Good job, really, given how many of the bastards there were. Fronto glanced around at the situation and shook his head, then turned to Labienus.
“We’ve got it best, really. There’s more of them heading for the centre than here and the Twelfth’s on their own on the other wing. I just hope the wagons get settled in quickly so that the Thirteenth and Fourteenth can support us…”
His voice tailed off.
“The wagons.”
Labienus shrugged.
“They won’t be trying for the wagons. There’s no point at this stage.”
Fronto shook his head.
“I know, but there’s more. Look!”
He pointed to the higher end of the slope, where the wagons were arriving, now hurrying as fast as they could to get into position in the camp, safe behind the legions. Labienus followed his gaze and noticed with dismay further groups of Belgae beyond the camp’s defences, heading down toward the staging area where the wagons were gathering at the planned south gate of the camp. The number of warriors in that attack was smaller, but they were coming from both sides and converging on the wagons, which were undefended and behind the main fight.
“What the hell are they doing? The wagons are immaterial right now.”
Fronto shook his head more irritably.
Clever little sods aren’t after the wagons. They know that’s where the command party was. Blood good job you all split up among the legions. You’d all be dead before we could get to you.”
Labienus nodded, staring.
“How do they come up with such things? None of the other Belgae seem to have been half as prepared.”
Fronto growled.
“Galronus said the Atrebates, the Aduatuci and the Nervii were the ones to watch. He was bloody right.”
He frowned and rubbed his temple.
“Someone’s got to deal with them. Can you take command here? Lead the Tenth?”
Labienus nodded. “Of course, but what will you do?”
Fronto smiled.
“I’m going to take the Sixth Cohort only and go save the wagons and guard our rear.”
Labienus shrugged.
“Sounds dangerous, but good luck.”
Fronto grinned.
“Titus, we’re in the middle of a battle. Danger’s kind of the norm, don’t you think?”
He scoured the rear ranks of the Tenth and spotted their chief centurion.
“Lucretius? Call your cohort to order and follow me!”
The centurion, a veteran with snowy-white hair that made him look considerably older than he truly was, saluted, and began shouting orders to his subordinates. Moments later, he strode back from the assembling cohort.
“What’s up, sir?”
Fronto pointed up the hill to where the enemy were already now converged on the carts, which had come to a stop, the column being held up by the attack.
“Trouble with the wagons. We’re going to save the day, as usual, Lucretius.”
The centurion nodded and turned to his men.
“At the double-time, to the wagons! Prepare to charge on arrival!”
Fronto smiled and drew his sword. As the legionaries began to half-march, half-run towards the wagons, he fell in beside them. He and Lucretius picked up their pace to reach the front of the relief column as they ran. The centurion grinned at his commander.
“Did you know that the soldiers think you actually look for trouble to get involved in, sir?”
Fronto laughed.
“It’s not a long way from the truth, Lucretius.”
As they closed on the enemy, they could see in much more detail what was happening. Two columns, each of perhaps seven or eight hundred warriors, had broken cover after the main attack and made straight for where they assumed the staff officers to be. Having arrived, they had either discovered their error and decided to attack the wagons instead or, more likely, had not yet discovered, in the large staging area of wagons and riders, that the command unit were not present.
Next to Fronto, Lucretius bellowed “Attack!”
The cohort roared as they swept past the officers. Fronto was momentarily taken aback, expecting the traditional slowly advancing shield wall. But then, Lucretius was right. Adapting to the situation, a shield wall would be no good here as the warriors swarmed around and over the wagons, killing their drivers and the oxen drawing the vehicles.
Taking a deep breath and raising his shield protectively, Fronto shouted a quick prayer to Nemesis and, aiming for the nearest wagon’s assailants, ran forward.
There was no strategy to the attack. As men to both left and right struggled, the result was, for Fronto, a foregone conclusion. There were maybe fifteen hundred Belgae here, but there were five hundred Romans, and they were more disciplined and better equipped.
Fronto reached the wagon and saw a Nervian warrior with a spear thrusting up at the rider, who was squirming in his seat, trying to avoid the vicious point. The legate ran up behind the attacker and drove his gladius to the hilt in the man’s back just below the right shoulder blade. The body went limp and fell to one side. As it did, Fronto juggled his sword into his shield hand and grabbed the falling spear. With a grin, he passed it up to the wagon driver.
“Pick a few off!”
The man grasped the spear gratefully and began to thrust down with it into the warriors at the far side as Fronto returned his sword to the correct hand. There was a noise behind him, just a faint grunt, and pure instinct led the legate to duck to the left and spin. As he did so, the warrior that had been closing behind him thrust out his sword into the empty air where, a moment earlier, Fronto’s kidney had been.
The man lurched forward in surprise as his blow foundered, and Fronto stepped neatly in from the side and drove his blade into the man’s neck just at the base, above the man’s tunic. It took some effort to haul the sword back out of the man as he collapsed, dead instantly, his spinal cord severed.
Fronto glanced around. There were a number of men nearby who presented ready targets and were not currently occupied by the legionaries, who were working their way efficiently toward the wagons.
He lunged for the nearest man, obviously one of the wealthier warriors, for he could afford a helmet and was fully dressed in good quality clothes. The bearded barbarian took a stance that surprised Fronto, reminding him more of the crouch of a gladiator circling his opponent than a Celtic warrior in the midst of a pitch battle.
“Oh, come on!”
He stabbed at the warrior with his gladius and the man desperately turned the blow aside with his large, unwieldy Celtic blade. Fronto readied himself for a counter-attack and stared in astonishment as the warrior turned and fled among his own men.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked of nobody in particular.
The situation here was rapidly coming under control. The Nervii who had attacked the column of carts seemed to have lost heart and, as Fronto casually dispatched another warrior, they broke and ran; not from the field, but to join their comrades who were pressing the legions. Fronto looked up at the man on the cart who was wielding his spear with great relief.
“I presume you can handle things now?”
“Yes sir.”
Fronto nodded.
“Get all the wagons marshalled here and as soon as each one’s in position, get the drivers and staff armed and in position to protect them from any other attack.”
The soldier saluted.
“Oh,” Fronto added as an afterthought, “and send someone back past the train to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions and tell them to pick up the pace. Tell them we’ve engaged the Belgae and we’re in the shit. They need to join the Twelfth on the right flank as soon as they’re here, alright?”