Baculus drew a deep breath as yet another blow trimmed a chunk from the edge of his shield and gouged a long but shallow line in his upper arm.
Caesar turned at the sound and, as he did so, one of the Nervii facing them swept his long Celtic blade down and across beneath Caesar’s shield. Fortunately for the general, the man’s aim was imperfect and the bone-breaking, limb-severing sword edge clipped the very base of the general’s shield and jumped, scoring a deep rent across his calf in a blow that would, otherwise, have removed his leg. The general disappeared with a squawk and a crash, falling backwards into the press on his buckling leg. Two legionaries immediately went to his aid, while a third stepped in to take his place between Baculus and Galba.
The legate growled.
“Where the hell is Plancus with the reserves?”
“Sir?” a voice called.
Both Baculus and Galba shouted “Yes?” neither willing to take their eyes from the enemy, as they continued to block blows with their shields and stab and swipe at any flesh they could identify before them.
A legionary appeared behind them.
“Sir, the wagoners and engineers are marching across the camp, armed like us!”
Baculus laughed.
“Looks like the reserves are having their job done for them by a load of fat carters! We’re going to be rescued by the support staff!”
Across the gently-sloping camp, three hundred legion-retained civilians, retired legionaries and engineers had dragged swords, shields, helmets and javelins from the supply wagons and were marching in an impressive imitation of a legion toward the rear of the Nervii.
At the front, Sabinus and Cicero, freshly arrived at the field and determined to do what they could to salvage the Twelfth, shouted orders and tried to keep their strange, newly-commissioned unit in formation.
The ‘century’ pulled up with reasonable efficiency forty or fifty yards from the enemy, presented a shield wall as the rear Nervian ranks turned to deal with this new threat, and cast their missiles.
Though few of the ancillary staff had any training, the mass of pila arced up and came down among the mass of angry warriors, causing deaths and cries of dismay. With a roar, a group of warriors veered away from the mass and charged the small group of false legionaries.
The men presented a passable wall and planted their feet apart to withstand the crash as the Belgae barged into them, reeling back momentarily and then putting all their strength into holding the line while they stabbed madly at anything they could. There was no finesse or plan to the attack but, in the press of enemy bodies, it was near impossible, even for the untrained, to fail to land a blow.
More of the Nervii began to turn to this new unexpected attack and within half a minute, the support column was being overwhelmed in a similar fashion to the Twelfth. Across the rampart and beyond the battling remnant of the legion, the cavalry began to pull back. The Nervii had finally decided to deal with the incessant gnat-bites that were the cavalry attacks, and had sent a large group of spear-bearers to deal with them.
Baculus pulled himself back from the frontline, allowing a legionary to take his position. The general was upright, but being supported by one of the men. The primus pilus, a tall man already, pushed his way to the highest stretch of incomplete rampart, a mere two feet high, but enough to look over the heads of the legion and take in the situation. The hope they’d felt at the arrival first of the cavalry and then of the support staff slipped away as the centurion realised just how little difference it had really made. They were still outnumbered at least ten to one and the legion was losing a dozen men every minute, despite their defensive stance. The cavalry had been forced to withdraw and were now forming up to charge, though the spear-bearing enemy would make minced meat of them if they tried it. The support staff, brave though the move had been, were now being systematically exterminated by the Nervii rear lines. Even as the primus pilus watched, the rear lines of wagoners fled the scene for the relative safety of the wagons, leaving two unknown officers desperately holding together a rapidly disintegrating unit.
He turned to see what was happening elsewhere. The Eighth and Eleventh were embroiled in fierce fighting on the river bank and their engagement could still realistically go either way. The standards of the Ninth were waving at the top of the hill opposite as Rufus and his men cornered the Atrebates and began to exact a heavy toll on them.
But the standards of the Tenth were descending the hill back towards the river at a run. He smiled and turned to the beleaguered men of his legion.
“Hold it just a little longer, lads… Fronto and the Tenth are on the way.”
Lucius Vorenus, pilus prior of the Second Cohort in the Thirteenth Legion, growled. A long-serving veteran who had been pulled in to the command structure of the newly-raised Gallic legion, Vorenus was sick to death of his men being sent to nursemaid the baggage, or left to guard the camp. It was clear that the rest of the army saw the two new legions are inferior, and that prejudice extended even to the centurions such as himself, who had more experience than many of the taunting bastards. Vorenus had been there under the elder Crassus fifteen years ago when they’d put Spartacus and his slaves down and now he was leading a unit that weren’t even expected to truly take part in anything.
And almost ten minutes ago, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth had received word that the battle was already happening; that the other legions were in the shit. The staff officers Sabinus and Cicero had immediately ridden off ahead at breakneck pace to see what they could do and to confirm that the reserves were on the way.
And what had ‘commander’ Plancus done about it? Kept them at a steady march so that they were fresh when they got there.
His growl deepened in intensity. The bloody battle would be over when they got there at this rate. The legate of the Fourteenth, currently the only commander in the rearguard and leading both legions, was so concerned over looking good when he arrived that the reserves would be too late. Taking a deep breath, he ran forward to where the primus pilus strode ahead.
“Pullo?”
As he fell in alongside, he noted an equally sour look on his peer’s face.
“We’re going to have to do something.”
Pullo nodded.
“I know. But you’re suggesting we disobey the direct orders of a legate.”
Vorenus grimaced.
“I’m suggesting we disobey the direct orders of an arsehole. You’re the Primus Pilus. I’m just the Pilus Prior. It’s up to you to give the order.”
Pullo sighed.
“I was enjoying being back in service. Seems a shame to end my career so quickly."
He took a deep breath.
"But you're right. We've got to pick up the pace. Get back to your men."
Vorenus nodded and, as he jogged back along the lines of the First Cohort to the Second, he heard Pullo shout "Time to get into action lads. Triple pace, now!"
The Thirteenth Legion surged forward with a rhythmic crashing of arms and armour and thudding of feet.
Somewhere back with the Fourteenth, legate Plancus would be having a fit.
Chapter 17
(Battle of the Selle)
“ Contubernium (pl. Contubernia): the smallest division of unit in the Roman legion, numbering eight men who shared a tent.”
Baculus staggered under another blow and swung wildly with the enemy blade he’d ripped from the hands of one of the dying barbarians. Lifting the heavy sword with a bone-weary arm, he used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe away the stream of blood flowing from the wound on his now-unprotected head and blinding his right eye with a crimson veil. He staggered slightly, his leg cut in four places and now with barely enough strength to hold him up.