R. Cooke - Rome - Fury of the Legion

“Marcellus!” Caesar called to one of his aides, never taking his eyes from the battle. “Marcellus?”

When the aide did not respond, Caesar turned irately, but was instantly taken aback. He and Balbus saw it at the same time and both men gasped.

Caesar’s two aides were still mounted, but they were quite unable to respond. Their faces were contorted in pain as they gurgled up blood, two feet of red steel protruding from each man’s chest. Behind them, grimacing Gallic bodyguards withdrew the deadly blades, allowing the twitching bodies to fall to the ground. In the moment that Caesar’s mind registered the betrayal, several things ran through his thoughts at once. Why did he only see three mounted Gauls where there should have been twenty? Who had paid these three to betray him? Where was Valens? Had he not been riding just behind him?

As Caesar weighed all of these things in the space of a heartbeat, he saw the killer look in the eyes of the third Gaul, whose sword had yet to be blemished. Caesar knew this man intended to slay him. This was confirmed when the Gaul shouted a war cry and drove his mount straight for the dismounted proconsul. The links in the Gaul’s long mail shirt clanked loudly as his horse quickly covered the short distance, and his sword was poised for the killing stroke. Caesar ducked out of the way at the last moment, narrowly avoiding the murderous steel that cut through the air a hands-breadth from his head. In the sudden move, he lost his step and fell to the ground. He was just struggling back to his feet when the other two mounted Gauls charged at him.

“Help, damn you!” Caesar heard Balbus’s voice call in an attempt to get the attention of the nearby ranks of legionaries. “Help the proconsul!”

But the din of battle was too great. Balbus’s pleas were swallowed up by the clatter of a thousand swords on as many shields, the cries of fighting men, and the screams of the dying. Balbus himself could hardly stand, so he was of no use, but the physician took the cue from his employer and ran to place himself in the path between the charging Gauls and the proconsul. The physician drew his sword to face the attackers, but he was no warrior. He held the weapon as awkwardly as if it were a piece of wet hemp. His feeble stroke was effortlessly batted away. An instant later, a muscled arm made a downward swing, and a longsword cleaved the physician’s skull to the nose.

Caesar saw now that the first Gaul was coming back again, and the other two would be on him in moments. The sacrifice of the physician had given him time to draw his own sword, but what could he do? He was a thin man, middle-aged, and never considered to be a powerful warrior in any respects. He had some skill with the sword, but his primary weapons had always been his mind, his craftiness, and his steadfastness when all prospects looked bleak. The Gauls that now surrounded him had shoulders twice the breadth of his. He had hand-picked them himself for their youth and strength. They had ridden with him for the entire spring campaign. He knew their ferocity, and what they could do to an enemy. He had seen them choke Belgic warriors with their bare hands. How could he hope to face them in combat?

The three Gauls looked down at him, and then at each other, apparently undecided on which should have the honor of slaying him. Even now, with death so close, Caesar could not help but wonder who could have put them up to it. It had to have been a wealthy man, for only an excessive offer would have enticed them away from the plunder and pay they had been guaranteed in Caesar’s service. And Caesar had paid them handsomely. He was not sure what bothered him more, the betrayal or the fact that he had wasted a good forty denarii a piece on these scoundrels.

“Get on with it!” Caesar snapped at them.

The Gauls smiled at each other, and then the largest of the three coaxed his horse forward, casually raising his sword high for the killing blow. Caesar thought for a moment about trying to deflect it, but then the thunder of hooves, very close and very fast, broke his concentration.

“General!” a voice shouted behind him.

Caesar turned to see a tribune, riding at full gallop, and charging at the Gaul. The tribune held a legionary’s shield by one hand, and this he hurled at Caesar. The shield landed at Caesar’s feet, and he quickly took it up and ducked behind it. The large Gaul had saved his sword stroke for the oncoming tribune, but at the last instant, the tribune reined in his horse and dropped to the ground to stand beside Caesar behind the shield. Both peered over the top of the shield with swords in hand as the Gauls approached.

“Are you mad, young man, giving up that mount?” Caesar exclaimed.

“I am a foot soldier!” the tribune said simply. Then, as Caesar tried to digest that, the young man commanded. “Shield up! Higher!”

Caesar obeyed instantly, just as the first Gaul made a pass. The bone-shattering blow that followed nearly knocked the boss from Caesar’s hand. The impact from the longsword was powerful enough to open seams in the plywood, allowing light to shine through, and his hand ached as though it had gone under a stone mill. He suddenly realized that the tribune had crouched low as the Gaul had passed, and had issued powerful blows of his own, but at the legs of the charging horse. The gladius had dug deep into the beast’s flesh, cuts delivered with skill and precision, especially from such a short weapon. Now the horse stumbled. It protested as its rider desperately pulled on the reins to keep it standing. Seeing his chance, the tribune bolted from the cover of the shield, leaped into the air, and brought his gladius down two-handed into the Gaul’s back. Mail links parted. The man’s longsword fell from his hand, and a rush of blood ran down his side, painting his leg and his horse’s coat dark red. The Gaul’s eyes grew wide with pain when the gladius was withdrawn, and then the eyes lost their life entirely when the tribune’s blade, sweeping in a wide arc, separated the man’s head from his shoulders.

While Caesar’s one defender was momentarily occupied, the other two Gauls rushed at him with swords swinging. Again, Caesar brought the shield up to protect him, but this time the double blow of the powerful longswords carried it away. It flipped in the air several times, landing several paces away. He was now completely unprotected. Wheeling their mounts around, the Gauls raised their weapons. Caesar instinctively ducked, expecting to be hacked to pieces by the longswords at any moment.

He held his breath, but the swords never came.

Instead, he heard two men grunt above him, and then felt their large frames fall from the saddle and impact the ground beside him with a crash of their mail armor. Caesar looked up to see that both men were dead, their bodies transfixed with at least three javelins each.

Standing beside the body of the Gaul whom he had decapitated, Lucius had watched helplessly as the two remaining bodyguards had attacked Caesar. He was only a few paces away, but they might as well have been miles. There was nothing he could do. Then, as he had watched the big Gauls raise their swords for the killing strike, javelins had come out of the dust, several of them. Enough ran true to kill the Gauls in their saddles, and he breathed a heavy sigh as he saw both men fall from their mounts.

He saw the proconsul slowly rise to his feet. Caesar was safe, at least for the time being. But where in Hector’s girdle had those javelins come from?

Lucius got his answer when, out of the roiling dust, came a troop of legionaries, rushing to Caesar’s side. He saw many familiar faces among them. They were the men of the 9th century, with Vitalis at their head. The centurion took one look at Caesar, and then at Lucius. His face first registered shock, and then disbelief.