Finally, the Romans were all on the grass and formed up, and the woodland behind was devoid of further arrivals. Tense, eager to put an end to these armoured foreigners, Correus held up his hand and with a cutting motion swept it downwards.
A carnyx honked at the signal and its sombre melody was picked up at half a dozen places around the valley. With a sigh of relief to be actually doing something, Correus rode his beast out of the trees and to the top of the slope above the Romans. The valley in which the supply carts sat was surrounded by slopes like this, as well as the narrow river, and even as he began to edge his mount slowly and carefully down the incline, the rest of the ambush emerged, those on horses also picking their way down carefully while the majority of the warriors on foot simply charged headlong, heedless of the danger of falling, turning ankles and breaking necks.
It was like a landslide in a horseshoe shape.
Correus listened carefully to the calls. He could hear the Roman centurions putting out their orders, followed by the whistles and the dip and swipe of the standards to relay the commands to any who hadn’t heard. He was surprised not to hear the Romans order the retreat, though it bothered him not at all, as the two thousand-strong reserve forces emerged from the woodland behind the Romans and sealed them in.
He heard various commands he recognised and even as he picked his way towards the fight saw them being carried out by the centuries of men.
Contra-equitas!
Centuries were forming themselves into a specialised form of the ‘tortoise’ formation that was designed to counter cavalry, the entire unit presenting a flat face of shields at two angles, bristling with sharp javelins.
Orbis!
Other centuries of men combined to present a circle some four bodies deep, outward facing and revealing no point of danger to the enemy.
All very good. It would be of no use, of course. They were trapped, and the numbers were simply too uneven. For all their fancy manoeuvres, the Romans would die where they now stood.
At last his horse reached the flat ground of the valley bottom, and Correus joined his warriors in charging the Romans, his bodyguard staying as close to him as they could. The Bellovaci king laughed at the simplicity of it. When it came to this point battle was a joy, for there was nothing to worry about, barring his personal safety. The conclusion was already set. The Romans had lost the moment they entered the valley.
Correus urged his horse forward and made for the large orbis formation, hefting his spear. With a flourish and the practised eye of a seasoned warrior, he selected one of the legionaries whose shield was not quite high enough, and cast the spear, immediately thereafter drawing his long blade. The missile caught the legionary between shoulder and collar bone and threw him back into the formation, but the Romans were quick. Rather that the blow catching the Romans by surprise and leaving an opening in the circle, the man was hauled backwards out of the way and another man was instantly in his place. Correus had fought the Romans more than once, but this was some of the most efficient manoeuvring he had ever seen.
He frowned as the entire orbis, which had been fighting now for perhaps a hundred heartbeats, made one heavy thrust and swipe that forced their enemies to step back and, in the intervening moments before Correus’ men could recover and strike, the entire front line had been replaced by the second. He watched in fascination as the men who had tired at the front gradually filtered to the safest position at the centre where they could rest while their compatriots each moved a line forward.
He couldn’t rely on wearing them out, then…
Still, the Romans were dying. Slowly, and with a higher casualty rate among the Bellovaci than he would prefer, but at least they were dying, and soon there would not be enough to form any kind of defence. Then, the remaining exhausted legionaries would fight their own last, desperate, individual duels until swamped by Correus’ men.
The king’s attention was caught by a booing sound, and he looked up at the reserves, who were not engaging, merely preventing any hope of escape. What were they doing putting out calls? There was no call necessary now until he decided to rein in his men and send them back to the camp.
He frowned, looking for the errant carnyx or horn player, but he couldn’t spot him, for the reserves appeared to be in turmoil. What was going on?
Then, like a cracked dam that has reached its point of structural failure, the reserves broke, flowing from the treeline and into the open ground. Correus cursed Bitucos and Helicon for their unnecessary eagerness. Their involvement was not necessary – they should be remaining in position. The force Correus commanded alone would finish the Romans, but it was important that none escaped.
He took an idle swing at a Roman who happened to be close enough, though his attention was really on the reserve forces. He waved to his carnyx player and shouted to be heard over the din of battle. ‘Go tell Bitucos and Helicon that they’re…’
His voice tailed off as the reserves flooded the valley, flowing like the burst dam around and past the pockets of action. And in that same moment, his eyes caught movement beyond them, and he understood with dreadful clarity.
Four columns had begun to emerge from the trees. They were not moving in shield walls, but in what looked like some kind of parade formation. And he knew why. Because at the front of the columns came the standard bearers, the eagle bearers and the musicians, who, now that they had cleared the woods, burst into a deafening triumphant melody. That sight alone would be enough to make a brave man run, but the fact was that each of the four columns was led by an eagle, backed by a man carrying a flag with the legion’s number.
Four legions!
Suddenly the eight thousand men he had with him seemed a rather feeble proposition, in the face of probably twenty thousand legionaries. And where Caesar’s legions went so went their auxiliary slingers and archers, and – he prayed to Taranis it was not the case, though without any real hope of efficacy – the Remi and other Gallic horse, and even the Germans.
Damn the proconsul. Correus had sprung a trap on the Romans only to find his entire ambush at the centre of their own trap. Staying would mean death for all of them, and if the best of the Bellovaci, and their king, died, then the rest of the force up at the camp would collapse in terror.
‘Signal the retreat,’ he shouted at the musician, but when the man put the carnyx to his lips, he paused, and no sound emerged.
‘Sound the call!’ he repeated with urgency. The Roman orbis had now exploded and reformed into a square which was beginning to push outwards, taking the fight back to the Bellovaci. They had fresh heart, knowing that their fellows were here. Correus was momentarily distracted as he was forced to defend himself against a giant of a man. As he put the Roman down with some difficulty, he walked his horse a little further from the fray and over to the musician. Reaching out, he grabbed the man by the tunic and almost pulled him from his saddle.
‘Sound… the… retreat!’
But the man was still silent, staring. Correus turned to look at whatever it was that had captured the man’s attention and felt his blood chill.
All around the valley, the treeline had burst into life, more Romans appearing in a complete circle, surrounding the Bellovaci. Damn the proconsul – he had split his legions and sent some ahead to surround them. But his keen eyes picked out the eagle and the flag near the defile that led to the camp. No. A fifth legion. His heart in his mouth, and already knowing what he would see, he raked the ridge around the valley with his gaze until he found the other two eagles with their flags and standards. The Roman general Trebonius had arrived with his three legions. Now, Correus’ eight thousand faced somewhere in the region of forty thousand Romans.