It had to look the same. Tempting. But the Remi would have to hold back this time. He had spent an hour impressing upon them that very thought. Seven hundred Remi had ridden out today instead of the twelve hundred the previous day, and they had been the very same men – the survivors, who had spent the night in rituals to their own vengeance spirits. And now they once again played the picket roles and sat among the group at the foot of the valley.
Varus watched that force carefully as news of the approaching enemy was relayed to them by the scout and he tensed for a moment, then exhaled gratefully as he noted the hundred or so Remi survivors sit restive but still, awaiting the enemy. He’d half expected, despite his lecture, that news of the enemy would send them racing off down the valley in search of bloodshed. But they sat there, surrounding his little surprise like the pastry around a pie. Enticing. Tasty.
What a pie…
As he waited, he finally heard the booing and clattering of the enemy carnyxes and spears. Things were slightly different today, of course. The enemy came openly this time, including those in the woodland. They did not expect the Romans to fall into the same trap twice, but then they had no need of a trap this time. They outnumbered the Remi and had beaten them once. And this time there was nowhere for the forage party and the cart to run. They had no need of subtlety, so they came in force and openly jeering their neighbours, the heads of Vertiscus and Atis, identifiable by their helms, bobbing around on spears at the front of the column just to goad the Remi.
It worked. Two or three of the Remi reacted just too predictably, but their new commanders called them back, and reluctantly they fell into position once more. This time, the Roman auxiliary force would play the part of the lure and the surprise, and it would be the Bellovaci who experienced the panic.
The enemy closed.
‘Now sir?’ asked the musician next to him, who Varus had put on double pay after his service yesterday.
‘A few heartbeats more, I think. Let’s get them too close to back out. I want them committed before they realise their mistake.’
The musician nodded, but he put the tuba to his lips ready anyway, breathing deep and slow.
Varus watched.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
The Bellovaci force was beginning to ripple and shake in a manner he recognised. The warriors were itching to get to the fight and were starting to move, straining at the leash as it were, while their leaders held them back ‘til the last moment. Any time now they would break and charge. And Varus needed to spring his surprise first, for the enemy would be harder to break when they were already at a run.
Now or never.
‘Give the first call.’
The tuba rang out immediately and with the precision of acrobats at a festival in the forum, Varus’ combined force changed immediately.
The legionaries dropped everything they were doing and grabbed their shields and pila, forming up at the downstream edge of the farmyard. The picket units began to move. Those at the valley head began the landslide, riding to the next group along, who geed up their horses and joined them as they rode to the third, collecting them and riding for the fourth, and so on. In a matter of heartbeats, the strung out picket units were combining and moving towards the field of battle, turning into a formidable unit as they did so.
But they were just the dressing of the dish. The pie was still the heart.
And now the crust cracked.
Those Remi survivors from yesterday peeled away from the force to either side, becoming the anchor point for the assembling pickets, where the combining forces would gather. The Bellovaci faltered, uncertain of whether to charge, unable to comprehend what was happening and why the front ranks of the Remi force had peeled away.
And then it became apparent to the enemy that only those few front ranks had been Remi at all.
At the centre of that unit – the filling of the pie that Varus was about to cram down their desperate gullets – Caesar’s infamous German cavalry bellowed their ululating, howling war chants as they moved to charge.
‘Second call if you will, Decimus.’
It had to be done quickly. The Germans would hardly wait for the order. Indeed, they were already moving. As the second call went out, the two centuries of the Ninth began to jog at double time to join the fray, their forage forgotten. The gathering pickets were almost in position now. By the time they had gathered in two units to either side of the valley, the legionaries would be there, and so would Varus’ regulars. That meant that the third call would signal two hundred legionaries, sixty regular cavalry and five hundred vengeful Remi combining to serve as the rear-guard, taking any surviving Bellovaci on and butchering the lot.
If there were any survivors!
The regulars began to trot forward towards the violence.
A thousand German cavalry, already infamous throughout Gaul and Belgae lands as takers of grisly trophies, were now riding hard at the Bellovaci, snarling and whooping. In theory, they stood no more chance than the Remi had yesterday. In practice, Varus knew upon whom he would place his wager. The Remi had been brave but had ridden gleefully, unthinking, into a trap, while the Bellovaci had been prepared and eager.
Not so, today.
Today, the Germans were entirely aware of what they were riding into, and had no fear. Only hunger and anger. And the Bellovaci had been taken completely by surprise. As was so often the case with war, the unexpected had a worse effect than strictly necessary, purely due to the natural propensity for the surprised man to panic.
The Germans hit the Bellovaci like a battering ram, completely heedless of the spears that the few rallying enemy brought to bear. Varus watched as one German took a spear in his shoulder and simply ignored it, riding down the bearer and hacking at two then three then four men even as he shed his own blood with every drum of hooves.
The effect of the charge was impressive. The Bellovaci force shattered like a dropped vase. Those on the periphery fled into the woods, shrieking for their gods to save them. Some even made it. Varus watched as a number of the Germans, despite having been given extra training in Gallic and Roman cavalry manoeuvres, fell naturally back into their native fighting style, slipping from their steeds once they were in the thick of things and laying waste to anyone they found who was not one of their own.
The shrieks Varus could hear were not the cries of the wounded and the dying. The commander had heard such sounds so many times in his career that he knew them well. Nor were they the sounds of panic and fear. They were the shrieks of agony that more often accompanied the work of a master torturer.
Though at this distance he couldn’t see what the Germans were up to, he had seen them fight many times now and could picture the scene. Tearing off jaws to use as torcs, hacking off ears, severing fingers for prizes, putting out eyes just for the feel of the wet pop.
The Germanic cavalry were animals. They were worse than animals. They were demons given human form. They were simply the most terrifying thing Varus had ever witnessed on the battlefield. And while they were rarely fielded, when they were allowed to slip the leash, the effect they had on the enemy was like a hungry fox in a chicken coop.
All cohesion among both armies was gone. The centre of the valley was a mass of struggling man, some still on horseback, others fighting on foot even as the Germanic horses kicked and bit, their own bloodlust every bit as sharp as their riders’.
‘Third call, please,’ he smiled to his musician, who let the notes soar. Even as the regulars closed on the valley end, along with two centuries of the Ninth and five hundred angry Remi, the battle was already won. He gave the orders and the backup force began to move in. The legionaries slipped into the woodland to either side, clambering up the hill at speed, chasing down those Bellovaci who had fled up there. They had orders to pursue the fleeing enemy until the fourth call, which would signal the end of the fight.