Balventius glanced out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh yes, the wager money from you and that Gaul. I made a packet myself. Well thanks. Soon as I’m suited up I’m off to the front again. You coming sir?”
Fronto shrugged and winced. It had been months since he’d suffered his wounds to the Gaul in the ring, and they still ached most of the time and hurt like hell some of the time. He couldn’t imagine what Balventius was made of to want to go back in like that.
“I guess so. I hate missing a good fight. You sure you want to go?”
Balventius nodded.
“Gotta show ‘em you’re indestructible when you’re a primus pilus. Otherwise the moment you scratch yourself, all the other centurions start jostling into position for your job!”
Fronto laughed.
“Priscus once said something very similar to me.”
He helped the older man into the scale shirt and began to tighten all the fastenings. The capsarius, unwilling to leave until the primus pilus was definitely no longer his concern, stood close by, frowning and muttering to himself. Balventius looked round at the man and tossed him something. The capsarius looked down in horror at the lump of meat and gristle in his hand. Balventius grinned.
“See if you can put him back together!”
Fronto coughed.
“What is that?”
“It’s a windpipe. Looks funny when it’s not tucked away inside, doesn’t it.”
Fronto swallowed. Balbus had told him that Balventius was a madman on the battlefield and he could quite believe it. A thought crossed his mind.
“You ever given any thought to what to do when you finish your next term?”
Balventius shrugged.
“Frankly I’m always surprised when I finish a campaign year. Never really occurs to me to think beyond that.”
Fronto fastened the last strap.
“Balbus thinks you’d make a good camp prefect.”
“Hah!”
The legate arched his eyebrow.
“What?”
“Camp prefects get to shout a lot and do too much paperwork. They get fat and slobby, coz they never leave the camp. They get rusty and weak coz they never get into a fight. I couldn’t cope with being stuck that far from a fight.”
Fronto sighed.
“You’re probably right. Better that than killed though.”
“C’mon sir. Let’s get into the fight.
The legate and the primus pilus strode across the field and reached the third line just as they were forming for movement. He found Pomponius shouting orders.
“Centurion? What’s going on?”
Pomponius looked around at Fronto.
“Sir. Caesar’s ordered the reserves to support Crassus’ cavalry. We’re heading for the left wing now.”
Fronto rolled his eyes.
“That retarded chinless wonder’s going to get a lot of people killed today.” He glanced at Balventius. “Want to head with the reserves?”
The primus pilus shook his head.
“Front or nothing, sir.”
The two of them made their way past the forming units and approached the rear lines of the Tenth and Eighth. The fighting had become thick enough that they could see from the slight rise that the Roman front line was now a melee, Romans and Germans locked in small pockets, fighting like hungry wolves. The second line was still properly formed and held firm, striking out at the Germans when they actually reached the shields.
The battle was still heavy and dangerous, but to Fronto’s practiced eye he could see the way it was going. The Germans had broken early on the right and Caesar’s cavalry were split between harrying them from the field and pestering the German flank. On the other wing, Varus and Crassus were managing to hold against heavy odds, but the reserves should even out that problem. In the centre the Germans couldn’t break because of the circled wagons and womenfolk. Otherwise they’d be ready to flee any time now. The legions had pushed the German infantry back almost to Ariovistus’ camp and the enemy were now hemmed in by their own defences. Fronto looked sideways at Balventius.
“You can head to the front and push, but I’m going to have to take some of the Tenth.”
“What for sir?”
“We’ve got to break their barricade at the rear, or they’ll fight to the very last man. They can’t run!”
Balventius nodded and shouted over to a centurion on the rear line of the Eighth.
“You! Take your men back from here and join with the legate here. You got a special mission, lads!”
The centurion saluted and his unit performed a quick about-face. Fronto nodded at Balventius.
“Thanks. That’ll stop me thinning out the Tenth too much. Good luck. Don’t get killed.”
“I’ll try not to. You too, sir!”
Fronto turned to look along the rear line of the Tenth and, spotting Tetricus with two centurions, called over to him. The tribune looked around at the sound of his name.
“Sir?”
“Bring those two centuries out of the line and up here.”
By the time Tetricus and the hundred and fifty men of the Tenth made it to Fronto’s position, the century from the Eighth had joined them. Fronto glanced at the men, over two hundred of them and then over their heads to the front. He opened his mouth to speak, but his attention was momentarily distracted as he watched Balventius, having shouted and pushed his way through the lines of the Eighth, wade into the Germans, stabbing and slashing like a maniac. It was too far to see details, but Fronto could imagine the sounds of stitches popping and could almost picture the blood blossoming on the back of the man’s shirt. He shook his head sadly and uttered a quick prayer to Nemesis under his breath.
“Right. This fight’s going to go on for hours unless we do something, and far too many of our men will get killed for no good reason. We need to break that defensive circle of carts around their rear and flanks.”
He glanced at Tetricus.
“What’s your opinion of the situation?”
“They’ve dug their own grave with those carts. They’re almost built into a solid wall. Only a fraction of their army’s going to get out alive. The rest are going to die in the centre. Those women on the top of the carts are goners. As soon as the centre panics, they’ll be overwhelmed by fleeing infantry and probably trampled. They’re fighting like caged dogs in the centre and our infantry are paying heavily. We’ve got to help the Germans in order to help our own.”
“You’re the siege man. Any ideas?”
Tetricus pursed his lips and tapped them with his forefinger, scanning the battlefield as he did so.
“First thing we’ll have to do is get the womenfolk off the carts. Capture them, I mean, not kill them.”
Nods all round confirmed his sentiment.
“That’s got to happen first. Then we need to start dragging those carts out of the way and give them a path off the field. We’ll have to be quick though; there’s only a couple of hundred of us and we’ll be in the way of the entire German army when they run. We’ll have to be quick.”
Fronto nodded emphatically. He couldn’t agree more.
Chapter 22
(On the battlefield in front of the German camp)
“ Testudo: Lit- Tortoise. Military formation in which a century of men closes up in a rectangle and creates four walls and a roof for the unit with their shields.”
“ Plebeian: The general mass and populace of Roman citizens.”
Fronto lined up his men. On the way round the field, he had collected two more centuries from the Eleventh, and his force now numbered almost four hundred. He held them at a safe distance on the wing where Caesar had first broken the cavalry. Caesar himself and a number of his men were more than a mile away now, pursuing and harassing the fleeing German cavalry. Ingenuus, on the other hand, had taken the rest of this wing and was picking off the few German warriors that stood on the outside of the crescent of carts. Some had been assigned by Ariovistus to protect the women. Many others had fled the centre of the field and crawled under the carts. Even as Fronto watched, more and more warriors were appearing from beneath the vehicles on their panicked passage out of combat, only to come face to face with Ingenuus’ cavalry.