Gallia Invicta

“Now get your men round behind them and fight as though you were Romans.”

The Gaulish officer stared in disbelief at his commander. Had Varus been the man here and now, he would likely have defied the legate, but Varus had the benefit of being both a senior commander, appointed by Caesar, and a Roman nobleman who theoretically outranked Crassus. Galronus had no such advantage and was well aware of his tenuous grip on command. Should he push Crassus too far, the man would simply remove him from his position and place one of the tribunes in control of the auxiliary cavalry.

“Very well, sir.” With an exaggerated salute, he turned and rode back to his men who, already and without the need for such an order, had begun to move back toward the rear of the column.

“Come on. Let’s get out there and flank them before they do too much damage.”

The units of Gallic horsemen kicked their steeds into a stronger pace and raced along the side of the legion, who were holding the line well and paying no heed to their own cavalry detachment behind them.

As he rode, Galronus frowned. Something was still not right. There must be a thousand or more enemy riders over there; probably two thousand. But that was nowhere near enough to take on an army this size. What did the Sotiates think they were doing?

The legion, now facing the enemy and the rocky hillside behind, formed a shield wall, supported by five further lines of men. The Sotiates, in traditional fashion, had ridden in sharply, cast a first spear into the lines, and then wheeled away before they met the shield wall. That initial volley had caused a reasonable amount of damage but, in the grand scheme of the army, had hardly made a difference, many of the spears being knocked aside with shields or falling short.

Since then the enemy had taken to riding forth in small groups, racing along the line of solid steel, jabbing down with their remaining spears in an overhand manner and then wrenching it back before riding away to rest as another group came forth. The same was happening all along the line. Here and there a spear blow would strike muscle and bone and a legionary would collapse, screaming, back among his fellows, but the vast majority of blows were caught and turned aside with the heavy legionary shields.

What could the Sotiates hope to gain from this? Sooner or later the legionary commanders would tire of watching this attritive warfare and would order an advance. Then it would all be over for these horsemen.

Galronus had reached the far end of the column now, where the newly-raised auxiliary spear bearers and archers brought up the rear, protecting the artillery, the baggage train and the supply wagons. To the cavalry commander’s secret delight, these auxiliary units under their own commanders seemed to be faring a great deal better than Crassus’ formidable legion. The spear men formed a veritable hedge of long, sharpened points, inaccessible to horses, while the archers behind kept up a steady volley that fell among any of the enemy that dared get close enough. The rear of the column was safe and the enemy were already moving toward the front, keeping a safe distance from this deadly combination of spear and arrow.

At least the supplies were protected.

As he watched, the first few units of his cavalry appeared at the other side, riding wide to flank the enemy and trap them against the column.

Galronus smiled and nodded to himself. Now things would change.

A minute later, he himself, along with his first unit, rounded the supply wagons and began to race toward the fray, picking up speed tremendously now that they were safely away from the precipice.

Galronus settled into his saddle, hauling the shield from his back onto his arm, and gripping his own spear tight as his knees guided the beast left and right.

The Sotiates were already pulling toward the front of the column, out of the reach of the archers and their deadly rain. The auxiliary cavalry came in at a wide arc from the slope above the fracas, driving for the flank of the enemy, where they met with shouts and the ringing sound of sword blows pounding shields or the metallic shriek of spear points sliding along bronze helmets or iron blades.

The legionaries close by, where the two cavalry forces had met, simply stood ready and stayed out of the way unless one of the Sotiates made a lunge for them. For a moment, Galronus wondered why they weren’t pressing home the attack, and then realised that, once the two forces were enjoined in combat, no legionary could tell the difference between the enemy horsemen and their own Gallic cavalry and were staying safely out of the situation for fear of causing allied casualties.

Gritting his teeth, the commander spotted a gap in the fighting and drove his horse down the slope toward a man in a mail vest with a splintered shield and a spear whose tip ran with crimson.

“Taranis, my arm is your thunderbolt!”

With a quick glance skyward, Galronus raised the spear above his shoulder and charged.

The moments that followed went by in a blur of confusion. Suddenly there was bucking, screaming, a jolting sensation, and he was free of the saddle, thundering through the air.

A lucky blow from one of the enemy horsemen had taken his steed in the neck, just above the shoulder and in shock and pain the horse had stumbled to a halt before rearing. The sudden stop, however, had dislodged the commander from his saddle mid-charge.

His mind whirling, the action around him a smudged mess, Galronus reacted the only way he could. To fall to the floor here, amid a cavalry battle, was to be trampled to death for certain. As his horse reared and collapsed behind him, Galronus let go of both spear and shield and grabbed for the first thing he could reach.

The enemy warrior gasped in surprise. He’d barely noticed the Roman horsemen as he turned to attack and had instantly pushed him from his thoughts as the man’s horse was stuck with a passing spear, but it appeared that the man was far from done.

Galronus clung desperately to the horse’s bridle with his left hand, gripping the saddle horn with his right as his legs dangled, his feet brushing the ground and bouncing painfully along.

In an urgent reaction, the Sotiate warrior brought his shield arm down, the edge of the heavy wood smashing into Galronus’ shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him. The man was trying to manoeuvre his spear over the top so that he could jab down at the burden that clung to his horse’s flank.

Gritting his teeth, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and the turf tugging at his feet, the Remi commander tightened his grip on the bridle, letting go with his right hand and swinging loose, bringing up his legs so that he hung by one hand from the horse’s neck, knees bent and facing the man whose spear was slowly passing over the top in an arc.

In a fluid move, he drew the broad-bladed Roman dagger from his belt and hooked it beneath the strap that passed from the saddle around the horse’s girth. Two sharp tugs was all the sharpened blade needed, and the leather snapped with the tremendous strain put on it from above.

The rider, his spear ready to plunge down at his unwanted passenger, squawked in shock as he plummeted from the side of the horse, knees still gripping the suddenly detached saddle.

Galronus watched as the man fell away, disappearing with a shriek beneath the hooves of two other struggling horses.

Changing his grip on the bridle, the commander vaulted up and onto the bare back of the horse, grasping the reins. The priority now was to removing himself from danger. With no saddle, he would find it difficult to manoeuvre without being unhorsed and, with only a dagger to hand, he was of precious little use in the current melee.

Wheeling the beast, he rode for the clear ground to the rear, turning once he was safely free of the fight.

The battle was all but over. Trapped between the steel wall of the Seventh legion and the vicious and well- trained auxiliary cavalry, the Sotiates had lost many of their men and had already pulled away toward the front of the column.

Even as he watched, the last few struggles ended as the enemy warriors fell or retreated, the entire remaining force disengaging and racing along the Roman lines, down the gentle slope into the valley.

The Remi officer heaved a sigh of relief and reached up to his tender shoulder. The chain armour had been torn apart by the blow as though it were merely old wool. The tunic beneath was torn and blood soaked the material. At least nothing appeared to have been broken, but for the next few days any movement of the arm would bring exquisite agony.

Wincing, he withdrew his hand and trotted forward, watching the fleeing enemy. His officers looked at him expectantly and he shook his head, smiling at the looks of disappointment from those men whose blood was already up.