The front line of the Belgae bulged ominously. Lucilius smiled. One volley and they were already wanting to break their lines and attacks. With a widening grin, he turned to his officers.
“Let’s repeat the process a few times and see how fast we can get it. I want to piss these barbarians off enough that they’ll do anything.”
Nodding, the prefects and decurions passed down the orders and the entire cavalry turned their back on the enemy and rode peacefully back across the wet, grassy ground.
Once they reached the slope at the far end, Lucilius waved his arm.
“Same drill. No orders or calls. Everyone knows what they’re doing. Those men who’ve now cast their javelins to the back and make way for the next rows. This time I want that volley the moment you stop. Then straight back. Don’t give them a target!”
The men around him grinned in anticipation.
“Alright. Charge!”
This time he allowed the troopers to charge past him and took a position at the rear, where he could observe the results.
True to their training and efficiency, the cavalry thundered across the open space and came to a sudden halt, a volley of hundreds of deadly shafts arcing out from the lines and dropping with horrifying accuracy into the mass of Belgic warriors. Without waiting to see the results, the cavalry wheeled and rode back to the far end of the grassy stretch.
Once again, the line of the Belgae bulged, this time in three places. Lucilius rubbed his chin reflectively. They’d get one more charge or maybe two before the barbarians decided they couldn’t take it any more and broke formation.
“Again, but quicker!”
This time, he stayed on the lower reach of the slope and observed from a distance. The Belgae had best attack soon anyway. They only had enough javelins for probably three more volleys.
He watched with satisfaction as the same manoeuvre produced the same result: hundreds of dead warriors and bloodthirsty pushing and shoving as the Belgae nobles fought to prevent their tribesmen running after the Roman horsemen. With a grin he surveyed the ground near the enemy line while his troopers returned. The repeated charges had churned up the wet grass leaving slick and dangerous mud. That should be helpful. A cavalry trooper would be much more stable in that mess than a foot soldier.
He smiled at the officers as they steered the mounts with their knees and readied for another charge.
“They’re ready to break. A dozen or so followed you last time. But I don’t want them following right across the field. Same drill again, but this time, when you’ve released the volley, retreat fifty yards, form up for action and draw swords.”
The officers saluted and relayed the orders to their men.
With the fourth charge, Lucilius accompanied the cavalry once more. The charge reached the churned mud, the horses whinnied to a halt, the javelins arced out, and the Belgae, with a deafening roar, broke their line and ran forward waving spears, swords and axes. As ordered, the cavalry pulled out of reach and formed up to await the onslaught.
Clearly, the barbarian warriors had broken the orders of their chieftains. The boar-head standards and horns and the shining golden helmets of the few visible noblemen remained tightly in position. But hundreds had been unable to contain their rage any longer and had run forwards.
As they ran, screaming, Lucilius watched with great interest, bordering on mirth. The warriors reached the churned mire left by the hooves of the Roman cavalry and many slid, tripped or fell. As they climbed to their feet, they were forced to move slowly and painfully through the thick, sucking mud, hauling their feet out and then sinking them back with a squelch. The entire bloodthirsty attack had slowed to an embarrassing plod.
“Take them.”
The men to either side walked their horses forward and began to swing with their longer cavalry blades, arcing like bloody scythes left and right, maiming and killed the desperate Belgae wherever they found them. It was a massacre, plain and simple; a harvest of living bodies.
Lucilius watched as the barbarian attack dissolved into simple butchery. Within a couple of minutes the only Belgae who were left standing were the lucky few at the rear of the attack who were now fleeing the field back to their own line as quickly as the mud allowed. A few of the more eager troopers were advancing to take the stragglers.
“Call for regroup!” Lucilius shouted.
The cornu rang out a moment later and the troopers wheeled their horses and returned to their alae. With a satisfied smile, Lucilius calculated the numbers. He could assume at least a hundred dead from each of the four javelin volleys, and at least a couple of hundred more here in the mud. Six hundred Belgae dead at a very conservative estimate.
He laughed out loud as he surveyed the muddy mess.
For eight Romans. Now that was going to please the general. Mars be praised, it certainly please Lucilius.
“Sound the withdrawal. There won’t be any more barbarian pushes for a while now. Time to head back to camp and report.”
A decurion nearby laughed.
“And maybe we can resupply with javelins and have another go!”
As the cavalry reached the top of the slope, Lucilius smiled in surprise and saluted. Varus returned the gesture and eyed the returning cavalry with a raised eyebrow.
“Had fun, Lucilius? Looks like you hardly got dirty?”
“We’ve given them a fairly bloody lip, sir. I’ll tell you all about it on the way back.”
Varus nodded as the two cavalry forces fell into formation together and began the trek back to Caesar’s camp.
It was hours later when the third cavalry group finally came into sight of the main gate. Varus leaned over the parapet where he’d been waiting anxiously for word of his men and waved at the lieutenant.
“What did you find?” he asked, eyeing with interest the tired but apparently undamaged cavalry force as they slowed to a walk.
“Nothing, sir” the prefect reported, sighing. “We’ve been miles and miles and miles. No sign of anything. Just in case, I sent one ala off with orders to do a sweep over a ten mile radius beyond where we were, but if there’s more Belgae coming, they’re at least a day away.”
“Did you have a more exciting time, sir?”
Varus laughed.
“It’s been a good day. We’ve dented the Belgae and confirmed we’re safe from reinforcements as yet. Get yourselves into camp and rest. I need to inform the general.”
Chapter 8
(Caesar’s camp by the Aisne River.)
“ Lilia (Lit. ‘Lilies’): defensive pits three feet deep with a sharpened stake at the bottom, disguised with undergrowth, to hamper attackers.”
Fronto grumbled under his breath and leaned forward over the table, fixing Caesar with a steady gaze. As so often happened, the other officers in the room had melted into the background, trying to blend in with the tent leather in an attempt not to become involved in the argument.
“But it’s a waste to play a defensive action now. We need to press the advantage we have!”
The general glowered at his senior legate. His brow had furrowed and he had become quite pale; a sign that he was deeply angry and reaching the end of his tether.
“We don’t have an advantage, Fronto. They outnumber us about five to one. Only an idiot charges into those odds!”
The legate’s rumble rose to a steady growl and he barked back at his commander.
“It’s five to one now! Wait until you’ve faffed for a while building walls and shuffling the legions around and you could find it’s ten to one. The advantage I’m talking about is that is not more than five to one! We should strike while the iron’s lukewarm!”