R. Cooke - Rome - Fury of the Legion

"All reserve forward!" He ordered the officers of the two brigades. "To the gap in the line, with your full force! Send them into the gap!"

The officers obeyed, and led their two thousand howling warriors into the opening hole in the Roman line. They instantly bolstered the spearmen that were already fighting there, and the gap immediately began to expand. Boduognatus saw Romans overcome and skewered. He saw the enemy fall back in a panic at the sight of the unstoppable force working its way to their rear. The legionaries on the line, faced with jabbing spears to their front and swinging axes to the flank either withdrew or were cut down. In the midst of the melee, even the plume of the Roman officer could be seen above the other helmets, moving back away from the surging Nervii warriors.

This was the moment, Boduognatus thought. It was going to happen now. The entire Roman line was about to collapse, and the legions in the center would be taken from the flank, and then the Viromandui, too, would join in the slaughter. He gripped his horse's reins tightly in anticipation of the blessed moment, when his countrymen and all of Belgica would be saved from the scourge of Rome.

At that moment, a horn sounded to his rear. It was not a horn of the Belgae.

Sitting atop his horse on the Roman side of the river, Boduognatus wheeled around to look behind him, and his heart sank at what his eyes beheld. Across the river, emerging from the same forest his own men had used to lie in ambush only hours before, marched two Roman legions in perfect battle order. They descended the grassy slope as an advancing wall of shields, several ranks deep. They were at full strength, centurions at the head of each century and cohort. At another sound of the horn, they broke into the double-quick step. They would cross the river and fall upon the Nervii rear in a matter of moments. At the same time, more horns sounded beyond the melee to his front, and Boduognatus looked over the top of the line and through the cloud of dust to see Roman standards appearing at the top of the hill, where the road emerged from the hedges. The legions that had been at the extreme rear of the Roman column had finally arrived, after weaving their way through several miles of jammed impedimenta.

Boduognatus took off his helmet and buried his face in his hands, the realization of his failure sweeping over him. It was a complete and utter defeat. There was no hope now.

Remembering his own pride, and that the only thing possibly worse than suffering such a defeat was living through it, the Nervii chieftain took his hands from his face and sat up straight in the saddle. With a sweeping motion, he drew his sword from its sheath and turned his horse to face the angle of the Roman line, where his now panicky troops were beginning to falter at the sight of so many legions, and the gap they had fought so hard to create was starting to collapse. The mounted warriors of his bodyguard did the same.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, and then opened them again. Then, with a peace he had not felt since he was a young wolf warrior, he raised his sword above his head and shouted a war cry from deep within his lungs, from deep within his soul, a cry that let out all of the suffering of his life, all responsibility, all loss, all hate, and all love he had ever felt. The men with him shouted, too.

Then, Boduognatus of the Belgae, the last true chieftain of the Nervii, led his mounted sword warriors into the maelstrom of swords and spears, never to return again.

The Nervii had been defeated. Beside the tranquil Sabis River, a newly erected Roman trophy now stood. For generations, it would mark the spot where the valiant men of the fearsome tribe had met their end.

At the direction of the gray-haired nobles, the oppidum was opened to the Romans, and the legions entered unopposed. The Seventh was among these, its ranks severely reduced and many newly promoted officers at the head of its centuries. The cohorts fanned out, each to secure its share of the Nervii town.

“Fall out and search the huts,” Vitalis commanded the sixty-two men remaining in the 9th century. “And remember what I said, now. Seize the weapons only! If I see any one of you miscreants sneaking so much as a pocket purse, I’ll have you flogged.”

The rape and pillage often afforded to victorious soldiers after a trying battle would not happen here. The order of mercy had come down from Caesar himself. The Nervii were to be spared. They were a defeated people. There would be no further resistance. The winter months were coming, and the Nervii families would need to eat. The last thing the proconsul needed was another wayward tribe of refugees marching across Gaul in search of food.

Alain had come with the century, and Lucius now followed him as they made their way to Gertrude’s house. Lucius tried to recall the steps he and Alain had taken that night when the boy had helped him to escape. The town looked so different in the light of day. The boy had appeared anxious all morning, and still not entirely trusting of Lucius and the other legionaries who now occupied the lanes and alleyways. But Lucius had allayed his fears, assuring him that he would keep his word. Lucius was intent on doing it, certainly for the lad’s sake, but mostly for Gertrude whom he knew had risked everything, and had lost much.

Lucius could still see the blue eyes of the large grey-haired warrior who had fallen only a spear’s throw away from him, pierced by a dozen swords and spears. It was the same Belgic chieftain he had seen with Gertrude that night at the druid ritual. Somehow, he knew it was her father.

After the pursuit and massacre of the fleeing Nervii, the legions had returned to plunder the battlefield. The chieftain’s fine armor, expertly-woven trousers, and boots were conspicuous among the fallen, and by the time Lucius found the body, the maddened legionaries had already stripped it of nearly everything. The body of the renowned chieftain lay bare upon the blood-stained grass, nothing left to distinguish him from the commoners of his host.

As the pyres flamed to life to consume the thousands of dead, and the stench of burning flesh overtook the field, Lucius had seen a familiar face emerge from the drifting smoke.

“I am joyed to see you, Lucius Domitius of Spain,” Divitiacus greeted him with a wide smile. “You have the favor of the gods, it seems.”

“I am glad to see you, too, my lord.”

It had been days since Lucius had seen the Aeduan chieftain, and several hours since Lucius had left Caesar’s side at the turning of the battle. He felt that he must tell Divitiacus all, about how he was right, and how Valens had given him over to the Nervii, and how the senator had attempted to have Caesar killed, but he hardly knew where to begin. Something in the Aeduan’s face told him he did not have to.

“Valens has fled,” Divitiacus finally said.

“Then you know all that has happened?”

“I have spoken with Caesar.” He then smiled and gave Lucius a sideways look. “And he told me a most remarkable story about a common legionary who came to his aid dressed as a tribune.”

Lucius smiled for a moment, but then all merriment left him. “I should have gone after Valens instead.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who knows what the fates hold, Lucius Domitius of Spain? The gods play a clever game. A man cannot travel two paths at once. He must choose one, and make the most of his decision. Wasting precious time yearning for what might have been does nothing, other than provide the gods with amusement.”

The chieftain then pointed to the top of a nearby hill. Between the drifting clouds of smoke, Lucius could see a dozen or more naked, bearded men splayed out with hands and feet extended to maximum reach. They had been crucified, their pale skin contrasting against the dark trunks of the trees. Nearby, a small detachment of legionaries stood watch as the life slowly ebbed from the twitching bodies.