Already sickened at the fact that he was on his hands and knees in his own vomit and the blood of several men, Rusca took a deep breath and threw himself flat on his front in the mess, swinging his sword arm out with all his strength as he did so.
The gladius was traditionally used for stabbing, its point vicious and its blade well made for repeated thrusts and withdrawals. The legions were trained to use them this way for efficiency and the high probability of mortal wounding with each blow, but it was not unknown, according to his father, for the blade to be used to slice, as in the horrible Macedonian conflicts a hundred years ago where tales of severed limbs had abounded.
The blow was powerful, driven by fear, desperation and a curious cold determination that had formed like ice from the tears of his panic. As the Gaul’s sword reached its apex, prepared for its deadly descent into the tribune’s back, Rusca’s gladius swept out and bit into his leg just above the ankle, the force carrying the blow deep enough to snap the bone.
The warrior gave a blood-curdling cry as his leg slipped sideways, separating from the foot above the ankle, the severed shin dropping to the turf.
The man collapsed, screaming in agony, his attack entirely forgotten.
Rusca blinked in frightened amazement as the man’s sword, relinquished in mid air, plunged point first into the earth less than a foot from the tribune’s grimy hand. Shuddering, he pushed himself back into a kneeling position and stared at his slick, crimson sword.
Suddenly an arm was beneath his shoulder, helping him to stand. His legs seemed to have regained some of their strength and he pushed himself upright without too much difficulty, turning to stare in confusion at the capsarius who had helped him. The man was saying something.
“What?”
“I said thanks for that, sir.”
The man laughed.
“Actually, what I really said, sir, was ‘bloody hell!’”
Rusca continued to stare at him blankly. The man shrugged.
“Never seen an officer fight like that, sir. Hell, I’ve rarely seen anyone fight like that!”
Rusca gave a croaky laugh.
“Better to be a living thug than a dead hero, eh?”
The capsarius nodded, grinning, as he stepped past the tribune and sank his blade into the writhing form of the one-footed Gaul, dispatching him with ease.
The tribune wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes and frowned into the fray.
“Can’t see what’s happening. Can you? I appear to have all manner of shit in my eyes.”
The capsarius laughed and squinted as he turned and took in the scene around him.
“I think we’re down to about half numbers, but a lot of those will be walking wounded; salvageable, if we can get out of here.”
Rusca raised an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t really seeking a medical opinion, man, more a tactical one.”
“’Course, sir. Think they’re thinning out. Looks like we’ve got the edge.”
The pair turned and stared as the scene up and down the valley became apparent. Ahead, the Sotiates were retreating, running as fast as they could down the valley, while Crassus and the First cohort reorganised to follow them. The enemy horse had fled already, and Galronus’ cavalry had turned and were harrying the fleeing Gauls. Further back along the line, among the other cohorts, the Gauls were already beginning to disengage.
“Why are they running?” Rusca wondered aloud.
“’Cause of the auxilia, sir. Look!”
The tribune raised his eyes and scanned the top of the valley side, where his companion was pointing. Units of auxiliary archers were pouring arrows down into the rear ranks of the enemy, while others, probably the spear men, were heaving at the loose rocks, setting them rolling down the steep incline and into the mass of Sotiates.
“Ha. Their ambush has been ambushed.”
The capsarius wore a look of concern as he turned back.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re very pale, sir. It’s hard to see beneath all the blood, but you’re white as a Vestal’s dress. Are you wounded?”
Rusca grinned.
“Far from it.”
He turned and scanned the men until he spotted the senior centurion.
“Looks like they’re breaking, centurion. Soon as they do, get formed up and follow, joining up with the First cohort.”
The centurion saluted and Rusca turned back to the capsarius.
“You and I, however, are going to wait until the enemy are cleared back and then head to the supply carts where I can get water for a wash, and some clean clothes.”
The capsarius grinned.
“Up to you sir, but if I were you I’d stay just like that. The very sight of you would loosen their bowels!”
The chief oppidum of the Sotiates had been a surprise to all. After an initial chase, it had become clear that, with its accompanying auxilia and baggage train, there was little hope of catching the fleeing Gauls before they reached their settlement and so Crassus had called an immediate halt to the fruitless chase and had changed tactics entirely.
Scouts sent ahead confirmed that over the next ten miles the land gradually lowered and flattened until it became a huge plain that extended all the way to the distant shore. The oppidum was constructed on only a very low hill, that being all that was available, and surrounded by low walls that, in quality and size, fell short of the impressive defences they had seen in other parts of Gaul.
Clearly the Sotiates had placed all their faith in the ambush in the valley, knowing that once the Roman forces reached the plain their defensive capabilities were drastically reduced.
Crassus had greeted the news from the scouts with a smile, reforming the Seventh legion and its auxilia and taking two days in the last of the forested hills before descending to the plain. While this delay would have given the Sotiates the time to recover from their heavy losses and panicked retreat, it would not be long enough for them to effect heavier defences or gather great reinforcements, yet would allow the Roman force the time to perform the onerous post-battle tasks: the tending of the wounded and the funerals of the dead and raising of a mound.
More importantly it had given the engineers of the legion plenty of time to strip areas of woodland and use the timber to construct a number of siege machines in preparation for the coming assault. From his position outside the army’s current command chain, Galronus had watched the engineers with interest. His duties with the cavalry had rarely allowed him time to observe the feats of the engineers in progress and the work was fascinating to watch. Clearly these men had worked together so many times that there was hardly any need for commands or directions, the soldiers going about their tasks with ordered precision, as though performing some sort of complicated dance.
By the time they had set off on the march again yesterday morning, the huge train of carts that followed the army had acquired mobile shelters that the engineers called vineae, two tall towers and a number of great screens that could protect troops.
The additional heavy engines had slowed the pace of the army a little and consequently the unnamed oppidum had only finally come into view this morning as the army continued along the line of the river down across the plains.
Tribune Tertullus had been lauded for their actions in the valley, with no mention being made of Galronus’ part. The lack of recognition had hardly bothered the Remi horseman, but the absence of the friendly tribune, as the man had been called to ride with the van once more, left a hole that had filled with tedium.
Even now, while the legions stood in shining ranks on the plain below the walls of the oppidum, awaiting the order to advance, the siege engines in place and ready to be launched forth, Galronus sat apart from the action, lounging on a flat, warm rock in the sunshine as he watched the glorious Roman parade before him.