The rest – the regulars and the Remi – moved forth to the rear of the engagement, staying out of the fight initially, for fear of falling foul of the oft-indiscriminate Germans, but then starting to pick their targets and take out those few small groups of Bellovaci who were managing to rally at the periphery in the hope of achieving something.
The floor of the valley was littered with the dead, which belonged overwhelmingly to the Bellovaci. It had been a massacre on a scale far surpassing the loss of the Remi yesterday. At a guess, three times as many enemy lay dead today as allies had been lost yesterday. And the dying was not over, even if the battle had already clearly been won.
The cavalry fought on and Varus, despite having decided to stay out of it, soon found himself in the thick of the action, hewing limbs and hacking into Belgic torsos with the long blade of a Gallic design he had long since adopted as his weapon of choice. He revelled in the kill, picturing what Commius would think if the Romans went back to camp opposite their position parading a thousand Bellovaci heads on spears.
His sword rose and fell, swept and hacked. Twice he took blows to his shield arm which splintered the wood and leather, and once he felt a stray spear tip rake across his ribs, tearing the links of his chain mail and bruising his side while drawing no blood.
And suddenly it was over. He lifted a boot and pushed a gurgling warrior from his blade, freeing it, only to discover that he was alone in a sea of death and mutilation, the ground spread with corpses and the crying wounded – again, almost all enemies. It was a victory of Titanic proportions. And the Remi were revelling in it, taking their time in dispatching the enemy wounded and enjoying every shriek.
The Germans were gone, howling for blood further along the valley, but he cared not. They had been given their briefing and then turned loose. They would harry the Bellovaci all the way back to their camp, and he allowed them to do it. The sight of the Germans slaughtering the fleeing men and the rest drowning in the swamp as they ran trying to find the safety of their hill would destroy the enemy army’s morale, almost as surely as the realisation of what they had truly faced had done to the ambush today.
He had no doubt that most of the Germans would come back alive and laughing, wearing parts of their fallen foes as decoration.
He shuddered.
With a nod to his musician, he had the last call blown, which would bring in the pursuing men so that the force could gather up the forage and make it back to camp. Caesar would be pleased tonight. And so would Nemesis, who would receive more than one libation after dark this eve.
Breathing heavily and allowing his muscles to relax, the cavalry commander walked his horse out into the field again, into open space, and then took in the scene. Again the scale of the victory was brought home with the carpet of dead Belgae who were now being looted by the vengeful Remi.
And the legionaries were reforming ready to leave, after gathering the last few things for the cart.
And the scouts…
One of the scouts was riding towards him fast. His heart skipped a beat and then began to thump fast and heavy. Please, Nemesis, don’t let something mar this day. Not now.
He chewed on his cheek as the Suessione rider drew up and halted his horse, nodding his head in salute.
‘What news?’
The scout smiled, and Varus felt that sudden surge of tension he’d experienced evaporate again.
‘Commander, I have news that legate Trebonius is closing. He and his army are one day away and will be in camp by nightfall tomorrow in line with the general’s plans. His forward scouts were just over the hill from here, seeking Caesar’s position.’ The man gestured with a thumb over his shoulder to where a small group of tired-looking horsemen were making their way towards him.
Varus grinned.
Time to unsettle the enemy all the more.
‘There are a few Bellovaci still alive among the fallen. Take my decurion here and go stop the Remi killing them all. Make sure that some poor bastard overhears you revealing this news and then we’ll move out. I’d love to see what happens in the enemy camp when that man limps home telling his friends that three more legions are on the way.’
The decurion, sitting next to him, frowned. ‘Sir? The general wanted the enemy unaware until the force arrived, I thought.’
‘He did. But with this victory things have changed. We’ve flayed their arse now and the panic will be spreading among their ranks. If we foster it and increase it, we’ll keep them off-balance until the time comes to finish things.’
As the decurion saluted and rode off with a few men and the native scout to leak the news of Trebonius to the enemy wounded, Varus stretched and winced at his bruised ribs.
Time to finish Commius and his rebellion and get back to winter quarters.
Thank you, Nemesis.
* * * * *
‘They’re not moving,’ Brutus murmured, staring at the Belgic hill across the sea of mist. ‘Why aren’t they moving?’
‘It seems they are resolved to fight,’ Varus replied quietly.
The two men peered across the white blanket that filled the valley and separated the two fortified camps in the damp early evening air. The sounds of the final touches being added to Mamurra’s bridge drifted up, slightly muffled by the fleecy fog. The bridge was in place, despite such perfectionist attention, as was simply attested by the vanguard of the Eighth legion who even now spread out on the slope before the enemy camp, falling into position in battle array, ahead of the original schedule, given the enemy’s new tactics of harrying the forage parties, which had continued in small measure despite the loss of over a thousand men to Varus’ trap and the Germans’ bloodlust. The brutal horsemen had pursued the enemy right into the swamp, leaving a river of blood in their wake and butchering the last few under the watching eyes of the Bellovaci camp. Men had died, falling into the sucking muck of the morass rather than succumb to the trophy taking serrated blades of the Germans.
‘I’d hoped they would flee at the sight of the bridge and with the knowledge of Trebonius’ approach. Perhaps you should not have had word of it leaked to them?’
Varus nodded. ‘I had thought it would make them run, but the Belgae are made of stern stuff.’
The news had come in at dawn that the enemy camp had shrunk in size, though not in number of fighting bodies. The Bellovaci and their allies had used the cover of darkness to send their wagons and supplies, and their wounded, through secret safe routes in the swamp and away into the safety of the forest with the women and children. But the warriors had remained, and now they stood before their defences, watching the Romans crossing the bridge.
‘I fear we miscalculated,’ put in Caesar, stepping his white mare forward and falling in on the far side of Brutus. ‘I had hoped to surprise them, but I fear that was a doomed enterprise anyway since they had begun forays and actions against our foragers. And Varus here had the ingenuity to attempt to break them with panic. But I suspect that all we have managed to achieve between us is to harden their resolve and force them to dig in. Now we face a difficult fight up a brutal slope against a well-defended position. Even without having to toil through the mire first, that will be a very costly battle, and at this stage in the pacification I am loathe to lose half a legion in what is, in essence, still just a minor rising.’
Varus nodded gloomily.
‘So what do we do, general,’ Brutus sighed.
‘We have no choice. We must bring across the legions and fortify once more, awaiting Trebonius. He should be with us by nightfall tomorrow, according to reports. Once we have all the legions present, we will look at ways of dislodging them from the hill.’