The Battle of Estuatuca

or, The Fourth Move of the Civil War

The Battle of Vercellae by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (Authors Note: imagine more trees.)

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The Third Move | The Civil War Index | The Fifth Move

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Maedicius sat astride his white stallion. The animal flicked his ears back and forth to deter the flies of the humid forest from landing. The flies danced, buzzing in the air then landed between flicks. To Maedicius it appeared a game for the flies somehow beyond the horse’s understanding.

Estuatuca, undefended town of women and children, lay before the Emperor’s legion. Ariovistus’s ambush lay behind it, a plan only a barbarian could stomach, risking the weakest of his own people for a chance at military victory. Maedicius’s counter-ambush stood at the ready, the best archers and slingers were stationed on the high ground overlooking the Vinian River with legionaries hidden in the underbrush. When the order was given Ariovistus would be pincered, his back to the river, and the village burned. A fitting consequence. Tribune Sejanus’s cartographer had made no mention of barbarian’s across the river but Maedicius knew better. Any commander worth his salt would have auxiliaries, javelin throwers, slingers, or the like across the water and Ariovistus was not ignorant in war. But the river ran fast and deep. Crossing would be impossible and in the end those auxiliaries would only watch their fellow tribesmen be butchered.

‘Most Venerable, Centurion Cassius has readied his cohort,’ Legate Aegidius said. A mottled steed was brought to him. He mounted, using a slave as a step, and joined the Emperor at the rear overlooking the dense and calm evergreen forest.

‘Very good,’ Maedicius shifted in his saddle. ‘It is time to crush the Warini tribe. Give the order,’ his blood quickened and he wished to be on the front lines, scutum in one hand hasta in the other, his brothers-in-arms on his side, shields locked together. Age and duty prevented him. Duty to his rank, to his men, to Elysia.

Aegidius raised his hand, palm forward, and the horns blew. A great and terrible drone shattered the tranquility of the forest. A thousand pigeons, hawks, and woodpeckers scattered to the sky. Deer and foxes were heard braying and crying as they tore through distant undergrowth. But chief among them all was the quaking of feet as three thousand men marched upon Estuatuca. Two cohorts would enter the village, kill any defenders, and burn the buildings. ‘Do you think Ariovistus will take the bait?’

‘Without a doubt. He can’t cross the river nor can he circle around us. Ariovistus will have no choice but to attack us. Once we’re in the town he will reveal himself, assault us on the flanks. That is when Cassius joins the fray, not a moment sooner. I want Ariovistus to taste victory and have it turn to ash on his tongue,’ Maedicius said. He clicked his tongue and with a flick of the reins led his horse into a trot.

When the longhouse burned Ariovistus made his move. The legion had entered the village to find a paltry few warriors, too old or too young to fight. Yet they fought, as honour demanded, and fell as fate demanded. The guttural war-cries of the barbarians poured forth from the trees and a see of painted bodies armed with oversized swords and crude javelins emerged on all sides, as expected, but in twice the number as planned for.

Two cohorts had entered the village, each advancing on either side of the central hall. Each reformed into a square as the barbarians attacked. A third remained on the outskirts with a further two flanking the Emperor and his thirty mounted praetorians. Three short blasts of the horn and each cohort reformed into squares with the two flanking Maedicius combining around him. The men, to their credit, were silent.

From the forest came red and blonde haired men bellowing as they charged. Their bodies painted with swirling patterns of blue and red, their hair braided into knots atop their head. ‘That’s more than I thought,’ Legate Aegidius said. His horse snorted and struggled against the reins.

‘Easy, Aegidius. A barbarian remains a barbarian. Look how they lack form or tactics and simply rush in. No discipline. No organisation,’ Maedicius scoured three of the four directions, the sea of bodies was immense. He swallowed and reached for his spatha, ‘Keep spirits high and sound the horn for Cassius!’ The Emperor reared his horse high, sword drawn, and galloped to the left flank. Smoke billowed above the town and clinged to the air above in a thick cloud.

The horn sounded and a thousand arrows and stones flew threw the air. The sound of tearing leaves and stone striking bark echoed through the forest quickly followed by the cries of death. Cassius’s own horns sounded and his men advanced from the undergrowth to pincer Ariovistus’s ambush. The smoke was thickest over the village of Estuatuca and undulated outward, the only benefit that it would inhibit the enemy as much as the legion.

‘Keep the line tight!’ Maedicius thundered. Black iron greatswords rose and fell against the shield line. The shock and weight of the blows sending men to their knees. ‘Fill any gaps!’ Maedicius bellowed at a young legionary. A barbarian spear skewered him through the neck when instead of raising his shield he turned to salute the Emperor. ‘Do not allow the enemy through the ranks!’

Hastae of the second rank slid across the top of the first rank of scuta, piercing enemies with ruthless efficiency. Kills were quick and the dead piled up at the feet of the legion. Yet the press of men never relented. Wave after wave of Warini men threw themselves at Elysian’s finest.

A daring blond, his face a swirl of red ink, leapt through the gap left by the young legionary. Swinging left and right he killed two more before the third rank raised their shields and hemmed the man in, but it was too late. The gap was open and more enemies poured in, widening the crack to breaking.

A horn sounded and another volley of arrow and stone sailed through the air thinning the pack. Our ambush wasn’t large enough. There’s no pressure on the rear of this flank, Maedicius turned to his praetorian cavalry. ‘Nerva, on me!’ He galloped to the back of the formation where the barbarian’s encirclement was thinnest. ‘Part ranks!’ Nerva bellowed followed by two sharp blasts of his horn. The phalanx split in a practiced movement and Maedicius charged out. A haggard Warini man charged, his sword high, screaming for death. The Emperor leaned in his saddle and let the weight of his spatha bring his arm down to carve a smile into the barbarian’s torso. He galloped on in a wide arc round the barbarian’s “formation”. The forest floor had been cleared by the engineers to facilitate marching not cavalry charges but the result was the same.

Nerva and the praetorians, their purple plumes dancing in the wind, lowered their lanceae for the charge. Maedicius formed the point alongside Nerva with the rest of his guard their wings. Each had the winged goddess of victory on his shield. ‘The trees, Most Venerable,’ Nerva murmured.

‘I don’t expect us to drive through the enemy I expect to shatter their morale. Scream, shout, claim you are the gods bringing wrath upon them. Kill who you can on the charge and pull back. No need to be embroiled longer than necessary,’ Maedicius ordered the praetorians. Sweat gathered on his top lip. The smells of the forest, damp and dark, became acute. He saw his path through the trees and the mass of bodies assailing his legion. Instil fear in one and the rest will follow, ‘CHARGE!’ He roared and kicked his stallion into a gallop.

Low branches cracked against his helmet. He didn’t feel it. The horse rounded an ancient fir, it’s needles littering the ground, and lost speed. It didn’t matter. Maedicius roared and bellowed and waved his spatha in the air. Cursing the horde for their daring to go against the will of the gods. Spittle flew from his lips, channeling gods of war and hate into his words and into his sword arm.

Bones broke against his stallion. Five men were sent sprawling with arms twisted and skulls smashed against tree trunks. Double that again lay dazed around Maedicius. Jabbing his heels into his stallions side he pulled the reins. The horse reared and kicked, shattering the skulls of two more Warini. He swung down, splitting a young warriors face from eye to chin. Wheeling round he clicked his tongue and galloped back into the forest, the damage done. ‘Nerva!’

The praetorian prefect appeared at his side, ‘Most Venerable.’ His lancea coated in a thick film of congealing blood and gore.

‘Gather the men, we charge again,’ Maedicius said. Blood boiling and nerves aching to be back in the fray. Smoke choked the air of the forest as trees began to burn. The flames licked higher and higher until the sky itself burned.

Nerva blew his horn and the cavalry guard reformed. Each one had blood on his lancea and dents in his scuta. Two had wounds on their thighs. Blood welled from wounds on four of the horses. Maedicius nodded approvingly and turned to study the enemy. What was once a press of bodies had loosened. Now some ventured out in pursuit of Maedicius. Some nursed wounds, broken arms, broken legs, gashes, and stab wounds and lay on the forest floor. A few, far too few, fled.

‘CHARGE!’ Maedicius roared a second time. He coughed and felt the sting of the smoke as he galloped. A swing to his left severed the neck of a pursuer midway. A brown haired warrior stood out to him, his black iron greatsword nicked along the edge, grey strands in his beard, and a horn on his belt. He was barking at the men around him, shoving them by the shoulder to advance.

Maedicius crashed against the mass of enemies. His sword flashed and fell, cutting into the shoulder of the older warrior. He screamed, his eyes red and savage, and thrust his greatsword at the Emperor. It caught against his shoulder. Three men charged from his left. The old warrior slid the blade towards Maedicius’s neck. The Emperor released his grip on the reins and leaned back, the black iron sword cutting through the air. He thrust at the old barbarian, his spatha piercing his neck. Nerva crashed into the trio on the Emperor’s left, sending two sprawling and skewering the third on his lancea.

‘It’s the Emperor!’ A legionary shouted from the lines. ‘Advance!’ The centurion shouted. A horn blasted four times and the splintered ranks of the cohort shuddered into action.

Maedicius swung left and right, right and left, his sword arm tiring with each parry and kill. Had it gone to plan he would have retreated for a third charge but the morale of the legion depended on seeing him. His stallion bit and kicked when it could, it’s white coat drenched in blood, some it’s own, most not.

Centurion Cassius stood before Maedicius in the central square of Fort Ascalon, a legionary stood beside him. Behind them were three men, wrists bound and mouths gagged. In their shadow were hundreds of captured warriors, all bound and kneeling.

‘Who is the man who captured the enemy commander?’ Maedicius said.

‘Titus Ignius, Most Venerable,’ Cassius answered. Titus stepped forward. The man was broad shouldered with short cropped hair. His hands were still bloodied from the battle and a cut along his cheek promised to heal into a prestigious scar. His skin was black with smoke.

‘I know a good man named Titus. You are a second. Perhaps the name is blessed this generation,’ Maedicius handed the man a purse of fifty aureus. ‘Elysia thanks you for your bravery and talent in capturing Ariovistus.’

Titus stepped back, ‘Eternal gratitude, Most Venerable.’ He saluted.

‘Will you march with me to Elysia? To save our Imperial Republic from the clutches of madmen?’ asked Maedicius loud enough for the whole fort to hear.

The soldier’s fist tightened around the pouch of gold, almost a decade of pay in one hand, ‘Of course! Most Venerable,’ he shouted, pride in his eyes.

The Emperor smiled, ‘With men like you at my side we are sure to emerge victorious.’ He patted the legionary on the shoulder and approached the three captives. Legate Aegidius fell in beside the Emperor. ‘Ariovistus. You and your band fought well,’ an interpreter repeated the words in the barbarian tongue. Tribune Sejanus was still counting dead and injured but the initial numbers looked poor. The Emperor continued, ‘I wish for peace between our peoples. The Warini and all others will remain on the north side of the Vinian and we will remain on the south. You, your son, and a son of every village leader will return to Elysia with me to ensure the peace for many years to come.’

The interpreter spoke. Ariovistus’s mouth twisted and gnawed at the rope between his teeth. Red hair, speckled with blood, hung limp around his face, merging with his beard in a single mane. His eyes burned white as he glared up at Maedicius.

The Emperor looked to the other two prisoners, one he knew to be Ariovistus’s son, Odoacer, still too young to have a full beard yet a terror on the battlefield all the same. The other was new to him, ‘Who is this?’ He tapped the bound man’s knee with his sandle.

The interpreter stammered, asked the question, and removed his gag.

The man spoke and the interpreter translated, ’Maroboduus.’ Blond, tall, and barrel chested with beads of blue and green stones in his hair. His fingers were thick and short, his brow protruding with wild eyebrows. His wrists, decorated with engraved silver bands, strained against their binds.

‘What tribe?’

The interpreter frowned at Maroboduus’s answer. A second of thought and he said ‘Hermunduri.’

‘That’s a new name,’ Maedicius fiddled with the hilt of his spatha. ‘Is Ariovistus your king?’

Maroboduus laughed and barked something guttural that went on and on.

The interpreter closed his eyes and silently spoke the words as the chief said them. When Maroboduus finished the interpreter opened his eyes and chewed the inside of his cheek. Finally he said, ‘The short answer is no. The long answer is they have no king, not directly, but there is war amongst the tribes north of the Vinian and from the sounds of it there are a great many tribes that we do not know about, Most Venerable.’

War amongst the tribes is advantageous, Maedicius paced. ‘Hold Maroboduus here. Find out everything you can from him about these tribes, these wars. Does he have sons?’

‘No. Only daughters,’ the interpreter said. ‘One is wed to Odoacer, another is wed to some warlord further north who expects his band to fight with them after this. The third is unwed.’

‘The warlord to the north will be disappointed. The third daughter will be kept as an assurance of peace along with Ariovistus, Odoacer, and the eldest son of every village chief who fought today.’

‘I’ll see it arranged, Most Venerable,’ Aegidius said. ‘What of the men captured that aren’t to be prisoners?’

‘Kill them.’

Maedicius entered his room atop the tower of Fort Ascalon, Tribune Sejanus behind him. ‘It is not good, Most Venerable.’

‘Numbers. How many men can fight? How many can march?’ Maedicius slammed the door. The swords on the wall rang.

‘Two thousand, one hundred, and seven can fight. A further five hundred and forty can march. Four hundred and eighty-one are wounded. One hundred and forty have their lives but will never fight again.’ Sejanus traced his finger down his parchment. ‘Three hundred and thirty-two were killed in the battle or died shortly after.’

‘I started this campaign with a full legion and now have less than half who can fight.’

‘We can rearrange the cohorts to refill the ranks but we would only have four, and the fourth would be limited in number, Most Venerable.’

‘Do it. Have the slave, mules, and engineers left over to assist the wounded and those who can march. They will be their own centuries and cohorts once able,’ Maedicius dropped into his chair and reached for two blank pigeon scrolls. Legate Otho, may this missive find you in good health. As you are no doubt aware the Diet has betrayed me. March for Ovilava. He sealed it with his ring, engraved with the two headed eagle. The second he wrote, Legate Titus, the time has come. The Diet has made its move and so we must make ours. March for Ovilava. Legate Otho will convene with us there. He rolled it up. The purple wax pooled onto the scroll and cooled as the  two-headed golden eagle signet ring was pressed into it. The pigeons cooed and flapped as he reached into the cage behind him. He fitted the messages to their legs, gave each a handful of seed, and set them to flight.

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The Third Move | The Civil War Index | The Fifth Move

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