Varus ripped his blade back out and looked around. The press of men around him was nightmarish, and made all the more so by the fact that the auxiliaries were almost indistinguishable from the enemy. He concentrated. All the native levies in his force had been issued with blue scarves to allow for easy identification following the debacle at Gergovia with the Aedui cavalry. Selecting a man without said apparel, he heaved his steed further into the press, scything down with his sword and catching the man’s shield, ripping a corner from it.
Around him men from both sides were cleaved and impaled, a fine spray of blood almost constantly filling the air along with the screaming and the sweating of both man and beast. As he delivered a second blow, crippling the shield and leaving the man defenceless, another blue-scarfed cavalryman drove a long Gallic blade into the Gaul. Varus looked about again, forced to jerk his reins to move aside as a particularly large horse now devoid of rider and with mad, rolling eyes, pushed its way through the panic, seeking freedom.
There was a scream, and the auxiliary who had just helped him suddenly disappeared from his own saddle accompanied by a jet of blood, leaving only another panicked horse. Varus had no time and no room to do anything about it, his own steed’s hooves stamping down on the fallen soldier, finishing him off.
The situation was already looking precarious. It was hard to get a true picture of the way things were going from within the press, but already, the vast majority of the figures he could see wore no scarf. Had his own men ripped theirs off and joined the enemy, or had they just been fought back?
A strange, gurgling tune reached his ears from somewhere behind them, and it took a moment for Varus to register the meaning of the noise as his sword took another enemy rider in the neck, wrenched back in a crimson fountain.
‘Oh, shit.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos pushed his steed forward through the press, trying to reach the Roman officer who had been seemingly untouchable so far, three of his victims fallen beneath the press. From the crest of the hill, the Arvernian noble had seen the almost choreographed way in which, at the sight of the enemy, the legions had formed into an anti-cavalry wall and surrounded the wagons, from which they could receive extra supplies of weapons or ammunition as required. The Roman horse — mostly drawn from the local tribes apparently — had wasted no time in countering the attack and, though the numbers seemed already to be swinging further and further into the rebels’ favour, the infantry would be a tough nut if they managed to break the horse. But then they didn’t really need to crack that nut. If they could destroy Caesar’s cavalry, they could keep the legions pinned down and unable to move until the rest of the army arrived.
If I can take their commander down, they’ll lose heart.
Cavarinos smashed a man in a blue scarf out of the way with his bronze shield boss and heaved on towards the officer in the press. He was closing on the man when an awful gargling noise rang out across the valley from twisted Germanic horns. With a sinking feeling, the Arvernian rose in his saddle to try and see over the heads of those in front.
Another force of horsemen was hurtling across the grass towards the fight. He couldn’t quite make out the details. There were quite a few of them, and kitted out as Roman cavalry, but the curses and oaths they yelled at the sky were in the Germanic tongue. His memory dredged up a tale Lucterius had told of the German cavalry who had saved Caesar’s army before the walls of Novioduno in the north. Savages. Head-takers. And trained and equipped by the Romans.
Ignoring this unpleasant revelation, he pushed on towards the officer, who was now also heaving his way forwards. Something about the look of urgency in the man’s face as he pushed deeper into the enemy suggested that his resolve was at least as much to be safe from the Germans behind him as to take the fight to the rebels ahead.
The officer was close now. Cavarinos was forced to delay his approach as a man with a good Gallic moustache and braid tried to remove his head with a long sword. Three parries — two with his shield and one with his blade — and the Arvernian nobleman managed to slam his sword into the man’s helmetless face, the blade driving in through the nasal cavity with agonising grating and shudders. By the time he ripped it back out with some difficulty, the Roman was even closer, but was being forced to parry a series of heavy blows from an Aeduan rebel.
And then they were face to face. The Roman was not a young man, with patches of grey visible beneath his helmet brim and colouring the five-day growth upon his chin. But his high cheekbones and ice blue eyes were noble and intelligent. The man nodded, barely perceptibly, as though acknowledging the nobility of his opponent, and raised a battered and dented shield, ready to take Cavarinos’ blow, his sword coming up ready to retaliate.
Cavarinos had not led this attack. That honour had gone to Eporedirix, who had insisted on his own command. He’d not directed the attack, but he would bring it to a close by finishing the enemy cavalry’s commander.
The Arvernian noble raised his own blade to strike.
Whatever it was that struck Cavarinos from the left felt like the hammer of the god Sucellos. It was heavy enough and swung with enough power that it actually turned his helmet slightly around his head, giving him only peripheral sight. Not that that really mattered, since the ringing of the blow on his helmet and the dent that drove bronze into his skull thoroughly scattered his wits, almost knocking him unconscious.
He felt himself falling from the saddle, bouncing between two rippling, sweating horses and to the churned mud beneath. His few conscious thoughts still threading together helpfully told him that he was a dead man. On the ground here, he stood precious little chance. He was past caring.
Blackness enveloped him
* * * * *
Cavarinos opened his eyes slowly, blinking with the pain that struck him in repeated, nauseating waves. His head was pounding, and his neck seemed stiff and unable to turn far to the left. One eye felt difficult to pry open further than a crack. But as he lay there, still groggy, he ran his hand across his chest and neck and down to his groin. Nothing seemed critical. Flexing his toes and fingers, he tried to move his limbs. Everything still seemed to work.
‘You’re alive, then,’ called a familiar voice. He blinked again, trying to focus. The figure of Eporedirix leaned against a heavy wicker fence, surrounded by a multitude of dejected tribes folk, many sporting visible wounds. He could see the tips of Roman spears beyond the fence. Captivity, then. Better than death, at least. Well… probably.
‘What happened?’ he managed through the thick saliva of sickness.
The Aeduan noble wandered over, through a large crowd of captives, all unarmed and disconsolate, and crouched next to him, nursing a bloody shoulder.
‘Disaster. Some of ours didn’t seem to have the heart to fight their countrymen, but those fighting for the Romans had no compunction about killing ours. And there was confusion. I think a lot of our men were killing each other, mistaking them for the enemy. Things were getting difficult even before the Germans hit us. They were animals, Cavarinos. I saw one of them take a bite out of my signaller’s neck. I kid you not. He just leaned in, sank his teeth into the man and tore out half of his neck. It was sickening.’