From that point, Lucterius knew that he had failed in both his prime and secondary objectives. He had not reached Novioduno fast enough to provide extra strength, for Caesar somehow moved at unbelievable speeds across the land and, thwarted in that goal, he had then failed also to deliver a dreadful blow to their commanders.
He had almost sounded the retreat then, but one last chance to pull something from the disaster had presented itself. The legions had remained in position, not moving to intercept. He had realised then that he was only faced with the Romans’ cavalry contingent, who were at poor four-to-one odds. And so he had turned his Cadurci from the solid legion lines and taken them against the horsemen. Their levels of success had been difficult to judge, given the fact that most of the Roman force consisted of levies from the tribes anyway, but it had appeared to be going heavily their way for a short time.
Then, however, his men had started to flag, their reserves of strength used up, their adrenaline from the attack exhausted. He had been struggling against the urge to call his men off when the decision had been made easy for him. As if from nowhere, several hundred more horsemen had arrived — this time the rare Roman regular cavalry, well-armed and well-trained, fresh and calm. Their effect on the tired Cadurci had been dreadful and in only moments before his very eyes, Lucterius had watched the tide of battle begin to flow the other way.
He had waved at his standard bearer, who also carried a small horn to sound commands, but the man’s head had been split neatly in half even as he turned to answer, so the retreat went unsounded. Then, when it had looked as though matters could get no worse, another call had gone up, and a third horse unit had thundered across the field, on its way to engage.
Lucterius had been astonished to hear Germanic battle cries emanating from the new unit, though they were as well-equipped and armed as any horseman he had ever met, bearing the best steel and mail Roman armourers could provide.
They had hit his Cadurci like a hammer on a block of soft butter. It had been simply astonishing. Lucterius had watched in horror as his cousin — a commander in his own right — had his head severed with three blows, at which the German had paused in his advance to tie the grisly prize to his saddle horn by the hair, tendrils hanging from the neck and blood pouring down his leg and the flank of the horse.
There was utter chaos. No chance to call the retreat. No music. No standards. Just Latin and Germanic voices raised in bloody triumph and the sound of his Cadurci shrieking and gurgling their last. And he had taken the only option left open.
He had dispatched the man who was trying to kill him, wheeled his horse, and raced for the hill and for freedom. He knew that he could only keep this pace for half a mile at most before his horse collapsed, but that would have to be enough. The Romans would not venture too far from their army and the captive oppidum.
He never looked back as he ran from the disaster.
He had reached the edge of a wide swathe of woodland which would grant them hope of safety when his horse stumbled to a halt and he dismounted in an attempt to save it from collapse. Only then did he pause to take stock.
Those who’d had the chance had followed him from the fight, but they looked all too few.
He had taken three and a half thousand cavalry against the Romans and he was now returning to Vercingetorix and the army with only tidings of failure, supported by considerably less than a thousand of his tribesmen.
Twice now, Caesar had bested him.
If Vercingetorix ever trusted him with a command again, he would make damn sure it did not happen a third time.
* * * * *
Fronto climbed up onto the low walkway behind the palisade fence, which afforded him a meagre view of what was going on over the river to the south. While the fine detail of what was happening eluded him, one thing was clear: Rome had won the bout. A rag-tag force of broken cavalry fled over the rise to the south. Fronto watched as the insane German horse — who had only been champing at the bit for a little action these past few engagements and had finally been committed — raced after the fleeing enemy, cutting them down and turning them into grisly ornaments as they ran, until finally the calls, cries, whistles and mad waving of standards drew them back.
Things had been going reasonably easy in the oppidum also. Somehow, despite being outnumbered, an optio who deserved a field promotion had managed to take the gates from the natives who had tried to close them, and had held them until a combined force of the Tenth and the Twelfth, led by Fronto and the other legion’s veteran primus pilus, Baculus, had crossed the bridge and secured the oppidum.
His own senior centurion, Carbo, had managed to secure a large arms cache in a nearby building, and with only ten men had managed to defend the house and prevent the arming of half the tribe in short order.
Nearby, Atenos sat on a low wall, blood trickling from both ears, his face grey and his eyes unfocused as a capsarius checked him over for damage. There was a bruise the size of an apple on the centurion's temple where his helmet had been dented inwards by a blow, and the medic was carefully peeling off a mail shirt and cutting away a tunic to show a shoulder that was already purpling all over. Atenos was always in the thick of it, yet consistently escaped unscathed. Still, the capsarius was working steadily and showing no sign of overt alarm, so Fronto was confident that the powerful officer had suffered nothing life-threatening.
Two legionaries emerged from a side alley, dragging a wounded local between them. Fronto narrowed his eyes at the man’s attire and was fairly sure that the man was one of the nobles who had negotiated the initial surrender. He looked broken and hopeless.
And well he should.
‘Poor judgement, that attempt to shut us back out,’ he said quietly, smiling unpleasantly at the noble. ‘Sadly, you have now forfeited all rights to negotiation. Here are my new terms, delivered on behalf of Caesar.’
He straightened and folded his arms.
‘Everyone in Novioduno will now surrender themselves to the legions. You will all be roped in a slave convoy and escorted by armed column to Agedincum, whence you will be taken to Rome. Anyone who has not left the oppidum within half an hour will be considered to have refused my terms and will find themselves at the tender mercies of the legionaries as they search the town. Be sure that, though the Tenth are honourable soldiers in war, they will not be under any command restriction then, and the fate of anyone they find will make slavery look truly desirable. Am I understood?’
The nobleman opened his mouth to bluster, but sagged with the realisation of utter hopelessness, and simply nodded.
‘Go and tell your townsfolk. And remember: half an hour.’
‘It is almost as though you read my mind, Marcus,’ said a quiet voice from behind, and Fronto turned to see Caesar, Priscus and Marcus Antonius standing together.
‘Do we leave the place, or reduce it, general?’
Caesar opened his mouth to reply, but turned at a groan to see Atenos struggling to stand upright and salute, despite the fact that he was clearly still barely-conscious and unbalanced and the capsarius was trying to hold him down.
’For the love of Mars, centurion, stay seated.’ As Atenos sagged again with relief, Caesar turned to Fronto. ‘Level the place and burn the ruins. I do not want it usable by the Bituriges after this. I will not allow an enemy to fortify behind us. And now that we know the Bituriges are definitely with the rebels, I will not delay in moving against Avaricon.’ He breathed in the afternoon’s chill air and stretched. ‘Time to remove the Bituriges from the game entirely before we move on Vercingetorix and his army.’
* * * * *