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Well, here's the first section of Part Four of The Fall of the Nervii. This Part is being submitted in three sections, so keep watching the Chronicles Board!
Part Four: Thunderbolts
Caesar
As the legions moved forward into the southern plains of Belgae, the cavalry scouts that had been sent out to determine the enemy position rode in. Two of them were covered in blood, all sported wounds, and there were a dozen empty saddles. As they rode towards the column, Caesar galloped up to them, eager for their report. There had been no sign of the tribesmen since he had taken the wall, and the three weeks since they had left the pass had been uneventful. Caesar was eager to finish this campaign, he had been away from Rome too long.
What happened, he demanded. Where are they?
Ambush, my general, one of the men replied, swaying in his saddle. The Nervii were hidden in a wooded basin, and before we knew it, we were surrounded.
Where was this? How long ago, how far away? Caesar queried.
Scarcely three hours ago, my general. No more than ten miles.
Caesar wheeled his horse. Go and rest, he commanded the scouts over his shoulder. And be prepared for the need to fight at any time.
He rode down the hill, and once ensconced back into the leading position of the legions, ordered a halt. Summoning the officers, Caesar sketched out what the scout had told him, and then gave his orders.
The first and second legions are to advance in the spearhead formation, he stated. Once the enemy has been encountered, reform into the square. You must hold at whatever cost. The rest of the army will be split into groups of four legions, with the auxiliaries held at the rear in order to envelop the Celts when they attack. Once the first two legions are beset, the next four will move out, two legions to each side with auxiliary backing. You will sweep out into two long arms, and then grind the Celts up against the square in the centre. The northern side will be left open, and the cavalry screens will harass and pursue any of the enemy that attempt to escape in that direction. Any questions?
Just one, Caesar, Brutus spoke up. If the Celts are not ahead of us, but are instead alongside, or even behind us, they could attack the middle column, or even the auxiliaries. Half of our army could be lost.
The cavalry, until the engagement, will be riding a minimum of four hundred yards away from the army on the march. We will have a triple complement of scouts out. If any position to the rear of the line is attacked, then the front two legions will then wheel back, and join with the auxiliaries in an envelopment maneuver. Rest easy, Brutus, and he smiled. This is a battle that we are almost assured of winning.
Almost, my general? one of the other officers asked.
Nothing is definite in warfare, centurion. But our force is the stronger, and besides, Caesar looked at the centurion, his gaze level, We have a.... small surprise for the Celts if they do manage to break the line.
The meeting dispersed, and the legions reformed into their new formation. Caesar supervised the smooth transition, then took up his chosen position with the second legion. Better, he thought, for his men to see their general at the front of the fighting, rather than skulking in the rear. And then, with a shouted cry, the army continued its march into Belgae.
All
Zeltar crouched in a stand of trees not three hundred yards away as the legions began once again to move, this time in a new formation. He grunted. They seemed to be setting themselves up for something tricky, but he was damned if he knew what is was. Nevertheless, the pieces were now in play. As soon as he gave the signal, his men would attack the Romans, followed by Rothlin as soon as his cavalry had become engaged. The legions would be caught in a nutcracker, Caesar would be killed, and he would at last know peace. Zeltar crept back to his men, and gave the orders to mount up. He would play his part, and set his demons to rest at last.
Turning his gaze from the legions marching towards him, Rothlin swept his gaze back at the army lying behind him, ready for action. He still couldnt believe that he, barely twenty four years of age was in command of troops numbering in excess of one hundred thousand. He steadied. He and his army had work to do here, today. They would go down into the valley up ahead, and would create a butchers yard of such dimensions that had not been seen in the lands of the Nervii ever before. And, if the gods were kind they would prevail.
As he thought this, his eye turned to the druid who had arrived in camp the previous evening, claiming he had been directed here in a vision, to help care for the wounded and the dead. Rothlin shivered. He did not want to know what the man had seen. He would lead his men against Caesar, and he would conquer. His only regret was not killing the bastard when he had had the chance, back in the passes. But here he would rectify his mistake, and he reached down, caressing his sword hilt. Yes, soon he would appease his blade. It would soon be drenched in Roman blood.
Caesar stared, troubled at the approaching hills. He would have assumed that the Celts would have attacked by now. Icy fingers traced their way up his spine. Could Brutus have been right? Could the Nervii have set a trap for him somewhere in this accursed province? But his thoughts were steadied as he recalled the reinforcements that were coming quickly, already having left the pass. He could not help but win here, with or without the reinforcements that were soon to arrive.
His reverie was rudely interrupted by the sound of thunder, off on the western horizon. Caesar frowned, and called one of the officers, named Parsian to him. Surely that is not a storm, soldier? he asked. There is no cloud in the sky, and yet... I hear thunder.
Truly it is a strange happenstance, my general, Parsian replied. He squinted out towards the horizon. But then, who knows what kind of weather exists in this barbarian province?
Caesar turned, and looked down his line, seeking the source of the noise. And then he stared in horror. Down to where his four legions and three auxiliary legions were marching on a broad front. Down to where, scarcely two hundred yards behind the auxiliaries, were charging a huge force of cavalry. Hundreds, maybe thousands of men, mounted upon horses such as the tribesmen had never been known to have.
Then they struck, cleaving through the auxiliary lines as a knife through butter, splitting the rear three legions apart and slicing their formation into ribbons. What resistance there was was crushed under the longswords of the Nervii. Caesar raised his eyes. On a hill just behind the pitched battle stood a group of cavalry, one man in the centre clad in black. Caesar clenched his teeth. So Zeltar had decided to return.
Bellowing for his troops to reform and move to the aid of his comrades, Caesar then started towards the centre of his line. It would yet hold. Soon he and his twelve thousand would reach it, and then they would take Zeltar and kill him. The murderer would yet die.
Rothlins scouts called down the minute that Zeltars cavalry were spotted over the ridge, and Rothlin quickly barked out the orders that sent his army, one hundred thousand strong marching towards the crippled Roman line.
As they breasted the hills separating them from the battle, Rothlin's heart began to race with excitement. Caesar was wheeling his line about, turning to meet the threat from the cavalry. He would not see the tribesmen until it was too late. Rothlin turned to his men, and commanded them to charge.
And slowly but surely, the huge mass of men rushed down the hill, towards the divided Roman legions.
Caesar galloped at the head of his force towards the pitched battle in front of him. His gaze intent, he signaled to his banner bearer to call in the cavalry screens, to have them reform and attack the Nervii troops. Gradually he slowed his pace, allowing the marching legionnaires to catch up with him. And then, as he rode, he suddenly became aware of the force in front of him properly. Swearing under his breath, he counted their numbers, and then did it again. He swore again. Scarcely a tenth of the Nervii were here. Where were the rest of them? There were at least ninety thousand men unaccounted for here.
It was then that a legionnaire at the rear of the troop glanced behind him as he marched, and cried aloud in alarm. The hillside behind him was boiling with troops, rushing towards the legions as they marched. Scarcely two miles distant, they were coming with the speed and the ferocity of an avalanche.
Caesar wheeled his horse once more, and swore again. Then he shouted at his troops, commanding them to form the square, ten ranks deep, with three hundred men on each side. Then he dismounted and hit his horse with the flat of his blade, sending it squealing off into the distance. He took up his position in the fourth rank of fighters, and waited, hoping against hope that the cavalry commanded by Brutus would see this new menace. Hoping that his army would survive this day..........
(This message has been edited by Tarnćlion Andiyarus (edited 01-07-2002).)
I have a gripe. Yes, that's right. You heard me. A gripe.
Stating exact times and distances can get you into trouble. For example, Zeltar thinks about how Rothlin is going to attack in "exactly seventy minutes". What would happen if Caesar halted his troops? Rather, I would suggest saying, "Rothlin will attack when he sees Caesar wheel to confront my force." You know, something like that.
I was going to say: The second example of this is when you say Rothlin's force is "barely two miles distant".
Upon consideration though, Rothlin's force would get there quite quickly. Two miles is quite aways, tho -- if I were to guess (obviously uneducated, I haven't had too much experience in medieval warfare... :)), I think it would take close to half an hour to travel two miles with an army of a hundred thousand.
Again, a good work -- fighting, too!
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Another cool one, Andiyar. Too bad the Celts are fated to lose.
I agree with theGlueBubble about 'exactly 70 minutes'. It's too precise. However, we differ on the time. IIRC, an ancient army at a march could get maybe 25 miles a day.on foot. That averages to about 1.6 mph. Running like their kilts are on fire though, might get them to the batlle in 40 minutes. Again, just a guesstimate. BTW, it's not medieval. About 60 B.C., as I remember.
Compliments, now! Ceasar is starting to really show the characteristics that caused (IMO) the downfall of the Roman Empire. Over confidence, and contempt of subordinates. That's gonna cost him. Not with his life, yet, or the war, but it'll cost him. The epic battle scene is coming nicely. Can't wait 'til Thor opens up..
------------------ "Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past me I will turn to see fear's path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain." - Muad'Dib
Quote
Posted by both Gluey and Celchu: Stuff about exact times
I must say I don't know how I let this slip through. Thanks for catching it, and consider me reprimanded! It has been fixed!
I've gone back and reread the original on my Hard Disk.... doesn't seem to be any more of those blunders. Oh, and I fixed the formatting. Eventually.
thanks for the pointer guys! It should be better know... oh, and yeah, it's a shame the Celts have to lose..... I really like d Zeltar....
-Andiyar
------------------ "Any good that I may do here, let me do now, for I may not pass this way again"