Labienus nodded.
“I thought so. And I think the Eleventh are doing the same.”
“I believe you’re right, sir.”
He cleared his throat again and spoke in a low whisper.
“Sir, the men are waiting for orders…”
Labienus nodded. As he turned, there was a satisfied smile on his face.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, gentlemen…” he said to his men.
* * * * *
Rufus stood at the very crest of the hill, where he could see every inch of the battlefield. The Twelfth were still in trouble, but Labienus and the Tenth were closing to help and, best sight of all, a great number of men had appeared in the distance, moving alongside the wagon train on both sides, not at a march, but at a run. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth would take the field any minute. Good, because the rest of the fight would certainly have to go on without the Ninth.
He turned once again to look down on the scene.
The Atrebates had pushed aside the defences they’d created on the hill and returned to their camp, but Rufus’ men were ahead of the game. His primus pilus, a veteran named Grattius and whom, he’d been informed, had effectively controlled the legion before Rufus’ appointment, had, the moment they reached the crest, split his men with a simple shout of “Bull horns!”
Immediately, the cohorts had split into three groups. As four cohorts formed into a traditional attacking line, two groups of three cohorts picked up to double pace and arced out to the sides in a long column, where they began to encircle the retreating enemy who were dithering in their own camp, unsure of what direction to flee, given that their world was now collapsing around them.
Rufus gave his primus pilus an appreciative nod of salute and stood back to watch the scene unfold like a carefully organised parade. Within a few minutes, the enemy camp was surrounded by three lines of legionaries who, as soon as they were in position, formed a solid shield wall. Rufus smiled at the sheer speed that his legion had completely enclosed the fleeing Atrebates. Grattius was worth his pay several times over.
As the enemy warriors milled around uncertainly, the four cohorts in standard battle order marched forward to the edge of the slope where they towered over the enemy. The primus pilus turned to his commander.
“Sir? The command is yours to give.”
Rufus stepped forward to the front of the battle-ready cohorts.
“Some of you will speak Latin” he bellowed. “At least enough to understand this…”
He took a deep breath and deepened his voice as much as he could, like an orator addressing an open air assembly or an actor in one of the greater theatres.
“This battle, your resistance and your war are over. Ended.”
He waited for this to sink in; several seconds longer, in fact, hoping that those who understood him would pass the word.
“You have only two choices: surrender…”
He tried to make his voice as flatly menacing as possible.
“Or extermination.”
There was a great deal of sudden discussion below.
“Surrender now and you will live. Many of you could go free.”
He waited, tense, for some sort of spokesman to step forth among the Atrebates. Moments passed quietly, the only sounds the desperate yet quiet conversation of the enemy and the occasional clanking or grating of the arms and armour of the Ninth Legion.
And then suddenly, someone at the far side of the mass screamed something in the guttural language of the Belgae, and the entire mass charged, bellowing, at the enclosing circuit of shields.
Rufus shook his head sadly. Prisoners fetched good money in the slave markets of Rome. Corpses were only of use to the crows. He turned to Grattius.
“They’ve made their choice. Wipe them out!”
* * * * *
Labienus shouted orders as the Tenth marched against the enemy. They’d crossed the first part of the open ground at a steady pace but, as soon as he’d judged the advancing edges of the Eleventh and Twelfth legions to be a hundred yards from each other, heaving and squeezing the Nervii out of the intervening space, he’d picked up to double time. If he wanted this to work properly, it had to be carefully timed.
They had now passed the rear ranks of the Eighth, to the cheers of Balbus’ men, and were closing on the enemy. As they reached a distance of three hundred paces, he yelled his penultimate command.
At his cry the centurions and cornicens relayed the orders and the Tenth Legion suddenly expanded from a column into a line, which lengthened and continued to do so as they closed. Labienus’ timing was impeccable. With an audible crash, the Eleventh and Twelfth legions met and turned their numbers outwards to the enemy in a joint front, while the Tenth, forming another junction with the Eleventh, turned the ‘L’ of legions into a ‘U’. Suddenly, one side of the massed Nervii that had been slowly obliterating the beleaguered Twelfth were now themselves trapped between three groups of Romans.
Labienus grinned to himself; Fronto couldn’t have done any better. The Tenth began to roll like a tide over the ranks of the Nervii who, he had to admit, bore the sudden change in their fortunes bravely. Many people would have run or downed their arms, but ten thousand Nervii trapped between three legions with no hope now of victory merely snarled and fought with renewed vigour.
He found himself for a moment actually impressed with these men. Fronto was right; if the future of Gaul was as a province of Rome, these men would one day make legions that could storm the very gates of Hades. The idea made him frightened and hopeful in almost equal measures.
* * * * *
The primus pilus of the Thirteenth Legion took in the view of the battlefield with a practiced eye. From his position at the head of the reserves and the top of the southern slope, he could just see activity on the far side of the river but, judging by the organised lines of men, their commanders had the situation well under control.
This side of the river, however, was chaos. Two legions, the Eighth and Eleventh by the looks of it, were engaged in heavy combat down by the river and the Tenth were attacking the enemy on one side, the other remaining open. Must be the Ninth and Twelfth on the opposite hill then. Things weren’t going half as badly as the scouts had made out…
Then he noted the standards in the deep press of the enemy. Somewhere in the middle of that huge mass of barbarians, a standard of the Twelfth raised and dipped.
Alright then; perhaps there was a problem after all. He waved his cornicen over.
“Give the orders. We’re moving at a charge down the eastern side of the slope. The Tenth have the enemy hemmed in to the west, and the Eleventh from the north, so if we take the east and the Fourteenth come straight from the south at them then we can squeeze them to death between four legions. Best also have someone pass the plan back to the primus pilus of the Fourteenth.”
The cornicen saluted and gave the orders to one of the men who ran back along the line to update the other reserve legion on the situation. As the man disappeared, the musician began to blow the various command calls and Pullo took a deep breath.
“Charge!”
In the worst part of the field, Baculus stood in the thick press of men, a legionary holding him upright. The numbers of the Twelfth were still dropping. The tables had turned and the Nervii were now in trouble, but even the threat of imminent defeat didn’t seem to be dampening their bloodlust. Trapped between legions, they just seemed to be fighting all the harder. At least now there were men from the Eleventh filtering in among them and bolstering the Roman numbers.
The soldier supporting his weight pointed out across the mass.
“Look, sir.”
Baculus squinted for a moment and then nodded contentedly. The Thirteenth had arrived and, after a moment at the crest, presumably weighing up the situation, they were coming down toward the point where the enemy were thickest.