“Where do you think I’ve been?” The young officer spat the words. “I’ve just returned from telling him about it! I’ve been riding all over this infernal country all morning, and this is the only damned open ground for miles around.”
“Do you suppose they know that, too?” Balbus pointed at the enemy horsemen on the far bank of the river. “Maybe had you asked them first, you’d have saved yourself the trouble.”
The officer reeled his horse’s head around. “I shall take care of them, my good general. Now, by the order of the proconsul, deploy your men and make camp!” He then glanced at the halted ranks of troops, and shot a poisonous look at Balbus. “The Greeks and Balearics shall come with me!”
“As you wish, young man.” Balbus smiled as he watched the cocky young officer ride away. He could never remember the arrogant upstart’s name, but it did not matter. He knew the young man’s father back in Rome, and he and Balbus had been at odds for as long as Balbus could remember. There was little to amuse a man on a long campaign, so Balbus took great pleasure in harassing the cavalry officer whenever he got the chance.
As Balbus’s staff got the Seventh moving again and directed the ranks to peel off the road and fall in to work and guard details, the cavalry officer directed the next unit in the column, an auxiliary cohort of Cretan archers and Balearic slingers, to follow him at the double step. The skirmisher troops often followed the van legion on the march, in the event that the army needed to beat a quick retreat under the protection of the auxiliaries’ long range missiles.
Balbus watched with some amusement as the officer led the auxiliary horse down to the river’s edge, just across from the gawking Belgae. This had no effect on the enemy horsemen who jeered and hurled obscene gestures at the Treveri, for riding under the Roman banner. Nearly one hundred paces of shallow water separated the two parties, but there was little either band could do to the other without crossing. However, once the Cretan bowmen reached the river's edge, they began loosing missiles at the Belgae. The distance was too great to cause much harm. Most of the arrows bounced harmlessly off of raised shields, but a few did manage to get through and things began to happen very quickly after that.
A Belgic horse took an arrow in the rump, causing the horse to kick and throw its rider into the water. Another arrow lodged in a man's neck, dropping him from the saddle, but it had only injured him, and he rose from the ground clutching his red-streaked collar.
The other Belgic horsemen, no more than a dozen, quickly spurred their mounts away, presumably to get out of range of the archers, but they kept on going up the slope of the hill until they were once again hidden by the trees.
The two Belgae left behind, their horses gone with the others, instantly realized their predicament, and began running desperately after their comrades. Seeing this, the young Roman officer ordered the Treveri spear cavalry to ride them down. The horsemen obeyed, dashing into the river in pursuit, whooping and yelling in a maelstrom of white spray. As they thundered onto the opposite bank, the terror on the faces of the two fleeing Belgae only spurred them on faster. The Roman officer emerged at the front of the charging horse, a spear held high above his head. The Belgic man with the arrow in his neck was the first to be skewered, but that merciful death only saved him from being trampled into a pulp by the hundred horses following closely on the leader's heels. The second Belgae was a much faster runner than the first, and had nearly made it to the tree line.
As Balbus watched, he thought for sure the young officer would break off the pursuit and let him go.
"Oh, you bloody fool," Balbus mumbled under his breath as he watched the blood-thirsty young man, his red-plumed helmet conspicuous among the Celtic troop, drive his men onward at the helpless man.
They caught up with the unfortunate Belgae only a few paces from the trees, first surrounding him and then driving a dozen spears into his body. Meanwhile, the Cretan and Balearic cohort also crossed the river with bows, quivers, and slings held high above their heads. They, too, were under the command of a Roman officer. Deprived of the immediate guidance of his glory-seeking superior, the officer of the skirmisher cohort had ordered his men to follow the cavalry in support. The Cretans and Balearics in their drenched tunics quickly formed up on the opposite bank and began marching in a long line abreast.
"You fool!" Balbus now shouted, though all of the distant troops were too far away to hear him. "Get them out of there!"
Incredibly, the Treveri had stopped at the edge of the tree line to cheer their victorious hunt, and their officer was doing nothing to curtail it. Instead, he appeared to be stretching forward on his mount, peering into the forest, as if looking for the remaining Belgic horsemen. It was like watching a slow-acted play that Balbus had seen before and knew how it would end – and the ending was not long in coming.
As Balbus watched, the forest suddenly began to eject hundreds upon hundreds of missiles of all kind. Four-foot-long javelins flew at the Treveri cavalry at an appalling rate, the deadly points finding the unprotected flesh of men and horses alike. One horse took a javelin in the breast and toppled over, throwing its rider into the ground head first. A dozen cavalrymen fell from clear fatal strikes, and many more roiled and wheeled in a confused frenzy. Balbus knew that, in addition to the javelins, they were probably being hit with arrows, darts, and stones that were too small for him to see at this distance. They were clearly facing numbers their officer had not anticipated. As one horse and rider after another fell to the lethal flying points, the Roman officer, to his credit, rode up and down his confused ranks, braving the storm of missiles, pointing his spear toward the river in an attempt to order them away from the trees to make their escape. Some had the wherewithal to obey, but a scant few made it, the officer himself being knocked from his mount by a missile Balbus did not see.
The skirmisher cohort had made it half-way up the slope, and the few surviving riders and riderless horses now streamed through their ranks in the opposite direction. At the order of their officer, the Cretan archers and Balearic slingers began to unleash a steady volley of stones and arrows over the heads of the beleaguered cavalry and into the trees in an effort to provide the horsemen with some cover. The cavalry never once paused in their flight back down the slope. The confused and leaderless riders crossed back over the river, leaving the cohort of archers and slingers all alone on the open plain. With the surviving horsemen now out of range, the hidden enemy shifted their aim to the line of skirmishers, and the Cretans and Balearics began to fall.
Balbus saw a few blue painted warriors on foot dart from the cover of the trees to finish off the wounded Treveri. They did this under threat of the Cretan arrows, but there were always a few in any army willing to face any danger when there was the prospect of loot. One bald and skinny Belgae darted to and fro, dodging arrows and stones with a ravenous smile on his face, as he closed on his prize.
"The poor foolish bastard," Balbus said to himself, as he realized who the Belgic warrior’s intended victim was.
The wounded Roman officer that had led the Treveri cavalry into the trap was crawling toward the rear when the bald Belgic fighter caught up with him. The Belgae buried his knee in the Roman's back, pressing him to the ground. Then, in the blink of an eye, the wiry warrior pulled the officer's head back and stabbed a large dagger into the side of the young man’s neck. Before the fountain of blood had settled to the green earth, the Belgic warrior had the plumed helmet off and was unlacing the expensive armored corselet.
With the booty in his arms, the triumphant Belgic warrior bolted for the tree line at a speed that indicated he was probably a skirmisher and not a spear warrior. He had instantly become the target of every Cretan bowman. The skinny, blue-painted man, overcome with delight at his plunder, laughed maniacally as he swerved this way and that, miraculously avoiding every missile – all but the one that struck him in the buttocks and made him yelp once before he disappeared in the trees.