“Labienus! You have absolutely no idea how grateful I am to see you.”
“Varus?” Labienus blinked. “We thought you were gone or dead.”
“Thankfully not. Most of the cavalry got cut off, but I’m hoping they’re on their way back down. Where are you going now?”
The staff officer shrugged.
“There’s still best part of ten thousand warriors up there. Got to either get them to surrender, kill them or disperse them. And Caesar’ll want captives.”
Varus nodded.
“I’m heading back across. Thanks for the rescue.”
Labienus smiled.
“See you soon.”
Drawing a deep breath, he set off once more up the hill after his men. They would have to gain control of the Belgae’s camp over the ridge and take prisoners. Then they could turn round and take on the Belgic reserve from behind and trap them at the river.
He had almost reached the rear lines of the legions, when Rufus came running back down to him.
“What’s up?”
Rufus grasped his shoulder and, spinning him around, pointed back across the river. The wagon train had still not finished arriving, and the reserve legions were not yet in sight. The Eighth and Eleventh were fighting a vast number of the enemy right on the bank of the river, but the Nervii reserve had taken advantage of the sudden gaps in the Roman line and had crossed the river. Even now, as he watched, the Twelfth legion on the flank, already outnumbered around five to one, were suddenly hit by fresh waves of the enemy, this time from behind.
The Twelfth had a nominal strength of five thousand men, but it looked worryingly to Labienus as thought there were not more that fifteen hundred left. And that was where Caesar was. As he watched, the Twelfth reacted with astonishing efficiency to this new threat, closing up so that the rear ranks turned and became a second battle line. They were now entirely surrounded, cut off and hopelessly outnumbered.
“Sacred Mars!”
Rufus nodded.
“What do we do? Head back?”
Labienus shook his head.
“Can’t leave ten thousand Atrebates in control of their camp and with room and time to reform into a unit. You stay and deal with them. Capture as many as you can. Get them to surrender if you can.”
He ground his teeth.
“I’m taking the Tenth back to try and relieve the Twelfth and save Caesar.”
* * * * *
Centurion Baculus stood gritting his teeth in the press of men. Around him his legionaries fought like lions against unbelievable odds as wave after fresh wave of Nervii fell upon them, hacking, maiming and screaming guttural curses. In the small circle afforded him temporarily while he sorted his latest wound, the veteran officer crouched, settling the shield in most comfortable position possible on his shattered left arm and used his good arm to remove his belt. Wincing, he used the belt to strap the shield tightly to his useless arm, holding the buckle between his teeth as he pulled it tight. Standing once more, he tried to lift the great defensive item, but the arm was too weak. A constant stream of crimson drips fell from his useless fingers. Still, at least he had a shield.
Once more he collected his sword and hefted it. To his left there was a crunch and a gurgling scream as a thrown spear arced over the front lines and came down in the middle of the Roman press, straight through the chest of a legionary.
“This is getting ridiculous!”
Baculus pushed his way back through the press of men.
“Come on, lads. They’re only barbarians. Fight harder.”
Ignoring the shocking pain in his arm, he pushed through the struggling men and spotted waving plumes a little to his right. About bloody time the legate got involved! Galba had been directing things as well as anyone could, given the circumstances, but really the Twelfth was as organised as it could ever hope to be now, and what they needed most was men with swords.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he pushed his way over to the commander and was surprised to realise that the man standing next to the legate in the line and jabbing madly with a sword, smashing his shield into the faces of howling barbarians, was the general himself. Caesar was already dirty and spattered with blood, his white tunic and crimson cloak making him stand out among the darker garb of the legionaries. This whole campaign could go to shit if Caesar fell to a well aimed blow. Who would pay to keep the legion active then? Pompey? Doubtful… and certainly not the senate.
With another grunt, this time of irritation, he made his way quickly over to the two officers and pushed his way in next to the general. If anyone was going to make sure the general survived, it had to be someone Baculus trusted, and the only person he really trusted to fight well and not die was himself.
He moved a legionary aside and took the position, stabbing down at a warrior who was trying to swipe at their unprotected legs.
The general beside him cast him a sidelong glance.
“Thank you, centurion.”
“Sir.”
“You’ve just been back from the attack?”
Baculus nodded.
“Sorting a wound, sir.”
Caesar smiled as he smashed his shield into the contorted face of a Nervian warrior.
“What’s your estimate of our chances?”
Baculus gave a grim smile.
“We’re in shit, sir. I was on the mound back there and I couldn’t see more than three or four centurion or optio’s crests. I think the officers are nearly all gone. We’re down to just over a thousand men now. There’s a tribune back there that’s busy bleeding out. We’re surrounded on all sides and the rest of the army’s all engaged elsewhere. Unless the reserves get here, we’ll be gone in less than fifteen minutes.”
Caesar’s expression became grim.
“That’s a bleak estimate, centurion.”
“Just realism, sir.”
Baculus had to break off from the conversation again as three warriors leapt at the line. One hit Caesar’s shield and knocked the general back heavily enough that the man wobbled and almost lost his footing before heaving the attacker forward again using his shield. The others hit Baculus’ shield so hard he felt his arm almost detach and narrowly avoided blacking out. The third forced his way between the two.
As the men in the row behind them dealt with the warrior who had broken through, Caesar looked Baculus up and down.
“You’ve been wounded twice, centurion.”
“Six times” the man replied with a straight face.
“And you don’t appear to be able to move your shield arm.”
“Broken, sir.”
The general laughed.
“If I had a hundred men like you, centurion, I’d live in no fear of the Nervii.”
“Look there!” a voice shouted.
Both men turned to Galba in surprise. The legate was pointing over the enemy from their position on the slight rise of the incomplete rampart. They followed his gesturing and squinted. A fresh wave of Celtic warriors had appeared around the edge of the woodland nearby; mounted warriors, shouting fresh cries in their unintelligible language.
“They’ll likely cut off the reserves” Galba said, his voice leaden and flat. Baculus shook his head in wonder at how this debacle had come about and leapt forward just in time to dispatch a warrior who’d lunged at the momentarily distracted general.
“I don’t think so…”
Caesar sounded unsure, but slowly a smile spread across his face.
“Look. There are legionary regulars among them. It’s Varus’ cavalry!”
As the three officers fought desperately to keep the line from the howling warriors before them, they caught glimpses briefly over the enemy. Varus’ trapped cavalry had found a way round and back across the river and now came hurtling down behind the Nervii, where they began to harry them, attacking in a charge that swept past the Belgae and picking them off before pulling back out of reach and forming up for the next attack; standard Roman skirmishing tactics.