With a face like thunder, Varus kicked his heels and turned to ride to his men.
“Yes, sir!”
Crassus stared off into the mass of Germans half a mile away. They hadn’t the heart or the stomach for a proper fight.
“Germans! I’d take one Roman over a thousand of them.”
Towards the centre of the line, Priscus looked over his shoulder at the Tenth, behind him. They looked eager; angry even. He turned back and muttered to Sabinus, assigned as lieutenant for the Tenth and standing beside him.
“We’re not going to have much room to manoeuvre, sir. Half a mile. If we run and so do they, we’ll barely have time to draw swords!”
Sabinus nodded.
“Caesar wants two full javelin volleys before we meet them. You don’t think we’ll have time?”
Priscus snorted.
“Unless something miraculous happens, we’ll not get a chance to let off one volley or, if we do, it’ll have to be so early it’ll be a pointless gesture.”
Sabinus raised an eyebrow.
“Fronto lauds your abilities as a commander to everyone. I’ve seen my fair share, but mostly from a nearby hill and directing grand plans. You’re the one with the experience, Priscus. Do what you think’s best.”
Priscus nodded and turned to face the Tenth.
“Disarm your javelins. Pass them to the back of the legion and stack them for later. Draw swords.”
He turned to Sabinus.
“Do you know anything about their tactics, sir?”
The staff officer smiled and shrugged.
“I would expect more of what we’ve seen before: cavalry with individual infantry support, but what we’ll meet in the middle is a different matter. They have a similar tribal and military style as the Gauls, and they’ve been fighting with and against them for many years. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see phalanx, shield wall or even squares.”
Priscus nodded.
“Some kind of shield-based defensive formation, then, eh?”
“Something like that.”
Priscus turned once more and shouted across the front line, in the centre of which stood the First Cohort.
“Remember the Helvetii lads?”
There was an affirmative murmur.
“You remember how they broke our square? How they got in amongst us?”
Again, an affirmative murmur. The First Cohort would clearly remember that moment, trapped among the Helvetii, trying to maintain their formation while the rest of the Tenth arrived. Next to Priscus, a signifer gripped his slightly dented standard very tight.
“If the Germans are in a line when we get there, we’re going to do that to them! As soon as I give the word.”
A low approval hummed across the crowd.
Sabinus stamped his foot impatiently.
“Why aren’t we moving?”
Priscus grinned.
“Dunno sir, but I’d make the most of it if I were you.
Titus Balventius growled.
“I can lead ‘em myself sir and you know it.”
Balbus sighed.
“No more argument Titus. I’m the commander of the legion and commanders should command from the front.”
“No sir. Centurions should lead from the front. Commanders should sit in shiny armour on a nice looking horse at the back, like a good gentleman.”
He rolled his one good eye toward Balbus.
“If you get yourself killed it’ll only make my lads worry.”
“I’m touched by your sentiment. I am, however, staying right here. Even Caesar’s leading from the front.”
Another growl. The primus pilus of the Eighth turned to face his men.
“See them? They’re Germans and they fight nasty. The only way to deal with them is to fight nastier. If I see any of you showing any kind of mercy or pity, I’ll tear your arms off myself. I want to see you stab, slash, gouge, shield barge and kick and punch. When you’re too close for that, I want to see you knee, head-butt and bite. Make the bastards afraid of the Eighth. Everybody else is.”
Once again, Balbus found himself looking sideways at his primus pilus. Balventius would get his honesta missio shortly, but he’d probably turn it down. The grizzled centurion would likely stay in his current position until an enemy blow finished him. He was the kind of man that would make a good camp prefect when the time came. The legate made a mental note to have a word with Caesar.
Crispus smiled. To his left Felix, the primus pilus of the Eleventh, stared at him with a puzzled look. The young legate had taken on the hard look of an embittered veteran. Felix cringed. He’d seen that look on plenty of men just before they got themselves killed on a revenge attack. He would have to look after this one. Aulus Crispus was young enough to be Felix’s son and far too educated to talk to comfortably for any length of time, but he cared about his men and had a knack for last-minute strategy. He had the making of a fine commander. Felix wished he’d shave, though. The lad was too young to grow anything but wisps, and he seemed to be modelling himself on the rarely shaven Fronto.
To the other side of Crispus stood Quintus Pedius, a staff officer roughly the same age as Crispus, but already tanned dark and with a permanent five o’clock shadow. Pedius had served before as a tribune and travelled with his father on campaigns. Crispus felt oddly inferior when standing next to him.
“They don’t look at all bad for a fledgling legion, do they Pedius?”
The staff officer smiled.
“They look like Veterans, Aulus, and they soon will be. Remember, they’re nearing the end of a full season of campaigning now, and they’ve fought several battles. I don’t think you can really call them ‘fledgling’ anymore. And look at you. You look different to the young administrator who arrived fresh from Rome.”
Crispus shrugged.
“I’m that very same person, though I am starting to learn what it is to command men. I’m not entirely sure that I am the best choice. You were wanting a commission to command a legion, weren’t you. Maybe after this battle you can take on the Eleventh.”
Pedius grinned at him and then looked across him at Felix.
“Centurion, what would you say if Crispus here were to step down as commander of the Eleventh in favour of someone like myself?”
Felix grinned his lop-sided grin.
“Respectfully, I’d say stick it up yer arse sir. The lad’s ours now. ‘E took us as new and made us ‘eroes sir.”
He turned to look at Crispus.
“You’re me commander, lad. Don’t ye dare step down. That’s worse than getting’ yerself killed.”
Pedius grinned at the primus pilus.
“My thoughts exactly.”
He smiled at Crispus.
“You’re their commander until you or they die or until Caesar sees fit to replace you. Me? I’ll wait ‘til next year. There’ll be more legions raised next year, you mark my words, and I’ve got my sights set on one of them.”
Crispus frowned.
“Do you know, Pedius, I’ve actually given not a single iota of thought to the future ever since Bibracte. I’d not set my mind at all to next year.”
Pedius smiled again.
“For now, just get through today, eh?”
* * * * *
Across the lines, the signal to advance was given. The legions moved forward at their steady fast march, shields locked in front, bristling with the points of swords and javelins. On the wings the cavalry kept pace with the line.
The blaring of horns announced the attack of the Germans. Like two opposed waves, the armies moved across the grass, the Romans at a steady, unstoppable gait, the Germans in an unruly charge. Balbus shouted along the front of the Eighth.
“Ready javelins. Volley at two hundred yards.”
As the legionaries raised their javelins, Balventius shouted out louder.
“Drop javelins and draw swords!”
Balbus had barely time to wonder about his order being challenged as he saw the wave of Germans swarming toward them and realised there would have been no time for a volley. The enemy closed in a phalanx formation and at a ridiculous rate. Further along the line, the primus pilus of the Seventh gave orders to cast javelins. The missiles arced out over the German lines, finding their targets only moments before the shield walls of the two armies met with a crash.