he doing with the spearmen and archers?”
Tertullus shrugged. The three thousand or so spearmen and archers had taken position part way up the slope, creating a wall of bristling points that could hold most forces from reaching the support column.
“They’re protecting the baggage. That’s a common role for them and I, for one, am happy they’re doing so, since we’re sat in one such cart.”
Galronus frowned.
“Why
Tertullus sighed.
“The legate likes to keep me out of danger if possible. His mother would be furious with him if anything happened to me.”
Galronus laughed.
“You Romans have such a strange set of values.”
He pointed down the slope.
“What I was trying to bring to your attention is that fully a third of the legate’s forces are standing still on the slope and waiting for the enemy to make for the wagons. The Sotiates might not have any intention of doing so, since they’re too busy slaughtering legionaries by the cartload. Wasteful.”
“So what’s your alternative?”
Galronus grinned and stood, wobbling slightly.
“I may be a passenger now, but you’re still a senior commander. Let’s take control of the auxiliaries and provide a little support.”
Tertullus smiled and clambered down from the cart.
“So what do we do?”
“You take the archers and I’ll take the spear men. Imagine what damage a thousand arrows could do falling from the top of the valley side?”
The tribune’s smile widened.
“We might be able to thin them out quite well. And the spears?”
“Spears are no use up there, but there are a lot of loose rocks on these hillsides. Imagine the damage a heavy rock could do rolling down that hillside and into a mass of warriors.”
Tertullus laughed.
“I see what you mean about not thinking exclusively.”
Reaching up, he grasped Galronus and helped him down from the cart.
“Come on. Let’s go and save my nephew’s backside.”
Chapter 16
(Iunius: Inland Aquitania, territory of the Sotiates.)
Gaius Pinarius Rusca licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth in panic. What in the name of all the Gods was he doing here? The closest he’d ever come to fighting was a tussle with a peer who stole his seat at the games when he was a teenager.
Eight months ago he had been sitting in his cosy little triclinium contemplating his future with the delectable Laevinia and now, standing on this springy turf with his legs shaking uncontrollably and a dangerous slackening around his bladder, he couldn’t believe how excited he’d been to have had his posting to the legions approved.
His father had served under the elder Crassus years ago and had managed to secure him the most prestigious tribunate within the Seventh beneath the young legate, since when Rusca had spent the past months in Vindunum lording it over the others and turning his ability with numbers and attention to detail to the disposition of units and supply problems.
A distant bellow of rage brought his attention rudely back to the current situation.
“Hold the line!” he shouted, noting the way his voice cracked in fear and hoping that no one else had.
The legate had sent the cavalry on chasing the Sotiates and had marched the legions as fast as they could move in formation down the hill behind.
They had descended, eager to bring Roman vengeance to these skirmishing horsemen and Rusca had watched from his forward position as the pursuing auxiliary cavalry engaged the enemy once again, only to be completely cut off from the rest of the army as untold thousands of screaming, bloodthirsty barbarians, some wearing wild animal pelts around their shoulders, had poured seemingly out of the very ground to either side of them.
Rusca’s world had fallen apart. He was a natural mathematician; a studious and quiet young man hoping to achieve at least a minor public appointment back in the city on the strength of his military experience. What he was truly not, he thought, as the embarrassing warm trickle began, was a soldier.
Crassus himself had been close by and Rusca had been surprised at how the man dealt with the situation. The legate was no older than he and had only served the legions for a couple of years and yet he took control of the disaster like those Cretan bull leapers grabbed their acrobatic steeds and pulled the legion together; like a veteran commander.
On the legate’s orders, the legion had split into individual cohorts, each forming a defensive square in the face of the charging enemy. Suddenly, and without time to even attempt mental preparation, the inexperienced senior tribune had found himself in nominal command of the Second cohort as they braced for the clash, though in truth, the cohort’s senior centurion was already shouting the appropriate commands, most of the troops largely unaware of even the presence of the tribune.
The square consisted of shield walls thirty men across and four deep, with the tribune, the cornicens and the capsarii in the central space.
The Sotiates, wrapped in their pelts, furs, leathers and occasional mail shirts poured down the slope like a shabby sea, crashing against the rocks of the Second cohort with a spray of blood, spittle and sweat and Rusca felt a fresh wave of panic as the shield walls on two sides gave a little under the onslaught, bowing inwards toward the non-combatants in the centre. The scent of urine brought a burning shame to the tribune’s cheeks, though he was sure no one would notice in the general stink of sweat that threatened to make him gag.
How could there be so many barbarians in all the world? Already the shield walls were under attack by a vast force, and yet all he could see from his central vantage point were yet more and more enemy warriors charging, screaming into the fray.
“Hold the line!” he bellowed again, aware of how pointless it was as a command. As if the men were about to part and let the sea of Gauls into their midst.
A commotion drew his attention to the north face of the formation, where a particularly violent assault was taking place, the enemy literally throwing themselves in a blind rage on top of the shield wall, breaking the square. As he watched, a huge barbarian with a broad-bladed axe appeared, the weapon held high above his head, as he stood on the back of a fallen comrade, one foot held firm on a discarded Roman shield, and brought the vicious weapon down in a massive swing.
Something bounced off Rusca’s cheek guard and rattled around the helmet’s bronze rim, and his sight went black.
In an urgent and terrified panic, Rusca raised his free hand, his sword arm hanging pointlessly at his side, and wiped desperately at his suddenly blind eyes. What had happened?
His vision returned as he wiped the excess blood from his eyes and he gagged, realising that the axe blow had sent half the legionary’s head flying through the air in pieces. Stepping back, pale and shaking, Rusca leaned forward and vomited copiously, fresh waves of horror assailing him as shards of bone and fractured teeth fell out of his helmet where they had become lodged following the blow.
How he remained standing at that point, white, terrified and sick, he would never know, but the young tribune’s world changed in that moment.
He stared down at the fragments of the unknown legionary on the floor below him and spat the remains of
