legionaries been less than selective with their targets, but also the Germanic tribesfolk had done nothing to try and shelter their civilian counterparts, the warriors having run alongside them and many women and children being left to die as the warriors ran.
A distant call from a buccina identified the location of the Tenth and the two men angled off to the south, towards the river Mosella. A sound like distant thunder told them that Galronus and his cavalry were converging on the very same spot.
The sounds of fighting became gradually louder and more distinct as they neared the river and finally, pushing their way past a large, partially collapsed tent, Fronto and Atenos laid eyes on the scene at the water’s edge.
A detachment of legionaries — what looked like roughly half a legion in total — had pinned the barbarians against the waterside. The standards and flags identified the detachment as being composed of men from the Tenth and the Seventh, while Galronus’ green cavalry wing, even as Fronto watched, crashed into the barbarians’ flank along the river, jabbing down with their spears and scything out with swords, their organisation and fighting style still very much Gallic, as yet untempered by too much Roman influence.
With some dismay, Fronto noted that once again the barbarian force consisted of warriors, but also of women, children and old folk, and yet all of them seemed determined to fight back, women wielding weapons stolen from the dead, children swishing and stabbing with sticks, throwing stones, or hefting other makeshift weapons.
The reason for their combined and desperate defiance lay beyond, protected from the Roman attackers by a sea of flailing people: two dozen sizeable rafts, each large enough to carry twenty or more people, were being manhandled into the water, still tied to the bank with ropes to prevent them rushing away downstream. Even as Fronto watched, the first raft began to float out into the water. The occupants had no oars but, using heavy poles, they pushed the raft out into the deeper, fast flowing water before throwing the poles to the bank for the next group, then dropping their arms into the water and scooping their way out into mid-river.
The rafts were just as likely to return to this bank further down or hurtle downriver until they flowed out into the massive channel of the Rhenus as they were actually to cross here, but that seemed of little consequence to the fleeing folk before him.
Fronto paused.
“What are you thinking?” murmured Atenos next to him.
“I’m trying to decide whether Labienus is right. Perhaps we ought to just let them go. Look at them. They’re in a panic and they’re mostly civilians. This lot aren’t going turn round and regroup. They won’t stop running and swimming until they reach the east bank of the Rhenus again.”
Atenos nodded.
“It would be breaking the general’s orders, though, sir. And these people
Fronto turned to his centurion friend in surprise, but nodded.
“You’re right. And, of course, slaves help pay for the campaign too. Come on.”
Breaking into a jog, Fronto and Atenos made their way to the scene of fighting, shouting at the rear ranks of legionaries to step aside, making for where they could see a group of standards wavering. Slowly, they managed to push through the crowd until they spotted Cicero’s ornate helmet and white plume near the standards. Angling towards him, Fronto hauled men out of the way.
“Cicero!”
The man was busy bellowing orders to his men and threats to the barbarians only twenty feet away and roaring their defiance in guttural tongues.
“Cicero!” Fronto bellowed again as the two men reached the small command group. Two of Cicero’s tribunes finally spotted the mud-spattered legate and his centurion and tugged at Cicero. The Seventh’s commander turned and noticed Fronto.
“The bastards are getting away, Fronto. We can’t kill them fast enough to get to the rafts.”
Fronto nodded.
“Galronus’ cavalry are here now and they’re pushing along the water’s edge. They’ll cut the enemy off completely in a few minutes. Maybe three or four rafts will get away. That’s all. Once their escape route’s gone, they should surrender!”
Cicero smiled grimly and turned back to his men, shouting orders and encouragement.
“Had a bit of a fall, legate?”
Fronto turned to see Fabius standing nearby, a cold smile on his face. The centurion was liberally spattered with blood and wielded a gladius in one hand and his vine staff in the other.
“Horse threw me in the fight.” His eyes strayed down suspiciously to the man’s waist, expecting an empty scabbard where the man’s pugio should be, but he was a little disappointed to note that the hilt of the dagger rose proud from the sheath.
Fabius nodded a faint bow and then turned and pushed his way back into the fight. Fronto glared after him until he was lost from sight in the press. He would be willing to put money on the fact that, if he found Furius, the other veteran’s dagger sheath would be empty.
A hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly and he looked round to see Atenos smiling.
“The cavalry’s behind them now. It’s over, sir.”
Fronto tried to see across the crowd but, being more than a head shorter than the centurion, he could see little but a sea of milling legionaries.
“They’re cutting the ropes” Atenos said with satisfaction. “You can see the empty rafts drifting out into the water. Arms are getting raised too. Looks like they’re surrendering.”
As Fronto listened, he could hear the distinctive sound of hundreds, even thousands, of weapons being cast to the ground in defeat.
It seemed that it really was over. The invaders had been smashed and beaten, their army destroyed, their camp ravaged. Survivors who made it to safety would be few and far between and there would be a lot of slaves taken. It was not even midsummer and the legions had already achieved their season’s objectives.
Fronto smiled to himself, despite everything. The image of Lucilia and the memory of the warm waters of the bay below Puteoli sprang unbidden to his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to give her the marriage she sought this year after all.
Fronto took a deep breath and, rolling his aching shoulders and wincing at the pains he’d suffered in the fall, glanced left and right at the crimson vexillum flags bearing Caesar’s Taurus emblem in gold, and nodded at the two guards, who opened the flap.
“Legate Marcus Falerius Fronto” announced the cavalry bodyguard, ushering Fronto into the tent.
“Ah, Marcus. I’d been hoping you would deign this meeting worthy of your presence at some point.” Caesar’s expression suggested that there was little intended humour within the sarcasm.
“Apologies Caesar” he replied with as little apology in the tone as he could manage. “I have come straight from the medicus.”
“Your tribune?”
“Tetricus, yes. He’ll live. He may suffer restricted movement in his arm and leg, but that’s what we expect from Roman weapons: killing and wounding efficiency.” His sharp, almost accusatory words echoed throughout the quiet tent and he took a moment to cast his eye round the assembled officers, allowing it to linger on Cicero and his pet centurions. Neither Furius nor Fabius seemed fazed by the words.
“The matter
Fronto harrumphed and fell into position in a sullen silence, glaring for long moments at the centurions before turning to Caesar.
“The figures appear to be more than acceptable so far” Caesar announced, running a finger down the tallies on the tablets before him. “Currently they stand at forty seven men of the legions, including two centurions, an optio and a tribune, with a little over a hundred being tended by the medical section and nine unaccounted for. The cavalry lost twenty eight men and fifty one horses, due to the barbarians’ unorthodox and effective anti-horse tactics. So, even assuming the worst, we lost less than a hundred men in total. I think we can all consider that a
