Boduognatus waited for that moment, counting each beat of his heart and daring to dream of the accolades he would receive for this victory. Surely, all of the Belgic tribes, even those that had already capitulated to the Romans, would rally to his banner and declare him king over all. Then, with all of the Belgae behind him, he would drive the Romans from Gaul, settling a few long-overdue scores with the Aeduans and the others who had allied themselves with the invader. The name of Boduognatus would resound in the ears of the Belgae and their enemies for generations to come.
But Boduognatus pulled himself back to the present as the battle lines bowed and swayed like the contours of a rocky coastline. In most places, his men were forcing the Romans back, but now, in a few places along the line, the Romans stood firm like rocks against a rushing tide. They would break. They had to break. Until they did, Boduognatus watched and he waited.
XXVII
Lucius and Alain were deposited on a narrow part of the road leading up to the plain where the battle now took place. In their scramble through the marsh, they had encountered many mule drivers, auxiliaries, and even a few legionaries that had chosen to take their chances in the wild rather than face the Belgae onslaught. Lucius and Alain were largely ignored by the stragglers, though Lucius did catch a curious glance from one common soldier who probably wondered why a tribune would share his horse with a slave boy, for that’s exactly how he and Alain appeared. Lucius now wore the leather corselet, plumed helmet, and greaves he had taken off of Argus’s dead body – everything but the noble’s cloak, which had been drenched in the man’s blood. Lucius looked every bit the part, if one could look past his filthy skin and unrefined features.
Now, the two ducked out of the quiet shadowy path and into chaos. The road was choked with carts, wagons, and pack animals of all kind. Many drivers had completely abandoned their vehicles, leaving them to obstruct the path of the few dutiful handlers trying to turn their unwieldy carriages around in the narrow space. Angry mules brayed and kicked wildly at the unreasonable demands made on them. Some carts were overturned, while many were hopelessly mired within the dense hedges on either side of the road. Here and there, Roman officers cursed at the drivers in an effort to bring order to the confusion, but the impedimenta was far beyond a state of panic.
“You, there!” one of the officers shouted, after sighting Lucius. “What is your name? What are you doing with that boy? Come here, and help me get these carts moving toward the front! I said, come here, you son of a whore!”
Lucius did not respond, but instead kicked the horse down the road leading toward the din of the battle. The farther they went, the more refugees they passed, all heading in the opposite direction. Some were wounded and bleeding, some were deserting. A troop of allied Treveri cavalry also thundered by, seemingly blind to anyone or anything but their path to safety. Lucius saw them trample one limping legionary to a pulp beneath their hooves when he failed to get out of the way in time.
Where the road opened out onto the river plain, Lucius and Alain came upon another jumble of artillery carts and wagons. A centurion was trying to bring them into order, but was having a difficult time of it. He seemed beside himself as carts continued to come from the battlefield when he was trying to send them in the other direction.
“Damn you, you maggot-brained idiots!” the centurion barked at a team of drivers. “You’re going the wrong way! Didn’t I just send you up the road that way? Why in Juno’s name are you coming back?”
One of the drivers shrugged. “The senator ordered us to turn around.”
“What senator?”
“He’s just up there,” the driver motioned down the road toward the battlefield. “He’s ordering everyone back. Says the proconsul has given the order to retreat.”
Lucius overheard this, and Valens’s treachery immediately came to mind. The bastard was just up ahead directing the baggage to retreat. Meanwhile, Caesar and the rest of the army fought against dismal odds. Lucius’s lips quivered in anger as he fingered the hilt of his gladius. He was determined to settle the score between him and Valens right here and now.
“Alain, you must remain here,” he said, letting the boy down off the horse. “It is too dangerous for you to go any further.”
Alain looked up at him skeptically. Lucius saw his expression and laughed.
“Fear not, lad. I will keep my word. Should I come out of this alive, I will ensure that your mistress is protected. Nothing will happen to her. Don’t worry.”
Lucius then kicked the horse into a gallop and headed up the road toward the battle. The battle had been hidden from view by a sharp rise in the road, and as Lucius came to the summit, he was dazzled by what lay before him. The plain, leading down to the river was covered with the two armies, a seemingly endless mass of hacking and jabbing combatants, desperately locked in a scene of carnage and savagery. Missiles flew above the heads of the raging warriors, while at their feet the bodies of more and more dying men and horses littered the blood-soaked ground. Lucius could make out the legions, some formed and fighting fiercely, some on the verge of being surrounded. They were beset by tens of thousands of Belgae, both advancing from the river and working their way around to the right of the threadbare Roman line.
The two legions in the center, the Eleventh and the Eighth by their standards, faced an incredible mass of spear and sword wielding Belgae advancing up at them from the river. The two legions were being pushed back slowly, but they were still intact, and they were holding their formations. In sharp contrast, the two legions on the right were a picture of chaos. Amidst the tangle of lines, Lucius picked out the eagle standards of the Seventh and Twelfth legions, but he could see no discernable formation. The bulk of both legions had collapsed into a crude angle, and the few units that had not were mixed among the enemy ranks and frantically fought off attackers from all sides at once. Belgic spearmen and axemen were pressing hard to get around the rear of the two legions to cut them off from the road. The only thing stopping them was a single cohort that had been thrown out in a line behind the legions to keep the lane open. But the Belgae were already adjusting their formations to overwhelm it. As dismal as it all seemed, however, Lucius saw no signs of retreat. Aside from a few stragglers, here and there, the legions appeared determined to fight to the death.
Lucius was so distracted by the distant battle that he almost failed to notice the portly officer, perched atop a horse, who sat at the head of the road, turning away all arriving traffic. The man was so heavy that he hardly fit into his armor, and he continually wiped the sweat away from his cheeks and jowls with a damp rag.
“I am Senator Titus Porcius,” he announced repeatedly as the drivers brought their teams to the summit of the hill. “By order of the proconsul, you are to turn your vehicles about and go back the way you came. This army is withdrawing from the field. Go back, I say!”