Bastard!
Now, more Gauls were pushing through the undergrowth, and the rest of the men were with them, lunging and stabbing into the green, shields to the fore. It was by far the best position to fight from, the enemy hampered by the tangles, while the Roman party fought mostly in the open, dealing with them as they appeared and preventing them from coming in force.
Again, Fronto had to bring his sword round and knock aside a strike from the bushes. Turning his parry into a swing, he brought the blade down through the wrist of the attacker, lopping off the hand, which fell to the earth still clutching its sword. The gladius was designed for thrusting, but a sensible soldier always kept the edges razor-sharp to allow for every eventuality.
A sudden cry from beyond the bushes announced that Masgava and his men had fallen upon the rear of the Gauls. What had been a mad push into the greenery to get to Fronto and his men suddenly became a desperate, panicked fight for survival. The men coming through thinned out as they turned and tried to deal with the new threat and Fronto, grinning, launched himself forward, crawling across the Gauls’ bodies as he pushed on towards the enemy survivors.
A quick mental count led him to the conclusion that there couldn’t be more than half a dozen of them left.
‘Masgava! Prisoners!’
Pushing himself from the bushes out onto the main road once more, Fronto took in the scene as he righted himself and brought up his sword.
Eight enemy warriors remained, two busy to either side of him, trying to halt the advance of the Romans who were now pushing through the greenery after Fronto. The other six were engaged with Masgava and his men. A legionary — Pontius, he believed — was lying on the ground with a spear protruding from his chest, wavering in the air as he shuddered, and Magurix the Gaul was still fighting, but clutched his chest with his shield hand, where a jagged rent had been torn through his mail shirt and blood had begun to stain the broken links.
The Belgae clearly had no intention of halting the fight, and despite Masgava’s best efforts to bellow an order for surrender over the din, they continued to fight like men possessed, even to the last.
With a sigh, almost casually, Fronto stepped up behind the man struggling with Masgava and brought the pommel of his sword down on the man’s head with a ‘crack’ driving the wits from him as he sank to the ground unconscious.
Giving the man a quick kick, partly to be certain of his condition, but partly through sheer irritation, Fronto turned and drove the point of his gladius between the shoulder blades of the man fighting Magurix. Now, others were at his side again, and the last of the Gauls were being hewn down like saplings.
‘Get this pissflap tied to a tree. I want to know who they are.’
The last enemy collapsing, clutching his torn gut, his men began the grisly task of going among the fallen and driving their blades into necks to be sure of the kill, then piling the bodies to the side of the road. Masgava and Iuvenalis dragged the unconscious Gaul back to the clearing and tied him up. Other soldiers appeared, dragging the form of Myron the archer from the bushes, a huge crimson bloom on his mail where the death blow had been dealt. Pontius and Numisius also seemed to be down, though the latter was still grumbling about being badly manhandled. Pontius, however, was clearly moments from the boatman’s journey.
‘Any more wounded?’
A few men shouted out, but a quick count suggested that the archer and the legionary were the only two complete losses. A few scratches and scrapes and bruises, along with Magurix, who was swearing and trying to tie his bloodied mail shirt together with leather thongs, and Numisius who seemed to have lost the use of his left arm, broken when his shield had given to a blow.
Two gone and two injured. More casualties, but not at all too bad a showing against a larger force. And all the enemy dead, barring one prisoner.
‘Luxinio, try and keep your damned horse quiet in future!’
The Hispanic slinger’s face was thunderous as he turned to Fronto. ‘Not my fault, sir,’ he snapped in his thick accent. ‘Some pisser kicked my horse and set him off. There’s bloodied stud-marks in his leg from a boot!’
Fronto frowned. ‘Did you see who it was?’
‘No sir. Too busy keeping the poor sod from bolting.’
Fronto’s glare passed around the clearing, falling on every man as it passed. It had to have been accidental. Who would kick a horse in that situation… unless someone here wanted them to be caught? The very idea set his teeth on edge. He would have to be very observant in the coming days and keep his guard up at all times. Palmatus and Masgava would need to be told. Other than them, only Biorix and Damionis made it to his ‘trustworthy’ list. He would have to make sure that one of them was on watch at all times. Irritating, given that all four had specific duties that could not be replaced: command, engineering and medical, and they should be excused things like watch duty.
Damnit!
A commotion drew his attention and he turned angrily to see Damionis yelling up at Magurix, his neck craned, the latter a good foot and a half taller and still trying to tie up his mail.
‘What is the problem?’ the commander snapped angrily.
‘This man will not let me look at his wound,’ the capsarius grumbled, fishing in his leather satchel.
‘I have had worse wounds shaving,’ Magurix snapped as he tied a thong off.
‘You’re bleeding profusely, man. Get somewhere soft and quiet, get that mail off and let the capsarius tend your wound.’ He pointed at the medic. ‘Anyone more urgent?’
‘No,’ Damionis shook his head. ‘Lots of minor abrasions, two men beyond my help, and a broken arm that needs splinting, but who’s not bleeding and in no immediate danger.’
‘Right. Get Magurix seen to, then deal with the arm.’
‘That was my plan, sir.’
Fronto turned his attention to the enemy warrior tied to the tree, slumped unconscious.
‘Wake him up.’
Striding across the clearing and uncorking his canteen, Palmatus threw a splash of water into the Gaul’s face and, when he failed to respond, stepped forward and gave him several slaps in the face. Gradually, the native came to, groaning.
‘What tribe are you?’
The Gaul stared at Fronto, groggily, and then spat blood and saliva at him.
‘Oh good. Someone to take my bad mood out on! Tend the wounded, bury the dead and set pickets. We camp here tonight.’
* * * * *
The flames danced and crackled in the small fire as Palmatus took a swig from his wineskin, watered three parts water to one wine, and then passed it to Fronto.
‘The Segni? So we can now assume that they are part of Ambiorix’s ‘great uprising’?’
‘Safe to say. But they’re a small tribe, and we’re almost out of their lands now, so I’m not going to lend too much thought to this. I put it down to an unfortunate chance meeting. Samognatos is still insistent that the Segni are loyal, and if he’s right, they might be split the way the druids seem to be. However it pans out, we’re moving away into Eburone territory anyway. Hopefully without further incident.’
‘Hopefully. We’ve lost three now. Three out of twenty. First Galatos back in Divonanto and now Pontius and Myron. Both from my bloody contubernium too, they are. As is Numisius with his broken arm.’
Masgava’s brilliant white teeth glittered in a smile in the dark. ‘I lost Galatos. And Magurix has a flesh wound.’
‘Which he barely notices,’ Palmatus snorted. ‘That lunk is almost entirely muscle. Probably most of his head is too.’
Fronto smacked his hand on one of the flat stones upon which they’d prepared their dinner. ‘Can you two save this kind of pointless one-upmanship for another time? We’re three men down and two wounded and we’re not even officially in enemy territory yet. And you might argue about how many are down in each of your contubernia, but I’m missing all of them!’