Gritting his teeth he tried to locate all the cavalry standards. Much of the first wave had been destroyed by the pits and rolling logs. The latter, only two trees, had left a swathe of horrific destruction down either side of the hill before splashing into the water and floating off downstream. A sizeable group of the second wave have fallen foul of the rolling menace, but most of them and the third wave had escaped unharmed and were either milling round in confusion on the near bank or rallying to their standards to one flank or the other.
Varus glanced quickly at the line of Belgae. He wanted to call them Nervii, but they might not be. He couldn’t tell the difference between one Belgic tribe or another. Who could? The enemy were shouting taunts at the cavalry, but were holding their solid line. There was something expectant about the way they worked, almost as it they were about to leap into action some way. He had to do something about this. There was nothing he could do to save the wounded being calmly executed at the summit, but he had to do something.
Jogging down the hill, his mind still hazy and pained, he fixed on the dragon standard of Galronus of the Remi. Thank Mars… a familiar sight. He ran on and, as he approached, the auxiliary officer hauled on his reins to control his prancing mare.
“Sir?”
Varus coughed with the effort of his run.
“We need to do something; need to give Fronto time to get the fort built, and I want to see what the Nervii are up to behind that crest.”
Galronus nodded uncertainly.
“More traps yet? We attack, we die?”
Varus shook his head.
“They’ve used up their traps. If they had anything else, they’d have used it by now. They’re planning something and we can’t give them time to carry it out. Fronto’s got to get that camp built. Sound the rally. Get all surviving units back here and formed up. You!”
He gestured at the nearest regular cavalryman.
“Sir?”
“Go help Fronto with the camp. I need a horse.”
The man looked uncertain for a moment and then nodded, dismounting. As Varus vaulted into the saddle, the trooper ran back down the hill and waded into the water, relief now flooding over him that he wouldn’t have to try that ascent again.
As the cavalry units formed up on the call, Varus sat tall in his saddle.
“I know no one’s very keen to try that again, but we need to give the legions time to set up the defences. So… we’re going to charge, but we’re going to do it like this: Two columns, five riders across. The only place we know there aren’t pits are where the logs rolled down, so we’ll use those paths as a guide. We charge up those narrow corridors and then, once we’re ten yards from the enemy, separate out one horse width and allow the second row to filter in so that we become a ten-man front. Watch out for those spears though. They’re deadly with them. So hang your sword on the saddle horn and go in with your own spears. Anyone who’s no longer got their spear, take rear positions in the formation. Use the spears and try and pick them off without getting too close. Once we’ve taken down the front spearmen, you can draw your swords and go crazy. Alright?”
There was an affirmative shout around him. The atmosphere was aggressive. While nobody relished the thought of that charge once again, the general anger over the Roman losses was fuelling the need for revenge.
“But don’t get carried away. Listen out for the call from your cornicen. The fall back will be given either when Fronto gives the signal that he’s sorted or we are so deep in the shit we have to. Be heroes, but not suicidal ones.”
* * * * *
Fronto gave the cornicen a nod as the Tenth descended the slope to the river Selle. The engineers that had been sent out with the advance party of scouts had already placed poles with flags to mark the positions of the wall corners, along with the gates and, as the musician blew out the orders, the Tenth at the front of the column dispersed as they arrived on site and moved left to take position on the western perimeter where the professionalism of the Roman army took over. The engineers dropped their shield and pilum somewhere easily retrievable and began to mark out the edge of the rampart and ditch with string, while their assistants ran along the lines with groma setting new flags to mark drainage culverts and so on.
Even before the lines were measured, the ordinary soldiers collected their dolabra from their pack and began to dig the ditch in positions where they knew it to be without markings, and to pile the excavated earth behind on the line of the future rampart.
By the time the Eighth Legion began to arrive on the scene, the Tenth were already at work on the western ditch. At a second series of calls from Balbus’ command, the Eighth marched straight ahead and began to work on the northern line. More calls could be heard over the next few minutes as the other legions gradually arrived on the scene. The Ninth flanked Fronto on the western wall, curving round to the south. The Eleventh joined Balbus to deal with the north, the most important line, facing the enemy. Finally, the Twelfth appeared to deal with the eastern rampart.
The section toward the enemy would be completed first. By the time the baggage train and then the Thirteenth and Fourteenth arrived, most of the work would be complete.
Fronto watched for a while with a professional and marginally-interested eye. It was always fascinating in a way to watch engineers at work, no matter how many times you’d seen them do this before. But right here and right now, Fronto felt about as useful as a eunuch at a Bacchanalia. A legate’s duty was to set the overall orders for his legion. Once it came down to carrying out those orders, the centurionate took over and all he had to do was stand around and look pretty. Well he knew he didn’t look particularly pretty, so it was time to find something useful to do.
He turned to Labienus, who was examining the ground across the site.
“Can you take charge here?”
“Take charge of what?” laughed the staff officer. “I’m about as important as you right now.”
Smiling, Fronto turned and strode out toward the water, ahead of the works. Assuming things were proceeding according to plan, he’d concentrated on the Tenth and had barely glanced across the river. Now though…
“Oh shit!”
He turned and pushed his way back past the surprised legionaries, hacking away at the ground and already making their mark, a foot-deep, three foot wide trench opening up along the northern and western lines. He spotted Labienus and Brutus deep in conversation.
“Varus has hit trouble!”
The two men turned and squinted past the works. The slope was too gentle for them to easily see over the heads of hundreds of working legionaries.
“Can’t see. What’s happened?”
“He’s in the deepest of shit.”
Brutus frowned.
“Do we mobilise the legions?”
“No.” Fronto frowned. “We need to get the camp built as soon as possible. I’ll deal with it.”
Running along the line of the ditch past surprised legionaries, he finally spotted what he was looking for: a whole group of white-garbed men standing around, looking bored. The auxiliaries had no place in the construction of a camp and were in position on the periphery, not on guard so much as keeping out of the way.
“You!”
Fronto ran up to the nearest man, a Numidian archer.
“Sir?” the man replied in heavy-accented Latin.
“Go and tell every auxiliary archer officer you can find that legate Fronto needs them down by the water.”
The man looked nonplussed for a moment and then saluted, turned, and ran off. Scanning the group, the legate spotted prefect Galeo tapping his fingers on his sword hilt irritably.
“Bored, Galeo?”
The prefect turned and smiled when he saw Fronto. He opened his mouth to reply, but Fronto beckoned.
“Got a job for your lads. Come with me.”