‘They’re about to charge.’
Quadratus frowned, even as the enemy erupted with a roar and the mass of Gallic horse burst forth, picking up speed as they raced towards the Romans. Varus half smiled. Predictable. They had hoped to catch the Romans while they were still crossing the Brennus, their forces split between two banks. But they would only exhibit such confidence and strength while they believed the Romans to be unprepared. Not confidence, in fact… overconfidence.
‘Sound the charge,’ Varus shouted.
Quadratus frowned. ‘We’re still divided, sir.’
‘Yes. And they think that’ll make us nervous and weak. We need to keep them off guard. If we hit them, they’ll break, so sound the charge.’
The musician blew the call, which was picked up by the various tuba-bearers among the cavalry, and the force started to move forward. Varus allowed his horse to hesitate for a moment, letting the force catch up so that he fell into the perfect straight line with the foremost attackers rather than running ahead. Quadratus had done the same and was now several places to his left as the cavalry launched forth, bypassing the trot and moving from a walk to a canter and then into a gallop at the simple calls from a tuba bearer. The two large forces thundered towards one another, a large part of the Roman cavalry still crossing the river behind and then racing along to catch up with their compatriots, the rebels moving like a tidal wave of muscle and sinew.
Varus clenched his teeth and allowed himself to rise and fall with his horse’s gait, observing the oncoming horsemen with a professional eye. The Gauls knew their Roman opposition well. There was at least an even chance of them breaking, he figured, when faced with unstoppable Rome. That had been why the Gauls rushed their attack while the Romans were crossing — they had not wanted to allow the Romans time to lead a charge of their own.
As he rode, ripping his sword from its scabbard, Varus threw up three quick prayers to Epona, Mars and Fortuna that he had it right. Around him, the horsemen couched their spears for the clash, bringing their shields to face the enemy.
And then the centre of the Gallic line began to fold inwards.
Varus grinned. That was it: the Gaulish horse had caved under the Roman onslaught before they’d even met, just as he’d hoped. Not all of them, mind. He had to give them credit for that. Much of the enemy left wing was intact, and only perhaps half the right had run. Those who had stopped, however, were now turning tail and racing back towards their original position, and perhaps the slopes beyond, where the infantry awaited. If they thought to lead the Romans into the infantry, they would be sadly disappointed, of course. Varus’ men were disciplined and knew what to do. They would break the force and harry them as they fled, but would stop short of the reserves on the hill and then move back to re-form.
The musicians were still periodically blowing the call to charge, and Varus found himself among a large number of Roman cavalry racing close to the heels of the retreating Gauls. He almost whooped with elation as the first of the fleeing enemy arched his back and screamed, the point of a Roman spear slamming through mail, flesh and ribs and into the soft cavity within. The rout would now turn to a slaughter.
In a heartbeat it all changed.
Suddenly, with an efficiency more Roman than Gallic, the retreating Gallic horsemen pulled into narrow lines as they rode in columns through gaps in the force waiting behind them. Varus had no time to shout a warning.
As the enemy horsemen retreated in those narrow columns, their disappearance revealed what had been waiting behind: walls of Gallic spearmen in a passable Roman contra-equitas formation, shields lined up in angled walls to guard against the Roman spears, while their own points jutted out like a deadly hedgepig.
The more enthusiastic of the Roman horsemen slammed into the Gallic infantry, unable to slow due to their elated momentum. Horses reared and screamed, kicking out as they hit the mass of men, bashing gaps in the shield-wall but suffering impalement for both horses and riders all along the bristling hedge of iron points.
The musician was calling the charge to a halt now, at Quadratus’ urgent command.
But it wasn’t over. As the twenty or so Roman horses who had fallen to the contra-equitas flailed and thrashed in agony, the noise of the wounded and dying seemingly filling the air to capacity, row upon row of Gallic archers rose behind the shield-walls and even as they stood, released a cloud of arrows up and over their kin into the Roman ranks. Varus looked this way and that and everywhere his gaze fell, men and horses were dying.
‘Sound the order to fall back,’ he bellowed, and his musician lifted the tuba to his lips just as an arrow thudded into his face, throwing him back in his saddle, dead almost instantly, the instrument falling from spasming fingers. Wrenching his head round in desperation, Varus looked for another musician. How had this happened? Such tactics were unheard of among the Gallic tribes. Then again, plenty of them had spent a season or two fighting among the Roman forces and there would undoubtedly be quick learners among them. But someone in command over there was astute and knew exactly what to expect from the Romans. Outmanoeuvred by a Gaul!
His eyes fell upon another man with a tuba and he bellowed again the order to fall back. This musician took up the call and Quadratus appeared from somewhere unseen, clutching the flights of an arrow that had driven straight through his upper arm, the tip dripping crimson onto his elbow.
‘Where do we re-form?’ the wounded officer hissed through clenched teeth.
Varus heaved in a deep breath. ‘At the river. We can form a healthy line there with the rest of the men, and the bastards can’t spring any more surprises like that on us.’
As if to underline that comment, a second volley of arrows arced up into the air, and the two officers kicked their steeds to speed, racing back east along with their men. Around them, more and more Romans and auxiliaries fell, panicked riderless horses milling this way and that in the chaos, trampling the fallen wounded.
Even as the Roman lines pulled away from the enemy, leaving far too many dead and wounded for comfort, the enemy cavalry came forth again, forming up in the wake of the Roman flight, finishing off those wounded who lay scattered around the ground.
‘They’re coming again any moment,’ Varus shouted, and Quadratus looked over his shoulder, wincing at the pain in his impaled arm as he did so. Sure enough, the enemy were almost in position.
As they neared the river once more, the concentration of Roman cavalry increased exponentially. The entire force would now be across on this bank, and already the musicians were forming up the ranks with calls from their individual commanders. Behind him, Varus could hear the low rumble of the now-pursuing Gallic horse but above that, new sounds caught his attention.
From across the river at the fortifications came the distinctive sounds of battle. The thud and clatter of artillery mixed with the booing calls of the cornicen and the whistles of centurions, all above the rattle and crash and murmur of men fighting. Something was happening there too, then.
Varus turned his horse and lined up with the rest. Next to him, Quadratus took his reins between his teeth and reached around with his right hand, snapping off the arrow close to the skin. Shaking and sweating, he grasped the other side of the shaft, behind the head.
‘Don’t pull it out. You’ll bleed too quickly.’
‘And if I don’t I’ll be too hampered to fight,’ Quadratus said, muffled around the leather reins. Clenching once more, he pulled the arrow free with an unpleasant sucking sound and cast it to the grass. Varus edged his steed closer and undid the pin at his throat, pulling his scarf free and wrapping it around the man’s wounded arm several times and tying it off.