Chapter Three

 

Gaius Volusenus Quadratus waited impatiently for the gates, watching the twin leaves open under the straining arms of the legionaries. Gathered behind him at the southern entrance to the fort, a force of cavalry - some two hundred local auxilia and thirty two regulars - champed at the bit ready to move. Still, even with the open gate before them, he held his hand high, waiting to give the signal.

His arm ached.

Labienus had waited until the last moment to reveal his plans, as was his command style, Quadratus knew. Really, with the many and varied local tribal auxiliaries, it was a safe and sensible thing to do, but really he could have at least dropped an advance warning to a fellow senior Roman officer.

The waiting seemed interminable, but finally he heard the low honk of a horn - three short and relatively subdued blasts designed to be heard across the camp, but not to carry to the enemy force.

The Treveri army had been breaking up now for more than an hour, separate groups of nobles taking away their people, sick of the siege and disenchanted with Indutiomarus’ failure to provide them with victory and loot. The Gallic chieftain had been ranting and railing from the back of his horse, waving his sword at the departing groups and threatening them, but still they had gone.

Now more than half the Treveri themselves had left the scene, and between desertions and death, perhaps half of the mercenary force had gone too. The odds were more or less in parity with the defenders and a pitched battle would have almost guaranteed victory, but still Labienus had held back his forces.

Quadratus could understand why, of course. In a full scale battle, the rebel chief could launch his army at the Romans and sit safely protected behind them. Hundreds or thousands of Romans would die, as would even more thousands of Treveri, in a bloodbath on a monumental scale. Labienus had avowed time and again his desire to see this corner of the world settled without heavy Roman losses, but also without Gallic genocide, given that the Treveri were not as committed to the attack as their leader would have them. To attain victory without such a death toll would mean finding a way to take down Indutiomarus without having to engage his army in bulk.

And that was where the cavalry came in.

At the east gate, the rest of the mounted contingent had gathered under the command - despite Quadratus’ misgivings - of a native, a prince of the Mediomatrici who had been utterly incensed by the actions of the Treveri leader and had been urging Labienus to let him and his men off the leash ever since the attack had begun. It was not that Quadratus thought the man a coward or a traitor. There was no question of him refusing to attack, but the problem was something rather opposite. Given his spiteful invectives against the Treveri and their bandit allies there was every possibility that the angry noble would forget his orders in the thirst for blood and simply launch into the nearest enemy he found. And that would put Quadratus’ considerably smaller force in great danger.

But it was all moot now. The anvil was in position and the hammer was falling.

Those three short blasts had indicated to Quadratus that prince Messirios of the Mediomatrici and his force had fully committed and the east gate was now closed. If the blood-crazed lunatic Gaul was still clinging to both sanity and his orders, he would now be racing in a wide arc, circumventing the bulk of the enemy force and threatening their flank enough to draw out the reserve that sat behind - the Treveri noble cavalry, the most dangerous and effective fighting group on the field. With any luck, even now Indutiomarus was spotting the danger and sending the cavalry - one of his few remaining loyal units - off to the east to meet the Roman auxiliary force. And with luck Messirios had not simply charged his cavalry at the murderers and thieves in the front lines. If he had, Quadratus was in for a short and brutal trip, as he came across the entire Treveri mounted contingent.

He shook his head irritably. No point in brooding on the possibilities. The attack had to go ahead regardless. He would just have to pray to Mars and Minerva that the prince stuck to the plan.

His hand dropped and the cavalry began to move out through the south gate at his signal.

The enemy had long-since abandoned the siege of the southern and western sides of the camp, partially because of the diminishing numbers of their force they could rely upon, but also because they knew that the swift, dangerous Mosella river - which formed a wide horseshoe at this point - curved around those sides and effectively prevented the Romans from fleeing that way in force. Indeed, their force was small and unimpressive even to the east, theoretically allowing the rest of the cavalry to burst through them and complete their task, depending upon the reliability of that Gaulish prince.

This concentration of enemy forces around the north and east left an area to the south devoid of enemy warriors, giving Quadratus the golden opportunity to leave the camp unnoticed while all Treveri attention would be on Messirios’ attack.

In line with the series of orders Quadratus had issued before the gates opened, the small but effective force of veteran cavalrymen raced across the causeway that spanned the camp’s double defensive ditch, and down the gentle slope which led to the Mosella river, the thunder of hooves lost to enemy ears amid the tumult of the attack by Messirios, and sight of them hidden by the slope.

Quadratus reined in close to the rushing torrent of ice cold water brought several hundred miles from the Vosego mountains to the south. To be caught against that river by a superior force would be the end - the main reason for the lack of enemies in this arc. Nobody would be able to escape across it without the aid of a bridge or a ford, and the only local ford was the one behind the Treveri, across which they had come when they first arrived.

Swiftly the rest of his force assembled around him, and Quadratus paused as they arranged themselves into their tribal sub-units, his veteran regulars forming up on him, bearing their banner to relay his orders to the rest, no signal horn in evidence in case its blasts led to their discovery.

As soon as the various sections were ready he nodded to the signifer, who waved the red vexillum flag in the approved signals. In moments the entire force was moving along the bank of the river, following it downstream in a northerly direction towards the ford at the rear of the Treveri army. It was a measure of the skill and competence of the cavalry, both regular and native levy, that they managed to maintain their unit cohesion and move at speed given the narrow confines afforded by the raging torrent to their left and the slope that hid them from the enemy to their right.

The horsemen raced on blindly, able to see only the gentle curve of the river valley, the location of the Roman camp and the Treveri army pin-pointable by the sounds that echoed across the landscape. The first gamble had been whether the other cavalry force would commit as intended. They would soon know the answer to that. The second gamble was that Quadratus’ own unit could leave the river and move up onto the enemy-controlled plain in just the right position to reach the commanders from the rear without engaging the entire force.

Evicaos, one of the more senior native mounted scouts, had assured him that if they followed the river as far as the ford and then turned back directly south, they would fall upon the unprepared and lightly defended Indutiomarus with ease. Quadratus hoped the man was right. There was still every possibility - even if they made the right position to leave the river - that his small cavalry unit would arrive at their turning point, rush up the hill and find themselves confronted by the entire Treveri cavalry force defending their leader.

 

* * * * *

 

Lucius Annius Gritto clung to his spear and shield tightly as he steered his nervous steed with his knees in the fashion taught by Roman cavalry trainers. His mail shirt felt as though it weighed more than he did, dragging him down to the ground, but he clenched his teeth and held on.

How he had drawn the duty of second in command of the native cavalry attack, he was still unsure. He was certainly not the most senior decurion in the camp, and far from the most experienced. He was lucky with dice and had fleeced a number of his peers recently, including the commander Quadratus, and it was tempting to blame that as a reason, though he hoped he owed this dubious honour to something more substantial than his affinity with lady Fortuna, bless her shapely breasts. He wished he had a free hand to grasp the pendant of his favourite Goddess hanging around his neck, but settled for a mental prayer - short and to the point.

The briefing had taken mere moments and was simple:

Make sure the native prince and chieftains kept to the plan and didn’t either race off into the open ground and freedom or launch against the first warrior they saw. It sounded simple, anyway.

In reality, given the lack of regular cavalrymen in the force and the absence of Roman officers or Roman training, what he actually found himself part of was a headlong, disorganised charge in true Gallic style, with a lot of shouting and screaming, threats and promises, some crazed laughter, more than a little jostling between the riders, occasional falls and mishaps and so much noise that it felt as though his ears might turn inside out. It had occurred to him within only moments of leaving the camp that his presence was about as pointless as tits on a bull, since even if any of them could hear his orders and calls over the general din, none of them seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him anyway.

His initial fears were first realised when he shot out of the gate like some sort of projectile, squeezed through among the Gauls, only to see the remaining western force of Treveri running towards the open gate. There were not many of them, given the size of the Gauls’ army - perhaps three hundred, which was minimal given that until the desertions had begun there were more like two thousand outside this gate. They were rabid and wild, just like the horsemen he was riding among, and they sought blood, but they could easily be avoided, given their numbers.

Indeed, the prince in charge, one Messirios - identified by the dragon standard that rode alongside him - immediately took the lead units out and swept around the Treveri group, as the plan had dictated.

Two of the other chieftains leading their auxiliary volunteer regiments seemed to have different ideas and turned their forces directly on the small besieging mob, rushing to meet them and crashing into them like two opposing waves.

Gritto had shaken his head in exasperation, realising there was virtually nothing he could do about it, and rode on with the bulk of the force, hoping that the loss of a hundred or more cavalry to this unintentional engagement would not alter their chances of the main objective.

Then they had found themselves in the clear, riding hard to circumvent the main enemy force. It had been exhilarating, momentarily. They were on-task. The discordant honking and lowing of the carnyx horns and some frantic waving from the Treveri command group confirmed that they had been seen and were being taken seriously, just as intended, and even the enemy cavalry began to move as if to intercept them.

And then things had gone wrong.

Another bunch of the chieftains among the cavalry had apparently decided that they liked the look of the nearest bunch of Treveri scum and had peeled off with their units, heading directly towards the main force. As Gritto had shouted himself hoarse, his voice totally lost in the noise of the attack, he’d felt his heart sink as he watched two more of the native units peel off to support them.

A very quick rough estimate in his head now suggested that almost half the attacking force had separated to wage their own private wars, and not only was it therefore not a given that the enemy would consider the attack enough of a threat to engage their own horse, but it was also now a worrying possibility that the Treveri might come after them and win…

Ahead, what was left of the main cavalry attack was still skirting the main force, heading for the Treveri horse and their commanders at the rear, and Gritto scanned the crowd of his own men as he rode until he spotted the standard that betrayed the position of Messirios.

It was dipping to the left!

Though he had absolutely no idea of the signalling systems the natives used, if indeed they used any kind of signalling at all, given their propensity to chaos, an intentional dip of the standard to the left could only signal a move that way, as it would with a Roman unit.

And that meant straight into the bulk of the infantry.

Gritto felt his spirits sink even further - if that were at all possible, since they were already bounding along at ground level and cutting a furrow in the grass. If the prince turned against the main force, so would all his men and his allied chiefs. Then they would be engaged with the wrong group. Very likely the enemy cavalry would not even bother to commit and would just watch the fun, given that the infantry that would be dying would be the mercenary bandits anyway, and not their own tribesmen.

How could that Mediomatrici moron be so short-sighted? He would cost them the battle.

In the most futile of gestures, Gritto tried desperately to shout for them to hold their course, waving his spear and almost gutting one of the nearest Gauls in the process. He might as well have been throwing mouldy cabbages at the walls of Rome for all the difference his attempts were making.

His heart raced. The legate Labienus and commander Quadratus were relying on this attack. If it failed, what should be a short, surgical cut would turn into a chaotic slaughter on both sides. And, far more important than that, Gritto would be decommissioned, chastised, punished and then sent home in disgrace, where Aurelia would never speak to him again, her father would call off their betrothal, and his own parents would push him into some awful administrative role.

The thought of spending the rest of his life shuffling and shelving scrolls with records of public works brought on a worse fear by far than that of simple death.

He had to do something to make this work.

The Gallic horses were larger than his Roman one - Roman cavalry preferred the easier trained and more even-temperamented smaller beasts - so he could hardly make his presence felt and was barely visible among the crowd. But his horse was a noble beast, trained in the Roman military and therefore so obedient that he barely had to twitch his knees to make his intentions felt. And he knew that the Gallic steeds were more angry, more nervous and considerably more awkward.

He would have to make his presence felt.

Raising himself as best he could, he locked on to the position of the prince’s standard and noted its location and then, taking a deep breath, leaned forward over his steed’s neck and held his oval shield out in front at an oblique angle. Keeping his spear point up, so as to avoid accidental wounds, he kicked his faithful steed onwards, driving it as hard as he could.

He felt the shield smack into the Gauls slightly ahead of him, who were moving as fast as they could in the chaos, but not with the speed and purpose of Gritto and his smaller beast. The shield bounced off a man’s leg and the angered Gaul, either not realising whose shield it was, or more likely not caring, smashed his sword down on it as Gritto pushed and heaved past.

Then he was out between the two horses ahead, his shield battered but in place. The angry shout of the Gaul whose knee he had hurt rang out behind him but he ignored it, aiming for the position he remembered the standard to be and driving on the horse as hard as he could. He felt the shield bounce off the haunch of a larger horse and sensed the beast veering off, away from this discomfort. That rider of the animal roared at his steed and tried to turn back, only to find Gritto there, pushing past, shield up and yelling imprecations in Latin.

The push went on. Another three times, four, five, and he had actually received a punch and a kick in the process, but had forged ahead through the mass of horsemen by sheer control of his horse and force of will.

Slowing for a moment, he risked rising above the shield and was both surprised and relieved to see the standard of Messirios bobbing about almost in front of him. The horses had already turned slightly off-course, heading for the infantry. Any moment now, the prince would give the command to go from a messy gallop to an unrestrained charge, and then it would be too late to stop them.

Even if the prince would consider listening to him, it was exceedingly unlikely that he would hear him in the din. A moment of undecided panic, and Gritto settled upon a course of action, somewhat regretfully dropping his shield and spear among the running horses where they were immediately trampled and smashed to pieces.

Driving his horse on for that standard, he elbowed aside a Gallic nobleman, who in return delivered him a sturdy kick to the thigh in anger. A push, a lunge, and suddenly he was next to the standard bearer. The Gaul, his drooping moustaches bouncing comically with his gait and the breeze, his head topped with a bronze helm that looked as though a metal seagull had impaled itself on the tip, had not even noticed he was there, too intent on watching the prince a few paces ahead, waiting for the nod.

Aware that he might just die for his presumption but seeing no other choice, Gritto reached out and delivered the hardest punch he could muster to the upper arm of the standard bearer. The Gaul let out a yelp, the blow - as intended - deadening his arm for a moment and causing him to lose his grip on the shaft. As the Gaul’s head swung round in a mix of shock and anger, Gritto grasped the shaft of the falling standard and raised it high, tipping it to the right once, twice, three times.

The course of the attack changed instantly, and after a matter of mere heartbeats Gritto found himself on the periphery of the force, along with the Mediomatrici prince, his standard bearer, and his personal cadre of noble warriors.

The standard bearer raised the sword he had held in his other hand ready to bring down on this sudden attacker, but faltered as he recognised the uniform of a Roman officer, the sword quivering in his shaking hand high above them.

Prince Messirios seemed to have realised that something was amiss, and had turned to look at the scene behind him, his eyes wide as he realised his army were veering off to the east, skirting around the enemy. His eyes, blazing, fell upon the Roman officer holding his royal standard and he barked something furiously in his own tongue.

Gritto felt his heart skip a beat, knowing that the heavy Gallic sword was poised to fall on the prince’s command and that when it did so, it would smash open his head like a ripe melon. He realised that he was probably ashen faced and gawping like an idiot and forced his open mouth shut, lowering his brows into an expression of arrogant defiance such as the one his father seemed to have permanently affixed to his face.

‘Indutiomarus!’ he snapped and, to try and make his point all the more obvious, used his free hand to mime a cantering horse (though in all fairness it probably more resembled a drunken spider) and then pointed over the enemy to the cavalry at the rear.

For a long moment, the prince of the Mediomatrici glared at him in anger and finally, showing no sign of letting up his fury for even a moment, nodded and turned his horse away, racing off to catch up with his men as they skirted the Treveri army.

The Gaulish standard bearer lowered his sword with a glance after his departing lord and punched the Roman heavily in the arm, retrieving his standard before riding off to join his compatriots.

Gritto sat for a moment rubbing his arm and watched the fruit of his labour as the attack moved back on track. After a few more heartbeats, though, a rising noise attracted his attention and he realised that the nearest group of mercenary killers among the enemy force were moving out to try and attack this now-lone Roman on his small horse. It occurred to him in the blink of an eye that his shield and spear were somewhere back across the hoof-churned grass, smashed and splintered, and that defending himself against this bunch with just a sword was plain suicide.

Drawing his blade anyway, he wheeled his horse and raced off to join the cavalry attack - preferably somewhere safe and near the back.

Now it was time for a short and brutal attack and the rest was down to the commander and his small mounted force at the ford.

 

* * * * *

 

Quadratus gestured to the slope leading up from the river. According to what might laughably be called ‘the sun’ which shone as little more than a pale reflection of the moon in the marble grey sky, they were roughly at the position where the river curved around north of the fort. The scout’s initial suggestion that they turn at the ford had proved less than helpful in the commander’s opinion given that, despite the season, the rainfall had tailed off in the last couple of days and the river’s level had dropped sufficiently to reveal two more of the seven known fords in this area as opposed to the only one visible the past few days.

Still, the scout had been insistent as to which shallow strand was the ford he’d meant, and the sun never lied about directions, so Quadratus had little choice but to accept his appraisal.

The scout nodded at his commander’s gesture and cupped a hand to his ear meaningfully.

Quadratus tried to steady his thumping heart and listened carefully. The general mob noise of battle was all he could hear, and it sounded exactly the same to him as it had the past three times they had paused to listen since nearing their objective.

No. Different, now that he concentrated. The main clash of battle had become more distant, muted by the tense bulk of the army gathered between. The other cavalry force had drawn the Gallic riders away to the far side of the field as they had intended. It was the only explanation.

With a nod, Quadratus had his signifer wave the standard and ready for the advance. The unit would move up the slope as quietly as possible to maintain the element of surprise until the very last moment, and would then break into a charge as soon as they could see the command party and target the Treveri leader.

With quiet speed, the horsemen urged their mounts up the rise, which at this point seemed to be so much higher than when they had descended to the river, perhaps twice as high in fact. Logic dictated that the same plateau could only be the same height above the same river, but clearly something about the landscape had thrown out that particular bit of logic and the rise was difficult on horseback. Quadratus was immensely grateful, though, that he was climbing it rather than trying to coax a horse safely down it.

He was impressed with the Gauls in his small force on two counts: firstly their surprising level of control over their mounts. The ease with which the auxiliary volunteers mounted the slope took him quite by surprise, and a number of them could have taught his regulars a thing or two - though in fairness, when it came to the act of joining battle, the reverse would certainly be true.

The second was that the units were not vying with each other for prime position in the coming fight, which was the normal Gallic way, each man desperate for the most glorious and prestigious kill. Instead they were holding to their given formations almost as tightly as his own regular ala, each unit staying in position behind his lead.

If he were to be uncharitable, he might suspect that to be a matter of letting him and his men fall into the shit first…

Quadratus was the first to crest the slope, with his regulars arrayed behind him and his signifer by his side, standard lowered so as not to give any more advance warning than necessary

‘Oh, shit.’

It had been the signifer that had spoken, but he had voiced Quadratus’ own thoughts.

Certainly most of the enemy cavalry had been committed to the far side of the plateau to deal with the more major cavalry feint. Only a few hundred at most had stayed with the command group and that would not have been a great issue. The problem was that the Gallic commanders were fleeing the field, with that remaining cavalry about them. And that meant riding for the ford.

The result was that Quadratus crested the ridge at a steady pace only to see several hundred Gallic cavalry, along with their chieftains, musicians and signifers, bearing down on him at breakneck pace. A little more worrying than that was the fact that behind them, he could see the bulk of the Treveri force turning and taking to their heel in his direction too.

The other cavalry attack had been extremely effective. Over-effective, in fact. It had totally broken the already-flagging spirit of the Treveri army, and the entire force was now turning to leave the field, only to find Quadratus - and his roughly two hundred and fifty men - directly between them and the ford.

Desperation gripped the commander. Suddenly things looked rather worrying, and they had perhaps a count of thirty at best before the Gallic cavalry reached them. Would the Treveri slow to engage, or…?

A slow smile spread across his face as he realised the approaching riders, rather than slowing down, had increased their pace! They were moving to charge the Romans. Idiots.

He was suddenly filled with a smug sense of relief that over the past day he had given the auxiliary cavalry extensive tuition in the various calls, orders and standard relays for different manoeuvres, not knowing what Labienus had planned. The result was that he could be relatively confident that he had a good Roman command over the native force behind him.

‘Sound the ‘halt’ and the ‘form line’.’

The signifer had the effrontery to look puzzled, but his professionalism prevented any real insubordination, and he waved the standard madly. For a moment, Quadratus worried whether the Gauls under his command would manage to form up as intended, but their control over their beasts was truly excellent, and in a matter of heartbeats the bulk of his force was forming a line only two riders deep at the crest of the ridge, others still arriving up the slope behind them and falling in to make a third line where the terrain allowed.

He remembered with a smile that the native scout was still close by, and explained his plan in a few short words, which was then relayed with shouted orders in both directions along the line.

‘Shields forward, spears out!’ he bellowed.

The signifer and the native scout relayed the command. A count of ten…

‘Ready!’

Eight…

‘Signifer!’

Six…

The man nodded, fingers ready on the standard.

Four…

‘Now.’

Simultaneous with his call, the scout relayed it in the local dialect and the signifer waved the flag, giving the command to form squares by ala. It was an infantry-style manoeuvre usually carried out with precision in drills or with the leisure of awaiting the call to attack an enemy.

But not usually with only two heartbeats before a rabid charging enemy crashed into you.

All along the line, the formation disintegrated as men moved into their new positions. With thirty two men in each ala - the Gauls had been befuddled at being organised into Roman unit sizes - the square was perhaps six men wide and near the same deep. Of course, the native levies could not be expected to form with the same sort of precision as his regulars, who created a good solid forward edge and powerful wings, but left the centre and rear less compact, yet their efforts were laudable and more controlled than he would have expected.

Quadratus would have laughed out loud, had he not been suddenly thrown into deep combat as the fleeing Treveri cavalry charged him. The sudden forming of a line had led the enemy to believe that they had an easy - and stupid - kill awaiting them. But as the line reformed into blocks the enemy suddenly discovered that the majority of their number were racing at unstoppable speed over the crest of a slope that disappeared at a steep gradient towards the fast, icy torrent of the Mosella below.

More than half the Treveri cavalry charge swept helplessly through the empty space where the Roman forces had been only moments before. While the odd one managed to regain some sort of control and slow themselves or direct their descent and a few found themselves engaged with Quadratus’ men who had not quite got out of the way, most of those charging Gauls instead found themselves hurtling unstoppably down the hill, faster and steeper than their mounts could cope with.

The result was carnage.

Quadratus knew what it would look like, though he could hardly turn to see the slope covered in fallen riders and downed, injured horses. Of the perhaps one hundred and fifty horses that had passed between the Roman squares, they would be lucky if two dozen made it to the river bank alive. The slope would be an appalling sight.

The cavalry charge of the Treveri had failed dismally, and those who had still found themselves facing an enemy had crashed into a solid block of riders rather than a wavering double line, only to grind to a halt in a brutal horseback melee.

Quadratus hacked and chopped with his blade, his shield held forward and moving up and down with the enemy’s strokes in an attempt to protect his torso or legs and steed as required. The cold, damp air was supplemented with a faint drizzle of pink as the numerous blows from both sides sent arterial spray up into the morning atmosphere. Half a Gaul’s hand whirled past lazily in the air - victim of some stroke Quadratus never even saw.

It could have been bloody and vicious. It could have been - should have been, really - a hard fight with a high casualty rate on both sides. But with the siege lifted, the army departing, and half their number scattered broken on the slope below, there was simply no heart left in the Treveri cavalry. Almost as soon as battle was joined at the crest, the horsemen were pulling away from the fight and trying to flee through the gaps between Roman units and down the slope to the river, their momentum now slow enough to afford them a reasonably safe descent.

But as many of them swept past, the sides of the defensive squares - a formation rarely utilised by cavalry - raked them mercilessly, bringing down two of every three riders that passed by.

As the hell of personal combat relented, the enemy either dying or fled, Quadratus paused to take in the situation. The Treveri infantry were moving his way, fleeing the field, despite the cavalry in the way. After all, sheer weight of numbers was with them, and they had to make it across the river to even begin to believe they were safe. Behind Quadratus and his men, down the slope, maybe seventy or eighty enemy riders had managed any kind of safe descent.

Quadratus let slip a loud string of curses and imprecations as he noted the standards that identified Indutiomarus’ party at the bottom of the slope, near the river, racing desperately for safety.

‘Bollocks! Damn, damn, damn and bollocks!’

With a sigh, he turned to the signifer. ‘Sound the pursuit. Full pace. I want that standard and the king’s head.’

Aware that many of the Gaulish volunteers around him were listening in, and that his scout was still relaying a translation, he raised his arm. ‘Whoever brings me Indutiomarus’ head, I will repay with the same weight of gold!’

Barely had the scout relayed the words than the auxiliaries let out wild whoops of delight and turned, directing their mounts over the crest and down the slope with as crazed and dangerous speed as the enemy had attempted, driven by their greed for the royal prize Quadratus had set.

The commander turned with the rest of his force, leaving the small parties of native auxiliaries still locked in a fight with their counterparts to finish it off before following, and began to pick his way back down the slope as fast as he dared, which was less than half the speed of the blood and gold crazed Gauls.

By the time he was halfway down the slope, he realised just how quickly word of his offered reward had spread, shouted between the Gauls, and many of the ones who had been farthest down the slope to begin with were even now racing out into the water in an attempt to head off the foremost fleeing enemy and capture the command group.

Quadratus slowed his descent, his gaze flicking alternately between the dangerous incline down which he walked his horse and the events unfolding at the ford in a vast tableau. As he realised what was happening, he paused and reined in to watch.

Seeing the Roman’s Gallic auxiliaries closing in on both sides and pulling ahead to seal off the ford, the Treveri cavalry had collapsed into a disorganised, panicked shambles. In the centre of the remaining enemy force, the small knot of nobles and the standard bearer were trying to push their way out ahead.

Indutiomarus - or at least, Quadratus assumed it had to be the Treveri king, given his ostentatious armour and garb, raised himself as high as possible on his steed and started throwing around commands like a man in a state of extreme desperation. Quadratus nodded to himself happily. His own riders had got ahead now and were sealing off the ford. The enemy king was doomed. He hoped momentarily that Labienus might stand the reward, rather than leaving him to pay it, but if need be, he was willing to cough up the gold. It would be worth it.

He almost bellowed out with laughter as the Treveri king yelled at one of his nobles, shaking his arm and pointing to the far side of the ford, and then failed to hold in the mirth as that same noble simply raised his sword and slid it deep into Indutiomarus’ chest.

The Treveri king - would-be architect of their destruction and aspiring hero of Gaul - gave a cry of agony that was audible even halfway back up the slope and tumbled from his horse. The mass of auxiliary cavalry swarmed in like locusts, each ignoring their own peril and leaping from their horses, rushing the disorganised and panicked Treveri in the desire to be the one to retrieve the head of the dead king. Quadratus wondered, still chuckling, whether he could get out of the reward on the technicality that the king had already been killed by his own, but shook his head at the thought. Honesty in all dealings.

The Treveri at the ford had thrown down their weapons and were begging for clemency, but the auxiliary cavalry were having none of it. The body of Indutiomarus was still in among them somewhere, and the idea of a head’s worth of gold was overcoming any of the riders’ notions of nobility in battle. Quadratus considered giving the order to accept their surrender, but he knew it would do no good. His local levies had blood and gold in their sights now, and no mere Roman order would stop them from collecting. Besides, they would have finished it before the order ever reached them and, truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop them.

He would take Indutiomarus’ head, and that would help put the final end to this irritating and dangerous rebellion in the east. His memory furnished him with an image of the entire Treveri force running on foot for the ford, and his heart lurched suddenly.

Somewhere down at the ford there was a whoop of delight and a Gaul was running for his horse, a heavy weight swinging from his hand by the hair, half a dozen of his compatriots chasing him angrily while the rest finished off every last Treveri soul in the river in their disappointment at failing to take the prize. It was over down there.

So, given the approaching Treveri infantry, should his small force leave, heading back the way they’d come, upriver and along the bank, or try to bring the army to a halt? He knew the answer, of course. He had the suspicion that Labienus would let the survivors go free anyway, but he would not be the one to allow the entire Treveri force to flee the field without explicit orders from a superior.

‘Signaller! We form up on the fords. Their army’s coming this way and I intend to deny them the crossing.’

The soldier with the standard stared for a moment in disbelief, and then began waving the flag in an attempt to attract the attention of the rest of the cavalry. A quick pause and with a little concentration, Quadratus could hear the fleeing Treveri nearing the crest of the slope. This was going to be extremely bloody unless he could persuade them to surrender.

With a quick uttered prayer to Mars, he made his way on down the slope to the river bank, where his men were forming in the shallow water.

 

* * * * *

 

Barely had the small cavalry force assembled in the ford than the first of the fleeing tribesmen appeared over the crest of the hill, beginning their descent to the river. Some of the discipline seemed to have evaporated among the native levies with their easy victory at the ridge and the ensuing bloodthirsty executions of the Treveri commanders in the river, which even now ran with a pink tint from the numerous bodies snagged on the stones of the ford and the rocks and branches at the river’s bank.

Still, despite the elation and blood-drunk enthusiasm of the Gauls under his command, they had managed to form a rough block that defended the river crossing, some ten men deep. It was a formidable obstacle. They would be hopelessly outnumbered by the fleeing Treveri, but the width of the ford would negate much of that disadvantage, since no man in his right mind would try to cross the Mosella anywhere but at a ford. And the height advantage of a horseman meant that as long as a rider could keep his beast from harm, he was relatively free to manoeuvre, stabbing with his spear into the attack, while the enemy infantry would be hampered by the waist-deep flow and the numbing cold.

On a straight field, Quadratus would never contemplate attempting to stand with around two hundred riders against many thousands of infantry. But this was no straight field, and there was a chance. A good chance.

Still his heart lurched as he watched the endless ranks of the Treveri and their hired killer allies swarm over the crest and down towards the waiting horsemen. They were coming fast. Far too fast for comfort. Any sensible enemy, even fleeing, would take that slope with just a little more trepidation, unless he savoured the thought of tumbling and plummeting, breaking bones and then being trampled by his compatriots.

They looked like they were planning on charging!

No one - absolutely no one - charged an enemy in a river. It was utterly pointless. The current would drag any speed from the attack within five paces of leaving the bank. Charging in waist-deep water was impossible. So why rush headlong down the hill and risk death or injury only to be slowed by the waiting torrent? Surely not because of the other cavalry attack? There had been a lot more of them, for certain, but not enough to send such panic into a vastly superior force.

The rhythmic crunch was faint, but unmistakable, and it brought a smile to Quadratus’ tired face.

After a few more heartbeats, he could hear the Gauls around him chattering away in their own tongue and from the light-hearted tone and the knowing smiles, he could tell that they knew that ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ for what it was.

The waiting cavalry watched the stragglers of the fleeing Treveri begin their dangerous descent. All across the slope men were tumbling and sliding, bringing down knots of their fellows in a painful and damaging fall. Panic had gripped them all and drove them on to the ford and the promise of freedom.

And then at the top, the gleaming line of Roman helmets appeared in perfect ranks, close on their enemy’s heels. Pilum points glinted in the pale sunlight as the ranks halted on the command of a buccina at the very lip of the slope. The long line was broken into two separate sections with a gap in the centre, the entire force stretching from the curve of the river left to the distant knot of trees at the right. Two cohorts at least. An immense force, and certainly one to drive panic into the hearts of an already anxious enemy.

The nearest of the fleeing Treveri suddenly realised what they were coming up against in the river and drew themselves up on the bank, unwilling to be the first to charge into that waist-deep icy water and face the waiting horsemen. The quicker thinking of them began to run up- or downstream along the bank, but already a third cohort could be heard moving off to the south to seal off that path, and the rumble of the victorious Roman cavalry assault could be heard the other way. The Treveri were boxed in and it was quickly becoming apparent to them.

Even as many of their compatriots were still descending the slope beneath the steady, flinty eyes of the legion, Treveri and bandit alike began to throw down their arms in surrender.

Quadratus grinned. The legate was a crafty old sod.

 

* * * * *

 

Titus Labienus walked his horse forward between the ranks of the First and Second cohorts, his command party close behind. A musician and his standard bearers accompanied him, along with his camp prefect and the tribunes.

And Baculus.

That man turned up like a bad smell any time anything happened, despite having received direct commands to stay in his convalescent cot from both medicus and legate. But despite the man’s borderline defiance and his bad temper, his tendency to become outspoken when in discomfort, and his pale grey, wheezing and disconcerting illness, it was always comforting to have the veteran centurion close by, and Labienus could hardly deny it. That was why he let Baculus get away with as much as he did.

The small mounted party reached the crest of the hill and spread out as much as possible, the musician and standard bearers - and the tribunes, surprisingly - hanging back slightly to allow Baculus to take prime position at the front. One of the native scouts in his party rode forward to join them at the legate’s gesture.

Labienus peered down at the field before him and felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Treveri standards were in the hands of Quadratus’ men. Though he could not see Indutiomarus, it seemed almost certain the man was captive or dead. Either suited just fine.

‘People of the Treveri!’ he announced, just to make sure he had their full attention, though the majority of the enemy were now looking back and forth despondently between the cohorts atop the slope and the cavalry in the ford and were dropping their weapons to the turf. The native scout relayed a translation in a deep, booming voice.

‘People of the Treveri, you have brought unlawful and unsought war upon the forces of Rome, who are here in this place with the blessing of your own Gaulish assembly to defend your lands from the aggressive Germanic tribes beyond the Rhenus and from the treacherous Eburones.’

He paused to let the scout translate.

‘You have besieged our garrison in contravention of your prior agreements with Rome. The penalty for such transgressions is clearly written as death!’

A number of the frightened Treveri picked up their weapons again, fearing the worst as the translation was relayed.

‘But that penalty has been paid by your leaders,’ Labienus continued ‘whose standards even now rest in the hands of my cavalry. Your king has paid your price, which is fitting, since it was he who led you into this fool’s crusade in the first place. I have no wish to persecute an entire tribe of loyal, peaceful and noble Belgae for the whims of a dangerous fool.’

The crash of more and more weapons falling to the floor spoke eloquent volumes as to the opinions of the surrendering tribesmen.

‘Moreover, I make no distinction in my magnanimity between the great Treveri and the mercenaries and vagabonds who have flocked to their banner. I have conditions for your surrender, and I know that you will not be so foolish as to refuse them, particularly since they are so light.’

Another pause for translation, and Baculus leaned closer. ‘I know this is not going to be a popular suggestion, legate, but you have one of the more powerful tribes in the east in your grasp here, and they’ve already risen against us twice. You have the singular opportunity right now to remove them from the board of the great game entirely.’

‘I will not execute an entire tribe, centurion, who were already wavering in their loyalty to their king in light of their oaths to us.’

‘They wavered for fear of us, sir, not for any oath. And anyway, those who wavered had already left. Those who remain here are the ones who stayed loyal to that royal menace Indutiomarus. And what of the thugs, murderers and thieves among them? You’ll free them too?’

Labienus turned an angry glare on the centurion.

‘I know all the arguments. I heard them all when I consulted the tribunes, including - I note - the value of the prisoners in terms of the slave trade. But I am not Caesar. Caesar may have the habit of executing and enslaving entire peoples, but if we are ever to have Gaul settled like Hispania or Illyricum or Greece, we have to start building bridges more often than we burn them. Caesar’s tactics have led us to five years of stamping out the fires of rebellion on half a dozen occasions each season, and it is time to try and create some sort of lasting peace.’

Turning his attention back to those at the bottom of the slope, Labienus cleared his throat.

‘You will turn over to us one hundred hostages of noble birth to ensure your continued goodwill’ he paused and whispered sidelong ‘Good enough?’ at which Baculus simply shook his head in exasperation, and then continued. ‘You will take a renewed oath to Rome that you will not raise arms against her in future times, and that you will make no alliances with other tribes without the consent of both the Gaulish assembly and the Proconsul or his appointed representative. If you agree to this oath and to the giving of hostages, you will be permitted to return to your lands as free men to continue your lives, though your weapons will stay with us.’

He waited for the relayed translation again, and for the enemy to deliberate before replying. Whatever minor nobles and/or druids remained among them would accept the terms, of course. They were more than merely generous. And they were also the only feasible option. The rest of this meeting was a formality. The threat of the Treveri had been neutralised with the death of Indutiomarus, as he’d planned from the beginning.

‘This is going to come back and bite you on the behind, legate.’ Baculus grumbled quietly enough not to carry to the others nearby. Labienus narrowed his eyes in irritation.

‘What will be, will be, centurion, as the Gods will it. But for now, I will take the renewed oath of the Treveri, their hostages and their weapons, while you will return to the camp forthwith and clamber into that sick cot of yours and not emerge again unless your own backside is on fire. Do you understand me?’

Baculus saluted, grumbling, and turned to ride away.

Leniency was a mistake, and the centurion knew it.