The legate shrugged.
“This engagement’s making me nervous. Something about it makes my skin itch. Nemesis is trying to tell me something.”
Caesar smiled.
“Then tell her to speak up.”
There was a chorus of nervous laughter; Fronto’s nerves were beginning to spread to the other officers.
“Very well,” Caesar nodded. “All that we can do, we will do. It’s in the hands of the Gods now, and let Venus who, as you all know, is my grandmother,” more genuine laughter this time, “let her protect us all.”
Fervent nods around the circle of men.
“Let’s get the final phase of this march underway, then. Right, Fronto. Where do you want us?”
Fronto shrugged.
“I don’t suppose it really matters. There are, what?” he performed a quick head count. “There are twelve officers who need to distribute among the legions, ignoring the legates. That’s two a piece and perhaps one a piece with the Thirteenth and Fourteenth at rearguard.”
Caesar nodded.
“I will join the Twelfth at the rear of the legions, just before the baggage.”
The rest of the officers went quiet and looked at each other expectantly.
“Oh for the love of Venus. What is it with you men and these new legions? Sabinus? You go with the Thirteenth. They saved your life. Cicero? Go with the Fourteenth.”
He smiled a grumpy smile.
“Can the rest of you decide what legion to travel with or does uncle Marcus have to smack some bottoms?”
Sabinus laughed.
“Just as you say, Marcus. Sorry… uncle Marcus.”
With a laugh, the officer mounted his horse once more and rode off toward the rear of the column. After brief discussions, the various officers split up and moved to their new positions, those stationed further back riding, while Labienus and Brutus walked their horses forward to the Tenth alongside Fronto.
As they reached the legion, Labienus accosted one of the legionaries in the front line.
“Take our horses back to the baggage train and then return to position.”
The legionary saluted, took the reins, and strode off down the line of men with the three officers’ horses.
Labienus settled into position with the tribunes at Fronto’s shoulder. Brutus stood next to him, smiling calmly. Fronto grimaced.
“All ready? We’re the vanguard.”
Brutus, in his late twenties and fresh faced, squared his shoulders.
“I look forward to it, Marcus. No offence, Labienus, but being stuck in staff meetings was not what I was looking for when I joined Gaius.”
Fronto raised his eyebrows. Nobody referred to the general by his praenomen.
Labienus frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I was looking forward to leading a legion. Thought I’d get a chance to play legatus and actually take part, but Caesar’s a very distant cousin and his wife coddles me. Between my own family and Calpurnia, Caesar daren’t put me in a dangerous position. They keep me trapped and tied up in red tape. I’m actually quite looking forward to this.”
Fronto grumbled
“It’s still a bad idea. This is not going to go well, I tell you.”
Labienus laughed.
“Give it a rest, Fronto. I can see his point. I haven’t actually been in close command of a legion myself for many years, since the Cilician campaign in fact. It’ll do us good.”
Fronto had to laugh.
“How can we possibly lose, with this much enthusiasm?” He turned to the Tenth’s lead cornicen.
“Give the call to march. Let’s get there and see what Nemesis has in store for us today.”
The musician saluted and blew a complex series of notes that was picked up by the cornicens of the individual centuries throughout the legion and then the other legions to the rear. With an unstoppable gait, the men began to march.
Fronto relaxed a little as the familiar pace and noise settled around him like a comfortable blanket. At least here and now things were normal, expected, and he knew exactly what to do.
Smiling, he took a deep breath, inhaling the heady scent of the summer wildflowers. Soon all he would be able to smell was blood and steel, so he carefully registered every facet of that smell and filed it away in his mind for reference. Funny really, he’d not realised how bad his nose was until Balbus had broken it again and Florus reset it. He smiled. Good things came to you in curious packages some times.
He would have to give Florus a gift when this was all over.
* * * * *
Varus reined in alongside Fronto. The cavalry had been riding in force alongside the Tenth for the last leg of the march, their number stretching out across the land to either side as far as Fronto could see. It really was quite impressive.
“Time to go, Fronto” the commander said, his voice even and professional. “Our scouts say the river’s just over that rise. We need to get on ahead and cross the water to give you time to build the camp. Do it quickly though. There’s several thousand of us, yes, but there are a hell of a lot more of them.”
Fronto nodded.
“We’ll be ready as fast as we possibly can, Varus. Don’t do anything too brave and stupid, though. If you land in serious shit, regroup with the legions.”
Varus returned the nod.
“Good luck, gentlemen.”
“And to you.”
In a manner that ought to have been noted by those members of the legions distrustful of their newly-raised Gaulish brethren, the cavalry were arrayed as a loose mass of men, with the few regulars in Roman red mixed in among their Gallic auxiliary counterparts, as though they were considered equals.
Now, however, the cavalry commander gave a quick hand signal and his mounted cornicen blew out a series of calls and, like an organised sea of men and horses, the vast array of cavalry around the head of the tenth moved with intricate precision into their new formations. The auxilia became separate alae once more, with the sparse regular cavalry settling into smaller units between them. It was a spectacle to see, like the ridiculously expensive mechanical toys that Greek merchants sold in Rome.
Moments later, rather than a mass of horsemen gathered around the Tenth, three rows of tightly organised cavalry alae trotted ahead of the column. At a further signal, they broke into a run, leaving the bulk of the Roman force behind in a cloud of dust.
Just as Fronto and the officers of the Tenth crested the rise in view of the enemy and began the descent to the site chosen for the camp, Varus and his cavalry reached the water and splashed across it.
As reported by the scouts, the north bank of the river rose in a slope almost the mirror image of the one to the south, though a little higher and crowned with areas of woodland. At the top of the hill a few Nervii on horseback waited in one of the more open spaces and, as soon as Varus’ men hove into view, vanished over the crest.
The cavalry ploughed into the river, the water spraying high to the side of each man, churned and thrown by their hooves and soaking the whole force, and Belgae warriors appeared over the top of the hill. On the Roman cavalry splashed, reaching the far bank and climbing from the water quickly, reforming into units as soon as the ground allowed.
With yells of command from the officers, the cavalry charged once again in formation up the slope, more and more of the Nervii and their allies pouring forth over the crest and issuing from the areas of woodland across the summit.
With cries to a variety of Gods, the Romans and their auxiliary counterparts closed the distance to the enemy, Varus in his accustomed position at the front edge of the charge. He smiled. They may be brave, but the same mistakes were inevitable in every damn battle with every damn Celtic army. No discipline; no preparation. It all came down to the personal bravery and skill of each individual warrior. How could they ever hope to…
Varus’ thoughts came unstuck with terrifying suddenness as the Roman charge, sure of their prowess and their superiority, met with the hidden pit-traps carved in the side of the hill by the waiting Nervii in the preceding days and disguised with wicker screens covered in leaves and dry grass.