Varus huffed and chewed his lip as he stood at the command post in the centre of the plains sector. Next to him, Quadratus sat disconsolately, trying with difficulty to tear apart a piece of stale, worm-eaten bread with his one good arm, the other bound up and slung at his chest. The medicus had grumbled about the cavalryman yanking out the arrow that had impaled his arm, but it seemed there was no permanent damage. Enough to keep Quadratus out of action for the rest of the season, though. It would have irritated Varus to lose his most able officer were it not for the fact that all the cavalry sat idle anyway between the Roman fortifications, nice and safe and bored, while the infantry fought for their survival.
‘Maybe you should throw your men into the wall defences?’ the sub-commander mused.
‘The general already refused that. I offered, but he wants the cavalry in reserve.’
‘No use being reserves while the defences fall, though.’
Varus grunted his agreement and watched as another of the artillery towers fell silent, Gallic archers from the reserve force outside having raked it clear of life with their constant flurries and kept the ladder under attack so that no Roman could reach the scorpion above. All along the plains sector the story was the same: hard-pressed legionaries fighting what appeared to be a losing battle. The supplies of pila had gone and few men on the walls now had any kind of missile to cast down or shoot. The Roman defenders had fallen back upon sword and shield at the fence, which meant the enemy were so close at all times that they could feel one another’s breath.
‘Soon they’ll be down to hitting each other with rocks,’ Quadratus muttered, as if reading his commander’s thoughts, and Varus sighed. ‘It’s looking bleak. And we’ve an hour perhaps 'til sunset.’
A series of calls from a cornu across the plain noted the distribution of the reserves from the Eighth and Thirteenth around the twin ramparts, and the new arrivals created a temporary reprieve for their comrades as they cast their pila straight away and pushed back the waves of attackers, only for the tide of Gallic life to immediately flow back against the fence.
The two officers scanned the area irritably and caught sight of Antonius and Caesar riding through the chaos towards them, the ever-present Aulus Ingenuus and his Praetorian horse alongside. Varus and Quadratus hauled themselves wearily to their feet and saluted the army’s most senior officers.
‘Varus,’ Caesar greeted him quietly. ‘The time has come. All reserves from the system are now committed on the plains and on Mons Rea. I have no more legions to call, and the light is leaving us. I must finish this now, before darkness falls.’
Varus nodded, sensing the call to action in the general’s words.
‘The plains are bolstered by the new arrivals,’ Caesar continued. ‘I will ride for Mons Rea, where I believe the battle will be broken one way or the other. There are two redoubts on the hill and one between here and Mons Rea. I should be able to draw four cohorts from them to take to the camp.’
‘Leaving the walls on the hill poorly-manned,’ reminded Antonius quietly, but Caesar brushed it aside.
‘I will take those four cohorts and attempt to win the day at Mons Rea. I will be taking most of the cavalry with me. They are - as you so helpfully noted - largely ineffectual between the ramparts, but word is that the enemy are already breaching the north wall of the Mons Rea camp, and if they are inside the fort, the cavalry can do their work well.’ The general looked appraisingly at Quadratus. ‘Can you ride and fight?’
‘Not well enough, general,’ Varus cut in. ‘Most of the cavalry?’
‘Yes, a good part of them. Two of the three wings.’ The general turned to the men behind him. ‘Antonius? You’re an experienced cavalryman. You command that force. Ingenuus here will commit the entire Praetorian unit alongside you.’ The bodyguard officer opened his mouth to object but Caesar overrode him. ‘No. I realise that I will be in danger, but if we lose this fight, we’re all doomed anyway, so I need to commit every man I have, and your horsemen are the best the army has to offer. You will commit to battle in the camp.’
Ingenuus nodded, looking less than happy with his lot. Varus was still frowning.
‘And what of me then, and the rest of the cavalry?’
‘You, Varus, are to be my surprise. I want you to take the remaining wing and the German cavalry and head back south, in an almost complete circuit of Alesia. When you reach Labienus’ camp to the north, you will be far from any of the action. There, you can cross the circumvallation and manoeuvre outside.’
Varus broke into a grin. ‘I like the sound of it, general.’
‘You will have to be as quick as you can and as subtle, too. It’s a long ride to get round and out of the defences unseen, and if you are spotted too early, the whole plan might fail. We will fight on as we must and wait for your hopefully timely arrival.’
Varus faltered for a moment as he turned.
‘Perhaps you would be better taking the Germans with you inside, general?’ he prompted, trying not to sound hopeful.
‘No. You take them. They have proved to be a vital force against the Gauls repeatedly this year, time and again. You will need the fear and chaos they bring with them if you are to break this.’
Varus nodded and saluted.
‘Go then, commander. You know what you must do.’
Caesar and Antonius watched the eager cavalry commander run off towards his signifers, who were standing in a knot telling stories, and then turned to one another. ‘Can we do it?’ the general breathed quietly to his friend, so that no others nearby might overhear. Antonius broke into a quirky half-smile. ‘We can’t crush them - we don’t have the numbers. But they have to be as spent as our own men, in both strength and morale. If we break today, the siege is over. But if they break, they will lose. It’s that simple. We just have to make them yield before our own men collapse.’
The general raised an eyebrow. ‘Nowhere in that oratory did I hear a yes.’
‘Nor did you hear a no, Gaius. Come on. We have troops to raise.’
* * * * *
Fronto ducked a sweeping blow and clutched his wounded forearm, a deep cut still pouring out blood where his shield had been brutally hacked from his arm. One of the capsarii had tried to drag him back from the fight to bind it twice but Fronto had pushed the man away, suggesting with some rather colourful language that the medic might be more useful drawing a sword and killing a few Gauls.
Of his singulares, only Masgava and Aurelius remained at the barricade, which had now been reinforced and bulked up on four separate occasions and was still weakening with every axe blow from the far side. The rest of his bodyguard were back at the makeshift hospital, sporting a variety of wounds, though none of them, miraculously, life threatening. It seemed they had listened to his order to stay alive, after all.
What was even more miraculous was that the makeshift redoubt was holding at all. The light was beginning to dim, which meant that the battle here had been raging for half a day without reprieve. The gates had held for a matter of mere moments, but this wall of carts, crates and sacks had kept many thousands of screaming rebels at bay for - what, six hours? Seven, perhaps.
The regular feeds of reinforcements had been critical to that, mind. Without those men sent by Labienus, Brutus and Caesar, the gate would have fallen long ago. To his left, just past Aurelius, who was barely recognisable beneath a sheet of blood, stood an optio who had arrived with his centurion under Labienus’ command hours ago. Less than an hour after that he had unfastened his crest ties, making use of the new, almost Gallic-style helmet he wore with the multiple crest fasteners to swivel the red horsehair arc through ninety degrees, taking on the role of the centurion who now lay a dozen paces behind them among the piles of honoured dead. Fronto couldn’t remember what legion the young man was from but he fought like a lion, with the tenacity and inventiveness of a gladiator and, had he not been planning to retire after this battle, Fronto would have been seeking the man’s transfer into the Tenth.
A spear lanced out towards him, clipping the ravaged and torn timber frame of the cart behind which Fronto stood, and he knocked it aside with his wounded arm, hissing at the pain that rippled through it as he drove his gladius into the Gaul’s throat, twisted and withdrew, watching the body fall away only to be replaced immediately by another.
A call went up away across the camp, and it was only on the third repeat that Fronto paused, having dispatched another enemy, and frowned.
‘Shit. That call!’
The centurion nodded, struggling with a Gaul and finally forcing him back. ‘Sounds like they’ve breached the north rampart, sir.’
Fronto spared a heartbeat to glance in that direction, but from this angle he could see nothing, the ordered rows of tents filling the intervening space. The call had been clear enough. A rally to repulse meant that the Gauls had managed to cross the rampart somewhere. But why had Labienus not reacted. The senior officer had quite clearly told Fronto that the Bacchanalia chant would be blown in case of a serious breach and the army would form up for a last sally. Had the breach not been serious enough to warrant it? Or had something happened to Labienus? Fronto ground his teeth. It was all well and good holding this position, but he had to know what was going on elsewhere. Reaching a decision, he turned to the recently-promoted centurion.
‘Can you hold here without me and these two?’
The look that passed across the centurion’s face was one of uncertainty, which Fronto could quite understand and sympathise with, but it was quickly swept aside and replaced by grim acceptance.
‘We’ll hold this ‘til even Minerva’s bones are dust, sir.’
Fronto smiled. ‘Good man. Fortuna be with you.’
‘And with you, legate.’ The centurion had no chance for further exchange, a Gaul attempting to clamber over the top of the barricade requiring all his attention. Fronto stepped back from the barricade, gesturing for Masgava and Aurelius to join him. The beleaguered soldiers at the redoubt immediately shuffled up to close the gap, never letting up in their staunch defence as they did so.
The three men sheathed their swords and stepped back inside the camp to where their horses were tethered, along with those belonging to the wounded singulares. As soon as he left the barricade, the capsarius caught him again and, even as Fronto shouted at the man, he slapped a vinegar-soaked sponge into the open cut on the forearm, causing Fronto to let forth a sharp bellow and a series of unpleasant expletives. The capsarius ignored the legate as he howled and his good hand went to the dagger at his belt, wrapping a bandage around the wound and binding it tight, tying it off at the end with professional, practiced ease. Fronto threw him a murderous look, the dagger half-drawn before he snicked it back into its sheath. The medic smiled. ‘At least you won’t bleed out, legate.’
‘You might, if you try that again.’
But the capsarius was already running off to help another man who’d fallen back from the barricade, and Fronto joined his singulares at the steeds, hurriedly untying the reins and then hauling himself into the saddle, grunting at the pain in his arm, but reluctantly acknowledging the good work of the medic.
‘Where are we bound?’ Masgava asked.
‘North wall. There’s been a breach and Labienus hasn’t reacted. I want to know what’s going on.’
The three men heeled their horses and rode off through the chaos of wounded men and supply dumps, between the lines of tents and towards the site of the main battle. Fronto hoped fervently that the young centurion he’d just left could hold that gate. It would be little use recovering the north rampart if the southeast gate was overrun. The camp was under too much pressure.
Precious moments passed as the three men passed the leather tents and burst out into the open area at the north end of the camp. The sight that greeted Fronto was heart-stopping.
The nearest rows of tents to the wall had been cleared out of the way by enterprising wounded officers and their stumbling, bleeding men, and a low barricade of junk had been hastily raised, half a dozen scorpions from the reserve supplies set up along the line, manned and stocked with ammunition. Men who were clearly novices at the art held the spare bows that had been dug out from somewhere and their arrows protruded from the junk wall before them ready to be nocked and loosed.
This was the last line. The desperate one. Manned by the sick and the injured and making use of whatever could be found, for the wounded had seen the rampart give four times now and had decided they had to do something.
The north wall itself was no longer visible. Even the towers had suffered, every third or fourth one having been brought down somehow. Fronto had expected to see beleaguered legionaries atop the parapet, fighting off an external sea of Gauls, as at the southeast. But the defensive line here was now an arbitrary thing, much of the fighting going on inside the camp. Every now and then a Gaul would break free of the struggle, already inside the camp’s confines, and run for the tent lines. When that happened, the wounded let fly with whatever they had, putting the incursions down. But the number of Gauls inside the camp was growing even as Fronto watched, and the ever-changing line of defence was gradually moving back towards the ‘wounded wall’. The camp was a dozen heartbeats from lost.
Selecting a spot where the low barricade was scarcely manned, Fronto and his singulares jumped across, into the open ground before the seething fight that covered the rampart all across the north of the camp. His searching eyes picked out a small knot of men, amid which a flowing crimson horsehair crest protruded from a gleaming decorative helmet, and he thundered off towards what was plainly a senior officer, his men at his back.
As they neared the small group, which was composed largely of runners, centurions, tribunes and signifers, Fronto spotted the familiar face of Caninius, the legate of the Twelfth and commander of the Mons Rea camp. The legate was soaked in blood and spattered with gore, as were many of his officers and Fronto was impressed to see how the man had clearly become involved at the basest level of the action along with his troops. He reined in nearby and slid from the horse’s back, grunting at the pain in his arm as he did so.
‘Fronto,’ Caninius breathed. ‘What news of the south?’
‘The other gates still hold. Looks like you’re in the shit up here, though.’
The conversation was briefly interrupted as a small force of Gauls managed to break away from the main fight and run for the knot of officers, hungry to kill Roman commanders. A few free legionaries managed to pull out of the combat and chase them down, and the wounded artillerists put a few shots into the band as they ran, but still there were five of them when they reached the small group. Fronto watched in surprise as Caninius’ aquilifer swung the glorious, irreplaceable eagle of the Twelfth and stoved in the head of one of the men, righting the pole again to display an eagle drenched in blood and spattered with brain matter. Two tribunes attempted to halt the rest, and one of the Gauls had almost reached Fronto even before he’d managed to draw his sword.
Caninius, whose blade was already out and bloodied, stepped in and neatly sank his gladius into the Gaul’s side as Fronto braced himself, twisting and withdrawing with such casualness that Fronto wondered just how long the legate had been fighting here to become so calm in the face of that kind of brutality. He almost smiled. That was probably how everyone else saw the legate of the Tenth, in fact.
As the attack was put down and one of the tribunes went about the fallen Gauls making sure they were dead while the other clutched what looked distinctly like a fatal belly-wound to Fronto, the legate shook his head and focused on his opposite number from the Twelfth.
‘Where’s Labienus?’
‘Somewhere in that,’ Caninius replied, thumbing over his shoulder towards the seething fight at the rampart. ‘Reginus is there somewhere too, as well as Brutus. It’s a damn mess, Fronto. There are just too many. The walls won’t hold them.’
‘I can see that.’
As Fronto watched the fight in consternation, wondering how best to proceed, his eyes picked out three figures emerging from the press. At the centre, Labienus was staggering, blood-spattered and shieldless, his sword still in his hand. To either side of him came a legionary in a similar state and Fronto jogged across to meet him as he made his way into the open space. Behind them, at the rampart, another breakout of Gauls made for the retreating officer, but was quickly swamped by legionaries. It was only a matter of time now before the whole camp was overrun.
‘Labienus!’
He came to a halt in front of the staff officer, his singulares at his shoulders.
‘Hmm?’ Labienus’ eyes came up to meet Fronto’s but there seemed to be no mind behind that vacant gaze. It was then Fronto noted the huge dent in the officer’s helmet and as the two legionaries carefully undid the strap and lifted the bronze headpiece from him, blood trickled from Labienus’ ear. He was clearly stunned from the blow. Hopefully not in mortal danger, but certainly not much use right now.
‘Labienus. The walls are breached. Do you order the sally?’
The staff officer attempted to focus on Fronto’s face and the legate saw a brief flash of recognition as Labienus attempted to pull his thoughts together.
‘Sally. Breach. Mmmm.’
‘Titus! Concentrate. Do we sally north?’
‘N… no. No. I… no.’
Fronto frowned. The officer was clearly incapable of making the decision right now. But shaking his head in confusion, Labienus raised his hand and pointed back into the camp. Fronto turned at the gesture and felt his heart leap.
Several new cohorts of men, apparently drawn from at least five legions and mixed in together, from the standards, were moving up from the tents, passing the rough second rampart of wounded artillerists and archers. Amid the line, he could see Caesar in his gleaming armour with his crimson cloak whipping about. The general, always one to know how to motivate his men, had slipped from his horse among the tents and now marched as part of the line, clearly visible for who he was by that recognisable cloak and yet clearly showing his willingness to be a part of the desperate defence. Fronto felt once again that swell of pride in his general. The man might be a politician to the core and even willing to make unacceptable sacrifices at times, but in a battle there was no better general in all the republic to fight for.
And on the flanks of that force came cavalry. To the left, a wing of auxiliaries and regulars led by the familiar shapes of Antonius and Silanus. To the right another wing, bolstered by Caesar’s own Praetorian horse and apparently commanded by Ingenuus.
Relief! It would not be enough to win the day, mind, a nagging voice in Fronto’s mind noted. Perhaps four more cohorts and two wings of cavalry. But they would hold a lot longer now. Until their arrival it seemed unlikely another quarter hour would pass before the camp fell.
‘Fronto!’ the general shouted as the cohorts moved forward. ‘Move aside, man, there’s work to be done.’
With a grin, Fronto beckoned to one of the tribunes and handed over Bucephalus’ reins. Despite the look of surprise on the man’s face, the tribune grasped the other reins as Aurelius and Masgava handed over theirs too.
‘Get them out of the combat,’ Fronto commanded and ripped his sword from his sheath, falling in with Caninius and his group and waiting for the advancing line of cohorts to reach them and absorb them into the front line, where two of the army’s legates and several of the most senior staff took their place ready to fight among the foremost men. This was, after all, the last battle they would have to fight, one way or another.
* * * * *
‘Don’t it get strange, sir?’
Atenos, Primus Pilus of the Tenth legion, smashed his sword point into the inner thigh of a rebel attempting to clamber over one of the few sections of rampart that had not yet given way. He felt the jet of warm, tinny liquid from the opened artery as the howling warrior fell back into the throng, and glanced at the young optio at his side. He was getting sick of field promotions. On this one afternoon, he had confirmed the position of three replacement centurions and his own century had seen four new optios appointed in as many hours. They kept dying like flies no matter how big and muscular they were. His latest choice had been made in a free heartbeat in the press, and seemed in retrospect too young to be wearing a toga, let alone commanding men.
‘What?’
‘Fightin’ your own, sir?’
‘My own?’ Atenos looked out across the sea of violent Gallic ire before him.
‘These aren’t my people, Optio.’
‘But they are Gauls, sir.’
‘I’m a Roman, lad. Note the uniform. And before that I was Leuci. This lot in front of us are Pictones I’d say, from the tattoos.’ He paused in the conversation to scythe the jaw from a warrior with swirling blue-grey patterns on his bare chest, while the optio fought off a young warrior in a green tunic. ‘I’m about as related to these bastards as you are to a Sicilian olive farmer.’
The optio slashed out at another man and carved a slice from a lunging arm, his screaming victim disappearing back into the press. The lad was apparently good with a sword, Atenos noted. Perhaps that was why he’d subconsciously selected him?
‘Didn’t mean to offend sir, sorry.’
‘No offence, lad. Just remember: whether I came from Gaul or Rome or your sister’s arse, what I am above all else is a centurion!’
He returned a strike from a hopeful Gaul and used his shield to push the man back down, then turned back to talk to the optio, but the young man was gone, shaking and moaning on the floor, his face almost entirely missing. Atenos sighed with regret as he realised that this section of rampart was almost untenable now. The fighting was about to move back into the camp here too. Even with the new cohorts Caesar and Fronto had brought, Mons Rea was about to fall. The Roman cavalry that had arrived with the officers had helped prevent the enemy from penetrating deep into the camp, but soon they too would be swamped, difficult as it was for horse to manoeuvre in such confines.
‘Sir!’ called a voice from three men down the struggle, and Atenos focussed on the beleaguered legionary, busy slamming his shield rim into the face of a Gaul.
‘Yes, optio?’
The legionary stared for a moment at the sudden promotion, and then broke into a grin.
‘Look, sir!’
Atenos followed the soldier’s gesture and his gaze fell on the sea of Gauls before them, roiling like the great Atlantic Ocean in a winter storm, waves crashing against the ramparts and soaking the defenders in warm, metallic spray. Then his eyes crept across the seething mass and up to the peak of Mons Rea beyond. And to what had crested the hill to the northeast.
A broad grin broke out across Atenos’ face.
‘Fight on, lads. It’s almost over.’
* * * * *
Varus felt the oddest mix of exultation and fear.
The moment he and the reserve cavalry had crested the northern heights of Mons Rea it was instantly apparent that they were in time. Just in time, but in time, nonetheless. The enemy force swarmed across the northern ramparts of the camp and against the circumvallation ramparts to either side, but they had been held back there and had not flooded into the centre of the Roman system.
The huge wing of horse had moved at a slow, quiet pace south from their original position to the foot of the Gods’ Gate mountain and then disappeared east, staying close to the Osana River and moving in groups to prevent them being seen as a strong force mounting the hillside. As soon as he’d judged that they were far from the sight of the enemy on the plains, he’d gathered them all together again, racing as fast as they could realistically hold together as a formation, and then rounding the eastern promontory of Alesia. Then, far from the action, they had climbed to Labienus’ camp atop the ‘Warm Hill’ as it was known. There a single century held the camp, looking bored so far from the fighting, and they had exhibited a great deal of surprise to find thousands of cavalry passing through the camp and out onto the hillside beyond.
Their speedy ride had taken them west, then, from the Warm Hill camp, down across a valley, where the fort of the Ninth and Fourteenth also languished under a skeleton guard, watching the huge cavalry contingent pass with interest, and then up to the rear of Mons Rea, an echo of the manoeuvre in which the Gauls had launched their own assault half a day earlier.
It had been blinding as the horsemen had risen up the slope and finally crested it into the golden orb of the dying sun which dazzled them as they rode towards it and then down to the beleaguered Roman camp.
Exultation, because they were in time.
Fear. Not because of the sea of Gauls that awaited them. After all, Varus had fought such armies many times now, and the Gauls held no fear for him, even this apparent new-breed who liked tricks and traps and Roman-style tactics. Especially since their horse were all down on the plains threatening the circumvallation there, and all his cavalry faced here were infantry, who were already tired and hard-pressed.
No. The fear he felt was an entirely different beast.
In numerous engagements now, as Caesar had pointed out, the thousand-strong German cavalry had turned the tide and saved the day. They had been trained by Varus’ best and wore Roman equipment - the best available. And yes, they were the more brutal of the peoples from beyond the Rhenus, but still what made them so effective? Varus had decided the time had come to find out, and so he had devolved overall command of the cavalry force to young Volcatius Tullus, commander of the Third Wing, while he had taken position with the Germans.
They had looked not unlike the usual auxiliary cavalry - the native levies often drawn from Belgic tribes who were not all that far removed from their Germanic neighbours. Apart from the slightly better equipment and often having a good half-foot of height on the rest of the force, and a good three hands extra on their horses, they appeared surprisingly similar. And yet they were in truth an entirely different matter.
Their senior officer - apparently a chieftain in their own lands - went by the name of Sigeric, and his grasp of Latin was limited to little more than commands and a few basic verbs and nouns. Yet the monstrous commander with a crease across the centre of his face, reputedly from an axe blow that had failed to penetrate his fabulously thick skull, welcomed Varus into his force with a laugh that rumbled like the collapse of quarries. The unit all bore familiar Roman cavalry helms, many with the featureless, dread-inspiring steel face-plates, but not Sigeric. He wore no helm nor mask, for his head, he said, was thicker than any helm, and his countenance more fearsome than any mask. Varus found the sentiment hard to deny. The man’s hair was beginning to turn grey, confirming his advancing age, but curiously, the left side of his head had remained a copper-blond, while the right had almost entirely silvered. He cut an odd and slightly horrifying figure even without his sword, which had been forged by his own blacksmith and was more than a foot longer than any similar blade Varus had seen. The man also wore a necklace of pierced teeth around his neck which did little to add culture and comfort to his appearance.
As they had crested the hill, the man had pulled something from his belt with his left hand. Shieldless and with his sword in his right, the big German steered his beast purely with his knees. Varus had frowned at the odd thing the German chief brought forth. It looked like a long knife, but with twin parallel blades, each bent at the end into a razor-edged hook.
And then, before he could query the man, Sigeric had roared some Germanic, guttural noise and his horsemen had kicked their steeds into a charge before even Volcatius Tullus had the chance to have his signaller blow the call. Varus found himself almost lost amid the big men on their bigger horses, feeling curiously short and odd as he raced into battle.
The effect of their surprise attack was both instant and horrific.
The panic that swept through the Gallic reserve army was palpable and, Varus noted, seemed to be almost entirely aimed at the German cavalry, rather than the much more numerous auxilia and regulars under Volcatius Tullus.
And as the riders ploughed into the rear ranks of the Gaulish army, Varus began to understand. As the old saying went - well, paraphrased anyway - you could take the warrior out of Germania, but you couldn’t take Germania out of the warrior. This force may be kitted out in the best Roman equipment available, and trained by Roman cavalrymen, but they were no more Roman at heart than Varus was German.
And in much the same way as the more brutal of the Germanic tribes, this bunch apparently felt no fear whatsoever. They would cheerfully charge into the mouth of Hades itself, determined to rip the balls from Cerberus with their teeth. Their bloodthirsty enthusiasm was tangible, and if Varus could feel it riding with them - in fact, almost succumbing to it by sheer proximity - then he could only imagine what it felt like to the Gauls they were riding down.
The Germans ploughed into the infantry like a sword through butter, barely slowing as they chopped, slashed, speared, jabbed, sliced and kicked their way. The horses - Germanic steeds of their own selection - trampled the unwitting and more than once Varus saw the animals lunge down and bite the enemy, something he’d never seen a horse do in his life.
As he watched, Sigeric turned from a German officer into a howling, lustful battle demon. That strange, twin hooked knife rose and came down, slamming into a panicked Gaul’s throat and the big chieftain roared and hauled it up. The hooks caught on the unfortunate Gaul’s chin, shredding his neck like an old, weatherworn curtain and, accompanied by a roar and a yank of arms with muscles like anvils, Sigeric ripped the half-severed head from the body, shattered vertebrae falling away and bouncing from his horse’s flank. In shock, Varus turned away only in time to see one of the other Germans gripping a poor Gaul’s wrist in his teeth, gnawing the arteries as he sawed through the elbow with his sword.
Varus felt sick. And faint. Everywhere he looked, acts of the most appalling barbarism were being perpetrated. These were not cavalry. These were animals!
No wonder the Gauls ran when they saw the Germans. After facing this lot once or twice, no man in his right mind would want to stand and take them on a third time.
The Gaulish army had lost in that instant.
The force that had been pushing to cross the north rampart of Mons Rea disintegrated, fleeing wherever they could. It took a matter of heartbeats for word of the cavalry onslaught to reach those in the thick of it. The men outside the camp on the periphery of the battle turned and fled, heedless of the dangers all around them, desperate to be away from the scene and making for the reserve camp on the hill.
The Germans were enjoying themselves, and every scene of their enjoyment threatened to make Varus’ gorge rise. Gulping in a bloody breath, the commander fought the urge to vomit and tried to move out to the open, away from the carnage and the charnel mess. Sigeric was in the way. The Roman officer couldn’t even see the rest of his cavalry, though he was sure they were now committed, adding to the destruction. He tried to push his way past Sigeric, trying not to notice what the big man was doing to a shrieking Gaul.
A thrumming noise almost escaped his attention and he didn’t know whether to shout his thanks or simply throw up as Sigeric held out part of a Gaul and used it as a shield to stop the arrow that had been hurtling at Varus, the missile thudding into the meat with an unpleasant noise.
Varus rode away from the slaughter, his face white as a fresh toga.
* * * * *
Molacos the huntsman lowered his bow. Another Roman officer he’d almost had, but the huge brute accompanying the man had stopped the arrow. The Cadurci hunter had dithered for half a heartbeat, wondering whether to try again, but what had been a raging battle was now turning into a slaughter. He was a hunter - a man of skill and finesse - not a meat-sack warrior. Thick battle was not his forte. He would have left the fight even were his people winning, but that was clearly no longer the case. The day was all but lost as the sun’s lowest arc touched the western hill. Time to find Lucterius. Molacos had managed to break out of Alesia, cross the inner wall at that broken gate, and slip through the northern rampart once the line had collapsed and the fighting had spread everywhere. Now he was free.
Ignoring the fighting going on around him, he slipped the Roman bow he’d picked up from a supply spot in the camp over his shoulder and instead drew his knife. He turned to head into the sunset, only to find a dismounted Roman cavalryman, shieldless and out of breath, in front of him. The Roman looked as surprised at the sudden meeting as he, and Molacos raised his knife even as the Roman brought his sword round to bear. The hunter was faster and much more accurate, though, his knife hitting the roman in the chin, the point jabbing up and through the mouth, into the brain and killing him.
But the cavalryman’s blow had begun and death would not slow the momentum.
The Roman sword smashed across Molacos’ face, sending him blind with blood and a shockwave of agony through his head. Desperate suddenly to be away from this nightmare, Molacos staggered, his face burning, blinking and hoping not to die.
Gradually, as he moved into the growing shadows away from the melee, the blood slick cleared from his eyes and he could see a little. Only one eye seemed to be working properly, and his left hand side was a vague pink-grey blur of liquid. His hand probed his face as he moved and he realised quickly that it was ruined. He’d never been pretty, and he knew that, but he recognised with equal certainty that he had been made hideous this day.
Cursing the world, and war, and Rome - mostly Rome - Molacos staggered off into the evening, searching for his master.
* * * * *
Cavarinos blinked.
His world hurt. His head felt as though horses had ridden across it.
Where was he?
He tried to rise, but his body appeared not to be working. His limbs felt like lead. It took him a long moment of realisation to figure out that he was beneath something. Several somethings, in fact.
He was at the bottom of a pile of bodies.
His head truly hurt, and he could feel the sharp pains of innumerable cuts and minor wounds across his body as he tried to free himself from the pile. An image struck him. A big, dark-skinned fist with knuckles like ox-shoulders coming for him. Fronto’s man. Memory flooded into him along with the endless pains. He knew he should feel angry, or glad, or indignant, or vengeful, or at least something. All he felt was tired.
After what felt like an hour of heaving and pushing, accompanied by the snapping of already-dead bones, Cavarinos extricated himself from the pile to discover that the sun had set. The inky purple of evening was cast above him, and the sounds of battle had gone.
It was over. How had they fared?
With difficulty - and apparently an arrow in the calf, which burned like crazy - Cavarinos hauled himself upright. A few tired-looking Romans lined the walls nearby, which answered his question eloquently.
That was it, then. He knew as well as anyone that the besieged army didn’t have another fight left in them. The battle was over. The war was over. His eyes scanned the land around him and he had to blink away the pain as his leg almost gave under him. Lights were winking into existence up at the oppidum. Some of the army had escaped there then, so that would be his destination. To starve or surrender or just charge to his doom with the rest of them as whoever now led the rebels decided.
The arrow had only cut through his flesh, scraping bone but leaving the muscle intact, and he found he could walk with a small amount of pain and difficulty. He reached down and snapped the shaft, drawing it out with a whimper of pain and then binding his leg with a dirty rag torn from one of the numerous bodies in the gateway. The Romans weren’t watching him here. How would he flee? His hand reached up and he found the somehow comforting shape of Fortuna still at his neck. He gripped it tight as he stepped out from the bodies and limped and staggered through the gate, having to use the timbers to support himself.
Then he was out into the evening and the open grass, strewn with hundreds and hundreds of his countrymen. It was a soul-destroying sight. So much Gallic life spent on this one day in pursuit of a dream that had now evaporated as the tribes woke from their blissful fantasies to find the Roman boot on their throat with more weight than ever.
Over. He turned to look at the Romans on the wall. The artillery was unmanned. None of the few soldiers seemed to have a bow or pilum. They mostly leaned on the fence as though they had survived a trip through Hades, which perhaps they had.
And so, seemingly, had he. He heard one of the Romans call to another, and they were pointing at him. Cavarinos turned his back on them. If he was going to die, watching it coming would make no difference. But no pilum came, nor arrow, nor bullet as he staggered painfully back across the ground and up the slope to the oppidum and to the last night of the rebellion, as he saw it.
Tonight, the war was over.
Perhaps tomorrow the peace could begin?
* * * * *
Fronto stood with half a dozen fellow officers, his singulares - both intact and wounded - gathered around him. Everyone looked equally exhausted. He had gone back to the gate as soon as the fighting was completely done and he’d had the leisure to do so, but could find no sign of Cavarinos. That might be a good sign, but there were enough unrecognisable bodies - and body parts - that he couldn’t be sure.
And now Antonius was passing around the wine that he could only have had on him, somewhere at his belt, even during the nightmare of the fight at the northern wall. Every man drank deep, and some poor soldier that Antonius had grabbed as he passed was even now hunting all the camp’s supplies for more.
‘Tonight, my friends, I intend to get drunk,’ Caesar’s second grinned.
‘That’ll be a feat. Two years now of downing your own bodyweight in wine and I’ve never seen you manage to get properly bollocksed yet!’
Antonius laughed lightly. ‘I save the silly stuff for the girls, Fronto. Men drink like men.’
The officers fell silent as they watched a small party approach in the gloom of the evening, their features only coming clear as they passed into the torchlight. Labienus, still caked in gore, was accompanying a party of legionaries as they hauled some Gallic noble, his arms bound behind his back and a horizontal pole beneath his arms keeping him upright.
‘Looks important,’ Fronto noted.
Labienus nodded. ‘Vergasillaunus, apparently. The rebel king’s cousin who led the attack on the north wall. Caesar will want to meet him, I’m sure.’
‘We didn’t get the king, then?’
‘They say he got away back up to Alesia. Varus and his men have pursued the relief army back up to their hill, but gave off the chase at the bottom of the slope where the treeline stopped them. Not much chance of them managing something like that again, though.’
No, Fronto thought with a sigh of relief.
My last battle…