That had left the plain which, at almost three miles in length, was good ground for cavalry, and a little careful observation had easily picked out the weakest point. Here at the centre, perhaps two cohorts of men worked at digging a trench, the bulk of the forces concentrating on the main camp to the north end of the plain and the area below it.
The hooves of the seven hundred beasts conveying his force thundered down the lowest slopes, every man keeping their silence. It seemed odd, at least for the Cadurci among them, to be riding into a fight without their traditional whooping war cries, but their hope of overcoming the encircling forces relied as much on surprise as it did on strength. They had lost only a dozen or so men on the horrific, helter-skelter plunge down the steep hillside. Maybe a score. Astounding, really, considering the terrain in the dark.
Ahead, on the plain, the legions were now beginning to spot something happening. The odd native horsemen stationed around the place as scouts had noticed the force sweeping down the slope towards them. A horn blew to warn the Romans. Too late, thought Lucterius with a savage grin.
His horse was the first to reach the enemy, as was appropriate for a respected war leader, and his steed easily leapt the four foot ditch and the panicked legionary busy with his pick, tearing out chunks to deepen the defences. The mound behind it, made with the spoil from the ditch, was no more than three feet high yet — nowhere near enough to deter Lucterius’ forces.
His arm came out and back while his horse jumped and he swept it forward as a legionary rose from his digging, trying to present his tool as a defensive weapon to parry the blow. The long blade, its edge honed sharp for just such cavalry manoeuvres where thrusting was useless and backed by immense momentum, carved straight through the man’s arm as though it were naught more than butter, on and into his neck, where it bit deep, severing arteries and muscles and tendons. He felt the familiar tug as the dying body clung on to the blade wedged in it, but with a twist of the elbow, Lucterius changed his sword’s angle and it ripped out, already held to the rear and ready to sweep for another kill.
The Cadurci chieftain realised he was laughing maniacally, and had to force himself to remember that this was not a cavalry charge into battle. He was not here to maim and kill Romans. He was here to make it to freedom and carry the urgent request for reinforcements. His men seemed to be suffering a similar urge to kill. The first few men who had touched turf behind the defences alongside him had actually reined in their beasts and were busy laying about them with their blades, cutting down exhausted Romans.
More were arriving in the oppressive darkness and taking to the battle with glee.
There were so few enemies here really — just a few tired engineers building a wall. Perhaps he could allow his men the freedom to spend their time killing Romans for a few moments before they made for the south-western horizon?
No. This was no time to indulge their whims. Time now to get the Arvernian king’s message to the gathering at Bibracte. The army was relying on them, and Lucterius was once more a respected figure among them. He would not risk failure and ignominy again.
Turning, he spotted his standards — two men bearing the boar and the dragon — and near them the man with the horn on a strap round his neck. ‘Sound the signal to move out. This is not a fight, but a break out.’
As the three men did so Lucterius defied his own orders, aware that it would take a number of heartbeats yet for his entire force to cross the ditch and rampart, and devoting the time as he watched them jump down onto the flat turf to unleashing his fury upon the poorly-armed Romans. They had been digging, not preparing for the fight, and only one man in four was armoured and had kept his shield, most of them labouring away in just their russet tunics and unarmed apart from their tools. With a snarl of pure hatred, Lucterius hacked down with his gleaming, red-stained blade, cleaving through tunics, skin and muscle again and again, killing men with wild abandon.
Nearby, one of the enemy scouts — possibly Remi, certainly of some Belgic tribe — levelled a spear and charged across at him. Lucterius wheeled his horse to present his shield to the man, hefting his blade ready. The Belgian was good. His spear changed angle, and Lucterius had to adjust again and again as they closed until, with a crash, the spear slammed into his shield, ripping deep and splintering near the head.
Before the man could recover himself, Lucterius swept his sword down, carving off the rest of the spear and leaving the man with only a jagged two-foot stump. Turning his horse again, the Cadurci chieftain pulled back his blade to deliver a killing blow, but the Belgic scout was better even than he’d realised, and the man lunged forward in his saddle, his grip changing on the spear as he did so. Even as Lucterius’ blade managed a glancing blow that tore the mail shoulder-doubling from the main’s armour, the scout slammed the broken shaft deep into his thigh muscle, ravaged point first.
Lucterius bellowed his pain, drawing startled attention from all around him as the scout reached down, trying to draw his sword with a shoulder badly bruised from the previous blow. His eyes watering from the pain, Lucterius pushed his beast forwards with his knees, pumping blood out from his leg around the jutting wooden shaft, and hacked down again. His blow was well-aimed, brought down at the same point as his previous strike that had ruined the man’s mail shirt. The sword’s edge bit down into the angle of the Belgian’s neck and shoulder, sending shattered iron links showering up into the air and delivering a crippling and ultimately death-dealing blow. He did not have the luxury to finish the man swiftly, though, for already one of the few fully-armoured legionaries was running at him while his friends began to form up, collecting pila from a stack nearby.
The Cadurci signaller was blowing his instrument for all he was worth, trying to force the battle-hungry riders to move on and not delay just in order to murder Romans. Wheeling his horse away from the running Roman, Lucterius dropped his shield and used his left hand to wrench out the wooden shaft with a cry and then clutch his thigh, which pulsed with agony, sending waves of shock into his brain.
Ahead, he could see Nonnos, his second in command, entirely ignoring the order to leave as he delivered several unnecessary blows to a Roman who was already dead, though had not collapsed yet. Hoping he had time, Lucterius grabbed hold of his friend’s upper arm with a blood-soaked hand, almost bringing a sword blow upon himself from the surprised nobleman.
‘We have to go.’
Nonnos hesitated for a moment, his blood-lust up and visible in his wild eyes.
‘Set an example!’ snapped Lucterius, wrenching his hand back and clamping it over the thigh wound again. The chieftain turned to the open plain to the southwest. Some of his more obedient and wise riders were already making for the safety of the horizon. Far more, though, were mired down in killing Romans from whom they could very easily flee. He felt anger course through him. The signallers were still blowing the horn and waving the standards, but nothing seemed to be stirring his men from the fight. At least Nonnos had freed his blade and turned.