“Oh hell, no!”
The legions were clearly aware of the danger and were already grasping weapons and dropping their entrenching equipment, but that wouldn’t save them. Already the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth were getting into position where they had been working, but the Eleventh and Twelfth were a different matter, and had only just begun their work.
Beyond them, the lines of wagons were slowly appearing over the crest of the hill and somewhere far behind them were the other two legions.
But what filled him with dread was the sight of other huge groups of Belgae rushing out of the trees to either side of the camp; trees that had been swept only a few hours ago by scouts and deemed impossible to hide men in due to the deep undergrowth.
Either the scouts had been horribly mistaken or the Belgae had worked damn quick.
Varus smashed his fist on his pommel in anguish. He was being ignored by the attackers pouring down the hill between him and the river. He and his few remaining companions presented no great threat, but that huge charging force of Belgae now stood between him and the rest of the army.
Chapter 15
(Construction site by the river Selle)
“ Corona: Lit: ‘Crowns’. Awards given to military officers. The Corona Muralis and Castrensis were awards for storming enemy walls, while the Aurea was for an outstanding single combat.”
Publius Sextius Baculus, veteran of four great campaigns, recipient of the corona castrensis, the corona aurea and the corona muralis and Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, spat on the floor and lifted his vine staff, bringing it down on the back of the legionary’s legs, hard enough to leave a stinging pain but no damage. The centurion smiled grimly. The lad should be grateful he didn’t use the other arm; there was a dolabra in that one!
“Every rock you drop slows the camp down, so every rock you drop gets you another belt!”
The legionary bit his tongue to prevent himself yelping, saluted hurriedly and collected the large fallen rock. Baculus, never entirely trusting any other man to do the job correctly, had taken charge of the procurement party from the Twelfth himself.
A century of men, his century no less, had split off as soon as they arrived on site and left the rest of the legion digging and heaving sods of earth, while they moved hurriedly to the eaves of the nearby woodland to collect supplies.
Fifty or sixty of his men, under the control of his optio, had begun cutting poles and stakes to supplement those that would be arriving in the wagons shortly; were probably being unloaded as he pondered, in fact. He could see pairs of men now, carrying heavy lengths of timber between them and heading back towards the camp.
The rest were gathering rocks the size of a man’s head and piling them up on shields to carry back. The rocks would be utilised to line drainage culverts in the rampart and various other sundry uses.
He smiled again. Last time they’d made camp, he’d left the job to one of his junior centurions and they’d brought back what looked like saplings and gravel. Never delegate something important, as he always said.
He scanned the woodland and nodded with satisfaction as he saw men carrying boulders back toward the heaps nearby.
A flicker of movement caught his eye as he turned. He squinted into the woodland. There is was again. Just a little flash of movement back in the woods. No one would make anything of it. It could easily be an owl disturbed by the work; but Baculus had survived on the front line of more battles than he cared to remember and this was something wrong. Without waiting to confirm his suspicion, he swept his vine stick, cleared his throat and bellowed: “To arms! Rally to me!”
Around the eaves of the woods, the men of the Twelfth, drilled almost obsessively under Galba’s command the preceding winter, reacted with perfect military precision. There was no panic; no shout of alarm. The men merely dropped the timber and rocks they were carrying and pushed their way through the woodland to get back to their centurion. Baculus nodded with satisfaction and, as his men began to congregate around him, squinted into the woods once more. This time he could see several signs of movement. And they were getting nearer. Blue. Blue meant Celts. Blue trousers… blue skin.
“Form up on me!”
He spotted the men coming out of the woods and did a rough head count. He could see around fifty or more men. Given that the century had been under strength for most of the year, he wasn’t missing many of his men.
”Can’t wait around for dawdlers, lads. As soon as everyone you can see is here and armed, we fall back to the legion; slowly and calmly, like… there’s rabbit holes and all sorts around here and one man falling could end it for all of us.”
“What is it, sir?” a legionary asked. “I can’t see anything.”
“Belgae, lad. And lots of ‘em. Back in the woods, but getting closer.”
He glanced around at his men. The last stragglers, being hurried along by his optio, arrived and collected their swords and shields, tipping the piles of rocks off and to the ground.
“Fall back at a slow march!”
The First Century of the Twelfth Legion formed up in solid military fashion, and began to step slowly back toward the defences, a couple of hundred yards behind. As they passed from under the last foliage and out into the open, the first of the Nervii burst forth from the deep woodland. Behind him, Baculus could hear the cries to arms going up around the camp. It could be that the Twelfth had seen the century in full kit backing away from the trees, but it was much more likely, given that a large group of Belgae were rushing forward from these woods, that there were many more around the battlefield. This could be trouble.
As they moved carefully back across the open ground, a veritable sea of Celtic warriors poured forth from the woods.
“Double pace now, lads.”
As the unit backed rapidly across the open ground, Baculus risked a moment to glance around and take in the entire situation. They would make it to the lines before the Nervii reached them, but only just. There must be thousands upon thousands of the bastards in these woods, so the camp construction would have to be abandoned. They couldn’t hope for relief from the two Gaulish legions either… they wouldn’t get here for a while yet. There’d be no help from the other four legions or the cavalry either. From his good position on the slope, Baculus could see the enemy pouring out of the woods opposite where they’d keep Priscus and Grattius’ legions busy. And the cavalry had gone. There were thousands more barbarians pouring down that slope to cross the river and keep the other two legions busy. The Twelfth were screwed; on their own.
A momentary glance and he realised that one of the larger groups of Nervii were making for the near end of the baggage train as they were being settled at the top end of the incomplete camp. Nothing he could do about that. Have to leave that to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth when they arrived and hope there was some baggage left.
The Twelfth had re-armed, but the units had become shuffled and mixed as the men had worked hurriedly, taking any position where a task needed to be done. Now they were rushing around trying to locate the standards of their unit in the mass of men. Baculus growled and took a deep breath, bellowing loud enough to be heard all along the rampart.
“Forget finding your own units. Fall in to the nearest standard and form up!”
On the embankment, he heard legate Galba echoing the command to the men. Not a bad leader, the legate. A bit fanciful, as they all were, but sensible and with enough brains to defer to his centurions when need be. He was grateful, as the First Century finally neared the Roman line, with thousands of screaming Nervii hot on their track, that the legate had had enough foresight to open up a space in the lines for Baculus and his men to fall into.