S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

All around him now he could hear the sounds of furious combat. Shielding his eyes, he gazed out over the field at the cavalry. They were forming up into two units. Hopefully that meant the rope had arrived and they were coming to help.

Suddenly a sharp pain shot through his heel. Fronto turned and looked down. One of the women, presumably driven from the cart top by panic, had been hiding beneath the vehicle and had sunk her teeth into his heel the moment he turned his back. Shit! She’d nearly hamstrung him. Wobbling on his injured foot and trying to turn round without collapsing to the floor, he stepped back and tottered. Righting himself tenuously, he slammed the edge of his shield down onto her arms where she was trying to crawl out from her hiding place. He heard the bones break in her arms, but moments later slid and fell backwards, the reverberating shock too much for his weak and quivering leg.

No sooner had he hit the ground than one of the legionaries from the Eleventh bent and reached down for him. Gratefully he accepted the man’s aid and pulled himself up. Horsemen were now visible around them and on both sides. He heard a length of rope whistle past him and the men started to tie the lengths to the carts. Briefly, close behind, a woman screamed. He closed his eyes and tried not to feel sorry for her, considering what she’d done.

The legionary supporting him passed his shield to a colleague and sheathed his sword.

“C’mon sir. We’d best get you movin’ before this place turns to hell.”

Fronto shook his head for a moment before realising that the lad was right. If he didn’t get a head start, limping like he was, he’d be cut down by the fleeing hordes of Germans when the carts gave way.

The soldier half dragged, half carried the legate to the cavalry, where a few spare horses were gathered. Fronto kept looking over his shoulder at the fighting still going on by the carts. He also noted the remarkably visible trail of blood that betrayed where he had come from. The wound must be quite bad, he decided. After all, it had gone numb, and only really bad wounds went numb; the smaller ones hurt more.

“Best get you on a horse sir.”

The legionary looked over at Ingenuus.

“Can I leave him with you sir? You’ll make sure he gets back, yes?”

The prefect smiled and turned to one of his men.

“The legate looks a little pale. I think you’d best get him to a medic quickly.”

Fronto sat up on the horse.

“I’m damn well going nowhere until I see Ariovistus leave.”

Ingenuus grinned.

“Then you’d best move your horse a little, sir, or you’re going to be in the way of the ropes.”

As the cavalry beat an ordered retreat, Fronto scanned the carts. The infantry were pulling back in good order, around the line of carts and at an increasing distance from them. Tetricus had brought the units back together well and they appeared to have suffered what even Fronto would term ‘acceptable losses’. German warriors swarmed over, under and around the carts and began hacking at the ropes.

Ingenuus turned his crazy grin to the men around him.

“Heave lads. Pull the buggers over.”

The ropes tightened rapidly. As the first rope was cut by the Germans, two of the horseman had to correct themselves and were almost unhorsed. The other rope, however, held firm and the cart gave an ear-splitting cracking noise and then rumbled at high speed out of the wall. A number of German warriors were unfortunate enough to be in front of it, trying to cut the rope, and were lost with a sickening crunch beneath the heavy wheels.

As the central cart trundled to a halt some fifty yards from the wall, the ones on either side came away with just a few creaks, tipping first onto their wheels due to Tetricus’ positioning of the knots, and then rattling away across the turf. A mass of Germans poured through the gap. For a moment Fronto feared they might wheel to the side and come after the mixed group of infantry and cavalry, but they were more intent on fleeing the death pit that was the centre of the field.

Fronto smiled. That was it. They’d beaten Ariovistus. The Germans were fleeing the field in scattered panicky groups. Even if they ever managed to group together between here and the other side of the Rhine, the leaders of the other Cantons would never follow Ariovistus against Rome again. Fronto found himself thinking deeply of drinking; drinking deeply. With a relieved smile and heedless of his wound he kicked his horse into life…

…and yelped.

Fronto winced. The medicus dealing with his heel had all the bedside manner and gentle touch of a Numidian gladiator.

“When you’ve quite finished mauling and tenderising my foot, would you kindly tell me how long I’m going to be invalided?”

The medicus gave Fronto a look that worried him. No one this naturally unpleasant should be responsible for his wellbeing.

“You can hobble on it now, but only from seat to seat and so on. If you try walking any distance on it, you’ll just end up in a heap and I’ll refuse to redo it.”

“Thanks doc.”

Priscus grinned.

“It’s alright. I figure you’re getting used to sitting on your arse a lot nowadays.”

Fronto growled.

“You’re almost as respectful as he is! Why is it that doctors always treat me like a petulant child, but they never seem to argue with you and Velius?”

Priscus grinned.

“Doctors aren’t frightened of senior officers. They’re generally sensible and well behaved. And doctors know they’re valuable. Centurions on the other hand have a reputation for being lunatics and don’t take so well to being ordered around by doctors. Take Balventius.”

“Why, what’s up with him?”

Priscus’ grin broadened.

“He’s in the next tent with Balbus. The doctor had a go at him and when I last saw them, he was threatening the medic with a sword. They won’t argue with him any more.”

A cough announced the arrival of Crispus.

“A very fine afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Crispus. How’s things going?”

The young legate took a seat.

“The legions are once more in the camp, with the exception of the few centuries who persist in pursuing the Germans. Duty units are gathering the dead and still finding wounded.”

Fronto nodded soberly.

“And what of the Germans, then?”

“They continue their flight as though the very ghost of Scipio himself were after them. I am somewhat unconvinced that any of them will cease their flight until they cross the Rhine. They are, as I intimated, continually pursued by units of our infantry.”

Fronto glanced down at Priscus, who wore a confused frown. He smiled and translated.

“The Germans are running back across the Rhine and we’re chasing them.”

When he looked back up, Crispus now wore a confused frown. He sighed and glossed over the subject.

“Anyway, I presume the cavalry are still out?”

Crispus nodded.

“I very much doubt that the pursuant centuries will reach conflict at all. Varus and Crassus are already halfway to the Rhine by now, and Caesar and Ingenuus will not be tarrying. No one has yet found the King. Perhaps he died on the field, though I am more inclined to the opinion that he escaped.”

Without changing his expression, Fronto turned to Priscus.

“The cavalry are chasing them down. They haven’t found Ariovistus.”

“Yes, thank you. I already got that.”

Fronto smiled.

“Crispus, you have a lovely turn of phrase but sometimes we mortals have trouble following you.”

Crispus smiled back.

“Indeed? Then I shall endeavour to paraphrase myself.”

Behind Crispus, a shadow cast on the tent leather indicated the arrival of another visitor. Leaning heavily on the doctor’s table, still sticky with drying blood, Fronto heaved himself upright, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. Immediate pain rushed through his heel and he almost collapsed. With a sigh he looked pathetically at Crispus and Priscus.