“The relief’s here, lads. Don’t want to give the new boys too much of a challenge. Let’s kill as many more as we can before they get here!”
A roar went up around him and the Twelfth fought on with renewed vigour.
He watched, grumbling beneath his breath for a minute and then gently pushed the soldier away from him.
“Buggered if I’m going to be sitting back and playing with myself when the relief arrive.”
The soldier started to argue, but Baculus adjusted the shield on his useless arm, wincing at the pain in his leg when he crouched, and swapped the great Celtic blade he currently held for a familiar gladius. Hefting the latter, he stood with some difficulty, and half-limped, half hopped through the men toward the front line once more. Respectfully, though with his face displaying a mix of doubt and disapproval, an optio he vaguely recognised shuffled to the side as best he could in the press to make room.
Baculus immediately swung his torso so that the shield on his broken arm blocked a blow, and stabbed back at the man, almost toppling in among the barbarians as his leg buckled momentarily. Two men along the line legate Galba, previously obscured by the action, leaned across.
“What the hell are you doing back in the fight?”
The legate’s attention was suddenly drawn away once more and he found himself fighting hard for his life as the primus pilus growled.
“My job, sir.”
“You’ve been wounded a dozen times. Back off, centurion!”
“I’ll back off when I reach two dozen, sir.”
Glancing across the enemy, Baculus could see the standards of the Thirteenth now, bobbing around behind the Nervii and cutting their way in. His view was suddenly blocked by an enormous warrior, naked and painted with blue whorls, his great sword raised over his head for a downward blow. Baculus raised the shield as best he could, trying not to notice the way the arm strapped to it flopped from side to side, to ward off the inevitable blow, while stabbing at the man’s exposed chest. As he felt the blade slide in to the enemy’s torso, puncturing organs as it went, he noticed too late the spear point thrusting around the side of the man. In trouble from two directions, all he could do was try to duck to the side. The spear point ripped through the chain mail of his shirt and entered his body just below the bottom rib at his side.
He had no time to react to the sudden sharp pain, as the great heavy sword of the mortally-wounded warrior came crashing down on top of his shield with enough force to drive a man several inches into the turf. The shield cracked and broke under the strike, the bronze boss turning the blade aside and preventing what would otherwise have been clearly a killing blow. Unfortunately, the simultaneous timing of the attacks caused the centurion’s leg to collapse once again under the weight and, as he fell to the ground, the spear ripped open the side of his abdomen in a spray of viscera and links of chain.
“Bast… bastard” he shouted, struggling to find his feet, but there was no longer enough strength in him to drag him upright. He felt arms beneath his shoulders and reluctantly allowed himself to be drawn back away from the action as another man stepped in to take his place.
He sat for a long moment on the turf, staring around him at the legs of the Twelfth legion, constantly moving and straining in the press of battle. He was clearly out of the action now. In fact, he couldn’t actually move his legs enough to change position, let alone stand.
Well, they would still either die as heroes or live as victors, but either way they’d have to do it without him for now.
He smiled as he started to count off on the fingers of his good hand the number of barbarians he’d killed. He’d passed twenty when he found he’d noted one of them twice; the one with the axe. Well it was not a personal best, but he doubted many here would match the number. His grim smile widened. The primus pilus was a man who believed he should be better than any other man in the legion; else that man might deserve his job.
And, he thought more soberly, two leg wounds, two to the abdomen, one to the head and three to the arms. The legate was wrong; eight, not twelve, unless you counted minor scratches. He was definitely beginning to feel light-headed; must be the blood loss. Grunting, he tore a long strip from his tunic and packed the wound in his side as best he could.
For a long moment, he wondered if there was a capsarius still alive among his men and then, blessedly, he blacked out.
* * * * *
Damiacus of the Aduatuci reined in his horse and held up a hand, lowering it so the palm was flat to the ground and then sweeping it to the side. Behind him, a dozen of his best warriors drew their horses slowly and quietly to a stop and walked them alongside. The chieftain nodded, his face a mix of thoughtfulness and irritation. He had warned the damned Nervii time and again against rushing in too early; he had warned them against trying to protect too much land and had suggested a line of low cliffs that lay between the rivers Meuse and Schelde as the perfect land to lay traps and deal with the Romans. So what if they had to abandon some of their lands to the southern pigs. Once they’d skinned the Romans and sent the fleshless remains back to their mothers, the Belgae could retake their lands.
He snarled.
Instead, here he was, sitting atop a hill with a magnificent view over several miles, including a spectacular panorama of the debacle that Boduognatus and his Nervii had brought upon themselves. They had taken a chance and had failed. Had they listened to Damiacus, the Aduatuci would have been with them further east, but no. They were too impatient and had paid the price. The day belonged to Rome.
Now he would have to spit on the corpses of his ‘countrymen’ and call his cousins and their tribes across the Rhine to come and gut these catamites from the south.
He gestured to his men and the warriors turned and rode toward the advancing host of Aduatuci to order them back east. As they wheeled, they failed to notice the Roman scouts on a hill nearby, gesturing desperately at each other before they turned and rode back to their masters with the news.
* * * * *
Baculus came to suddenly in a commotion. He reeled and his head spun as he tried to remember where he was. Ah yes; the world came flooding back. He realised someone was helping him upright.
“What’s going on?”
The legionary beside him grinned.
“It’s over, sir. The Fourteenth have broken through and joined up with us. The Thirteenth and the Tenth are busy dealing with the remnant of the Nervii, but the commander of the Fourteenth has been asking for someone in charge, sir, and I can’t find legate Galba.”
Baculus nodded woozily and strained as he reached a standing position.
The soldier helped him limp slowly and painfully through the gradually dispersing ranks of the Twelfth who were now free from the press of the enemy and recovering their strength.
Ahead, he spotted a shiny breastplate and a crimson plume. He almost laughed at the parade-ready cleanliness of the commander, particularly given the fact that he himself was covered almost head to foot with dirt and blood and had lost his helmet some time ago.
“Report, centurion.”
“Sir?” Baculus was genuinely taken aback. Who was this idiot? The commander, obviously a legate, removed the plumed helmet and placed it under his arm. He had big ears, Baculus noted, trying not to laugh.
“I want to see the commander of the Twelfth. Would that be you?”
There was no stopping it this time. Baculus laughed momentarily.
“Possibly, sir. Legate Galba was here somewhere, deep in the fighting, but he could be dead by now.”
“Are you not going to salute?”
Baculus stared at the man.