Damn it. How could they have let this happen? The Bellovaci had changed the whole engagement now. It was no longer a waiting game. If they were prepared to attack the foragers, the Romans would have to do something about it or become very hungry as they waited for Trebonius and his legions.
As they rode, he looked across at his musician. ‘Can you remember the Remi recall?’
It was to be hoped. There was a standing fraternal competition among the cavalry units to try and remember and mimic one another’s calls. It had begun years ago as a bet over Gallic beer, but Varus and his officers had fostered the wagers and the games, recognising the value in having such disparate groups able to recognise each other’s’ calls, despite the wide array of melodies.
The musician frowned as he jolted up and down with the horse’s gait, trying to dredge his memory. The Remi’s calls went out on a horn not dissimilar to the Roman cavalry tuba, and the man took a deep breath, bracing himself against the jolting of the horse, and put the tuba to his lips.
The melody of the call sounded at once both familiar and odd to Varus. He had heard the Remi calls so many times over the eight years of war, and now that he heard it again he recognised it, but it sounded somehow lighter and airier on the Roman instrument.
Without waiting for the order, the musician timed his breath with the horse’s motion, taking deep breath after deep breath and repeating the call again and again.
They were rewarded with some commotion at the rear of the Remi force. A number of men had responded to the calls and were trying to extricate themselves from the disaster. Four men fell even as they tried to turn, but a few dozen riders had managed to break free of the fight and were racing towards the Romans. Varus held up his hand to halt his men. There was nothing to be gained from riding into the fray. All they could do now was try and save as many Remi as they could. As the horses fell to a walk and then formed up carefully, he gestured to the musician. ‘Keep blowing that bloody tune until they’re all with us or dead.’
As the Remi recall blared out repeatedly, Varus waved the fleeing auxiliaries into position with them, watching as more and more of the doomed horsemen tried to leave the battle and join the Roman officer.
Spears lunged, lifting men from their saddles and dropping them into the mire to be hacked to pieces and trampled by desperate horses. The more enterprising Bellovaci with the long Celtic blades were swiping them at waist height, severing and breaking horses’ legs to bring beast and rider down together, where they could be stabbed again and again. Where were the leaders?
Varus tried to peer past the approaching Remi survivors, and finally caught sight of young Vertiscus, who was still in the heart of the action, bellowing war cries and he brought down his sword to left and right, each rise of the blade sending a shower of crimson into the air to mingle with the falling rain. He was frenzied, killing like a man possessed. But even as Varus watched and somehow hoped that such insane bravery and strength would bring the favour of the gods and turn the tide, Vertiscus stiffened in his saddle and leaned to the left and the commander could see the spear that had taken him in the side being pushed in ever deeper. Astoundingly, the young Remi prince, even with the shaft inside his ribcage shredding organs, managed to swipe down and destroy his killer. Then the prince was gone, pulled from the saddle down into the murk. His heart in his throat, Varus peered desperately into the melee, searching for a sign of their general, Atis. When he saw him all hope of Remi survival was dashed, for Atis wore a snarl of defiance even though his body was long gone and his head, surmounted by a distinctive golden eagle helmet, bobbed around on the tip of a spear.
‘Damn it. Alright. Move out… at full speed. Catch up with the forage party and back to the fort. Now.’
‘Commander?’ gasped one of the fled Remi, frowning and pointing back at the other Remi who were still attempting to leave the chaos and join up with the Romans who had seemingly come to rescue them.
‘We’ve no time to save the others. Come on.’
As the troop burst into life, racing back across the fields towards the legionaries, who were already at the valley head and trying to goad the cart, drawn by two cavalry horses, up the slope, the musician, exhausted, looked across at his commander, noticing the dark scowl on Varus’ face.
‘We couldn’t save them all, sir. You know that.’
‘I don’t like leaving brave men, however foolhardy, to buy our escape with their lives.’
‘You saved a hundred Remi or more, sir. No one could have hoped for better.’
Varus nodded, saving his breath as he rode. When he got back to camp, and once he’d reported this disaster to the general, he’d have to write an unpleasant letter to Fronto in Massilia, bearing news of the deaths of Galronus’ family.
Shit on the Bellovaci!
* * * * *
Varus smiled grimly as the Condrusi scout delivered his report. Though Nemesis was a goddess generally reserved for gladiators and the betrayed, Varus would tonight pour a good libation to the lady of vengeance for delivering unto him that for which he had wished.
The Bellovaci were coming again.
Following the disaster that had reaped a heavy toll on the Remi the previous day he had reported wearily to the general and had been surprised at the venom with which Caesar had greeted the news. The proconsul valued the Remi highly, their tribe the only one in the whole of Gaul who had remained loyal throughout the entire eight year campaign. On hearing of the deaths of the nobles and of near half a thousand Remi riders, rather than dismissing the matter, or fuming incoherently, Caesar had snarled and asked Varus what they could do to avenge the fallen. The commander had been so taken aback by the vehemence of the general that it had taken him half an hour of deep thought to come up with the answer.
The general had liked his plan, had approved it immediately, and given him free rein to put together whatever he needed.
It had taken just hours, with enough good local scouts, to locate another untouched farmstead close to the enemy position. And so he had taken out the same men as yesterday – those who had witnessed the demise of the Remi and knew what they were up against.
Those men of the Ninth even now were busy loading a cart in the blessed dry morning, shields and pila stacked ready for collection. Two of the strongest horses were already in the traces ready to take the laden cart to safety. And the centurions were watchful and ready, even while they played the part of the blissfully unaware foragers. No enemy would recognise them for the same people as the previous day, of course, and other forage parties had been out and about since then anyway. But this one had been designed to draw the enemy’s gaze through its visibility, slowness, position and proximity to their camp.
Six of the best scouts in the army, all drawn from tribes who knew the area, had ranged around the periphery watching for the enemy, expecting a similar trap. Indeed, the terrain was almost an echo of yesterday, the farm lying in a low valley surrounded by trees. The main difference here was that there was no easy escape up a slope at the head of the valley. A trap sprung here would likely finish the lot of them, and that fact had, fortunately, been enough of a lure to draw the enemy.
Again, small units of pickets surrounded the valley in an oval at watchful positions, and the other half of the Remi force sat at the entrance to the farmstead, where the stream ran on down the valley between wide green banks. It looked almost exactly as it had yesterday. And it had tempted the Bellovaci, whom the scout announced were even now moving up the valley and filtering down through the woods. Varus thanked the man for his efforts and sent him in a circuit giving the nod for the first phase of the action to everyone involved.
Then he sat to wait with his men.