‘Fightin’ your own, sir?’
‘My own?’ Atenos looked out across the sea of violent Gallic ire before him.
‘These aren’t my people, Optio.’
‘But they are Gauls, sir.’
‘I’m a Roman, lad. Note the uniform. And before that I was Leuci. This lot in front of us are Pictones I’d say, from the tattoos.’ He paused in the conversation to scythe the jaw from a warrior with swirling blue-grey patterns on his bare chest, while the optio fought off a young warrior in a green tunic. ‘I’m about as related to these bastards as you are to a Sicilian olive farmer.’
The optio slashed out at another man and carved a slice from a lunging arm, his screaming victim disappearing back into the press. The lad was apparently good with a sword, Atenos noted. Perhaps that was why he’d subconsciously selected him?
‘Didn’t mean to offend sir, sorry.’
‘No offence, lad. Just remember: whether I came from Gaul or Rome or your sister’s arse, what I am above all else is a centurion!’
He returned a strike from a hopeful Gaul and used his shield to push the man back down, then turned back to talk to the optio, but the young man was gone, shaking and moaning on the floor, his face almost entirely missing. Atenos sighed with regret as he realised that this section of rampart was almost untenable now. The fighting was about to move back into the camp here too. Even with the new cohorts Caesar and Fronto had brought, Mons Rea was about to fall. The Roman cavalry that had arrived with the officers had helped prevent the enemy from penetrating deep into the camp, but soon they too would be swamped, difficult as it was for horse to manoeuvre in such confines.
‘Sir!’ called a voice from three men down the struggle, and Atenos focussed on the beleaguered legionary, busy slamming his shield rim into the face of a Gaul.
‘Yes, optio?’
The legionary stared for a moment at the sudden promotion, and then broke into a grin.
‘Look, sir!’
Atenos followed the soldier’s gesture and his gaze fell on the sea of Gauls before them, roiling like the great Atlantic Ocean in a winter storm, waves crashing against the ramparts and soaking the defenders in warm, metallic spray. Then his eyes crept across the seething mass and up to the peak of Mons Rea beyond. And to what had crested the hill to the northeast.
A broad grin broke out across Atenos’ face.
‘Fight on, lads. It’s almost over.’
* * * * *
Varus felt the oddest mix of exultation and fear.
The moment he and the reserve cavalry had crested the northern heights of Mons Rea it was instantly apparent that they were in time. Just in time, but in time, nonetheless. The enemy force swarmed across the northern ramparts of the camp and against the circumvallation ramparts to either side, but they had been held back there and had not flooded into the centre of the Roman system.
The huge wing of horse had moved at a slow, quiet pace south from their original position to the foot of the Gods’ Gate mountain and then disappeared east, staying close to the Osana River and moving in groups to prevent them being seen as a strong force mounting the hillside. As soon as he’d judged that they were far from the sight of the enemy on the plains, he’d gathered them all together again, racing as fast as they could realistically hold together as a formation, and then rounding the eastern promontory of Alesia. Then, far from the action, they had climbed to Labienus’ camp atop the ‘Warm Hill’ as it was known. There a single century held the camp, looking bored so far from the fighting, and they had exhibited a great deal of surprise to find thousands of cavalry passing through the camp and out onto the hillside beyond.
Their speedy ride had taken them west, then, from the Warm Hill camp, down across a valley, where the fort of the Ninth and Fourteenth also languished under a skeleton guard, watching the huge cavalry contingent pass with interest, and then up to the rear of Mons Rea, an echo of the manoeuvre in which the Gauls had launched their own assault half a day earlier.
It had been blinding as the horsemen had risen up the slope and finally crested it into the golden orb of the dying sun which dazzled them as they rode towards it and then down to the beleaguered Roman camp.
Exultation, because they were in time.
Fear. Not because of the sea of Gauls that awaited them. After all, Varus had fought such armies many times now, and the Gauls held no fear for him, even this apparent new-breed who liked tricks and traps and Roman-style tactics. Especially since their horse were all down on the plains threatening the circumvallation there, and all his cavalry faced here were infantry, who were already tired and hard-pressed.
No. The fear he felt was an entirely different beast.
In numerous engagements now, as Caesar had pointed out, the thousand-strong German cavalry had turned the tide and saved the day. They had been trained by Varus’ best and wore Roman equipment — the best available. And yes, they were the more brutal of the peoples from beyond the Rhenus, but still what made them so effective? Varus had decided the time had come to find out, and so he had devolved overall command of the cavalry force to young Volcatius Tullus, commander of the Third Wing, while he had taken position with the Germans.
They had looked not unlike the usual auxiliary cavalry — the native levies often drawn from Belgic tribes who were not all that far removed from their Germanic neighbours. Apart from the slightly better equipment and often having a good half-foot of height on the rest of the force, and a good three hands extra on their horses, they appeared surprisingly similar. And yet they were in truth an entirely different matter.
Their senior officer — apparently a chieftain in their own lands — went by the name of Sigeric, and his grasp of Latin was limited to little more than commands and a few basic verbs and nouns. Yet the monstrous commander with a crease across the centre of his face, reputedly from an axe blow that had failed to penetrate his fabulously thick skull, welcomed Varus into his force with a laugh that rumbled like the collapse of quarries. The unit all bore familiar Roman cavalry helms, many with the featureless, dread-inspiring steel face-plates, but not Sigeric. He wore no helm nor mask, for his head, he said, was thicker than any helm, and his countenance more fearsome than any mask. Varus found the sentiment hard to deny. The man’s hair was beginning to turn grey, confirming his advancing age, but curiously, the left side of his head had remained a copper-blond, while the right had almost entirely silvered. He cut an odd and slightly horrifying figure even without his sword, which had been forged by his own blacksmith and was more than a foot longer than any similar blade Varus had seen. The man also wore a necklace of pierced teeth around his neck which did little to add culture and comfort to his appearance.
As they had crested the hill, the man had pulled something from his belt with his left hand. Shieldless and with his sword in his right, the big German steered his beast purely with his knees. Varus had frowned at the odd thing the German chief brought forth. It looked like a long knife, but with twin parallel blades, each bent at the end into a razor-edged hook.
And then, before he could query the man, Sigeric had roared some Germanic, guttural noise and his horsemen had kicked their steeds into a charge before even Volcatius Tullus had the chance to have his signaller blow the call. Varus found himself almost lost amid the big men on their bigger horses, feeling curiously short and odd as he raced into battle.
The effect of their surprise attack was both instant and horrific.
The panic that swept through the Gallic reserve army was palpable and, Varus noted, seemed to be almost entirely aimed at the German cavalry, rather than the much more numerous auxilia and regulars under Volcatius Tullus.