* * * * *
Quintus Atius Varus, Caesar’s commander of cavalry, cursed as he rallied the small force at his command. Had they been expecting trouble, he would have brought the entire cavalry force to the south, instead of a mere thousand, but horsemen were of little use in sieges, so he had been lax.
It seemed the enemy horse numbered perhaps four times their own, without the many thousands of infantry that would be close behind, on the assumption this was Vercingetorix’s van. The enemy had descended the slope with clear purpose, making straight for the commanders where they stood at the end of the southern bridge.
By the time the legions had managed to put out blasts on the instruments and wave the standards, centurions’ whistles piercing the air, the enemy horsemen were already half way to the command party. The ranks of the Tenth — the closest legion — managed with impressive speed and efficiency to turn and form up into the contra equitas, the front rank kneeling and pressing into their wall of interlocking shields, their pila poking out through the gaps to form a hedge that horses would be reluctant to approach, the second rank angling their shields at a slope above the first, adding their own pila to the mass.
Thank Minerva and Mars someone in the Tenth’s rear ranks had their head screwed on and had avoided the urge to panic and scatter the formation. His quickly-called and even quicker-executed command not only saved the Tenth from a brutal cavalry charge, but was likely the only thing that had prevented the enemy from reaching the staff officers beyond them.
But now the enemy horse were turning away from the dreadful wall of javelins and shields and bringing their attention to bear on Varus and his men, who were racing to engage them. Four to one, unless the legions were committed, which Varus thought to be unlikely. Caesar would not give that order, for it would effectively free Novioduno from danger. Indeed, even now, at least a cohort of the Tenth and Twelfth was moving across the bridge to take and hold the town gates, which seemed to be half closed.
Besides, the enemy were all cavalry and could outpace the legions if they so wished.
A fresh horn blast rang across the plain and Varus frowned. It was a Roman cavalry call for a charge and had come from the far side of the field. He craned his neck to see over the advancing Gauls, but could not identify the source of the Roman command.
‘Here we go, lads. No heroics. Try and stay out of too much danger.’
The two cavalry forces met like a tide smashing into a harbour wall, pieces of armour, broken spearheads, blood, mud and sweat thrown into the air like spume. The immediate clash was carnage and Varus found himself an almost immediate victim. As he slashed down again and again with his Gallic-style long-and-broad sword, smashing his shield into another man with wild abandon, a stray spear point drove into his steed’s neck and his horse went down with a scream, dragging him into the mess of thrashing hooves and dying beasts, thrown bodies from both sides and blood and mud mixed together.
As he fell, he managed with the practiced ease of the veteran cavalryman to extricate himself from the saddle so as not to become trapped under the dying horse. He tried to stay close to the animal’s front, avoiding the flailing, kicking rear legs, but the press was too tight to do anything other than pray to Mars and Minerva — and Epona, the native horse goddess he had recently added to his devotions — that he would not be crushed in the chaos. Something struck his shield and he fell back over his thrashing horse, a flailing hoof smashing his shield to pieces and leaving him clutching a ragged plank with sheared bronze edging. He rose and cast it aside but before he could turn, he was struck by a horse’s shoulder point and thrown back again.
He was starting to consider himself lost when an opportunity presented itself. Somehow, in the press as he turned, he found himself staring at a riderless horse, its back covered with a Gallic blanket and a saddle not dissimilar to his own. The horse milled aimlessly, unable to do anything in the crush, and by way of an explanation of its availability, the reins hung to one side, weighed down by the severed hand that still gripped them.
With speed born of desperation, Varus pried the dead fingers from the leather and hauled himself up into the saddle, settling easily between the four leather horns. His lifetime’s experience with horses immediately told him how exhausted this animal was. The beast was close to collapse. It must have been ridden hard for some time before they had joined battle.
A slow smile spread across his face.
‘Give ‘em hell, lads!’ he bellowed above the chaos. ‘Their horses are shattered! And they’re alone.’ For that was the clear conclusion. If they had been the vanguard of Vercingetorix’s army, they would be fresh and ready. That they were this tired meant they had not travelled along with infantry, but run fast. They were a solitary force, and they should by rights have fled and not engaged the Romans. Their commander must have seen the exposed command unit and decided it was worth the chance. Thank the gods the Tenth’s officers had been quick to move to defensive formation.
Unable to tell what was going on beyond the immediate press, Varus drew his dagger with his left hand and began to go to work, his sword slashing out wide and down as he lanced out sharply with the pugio any time he saw flesh come close.
Of course, he could not distinguish friend from foe, given the fact that nine tenths of his own force consisted of native levies, but there was a four to one chance of any Gaul he stuck being an enemy, and in the circumstances he could not spend time shouting challenges with every blow.
‘Varus!’
He looked up and craned his neck to see the source of the call, but was suddenly forced back again as he had to deflect a blow from a snarling Gaul. Sparks flared from the blades as they raked down one another, each tiny flash a fragment of steel cut from the edge. The Gaul’s face moved from haughty anger to surprise as he registered Varus’ dagger pushing through his mail, puncturing leather, flesh and kidney in short order.
The shocked Gaul sagged back in his saddle, his sword flapping wildly, and Varus was surprised — and somewhat grateful — to see the serious face of Aulus Ingenuus, Caesar’s praetorian commander, behind the slumped man.
‘They’re breaking,’ Ingenuus bellowed, as he jabbed his blade into a Gaul and drew it back and across, using the edge as it came up to carve a deep line across the enemy’s face.
‘They’re tired,’ Varus yelled back. ‘They’re alone. No infantry!’
Ingenuus gave a rare smile as he registered the meaning of that. He turned to the man behind him, casually batting aside an opportunistic blow from a random horseman. ‘Sound the call for the Germans.’
The trooper reached for the horn hanging on a leather baldric around his middle and blew a short melody of ten notes, repeating it swiftly. Varus grinned. Though as yet untried in combat, all the army’s cavalry commanders knew of the thousand strong horse unit formed of hired Cherusci from across the Rhenus that had been recruited the previous autumn and had trained for the winter under Quadratus and two of the Praetorian officers. Rumour held that they were like ancient horse-borne titans, afeared of nothing save failure.
Varus laughed as he heard an answering blast, and swung his sword once more, dealing havoc in the press.
* * * * *
Lucterius felt his failure like a hammer blow to the chest.
He had ridden as hard as he could for the command party. Had his men and their beasts been fresh, he might well have taken them and killed Caesar on the spot, but the three and a half thousand Cadurci were exhausted from their ride, and by the time they were close enough to engage, the legions, who had recovered themselves so much faster than Lucterius had believed possible, had formed a wall of shields, bristling with spears that denied any chance of the cavalry breaking them.