this Belgic tribe.
Like a slow tide, the Roman line moved through and over the enemy who tried to retreat for several minutes in an orderly fashion with a view to regrouping, before news reached the rear of the Celtic force that their leaders were dead, their standards gone, and they were now being pushed back.
Firstly the rear groups of Atrebates began to peel off and flee toward the water’s edge, and then more and more broke away like ice in the first warmth of spring. Gradually, the trickle of fleeing warriors turned into a river, and then a flood, and suddenly the Tenth were no longer pushing the Atrebates, but pursuing them.
A roar went up among the men and they began to pick up pace behind the fleeing enemy. Their enthusiasm and pace were so powerful that they almost engaged with the last dozen defenders around their legate before hurriedly peeling off and flowing around them after the enemy.
Labienus bellowed after the centurions “Steady! Form a line again!”
He watched for a moment as the officers reined in the more enthusiastic men and reformed into centuries as they drove on down to the river. Now, the Ninth were alongside and creating an impressive front. Labienus continued to observe the action for a moment and then approached the weary and battle-scarred survivors. He spotted the prone figure of Fronto and for a moment his heart skipped a beat. Then, as he watched, he saw the legate’s chest rise and fall. A soldier crouching next to him came to attention.
“Legate Fronto has been wounded sir. I should get him to the medicus.”
Labienus nodded.
“Will he be all right?”
The capsarius gave a non-committal shrug.
“He should live, sir, but he might lose the arm.”
The staff officer shook his head sadly and thought back with fresh perspective on that centurion refusing to let him take a place in the front line.
“Get him back there straight away and tell the doctor to do whatever he has to.”
Leaving the tired and wounded men of the heroic century to escort Fronto back to the hastily-organised hospital, basic trestle tables in the open air, Labienus jogged after the Tenth to catch up. As he ran, he spotted the primus pilus running at an angle to intercept him.
“Priscus. Glad to see you made it.”
“Only just, sir. You and the lads got there just in time. There were about ten of us left.”
The centurion was bleeding in a dozen places, though none seemed to be bothering him. Labienus was, as always, impressed with the quality of the centurionate.
“And Velius?”
Priscus shook his head sadly.
“Seen no sign of him, sir, but it looks like no one survived there.”
As they caught up with the rear ranks of the Tenth and marched along behind them, Labienus took the opportunity to glance to his right and see what was happening in the centre of the field. It appeared that the panicked retreat of the Atrebates had had a knock-on effect on the Viromandui, and the Eighth and Eleventh legions were even now beginning to move, pushing their Belgae opponents back slowly towards the river. He couldn’t see as far as the Twelfth, but could only hope that the reserves would arrive in time to help them.
Ahead, the Tenth and the Ninth had reached the water and were busily butchering those Atrebates they caught trying to cross. The centurions gave a call and the line stopped. Labienus turned to Priscus and raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
Priscus shrugged.
“They know any further and they leave the main field of battle. They’re awaiting orders.”
Labienus nodded and looked to the left to see legate Rufus and the primus pilus of the Ninth marching toward him.
“Rufus.”
“Sir. The Atrebates are beginning to reform on the far bank. What are your orders?”
Labienus nodded.
“Then we need to break them before they get too courageous again. Pass the word down to the officers. Let the men have a wild, bloodthirsty charge but, if that breaks the enemy, make sure they know to rein in and form up near the crest of the hill.”
Rufus nodded and walked back along the line of men. As Priscus passed the word down, Labienus looked up across the river and could see some sort of obstacle at the top. The enemy were going to be trapped. That meant they’d have to either surrender or die at the top. He took a deep breath and waited. Calls went up from one of the Ninth’s cornicens and were picked up by the other musicians, throughout both legions. A chorus of centurions and optios bellowed simultaneously.
“Charge!”
Labienus watched tensely as the men waded into the water and sloshed across the river as fast as they could manage The first man to reach the far bank was felled by a massive swing with a Celtic blade, the second and third with spears, but then the bulk of the men reached the bank and began to stab and hack at the enemy.
Fresh dismay swept across the Atrebates and they fled up the hill, their army breaking up once again like ice. At the rear of the legion, Labienus took a deep breath and then waded across the river behind his men, drawing his sword as he went.
The Ninth and Tenth swept up the gentle slope opposite. Labienus’ fears that the enemy would be trapped by that strange blockade and fight to the death like cornered rats seemed unfounded. As the rear ranks of the Atrebates reached the obstacles, they hauled the great defences aside and, joining the warriors who had manned them, fled over the hill.
Labienus struggled out of the water onto the bank in time to see the last of the Belgae they were chasing disappear over the crest as the legions formed up just below them.
A voice off to the left attracted his attention and he spun, wielding his sword, before he realised who it was. Varus, accompanied by a number of cavalrymen, came trotting out from behind a cover of trees.