“Again!”
As the men heaved and pushed, slashing and stabbing as room allowed, there was another shift, like the collapse of sections of a cliff into the sea. The Legion surged forward a few steps, taking advantage of the opportunity. Caesar stepped forth himself, carefully, aware of the wound in his leg that threatened to fell him with every pace, in line with the front wall of men, ducking and stabbing at a barbarian who lunged for his face. The man howled as the general’s sword slid deep into his chest, grating slightly between the ribs. As Caesar tried to pull the blade back, the front mass of Nervii shifted again and the warrior fell backwards behind his fellows, taking the officer’s very fine blade with him.
“Damn it!”
The general raised his shield slightly. He could reach round and take a sword from one of the men behind him, but the action might leave him open to attack. Instead, he braced his legs, grunting at the pain as the wound on his calf pumped out his precious lifeblood. Ignoring the pain and discomfort, he leaned in against his shield, keeping his head down enough that he could only just see over the bronze edging strip of the scutum below the guard of his helmet. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed “Push!”
Trusting to the men beside him to achieve a similar force, the general put every ounce of his weight against the shield, planting his legs behind him and heaving against the turf. Behind him, a quick-thinking signifer took advantage of the fact that the general was ducked and low, and raised the standard with its ornamental spear-point, stabbing with it over his commander’s head and impaling the face of one of the barbarians.
“Good man! Keep going!”
The general, down in the darkness behind his shield where no one could see him, suddenly realised that he was grinning like an ecstatic boy. There was something truly refreshing about the prosecution of a battle when you were one of many compatriots with a simple, straightforward task, no matter how hard that task might be. His mind found a clarity it rarely managed in the knowledge that, right now, all that was required of him was to push and survive until he found there were Romans in front of him instead of barbarians. No plans, no treachery, no bureaucracy or argument. Just men relying on each other and all pushing the same way.
Briefly, for one moment in the heat of battle, Caesar found that he understood men like Fronto and Labienus. There was a simplicity and a purity in battle that held a lure when compared with the thorny complexities of politics and was not always any more dangerous.
“Come on, men. Just a little further.”
Of course, he had no idea how far they must go; possibly further than was realistically possible, but something had to be done.
Once again there was a roar and the Roman line heaved forward, stepping forward once… twice… three… even four paces. The general risked looking up for a moment, ducking back urgently as a great blade swung past, almost removing the top of his head.
He could see the standards of the Eleventh ahead. Straining, he listened over the roaring of his men and the general sounds of battle. Crispus and his officers were bellowing out commands and the two legions were slowly converging as the Eleventh tried to push far enough to join with them.
He ducked once more and heaved, pushing at his shield, noting with concern that so much damage had now befallen the great wooden cover that he could actually see points of daylight through it. That could not be good.
Above him, the signum lanced out once more and stabbed into another barbarian.
Just a few more minutes…
* * * * *
Labienus grimaced. It looked very much like they wouldn’t make it. The Twelfth were so seriously depleted, perhaps down to a quarter of their number, and still surrounded by a veritable sea of Belgae. Even if the Tenth ran like racehorses they would still have to fight their way through the Nervii to relieve Caesar’s legion.
He fretted as he ran with the Tenth, still in good formation, down the slick and bloody slope of the north bank and began once again to wade across the river. Despite the trouble the Twelfth were experiencing on the flank, the day looked hopeful for Rome now. Rufus could deal with the Atrebates, even if it meant just chasing them off. Balbus and Crispus were still heavily embroiled in combat, but things were going enough their way that the Belgae had committed every man they had, with no reserves to be seen across the field. With the Roman reserves surely only moments away, the battle would be theirs.
But unless they did something quickly, the Twelfth would be gone by then, along with Caesar and any hope for a glorious end to the campaign. Without the general, a new governor would be selected for Cisalpine Gaul, the legions would be withdrawn, possible no longer funded, and everyone would go home, probably without much in the way of booty either. Sad, really, that so many men and their families’ futures relied on the one patrician busy fighting for his own life.
Clambering up the opposite bank, he waved his cornicen over.
“Sound the muster. I need to think.”
The musician put out the call and the Tenth and, as they returned to the south bank and began to form into their contubernia, centuries and cohorts, Labienus found a low natural mound and stepped onto it for the best view he could manage. What would Fronto do?
He could just make out a crest in the midst of the fighting that would be either Balbus or one of his tribunes, or perhaps one of the staff fighting alongside them. Up by the furthest end of the fighting he could make out a small unit who seemed very irregularly organised, being led by a couple of officers. No sign yet of Plancus and the reserves.
He fretted again. What to do? Labienus was a career soldier. Oh, he’d dabbled in politics far more than Fronto, but only to secure military positions for himself. He had almost as much command experience in the field as Fronto and Balbus, so he damn well should be able to think of something.
He sighed as he realised the Tenth were almost formed behind him, and he’d have to have an answer in a few seconds. It looked bad for soldiers to have to wait while an officer faffed and dallied.
He needed to see this from an objective view. He tried to imagine how an eagle would see the scene. The corner of the camp where the action was going on was like a disjoined ‘L’ where the long side was the strung-out line of the Twelfth, surrounded by the Nervii on all sides. The short side was the compact Eighth and Eleventh, fighting only on the one side.
He frowned and squinted at the legions in combat. He knew what he’d be doing if he was in command of the Twelfth or the Eleventh. Surely they must have figured it out. Caesar and Crispus between them could outthink Minerva. They had to close up and form a solid ‘L’ with no gap. Then he had a plan.
Squinting, he watched carefully. Behind him, someone cleared his throat.
“Shh!” he said irritably.
Labienus frowned. He couldn’t quite make it out in that complex press of human bodies. He suddenly became aware of the comforting figure of Priscus beside him.
“You got good eyes, Priscus?”
The primus pilus of the Tenth shrugged.
“Good enough, sir. Why?”
“Can you see any movement over there?”
Priscus frowned.
Moments passed tensely by.
“The Twelfth are moving down toward the Eleventh. Not sure how they’re managing in that position, but I swear they’re moving!”