Another cheer went up and the forces of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions finally met on the bank, joining forces and turning the two expanding arcs into one great, solid line advancing over the grass on the disordered Belgae. Professionalism took over among the centurions and the desperately pushing line quickly reformed into a traditional legionary shield wall, supported by second, third and fourth lines, with more reserves falling into place and rapidly forming a fifth.
This was starting to look like a proper battle now, rather than a mad advance, though only because the enemy were already trying to leave the field. A voice nearby called out his name and he turned to see Balbus, grinning, his forehead spattered with blood and, judging by the long cut close to his temple, much of it was his own. Fronto shook his head.
“Quintus, you crazy bastard. Why are you at the front?”
“Why are you?” the older man shouted back, laughing. Leaving command of the push to the centurions, Fronto and his fellow legate fell out of the line to the rear and stretched.
“I saw Sabinus at the fort. He’s alright. I left Plancus with him, so the prat can’t do much harm.”
Again, Balbus laughed.
“I loved your swinging gate manoeuvre. My lads laughed like Bacchus when they saw all those flailing barbarians washing away underneath. I even saw one of the men pissing over the side of the bridge on them as they went past. Should have disciplined him, really, but to be honest, it was just too amusing!”
Fronto grinned.
“Let’s just hope this panic keeps up. If they realise they’re still more than five to our one, things could go very badly for us.”
Balbus nodded, sobering up.
“Best keep them running then.”
Fronto smiled.
“Where’s your helmet?”
“Bottom of the river, I think. Ah well. Cita owes me a few favours. I’ll get another one without going through the rigmarole.”
“Sir?”
Fronto and Balbus both instinctively turned. Behind them, Decius stood with three of his auxiliary officers.
“I beg to report, sirs, that we are now out of range of the cowardly, spineless, piss-poor barbarians. I’ve ordered the auxiliaries across to the fort where we can keep up the good work from the walls and free up legate Sabinus to bring his legionaries into the fight.”
Fronto’s grin widened.
“Very good, Decius.” He turned to his fellow legate. “Balbus? You know Decius? He’s one of yours.”
Balbus nodded uncertainly.
“I’ve seen you around, prefect, yes. That’s some fine work today.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He smiled and stretched wearily.
“There’s more, though. From the hill we saw the standards of the legions behind the woodland to the left over there. Caesar should be here in about an hour and a half with the rest of the legions, but it looks like the rear of the Belgic army is already on the run. I doubt there’ll be many left here by the time the general arrives.”
Balbus frowned.
“Caesar wanted us to hold them here. Could be trouble in store.”
Fronto ground his teeth.
“I’m here to fight and to win. The only way they’ll stick with this now is if we start to pull back and hand them the advantage. I’m not going to do that, Balbus.”
Smiling grimly, he took a firmer grip of his sword.
“Coming?”
The older legate flexed his hand several times. That finger he broke on Fronto’s nose still locked up painfully occasionally. He sighed, which turned into a smile, and then gripped his own blade.
“Why not?”
Chapter 10
(Battlefield on the south bank of the Aisne River.)
“ Aurora: Roman Goddess of the dawn, sister of Sol and Luna.”
“ Cloaca Maxima: The great sewer of republican Rome that drained the forum into the Tiber.”
Caesar, pale faced once again, pulled his horse ahead of the vanguard of officers.
“Fronto? Where, pray, are the Belgae?”
The blood-spattered legate, still gripping his sword, his helmet crest in disarray, smiled grimly and gestured all around him with a sweep of his arm. The general’s colour drained a little further.
“Fronto! I wanted the Belgae trapped here. I wanted to wipe them out, for good.”
Fronto shrugged.
“With respect general, the only way we could have kept that many here is to let them carve us into new shapes. We were teetering on the edge of complete disaster and, frankly, I think it’s quite impressive, given the odds, that we pulled this off.”
The general shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And now they’re south of the river, they’ve got free reign to attack our supply lines and destroy Remi lands!”
Balbus shook his head.
“I don’t believe so, Caesar. As they fled, they went west. They were trying to get far away from us and yourself. I think they’re following the river and trying to find a way to get back across and head north again.”
Caesar grumbled.
“And then the Belgae will fall back and regroup to face us again.”
Fronto grinned.
“A lot less of them, though. We won you a solid victory here, Caesar.”
The general ground his teeth.
“Trying to give you orders, Fronto, is like trying to nail a shadow to a wall!”
The legate’s grin widened.
“That was not meant to be funny!”
Behind the general, Labienus cleared his throat and leaned forward over his horse’s neck.
“Apologies for interrupting, Caesar, but I think we need to decide on a course of action quickly and worry about recriminations later. The Belgae are getting further away all the time, but they could stop and reform damned quickly.”
The general let his stare of disapproval linger on Fronto a moment longer, and then straightened.
“Quite right, Labienus. Send for my Belgic scouts. We need to infiltrate the fleeing mass and try to determine what their next move will be. But as soon as our scouts are with them, we’ll need to follow on and harry them. We certainly don’t want to give them time to reorganise themselves.”
He climbed down from his steed and handed the reins to the nearest legionary.
“For now, I shall return to my headquarters. Fronto? This is your mess. Kindly sort it out.”
Fronto rolled his eyes and sighed as the general, with Labienus at his shoulder, made his way among the bodies to the bridge and back toward the huge camp on the hill.
“Alright then.” Fronto gestured to a centurion he spotted nearby, who looked up in surprise.
“I want those three temporary sling-bridges to be supported, strengthened and secured. We can’t guarantee that the Belgae won’t change their mind and come back for more, so I want movement of troops easy. Find some engineers and get it done.”
Scanning the nearby ranks, he singled out another centurion.
“We need to get these dead piled up and cremated. Two piles. One for Romans; one for the Belgae. No disrespect though; they may be barbarians, but they’re warriors who fought well and died in battle. Give everyone the same send-off. You’ll need to co-opt another century for the detail. There’s a lot of bodies.”
The centurion saluted and cleared his throat. “And survivors and wounded among the enemy, sir?”
Fronto nodded thoughtfully.
“Medical care for those who can be saved. Round up the prisoners and put a guard on them… and do the same for any that are caught in the vicinity afterwards. At the very least, they’ll fetch a few coins for us in Rome.”
Scratching his head, he looked up toward the legions that Caesar had led by his circuitous route and who, abandoned by their general and no longer required for battle, were standing awaiting further orders from the staff officers at their head. The familiar face of Gnaeus Priscus, primus pilus of the Tenth, grinned back at him from the ranks. Fronto raised his voice and pointed at his second in command.