Chapter Seventeen

 

MARCUS Antonius leaned close to Caesar, trying not to catch the eye of Calenus on the general’s far side. ‘You think Gaius is safe among the Bellovaci?’

The general turned his aquiline features on his friend, confidante, distant cousin and senior officer. ‘You think he is not?’

‘Gaius is a good man, I know. But he’s little experience of command yet. A legion and a half to keep the Belgae in place. Have we done enough to pacify them?’

A knowing smile played on the general’s lips. ‘This is anxiety over our strategy, then? Not simply fraternal concern?’

‘I would hardly… it’s not my place…’

‘Ha.’ Caesar chuckled. ‘Worry not, Marcus. Your little brother is quite safe. He has some of my best tribunes and centurions with him, and the Belgae are beaten for good. They could barely raise a cheer, let alone an army. Besides, your mother would tear me to pieces if I placed Gaius in real danger.’

Antonius laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve never seen a quieter people than the Bellovaci now.’

A roar brought their attention back to the open square before them. Cenabum was not what it had once been. The Carnutes had damaged the important river port in their original attack that had ignited the flames of that great revolt which had died at Alesia. In response, the legions had all-but razed it. Now a new village was rising amid the ashes of the old port. One day there would be aqueducts here, and paved roads and a forum, temples to the Capitoline triad. Now there were huts among the ruins. The smell of charred wood lingered even after so many months – years now, in fact. The place smelled like a pyre, and it would take a generation for that to fade. But they were not in Cenabum for the facilities, nor for the air. They were in Cenabum to make a statement.

Two legionaries emerged from one side of the square, amongst the throng. Each held a long, leather cord, and a moment later the man at the other end appeared. The Gaul was one of the Carnutes – the tribe that had founded this very settlement, had colonized the land around it, had fostered rebellion here, murdered Romans here. He was a noble and, according to rumour, a druid – the very druid who had raised up Vercingetorix to be king among the Gauls. He did not look quite so noble now.

‘Why Fabius didn’t do away with the man while he was here, I cannot fathom,’ murmured Calenus.

‘Fabius had enough on his platter,’ Antonius replied quietly, ‘as we now know. In fact, I cannot understand why we are here ourselves, Caesar, and not marching south to help the legions at Uxellodunon?’

The general leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Sometimes, gentlemen, something symbolic and powerful needs to be done to drive home the nails of suppression. Caninius, Fabius and Varus are more than capable of containing an oppidum until we arrive, and this is important. The central tribes are quiet. The Belgae are now settled. Caninius and the others are dealing with the south, but this region is a hotbed of trouble and has been since first we came. The Carnutes are every bit as guilty of protracted murder and rebellion as the Arverni.’

The defiant Gaul had to scurry forward to avoid falling and being dragged. He, Guturvatus by name, had taken two weeks to track down. And that following a week of investigation as to his identity. The druid-chieftain was stripped to the waist, his grey wool braccae soaked with sweat, his feet bare and bloodied from the painful journey across the ruined city.

‘But if he is, as they say, the man behind all the risings, would it not be better to have the Carnutes here in their thousands to witness it?’

Caesar turned to Calenus and gestured to the far side of the square where perhaps a dozen Gallic nobles stood with sour faces and slumped shoulders. ‘They are the leaders of what is left of the Carnutes – Fabius was thorough in the short time he was here – and what transpires this morning will filter through the entire region in a matter of days. You have spent plenty of time in Rome, Calenus, surely you are familiar with the astonishing speed of gossip?’

Calenus smiled, though he still looked faintly unhappy. Caesar could understand the man’s reluctance, of course. He was not a man used to the brutality of war, despite having led legions in Gaul now. And what was about to happen was… well, Caesar had foregone breaking his fast, despite a persistent rumbling in the belly.

‘Besides, half of this is for the benefit of our men, not theirs. This is one of the architects of the risings that have kept them marching and camping in Gallic winters these past three years. He is responsible for countless legionaries being heaped into the burial pits or onto pyres. Once in a while it does the legions good to see the filth that has so ruined them face justice. The value of watching their revenge being carried out is incalculable in terms of morale. Guturvatus’ death will buy more goodwill with the men than a thousand loot and slave payouts.’

The Carnute leader, who had been betrayed by his own frightened tribe as the Romans hunted him, was now being dragged towards two thick posts driven deep into the ground some eight feet apart. The officers couldn’t quite see the man’s face, but they could picture the wild, terrified eyes. The prisoner started to fight the inexorable momentum towards the posts, struggling with the cords, trying to free himself. Despite his ravaged feet, he dug in his heels and almost succeeded in pulling down one of the legionaries dragging him. The centurion who even now stood to one side of the posts had chosen his detail well, though. The two legionaries at the cords were oxen in human form – massive, with necks like oak trunks and muscles like burial mounds. With little difficulty they regained their control and yanked hard enough for the man to fall face first into the dirt. When he struggled upright again, coughing and spitting out dust, his nose was flat and bloodied and his face was torn in several places.

‘Bet you wish that was the traitor Commius there,’ muttered Antonius with a vicious smile. ‘I wonder where he is.’

‘Somewhere among the Germans, I suspect. There will be time to find him later, when I am back in Rome if not before. My reach is long, even from the city. Commius is too important and loves power too much. He cannot hide forever.’

A nod from Antonius. ‘Commius on the run. Vercingetorix in the carcer. Ambiorix and Indutiomarus dead. Now Guturvatus dragged here in chains. Only Lucterius in the south to go, I think?’

Caesar nodded. ‘The heads of the hydra become fewer with every strike. With Fortuna’s aid, Lucterius will be the last and the beast will lie still.’

Still struggling to the last, the prisoner was being tied in place, the leather cords now fastened tight to the wooden posts at just an acute enough angle that his shoulders would already be feeling the pain. The centurion looked up at Caesar, awaiting the command, and the general gave a slight nod of the head. Stepping around in front of the prisoner but slightly to one side so as not to obscure the officers’ view, the centurion, whose voice had been honed on a hundred parade grounds and battlefields to carry clear even in the most hectic din, cleared his throat.

‘Guturvatus, son of Lemisunius, you have been accused and convicted of conspiring to bring war against Rome in defiance of the Pax Romana to which your tribe have pledged. Your crimes have infected your neighbouring tribes, spreading discontent and further endangering the stability of the region. Your rebellions have both directly and indirectly cost the lives of many thousands of Romans and many more Gauls who, were it not for your influence, would have remained allied with Rome and at peace. Thus, given the gravity of your crimes, the Proconsul of Gaul has sentenced you to death by the scourge.

An auxiliary of the Remi tribe in gleaming mail and a white cloak stood close by, repeating the centurion’s pronouncements in a language the prisoner and the watching Carnutes would be able to understand. As his more guttural words ended, a discordant echo of the centurion, Guturvatus began to struggle again. His futile attempts achieved little more than to make the leather straps bite deep into his wrists, and he began to curse and shout and spit. Two legionaries in the crowd burst out laughing at some private joke and the optio just along the line roared as he clouted them in the shins with his staff.

Having fallen silent once more, the centurion looked again at Caesar, who repeated his nod. ‘Proceed.’

At the officer’s command, a muscular soldier with arms like tree boles and a chest around which Antonius reckoned his arms would barely reach stepped forward. In his hand he held the coiled scourge and as he walked towards the prisoner and the other Romans backed away to leave the two men alone in the square, he shook out the weapon. Three long tails of leather hung from the heavy handle, weighted down with spiked wheels of carved bone that had been attached at set lengths along each strand.

Standing silent and taking three slow breaths, preparing for strenuous activity, the legionary pulled back his arm and swung.

From even thirty paces away the officers heard the tearing sound and the unpleasant, unmistakeable sound of bone on bone. Guturvatus screamed. Calenus wiped his forehead and lowered his face.

‘This damned heat.’

Caesar turned a fierce gaze on him. ‘Straighten up, man. You’re an officer.’

He could only imagine what Calenus would be doing if he had the view most of the legionaries had, where the actual damage was happening. All the officers could see was the intense agony on the man’s face. Again, the soldier swung the scourge and this time a spray of blood to the side was joined by small scraps of flesh.

The third strike connected while Guturvatus was still screaming from the second, and consequently the Gaul bit off the end of his own tongue in the process, his mouth filling with blood. Caesar made an irritated motion to the centurion, who waved at the executioner. ‘Slow down.’

The legionary nodded and began to count to twelve between strokes.

The ground was becoming sodden with red in wide sprays from each blow, and Antonius glanced across at Calenus, who had gone pale, his face taking on a very waxy sheen. This was why you didn’t employ lawyers to command legions, no matter their position on the cursus honorum or the influence of their family. You ended up with men like this. Calenus needed toughening up if he was going to stay in service for a while. Mind, when Caesar returned to Rome shortly, the man would probably end up as a provincial governor.

Still…

Antonius smiled wickedly. ‘His back must be all ribs and organs by now, Caesar. Time for a change?’

The general gave him a questioning look, and Antonius nodded at Calenus, who was repeating ‘So hot… so damned hot…’ his eyes revolving to look anywhere but at the victim. Caesar gave a curt nod and waved to the legionary with the scourge. ‘Front, now.’

Calenus stared at Caesar, who cleared his throat quietly and leaned close. ‘You will watch like a stoic officer, Quintus Fufius Calenus, and if you should even think about vomiting in front of the legions, so help me I will have you strapped there in the victim’s place. Have some backbone, man.’

The executioner moved around the figure, taking up a new position at the front. Guturvatus was barely conscious now, every scream feeble and half drowned by the blood that filled his mouth. Another twenty lashes would be the end of him. At a nod from the centurion, he began again.

By the third blow, the man’s chest was open, bone visible and blood everywhere. On the fourth, one of the spiked wheels caught on a rib and the legionary had to scurry over and extricate it which, from the screaming, seemingly hurt even more than the scourging. At the eighth blow, the screams had stopped and even whimpering seemed too much effort. The man was almost dead, his breathing shallow and ragged.

‘Enough,’ commanded Caesar. ‘Take the head.’

Another legionary stepped out from the lines, wielding one of the long, heavy blades favoured by the Gaulish tribes. Unsheathing it, he nodded to the scourge man, who folded his nightmare coils and stepped out of the square. The swordsman took his place, pulling back the huge blade and pausing for just a moment.

His swing was perfectly positioned. The blade slammed into the prisoner’s neck from behind. Though it failed to sever, it crunched through the spine, killing him with the first strike. The second blow finished the job. The swordsman bent and picked up the head, approaching Caesar and holding it high. The two officers glanced sidelong at Calenus, who still looked extremely unwell, though he’d held himself together throughout the proceedings.

‘Have it spiked and raised above Cenabum’s main gate.’ The general focused on the distressed Carnute leaders opposite. ‘There will be no more revolts. No more risings or troubles. The Carnutes are now once more bound by the Pax Romana. If there is even the slightest unrest here again, what happened to Guturvatus today will become the fate of each and every last member of the tribe. Am I understood?’

There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet among the Carnutes and he straightened in his chair as he gestured to the centurion. ‘Get them out of my sight.’

The Carnutes were herded from the square and the general stood, stiffly. ‘The legions are hereby granted one full day’s furlough, following which we will be moving south at speed to bring the final few rebels in Gaul under control. Uxellodunon is our goal, men of Rome, and with its fall, we can tell the senate unequivocally that Gaul is ours.’

 

* * * * *

 

Varus swatted at an insistent bug that flitted around his chin and neck, watching the cavalry elements of the Tenth and Eleventh legions moving across the wide grassy valley of the tributary river which encircled Uxellodunon’s northern slopes, hooves pounding the earth. Perhaps eight hundred horsemen all told, their standards having been reported by the pickets.

The officers were out ahead, riding in a small knot with a guard of Aulus Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalry and a few native scouts, and that vanguard even now climbed the lower slopes to Fabius’ camp, where he, Varus and Caninius waited. A thin grey blanket of cloud was rolling in from the south as if to meet the new arrivals, blotting out the blistering sun, but replacing it with an oppressive muggy heat that brought incessant clouds of insects from the low-lying land.

‘The rest will be following on, I presume. Two more legions, then,’ Fabius murmured. ‘Six might even be adequate to crush this place.’ He sounded unconvinced, and with good reason, Varus mused, given their attempts so far at an action against the fortified town. ‘I presume the others have been distributed in garrison,’ the legate went on.

‘Perhaps the general lacked confidence in our ability to put an end to this,’ Caninius sighed.

‘He’s right to do so,’ Fabius replied. ‘We are no closer to a conclusion now than we were two weeks ago.’

The three men stood silent for a moment, contemplating the truth of that. Though Fabius’ arrival had doubled the Roman numbers, the few minor forays they had attempted at the vertiginous slopes of Uxellodunon had been costly and abortive. Even with information beaten out of the captives, none of the intelligence had proved useful. Uxellodunon was sealed tighter than a Vestal’s underwear.

‘Quiet now,’ Varus hissed as the newly-arrived officers closed on them, reining in atop the slope, their horses sweating and whickering, tired from the long journey. Caesar sat astride his white mare, calm and collected as usual, lacking his ubiquitous red cloak and foregoing a cuirass in deference to the stifling heat, yet still resplendent in a linen arming jacket with white and gold pteruges. His aquiline face, however, looked slightly more drawn than usual, and his hair thinner and greyer – to Varus’ eye, anyway.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Proconsul of Gaul inclined his head as he came to a halt and the waiting legates and cavalry officer saluted in response. ‘You have found me another Alesia, it seems. This land appears to be full of them. And is this Lucterius a facsimile of Vercingetorix, too?’

The two legates exchanged a look and Caninius cleared his throat. ‘It would appear not, general. He and his fellow chieftain Drapes made a lunatic attempt to deprive us of a grain store and in the process both men were defeated. Drapes sits in chains in my camp and Lucterius took to his heels during the fight and fled, we know not where.’

The general frowned. ‘Into the oppidum, perhaps?’

‘We think not, Caesar,’ Varus replied. ‘It would have been exceedingly difficult for him to do so, and since that scuffle we’ve observed none of the posturing or cunning we had seen in our earlier days here. It seems that the tribes up there are somewhat directionless, sitting tight in their stronghold and holding us off, but nothing more, as though they are awaiting a command to do something.’

‘Good. Then we will take advantage of the situation. Wherever Lucterius has run, he cannot hide for long. Just as Commius’ days are numbered, so are this rebel chief’s. Particularly without his army. Walk me through the situation,’ he commanded, dismounting and squinting at the ‘upturned boat’ shape of Uxellodunon.

Fabius scratched his chin. ‘According to the prisoners, interrogated separately and therefore with no reason for doubt, the oppidum has adequate grain, veg and livestock to see them through until next spring, even with an army that size encamped there. It would seem that Lucterius had been intending to use Uxellodunon as some sort of gathering point or staging post. Starving them out will not be as easy as it would have been at Alesia.’

Caninius nodded. ‘The slopes are treacherous and well defended. There are strong walls even atop the cliff stretches, and the flatter slope to the northeast, which is the natural assault point for infantry, is extremely well protected by a high wall pocked with towers that create an impressive arrow-reach from the parapet. We’ve probed the defences from every angle, and there is no guaranteed method. Indeed, I see any approach as being extremely costly and with remarkably little chance of actual success.’

Caesar nodded, tapping his chin as he strolled back and forth, looking over their objective. ‘The water supply? If assault and starvation are unfeasible, that is the only remaining option.’

Varus pointed down into the valley. ‘Apart from a narrow stretch to the northwest, the entire oppidum is surrounded by two of the tributaries of the Duranius River. Interrogation has also revealed the location of a fresh-water spring that grants them a permanent supply. The spring is close to the walls on that north-eastern slope, too close to assault without coming under concentrated attack from the walls. We looked at cutting the water supply, but it’s just as unfeasible.’

Caninius gestured around them. ‘And without the potential for assault or starvation, we have settled in for a long siege. Since Fabius arrived we have had adequate manpower to carry out siege works and, as you can see, have achieved a circumvallation almost comparable to your Alesia example, general.’

Caesar nodded absently, still squinting down into the valley beyond the Roman lines. ‘A cursory glance at the terrain tells me you did the right thing. Pointless wasting men on fruitless assaults, and we cannot overwhelm them by force. Only poor morale or starvation will win this for us. Could we get a traitor into the walls to burn their granaries? Are the artillery capable of launching fire missiles that far?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid, Caesar,’ replied Caninius. ‘Since the debacle that lost them both leaders, nothing has passed that wall in or out and it is carefully guarded. They withdrew any pickets on the slopes at that time and sealed themselves in. And it’s too far for the artillery.’

The general blinked a couple of times and peered off into the distance, towards the confluence where the fight in the marsh had taken place.

‘Can we divert the rivers?’

Varus frowned. ‘The engineers had a dreadful time just draining the marsh area. Apparently the tributaries are both fed by hundreds of tiny streams coming down from the mountains themselves. It is an immense job. I asked about it before we heard of the spring, and the senior engineer just looked at me as though I’d asked him to lower the sky a little.’

Caesar gave a low chuckle. ‘Engineers are the same the world over.’

‘Besides, the rivers are inconsequential while the enemy control the spring,’ Fabius noted.

Caesar’s nod was noncommittal. ‘Alright. You have auxiliary archers and slingers, and I have more following on with the Tenth and Eleventh. Arrange all your missile troops and artillery to cover the approaches to the rivers. Concentrate on any position where a natural descent from the oppidum might bring a man with a bucket to the water.’

The three defenders were frowning in bewilderment.

‘General,’ Caninius said quietly, ‘the rivers are immaterial while they can draw from the spring.’

‘They are indeed. That is why we must remove the spring from the equation. The spring is the clear target. But once we have done so, they will use the river instead, unless any Gaul who comes within twenty paces of it is pinned by arrows.’

Varus coughed and swatted away the fly again. ‘Caesar, we cannot even get to that spring without opening ourselves up to their archers, slingers and rocks. We could conceivably reach it with a testudo without losing too many men, but the terrain is terrible and they have such an advantage. Fabius sent a half century close to the spring a week ago, to test the waters as it were, and the enemy sallied from the walls just far enough to destroy the advance. With the angle of the slope, the height of their walls and the range of their archers it was a slaughter. Of forty men, a dozen returned. They were unable to maintain a testudo in the presence of the enemy infantry, and as soon as they lowered shields to take on the warriors the archers put down more of them. There is the possibility that if we flood that slope with men, we might be able to take the spring, but we’d never hold it, and the loss of life would be crippling.’

Fabius nodded. ‘He’s right general. It’s unfeasible. There simply isn’t a way.’

Caesar gave the three men an infuriating, knowing smile. ‘I think there might be, gentlemen. I think there might.’

 

* * * * *

 

Atenos, primus pilus of the Tenth Legion, swung with his vine cane, connecting with the reinforced mail shoulder of the legionary, who jumped in shock and then stepped back, clutching the painful joint.

‘Get that helmet back on, soldier.’

‘Sir, the engineers are…’

‘The engineers are a law unto themselves, Procutus, and I am inclined to leave them to the business they know well. You are not an engineer, Procutus. You are a legionary, and a particularly dim-witted one at that. The ramp may be done but it could do with a bit more packing down and flattening yet. Now put your helmet back on and take those rocks to the slope, and if I see you doing anything other than hard work, or with one piece of kit out of place, I will be sending you up to the oppidum’s gate to ask them for a cup of wine. Do you understand me?’

The legionary saluted and scurried off, collecting his basket of rocks. Atenos watched his men work. There had been endless complaints – and not just from the legionaries, but from veteran centurions too – at having force-marched from Cenabum with just hard-tack rations only to arrive at Uxellodunon and be launched straight into hard labour.

But the general had waited impatiently six days for their arrival and was not going to put off his scheme for one morning longer. It was, perhaps, a little lacking in compassion to put the bulk of the newly-arrived Tenth and Eleventh to work on the ramp, but the Ninth and Fifth had joined them. The Fifteenth had been assigned to the engineers and had been churning out vineae, as well as a giant, ten storey siege tower, even before the new legions had arrived. The Eighth had been given the completed vineae and had created a series of safe, covered accesses to the higher slopes all around that more accessible north-eastern approach. The surroundings of Uxellodunon had been a hive of activity before the Tenth and Eleventh had arrived, but now it had intensified.

Cries up ahead confirmed that Atenos’ men were taking the latest in a long catalogue of batterings from the walls. An entire century of the Fifth had been given the huge, thick wicker shields and had formed a defence against the archers, but they were clearly proving inadequate. Every now and again, though the Gauls kept their arrow storm slow and careful to preserve ammunition, they would suddenly launch into a flurry and a dozen legionaries would be escorted back down the ramp either dead, with shafts jutting from crucial places, or gritting their teeth and hissing in pain, arrows wedged in limbs or shoulders, helmets wedged onto their heads with horrific dents from the thrown boulders.

Atenos peered up the ramp. The wicker shields moved and parted and then solidified once more. He could just make out the tall stone that marked the position of the enemy spring. This had better work. This morning alone, the Tenth had lost just shy of a hundred men, with twice that number injured. It was like target practice for the Cadurci up there. And the Tenth had got off lightly. Last night – the general had them working through the night too – the Ninth had lost one hundred and sixty two men, with more than three hundred injured. It was fast crippling the legions.

Still, they were nearly there, though what use the ramp and mound would be was beyond Atenos. Taking the spring was going to be costly and hard, even with the tower, but holding it against the enemy for any length of time, let along long enough to starve them out was just unfeasible. Last night the enemy had forayed and managed to take in three barrels of water while the Ninth were reeling from the assault.

‘What do you suppose they’re doing?’ murmured Decumius, his third centurion, pointing at the line of vineae off to their right. Several dozen legionaries were gathering beneath the shelter, not far from the works at the spring.

‘A gold coin to the man who can reveal the mind of Caesar,’ grunted Atenos.

‘Uh oh. Look out, sir. Senior officer approaching.’

Atenos turned back down the slope to see a tribune approaching, wearing a worried expression, probably due to his proximity to the enemy archers’ range markers. The two men saluted.

‘Centurions. Which of you is Atenos?’

The big Gaulish officer, senior centurion of the Tenth, took a pace forward. ‘That would be me, sir.’

‘Compliments of the general. He is pleased with your speed and asks whether the ramp is complete enough to take the tower? The sacerdos has read signs all morning and informs us that there will be a downpour this afternoon, so the general is of a mind to begin the action with all haste.’

Atenos sighed and nodded. ‘Apart from some dressing, it can be done, sir. There will be a couple of places near the top that might not be adequately compacted yet, but the engineers tell me that such things can be circumvented with the use of heavy planks. With enough manpower we’ll do it, sir.’

‘Good.’ The tribune peered up at the slope’s crest, where the arrows were now coming more sporadically once again. Legionaries were hobbling back down the slope and a few were being dragged on makeshift pallets. According to the engineers’ odd design, the ramp smoothed the more vertiginous sections of the slope, providing a steady ascent for the tower, but where it approached the spring, the ramp had been continued in the form of a wide mound in an arc around the spring, hiding it from the oppidum. The tribune smiled a condescending smile. ‘Well done, centurion. Just a little more now, eh, and we’ll have the damnable rebels on crosses, eh?’

Atenos nodded politely, catching Decumius rolling his eyes behind the tribune and biting down on a chuckle.

‘Good, good.’ Repeated the officer, one of the Fifth’s junior tribunes, he thought. A man who had been in Gaul for all of four months and already thought he knew everything. A politician. The word made Atenos want to spit. ‘Very well. Have your men take the wicker shields and form up defensively at the spring while those from the Fifth lay the planks you need on the ramp. The tower and the army will be along shortly to relieve you.’

Again Atenos saluted and waited for a count of ten until the officer was jogging back down the slope out of earshot.

‘Boys in men’s jobs.’

The other centurion laughed. ‘I’ll give you ten sesterces if we see him again until it’s all over and the arrows have stopped flying.’

‘Be kind, Decumius. He’s probably still adjusting to wearing a man’s toga.’

Another chuckle.

‘It’s all very clever,’ Decumius sighed, ‘and we’ll stop the bastards getting to the spring for a while, but every man in the army – barring chinless down there, anyway – knows we can’t hold it for more than a couple of days at most. Hours, probably.’

Atenos nodded. The losses they were seeing now were small, for they were only a small building crew and had not yet really tried to deny the enemy access to the water. The death toll once they brought a sizeable force up here and cut the supply would be appalling. For then the defenders would stop half-heartedly sending flurries of arrows down at them and would push back for real. The enemy would be able to stretch their water supplies over many more days than the legions could afford to throw men into the grinder up there.

‘It’s a testament to the general, for certain.’

‘Sir?’ Decumius frowned.

‘Whole armies have revolted against their commanders for such things – being thrown away pointlessly, I mean. Yet the men trust Caesar. They know he always has a plan, always finds a way. And he does. Even when we’re up to our knees in the shit, the general never fails to produce a way out. This all looks untenable, Decumius, but you’ve only been in Gaul a year and a half. Mark my words: the general has a reason for this.’

‘I hope you’re right sir,’ the centurion replied, ‘else we’re going to lose a lot of men up there.’

Atenos gestured to the nearest legionary.

‘Sir?’

‘Get up the slope. Tell them to stop packing it now. Have them lay every board we have at the weaker spots and then form up along with those lads from the Fifth. Share the wicker shields but get in the lea of the mound, out of sight of their archers until they’re needed. Any moment now the tower will be moving. As soon as it comes anywhere near arrow range I want you all back out protecting it until it’s in place.’

The legionary saluted and ran off up the ramp. Atenos turned with his fellow centurion and peered down the slope. The tower was moving out of the defences now, still horizontal. At a surprising speed it was trundled across the flat ground to the point where the purpose made ramp began. The tower had not been given wheels and was instead being propelled forward by means of placing carefully adzed timber boles beneath it, removing those from the rear it had already crossed and placing them at the front in preparation. As the two men watched, six centuries of men moved around the front with long ropes and began to haul the monstrosity upright.

It was powerfully tall and heavily constructed, covered with hides soaked in water, with timber walls beneath. In fact, it was as good a siege tower as Atenos had ever seen, and taller than any he’d witnessed, too. The beast slammed down, its base impacting upon the log rollers with a noise that echoed like the back-handed slap of a god even this far up the slope.

‘Glad I’m not on one of those ropes,’ noted Decumius with feeling.

‘Quite.’

Slowly, inexorably, the tower moved onto the ramp and Atenos watched it begin the slow, painstaking ascent. Now eight centuries of men were moving it up the slope, engineers running ahead and arranging pulleys on the posts driven hard into the ground at the sides of the ramp, threading the next ropes through them. It was an old method, yet to be bettered. The ropes led from the tower up the slope perhaps fifty paces, where they passed through the pulleys and back down beside the tower to where the soldiers hauled in relative safety, protected from attack by the tower itself. The ones in the most danger were the engineers rushing out ahead to thread the next set of pulleys. But then, they weren’t pulling something that weighed the same as a trireme up a slope.

An hour crawled by as the two officers watched the monstrous tower crawling up the ramp towards them, Decumius producing a small flask of Fundanian wine and sharing it with his commander as they waited. Atenos had chuckled to see that the flask had a stamp on the neck that labelled it MFM. The temptation to see that as ‘Marcus Falerius, Massilia’ was overwhelming. Any other year, Fronto would have been standing on this slope with him, watching the tower and drinking the wine rather than supplying it. Perhaps, then, he was here in spirit. The tower was closing now, almost two thirds of the way up the slope and, ready for action, the unassigned men of the six legions were falling in behind it, bringing the remaining vineae with them in readiness for missile attack, shuffling slowly in ordered lines.

Atenos, feeling something in the air, prickling the back of his neck, turned to look back up at the oppidum. The high walls of Uxellodunon were gradually filling with more and more of the enemy, flooding the defences ready to repel the Roman invaders. If each of those men carried a bow or a sling or a free hand for rock throwing, this would be a slaughter. The veteran centurion felt a shudder run through him.

‘You alright sir?’

‘Yes,’ he smiled grimly. ‘Just thinking about what’s coming.’

He was gratified to note a similar shudder run through Decumius as the other centurion peered up at the defenders and pictured the coming fight.

And still the tower rumbled on. Time passed nervously and Atenos heard something ping from his helmet. Looking up he noticed for the first time the bulky, boiling dark grey cloud rolling across the sky above them like the prow of Jupiter’s own ship.

‘The sacerdos was right, it seems. There’s a monster of a storm coming.’

Almost as if sensing the approach of the inclement weather, the tower lurched forwards with a new turn of speed. Two or three more spots of rain hit Atenos as he watched the tower reach a point just twenty paces from him and pause while the engineers changed the pulleys and ropes again. While they worked, a small force of auxiliaries scurried forward with buckets, climbing to the top of the tower and tipping water in torrents down the outer faces, continually dampening the hides against fire arrows. As soon as they had finished, the tower jerked and began its ascent once more.

The centurions came to an attentive stance as Commander Varus hurried past the structure to where they stood. ‘Atenos,’ he nodded. The primus pilus saluted in return. ‘Caesar’s instructions, since you are in charge of the installation: using the tower and the mound, hold the spring as long as possible. Prevent access for the defenders. They will throw everything they have at you so it’ll be a tough job, but you must hold for as long as possible. You will have two cohorts of the Tenth, one of the Fifth and two units of Cretan archers. I know that sounds a lot, and on parchment it is. But in truth that’s about twelve hundred men in all. There will be a reserve, but the more men we put up here the easier it will be for their archers to kill us. Use the vineae, the tower and the mound as defensively as you can and make the most of the archers to keep them at bay. And this from me: don’t get yourself killed, Atenos. The Tenth can’t afford to lose any more good officers. You’re at a premium now.’

The primus pilus smiled and nodded. ‘Will do, sir. And you should know by now that there’s nothing made by man that can get through my thick hide.’

Varus snorted with laughter. ‘Especially advice. Do your best. Pull out only if there is no other option. Mars and Minerva go with you, centurion.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

As Varus jogged off back down the slope, skirting the approaching tower, Decumius sighed. ‘Lucky cavalry, eh, sir? They can’t do much today, so they sit and drink wine while we hold the spring.’

Atenos nodded absently. ‘They earn it. I know they’re not popular with you Roman legion men. But a man of the tribes can see their advantage and for five years before you joined us I’ve watched that man muck in with the best of us, up to his armpits in blood and bone. He’s a proper soldier, not just an officer.’

Decumius simply nodded and at a motion from his superior stepped off the ramp to allow the great tower to pass by. Once more, the engineers rethreaded the ropes. A few more sporadic raindrops clanged off Atenos’ helmet and he threw up a quick prayer to Jupiter Pluvius – and to his native Taranis, just in case – that the storm hold off until the worst of the fighting was done. Sometimes truly bad weather halted battle, but that seemed unlikely today, and the idea of fighting for the spring in a deluge was not attractive.

The tower rumbled on and arrows began to lance out from the ramparts. At first they fell far short of the approaching monstrosity but as the tower approached the painted stone that marked the Romans’ estimate of arrow range, those men at the top of the ramp moved into position, the huge wicker shields raised to block as many arrows as possible.

Arrow range was confirmed as a shaft thudded into the tower and the one strike sparked a mass of activity. In a dozen places along the wall, braziers were brought up and fire arrows were launched. As yet most still fell short, one or two hitting the wicker shields, where the legionaries hurriedly pushed the points back out with boots or wrapped fists to prevent the shields igniting. Then the range closed. The tower reached the top of the ramp and was turned, trundling parallel to the wall and into position atop that huge earth mound that arced around the spring. Fire arrows were now thudding into the hides covering the tower with every heartbeat, and men at the wicker screen were falling with almost mechanical timing. At the last moment, two centuries of men hauled on new ropes attached to the back of the tower, preventing it tipping as it reached the end of the log rollers and thudded into the earth and stone base. For a moment it teetered and Atenos waited, his heart skipping a beat, for the huge edifice to simply topple over into the spring. But after a few tense heartbeats it steadied and a cheer went up. The tower was in position, flat to the top of the big mound. It was still some twenty feet below the level of Uxellodunon’s walls, but a good archer atop it might pick off the defenders on the walls.

The advance force with the wicker shields was down to about twenty men now and they were rapidly diminishing. An enterprising centurion from the Fifth sent his men across to bolster the screen, which, along with the vineae being brought up, sheltered the arriving legionaries from the worst of the arrow storm.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and Atenos looked up in time to be struck in the eye by a fat droplet of water. A horn blast from a discordant carnyx atop the oppidum’s wall announced the general attack and what had been a fairly disorganised shower of missiles suddenly bloomed into a hail of death showering down from Uxellodunon onto the Roman attackers. Even with the tower, the mound, the vineae and the wicker shields, everywhere Atenos looked men were falling to the ground, screaming.

It had begun.

Taking a deep breath, the primus pilus turned to Decumius. ‘Shall we make their acquaintance?’

 

* * * * *

 

Atenos ducked into the tower and looked up the interior stairs. The various platforms were filled with men sheltering from the incessant arrow storm and he could not see, but could clearly hear, the Cretan archers at the top bellowing imprecations in both Greek and Latin and calling on the gods of both peoples as they released their deadly missiles at the wall. They were good. Atenos had to admit that they were among the best archers he’d seen. Yet still only one arrow in four struck home, between the difficult angle of attack and the height difference, the solid parapet behind which the enemy were well protected and the continual oncoming missiles.

As he watched with satisfaction, he spotted the men he’d detailed hoisting buckets of water up from the spring and using it to douse the seemingly endless fire arrows the enemy loosed into the tower. There were so many wet, half-charred arrows jutting from the timbers and hides now that an enterprising man could fairly easily climb the outside of the tower.

There was a sudden scream that cut through the general din and a blur flashed past, quickly followed by a wet crunch as the man who had fallen from the top struck the ground outside. Though the fire was doing little to dent the Roman’s position, the arrows were. A single glance at the piles of bodies pulled back from the action or the continual line of men being carried or dragged back out of arrow range for the capsarii to treat told a horrible tale of declining numbers.

Decumius appeared next to him.

‘It’s my heartfelt advice that you send for the reserves, sir.’

Atenos shook his head. ‘Not until things are desperate.’

Decumius blinked. ‘This isn’t desperate?’

‘You were at Alesia, right?’

‘Ah. Got you, sir. When I can’t move for bodies and Hades’ horse is nibbling on my gonads. That kind of desperate.’

Atenos laughed at the wild grin on his fellow centurion’s face. He’d ordered Decumius back down the slope three times now, the first when the centurion had been hit in the shoulder with a sling bullet that had put his left arm out of action, the second time when an arrow had carved a neat furrow in his hair – his helmet long gone, misshapen from a thrown rock – and the third time when another arrow had taken a chunk out of his calf. Still the man stayed, limping, bleeding, complaining, but waving his vine staff and bellowing his men into place.

‘I’m actually wishing for the rain now,’ Decumius grunted.

‘What? Why?’

‘Dampen their bow strings. Give us a bit of respite.’

Atenos shook his head. ‘No good. They’d still have slings and rocks, and if we didn’t have our archers in commission, this whole place would be flooded with enemy warriors in the time it would take you to fart.’

Decumius snorted as he left the tower and Atenos took a deep breath, making the most of a last moment of shelter before diving back out into the rain. One of the optios was scurrying towards him as stones and bullets clattered and zinged around him, one hand holding a dented helmet down on his head.

‘What is it?’

The man thrust a hand out. In it were a pile of purple flowers. Atenos frowned. ‘Explain.’

‘Dunno what their called, primus pilus, but one of my lads who’s a farmer says they’re about as poisonous as anything he’s found. Kills goats in hours, he says, and there’s blankets of the things in the woods just down the hill. We could poison the spring and then abandon this, sir.’

Atenos raised an eyebrow. ‘Poison a free-flowing spring?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Can you see any hole in your logic, man?’

The optio frowned in confusion. ‘Not really, sir.’

‘Then I suggest you head back down to the camps and pour a little dye into the river and see how long it sticks around.’

As the man scratched his temple in incomprehension an arrow came out of nowhere and pinned his foot to the floor with a meaty crunch. The optio looked down in surprise and the lack of a reaction suggested to Atenos that the man did truly have the brains of an ox. What was a man like that doing in a position of command? The big Gaul crouched and none-too-gently snapped the arrow just above the flesh, causing the man to whimper in pain. ‘Get to the capsarius and have that seen to.’

Gratefully, and still clutching his poisonous burden, the optio hobbled and hopped off down the slope. A shout of triumph drew his attention and he turned back to the walls as a sling bullet whipped through the air close enough to ruffle his eyelashes.

Atop the ramparts the defenders were raising what looked like small kegs. As Atenos watched, men lit the kegs, which must be filled with something incendiary, using tapers from the wall-top braziers. A lucky shot from one of the Cretan archers struck a man with a lit keg and he crumbled beneath it. There was a muffled bang behind the parapet and three men were suddenly aflame and screaming.

The scene was one bonus in a diorama of nightmare, though. Another half dozen kegs were ignited and cast from the walls, carefully aimed. Two of them hit badly and broke open upon impact, spreading out across the damp grass in a flaming mass. The others hit the slope well and bounced on, careening down the hill at the Romans. One struck the mound just below the tower, doing little but burn the turf black. Another was knocked askance and disappeared off down the hillside into the woods, and ultimately the river. The other two hit the line of men with wicker shields who helped protect the approach up the ramp. A double boom cracked the murky sky as a score of men exploded into blazing fire that ate up the wicker screens in moments and began to scorch the vineae that gave them shelter.

Tallow or pitch, or some such, it had to be. The fire clung like a lover to the wood of the vinea which had been regularly doused with water against fire arrows. The fire was too much even for damp wood, and the structure was quickly ablaze. The approach from below was no longer protected. The men could still come up through the woods but it would be hard going. Two small detachments of men arrived from somewhere with scorpion bolt throwers and cases of ammunition, hurrying to position themselves on the mound, but before they could even crank back the weapons, several of them had been taken out of the fight with arrows. A half century of men formed a mini-testudo and hurried over, providing shelter while the remaining artillerists began to load and release the weapons.

Atenos looked back and forth across the chaos. Despite what he’d said to Decumius, the situation was rapidly becoming untenable and he would need the reserves very soon. The vinea was now an inferno and the two resourceful men who’d come with buckets of water to try and douse it were even now jerking and dancing as arrows and stones thudded into them. The legionaries who had manned the wicker screen were almost gone, just a pile of charring bodies in a golden pyre, odd ones still thrashing around and croaking.

The general had better make this worth it.

He grabbed a running soldier. ‘Find some friends and move that second vinea out of line before the whole lot catch fire.’

The legionary, his face betraying fear bordering on panic, saluted desperately and turned back.

Another series of booms drew his startled gaze and he realised they were in real trouble now. A second wave of burning barrels had been cast down with better precision this time, all centred on the tower. While most simply exploded on the mound’s slope, one lucky barrel had rolled on with impressive momentum up the mound and burst against the base of the tower.

‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’

He turned to order men with water to the tower. Thank the gods for a handy spring, eh? He laughed bitterly. Legionaries were already at the task, throwing buckets of water on the flames. Another battle now raged against the fire itself, and it was a hard fought one, at that.

There was an ominous wooden thud and, already knowing what had made the noise, he rose to peer over the chaos. Sure enough, the oppidum’s nearest gate was open and warriors were flooding out of it like a swarm of locusts.

‘Here they come.’

Decumius was there again, suddenly. ‘We’ve got trouble. The burning kegs have made part of the mound unstable. A few more exploding there and the whole tower might go over.’

‘Shitting, shitting shit!’ Atenos barked with deep feeling. ‘If it goes it will be over towards the oppidum itself. Have four of the ropes completely drenched and then use them to anchor the tower from behind. Then find a contubernium of fearless lads and get them round the front of the tower with planks, wedging the bottom as best they can.’

Decumius saluted and ran off, and Atenos cleared his throat.

‘All unoccupied men of the Tenth and Fifth to position. Shield wall with second and third row testudo cover, marking off from the optio to the right. Prepare to receive the enemy.’

The various centurions and optios under his command gathered their men and moved into position, weathering the arrow storm as well as they could, men falling with every third step into place. Another set of barrels came down and burst against the mound and the base of the tower, igniting the boards used to shore it up as well as the men busy putting them into place. One misthrown barrel hurtled past the wreckage of the burning vinea and the pile of carbonised legionaries and bounced on intact down the ramp with unerring accuracy. Atenos watched it go in surprise and felt a slight burst of relief as he saw the reserves hurrying up the slope, running out wide to avoid the rolling fiery barrel, which hit a random rock two hundred paces down the hill and coated the slope in sticky fire.

‘Reserves are coming, lads. Hold the enemy.’

They couldn’t hold. No strategist in the world would find a way to hold this. Caesar had been warned by them all, he knew, but had gone ahead anyway. If there is a trick in your pouch, general, now is the time, he grumbled under his breath.

The hastily assembled shield wall, with a sloping roof of shields on the second and third rank protecting as best they could from arrows, quavered for just a moment as the howling, screaming horde of Cadurci and their allies crested the ramp’s edge and charged the line.

Atenos had a horribly clear view from his position. The shield wall almost folded under the pressure of the attack, buckling in several places. And wherever the shields parted, arrows and stones and bullets penetrated, killing and wounding men by the dozen. It was little more than a slaughter.

A quick glance over his shoulder. A cohort or more of men were running up to join the fray. They would buy half an hour extra at most in this meat grinder. And the tower was ablaze now with no real chance of its being extinguished. At what point did he call the situation untenable and back off?

With a preparatory breath he rushed over to the embattled legionaries and attracted the attention of an optio at the rear as he crouched and grasped a discarded shield. ‘I’m going in. If the enemy break through to the rear, the tower goes, or you can readily count the number of men left by sight alone, sound the rally and get back down the hill.’

‘But sir…’

Atenos ignored the man’s imploring tone and shoved through the press of men, making for a small gap where missiles and battle-maddened warriors had caused a breach. Howling Cadurci were smashing down with swords and axes and jabbing with spears, and no sooner had Atenos plugged the gap than a gleaming spearhead glanced off his cheek plate and tore through the leather strap at his shoulder that held his medal harness. There was a snap and the whole thing slumped to one side, one of his hard-won phalerae falling away to the ground below. Atenos bellowed in fury and his first blow entered the spear-man responsible at the cheek, almost cutting his head in half horizontally.

‘Bastard. Those medals are mine!’

Fury, tempered with experience and discipline, took over. His second blow all-but severed the sword arm of the man to his right. His third took an axe man in the throat. Stab, hack, slice, stab. Shield up. Shield locked. Smash with the boss and back into position. Stab and thrust. Stab and thrust.

The press was too much. He knew it. The shield wall was doomed even as those reserves arrived and began to fall into position. A stray axe blow took the corner off his shield and carried on into the sword arm of the legionary to his left who shrieked and fell back to be replaced a heartbeat later by a man from the second line, his teeth gritted.

‘Juno’s tits!’ someone shouted away to the left. Atenos was too experienced to allow himself to be distracted by conversation. He concentrated on the axe man before him as he asked what was going on without turning his head to look. His sword caught the man’s axe arm in the pit, sinking in with satisfying ease – one of the killing blows any sword trainer in the army will teach early on. Along the line, that same voice called out.

‘More cohorts. It’s a general advance. They’re storming the place from all sides!’

No. Atenos felt the anger rising. After all this mess buying time, the general cannot have been so unprepared and stupid as to throw away six legions in such a foolish manner. But the centurion could hear the buccinae of the other legions in their advance up the slope. What was Caesar doing? He must not have wasted this opportunity!

Above, the heavens opened with a boom, and torrents of water battered the fighters on both sides. Bowstrings would be unusable in a few heartbeats’ time, when they had been stretched beyond drawing. The fires might even be extinguished. It was a small blessing now in the grand scheme, but a truly unpleasant one for the men locked in mortal combat with the enemy.

A sword came out of nowhere and slammed into his forehead. He heard the projecting brow of his helmet give and split with a metallic crack, felt the lip of the helm bite into the flesh of his forehead, felt the sharp, hot pain as the blade’s edge struck skin.

 

* * * * *

 

Marcus Antonius turned to Caesar, his expression pained and impatient. ‘The spring is about to fall back into their hands, and we’ll have lost four cohorts of men there alone, forgetting the rest of this insane assault. It’s perhaps half an hour past the point where we should have sounded the general order to fall back. We’ve lost.’

Caesar turned a sly smile on his friend.

‘Have you so little faith in me?’

Antonius narrowed his eyes angrily. ‘If you have some ridiculous plan then put it into action while we still have an army.’

‘It is all a matter of timing, Marcus.’

‘Don’t be so bloody infuriating, Gaius. One day you’ll keep your plans too close to your chest and one of your fits will take you off to Elysium without the rest of us knowing what to do!’ The general’s sharp glance did nothing to shut him up. ‘Yes I know about your episodes. Atia told me all about it. She worries about you. But that’s not the issue now. Fuck the timing, Gaius. Legionaries are dying by the century out there.’

‘Then I think you will be pleased by that sound.’

Antonius frowned and cocked an ear. Over the hiss of the falling rain – warm rain, even the downpour wouldn’t make the sticky heat any more bearable – he could hear rumbling. Not the first peal of thunder he’d heard while he watched the legions falling like reaped wheat on the slopes of Uxellodunon. They should have ridden out the siege, even if it took a year.

‘Thunder. Very helpful. Their archers will be less trouble. And I can see some of the fires going out. It’s not going to help. You’ve committed the legions to their death for what? To buy time?’

‘Precisely,’ Caesar smiled. ‘And the moment is upon us.

‘Thunder is…’

‘Not thunder, Marcus.’

Antonius blinked and his gaze rose to the spring along with Caesar’s pointing finger.

‘Sacred Venus, mother of man, what in Hades is that?’

 

* * * * *

 

Atenos blinked. His world was a red blanket. Reaching up in automatic panic, he balled his fists and rubbed his eyes, squeezing the sheet of blood from them. Again and again he blinked. His hand went up to his forehead. His helmet was gone and someone had thoughtfully tied a wrapping around his wounded head, but the blood was free-flowing and that wrapping was now crimson and saturated. Beneath the wrapping he could feel a lump the size of a hen’s egg.

He deflated. In the press of men, he’d been certain that that was his death blow. He’d been waiting for one for over a year now. The centurionate had a ridiculously high mortality rate and though he continually claimed invulnerability on account of his Gallic bones, there was a saying among Caesar’s legions since Alesia. Lead the Tenth to glory, but put a coin in your mouth first. Priscus, former primus pilus of the Tenth, had fallen at Alesia. Carbo, latest in that role, had fallen in the disastrous retreat at Gergovia. How long until the latest incumbent fell? He was sure the other centurions in the Tenth were running a lottery on when it would happen, though he’d never caught them at it yet. But it seemed that the spring at Uxellodunon would not be his time. He had a thundering headache and had seemingly lost quite a lot of blood, but he was able to think and move. He was, to all intents and purposes, intact.

He sighed as another rivulet of blood blinded his left eye. Unseen hands suddenly loosened the wrapping and the blood came again. Then there was the feel of something slimy being slapped on the wound. Honey. Dear goddess Minerva let it be honey and not one of the dung-based poultices used by some hopeless medics. He felt some relief as a fresh dressing was tied in place, and a damp sponge – not a shit-sponge, please – wiped away the blood from his face.

A concerned, young face appeared in front of him.

‘What is your name, centurion?’

‘Atenos, primus pilus of the…’

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Four, if you count the thumb as a finger.’

‘You’re fine,’ the capsarius pronounced. ‘Took a bit of a knock there, centurion. You might want to stay seated for a while until your brain stops rattling around in your skull.’

Atenos wanted to berate the young medic for any implication that he had a small, wizened brain, but as he turned sharply, he felt suddenly very sick and had to concede that perhaps the man had a point.’

‘How’s it going?’ he asked, wincing.

The medic shrugged. ‘Into Hades by the moment. ‘Scuse me, but my talents are required.’

Atenos nodded at him, and the man was gone.

He took a moment to look around himself. Whoever had pulled him out of the fighting line had not only got him back to safety and a capsarius, he had thoughtfully kept him in the vicinity of the fight. He sat with his back to the earth mound, the creaking, smouldering tower looming above him, the ropes maintaining its stability passing above him, anchored there at the other side of the spring.

He was next to the spring.

Finally he registered the fact that it was raining very heavily. The angle of the rain was such that the tower was keeping it from him and he sat in its lea, a small, dry island in a land of downpour. The surface of the spring’s pool seethed. Last time he had seen it, it gurgled with small ripples as the flow poured from the rock, and the excess flowed out over a lip into a channel that distributed it into the earth down towards the woods, where it became one of the numerous tiny streams that fed the river below. Now, however, the surface of the water churned and stippled as a million raindrops pounded it.

Somewhere across the mountainside, he could hear the general order to fall back being called.

At last the general had seen sense.

But could he not have done so without such dreadful loss of life?

He glanced back down at the surface of the water. Above him the sky clashed with the sound of Vulcan’s hammer striking. The storm was in full flow and would not be abating any time soon. He sighed and tipped his head rather painfully back – his neck had apparently taken a jolt from the blow. The rain battered his face and he was rather grateful for the experience.

At least he wasn’t dead.

Now, the Tenth and Fifth were sounding their recall. All around him the men were moving. He could hear them even if he couldn’t see them, preparing to abandon the hard-won ground and retreat down to the camps. Presumably someone would come and help him down. He wasn’t at all sure he could stand unaided without throwing up.

Another rumble of thunder.

And another.

His brow furrowed in concentration, and that hurt more than he could possibly have imagined. The previous peals of thunder had been perhaps a count of twenty apart. Those last two had been so close together there was hardly time to count at all.

Another rumble.

What in the name of divine Taranis was going on?

His eyes widened in disbelief and alarm as the ground gave a shudder and suddenly all the water drained from the spring as though someone had removed a plug at the bottom. Despite his pain and discomfort he leaned forward, peering into the depths. Amid the dark rock, the slimy green weed and the coins thrown in as offerings, Atenos could see a number of wide fissures that had opened in the rock.

What in Hades?

And now the mouth of the spring itself was sputtering, odd gouts of brown water leaping from it into the empty pool. And then nothing. The spring was gone.

There was another rumble and the ground bucked like an unbroken horse.

Hands were suddenly beneath his arms, helping raise him to his feet. ‘Time you were away from here, centurion,’ announced the unseen helper. Atenos could not agree more, baffled as he was. As he struggled upright, the ground gave another ominous creak and groan and in a moment that almost stopped his heart, a swathe of woodland vanished into the earth in a long avenue down the hill.

As he boggled at the sight, the capsarius at his side helping him down the slope, he spotted the water seeping and saturating the ground down at the end of that flattened avenue. With a slightly painful grin, he spotted the figures there and finally understood.

Engineers, one officer, and perhaps two centuries of legionaries, all covered in earth and muck. Sappers.

All the time the tower at the top, the desperate fight of Atenos’ men and even the general advance had been keeping the defenders busy, the general had been undermining the hill. And finally, all at once, the tunnels had broken through to the spring’s underground source and diverted it way down the hill. And then the tunnels had been collapsed as the miners left them.

The only readily accessible source of water for the oppidum had been denied them. Where the water now came up from various places it would be undrinkable for some time, but would regardless be too close to the Roman lines for safe use and too far from the walls of Uxellodunon for the locals to defend.

The old goat had done it.

Atenos was grinning from ear to ear all the way down the slope and the appearance of the limping Decumius carrying his fallen phalera only made it all the wider.

 

* * * * *

 

Antonius glared at Caesar.

‘Isn’t it bad enough that you keep your surprises even from your senior officers without being unbearably smug about it as well?’

The figure of Aulus Hirtius was busy striding up the hill towards them, his lean, gaunt figure gangly and ungainly, as though he had too many knees for one human being. The pinched face had an odd expression that might be a mix of satisfaction and abhorrence. He’d somehow managed to get himself drenched, and the sopping white tunic and cloak clung to his frame making him look all the more like a crane fly.

‘All goes well, then, Hirtius?’

The man stopped and saluted. While Antonius and Caesar stood in the shelter of the porch of the general’s forward observation tent, Hirtius remained in the torrential downpour, sheltering his forehead as though that made the slightest difference in his soaked state.

‘The engineers and men of the Fifteenth acquitted themselves well, Caesar. The nearest accessible flow to the walls now is around a third of the way up the slope,’ he turned and pointed. ‘Somewhere near that large elm. We can cover the site with both artillery and archers with little difficulty from our lines. The enemy will not be able to get within fifty paces of water.’

‘Excellent.’ The general turned to Antonius. ‘Might I be allowed just the slightest hint of smug, now?’ he winked.

Antonius rolled his eyes. ‘If Fronto were here he would be standing a foot from your face, bellowing by now.’

‘If Fronto were here, Antonius, he would have been the one at the mines.’

Caesar peered up through the torrent and spotted Varus wending his way down the hill towards them. Turning, he spotted an older soldier, unarmoured and with a voluminous, hooded oiled-skin cloak wrapped tight around him against the rain. His favoured sacerdos. The priest of the Tenth, with the knowledge of ritual and some skill at divination. With a crooked finger, he beckoned.

‘Sir?’

‘Can you tell me what Jupiter Pluvius has in store for us?’

‘Of course, General. Despite the current downpour, I expect the sky to clear before sunset and lead to several days of dry heat. The ass’ manger last night was bright and unobstructed, and that speaks of good weather. Also a crow gave three distinct calls above the camp at dawn, which I thought to be at odds with the coming deluge, but now I see presaged a good period to follow. In the…’

‘A simple ‘good weather’ would have done, man. Thank you.’

The old soldier nodded and retreated five steps and into his hood once more.

‘We have to assume that they have good residual water supplies in the oppidum, and every cistern and reservoir they have will be uncovered to catch the storm rain. Still, they have many thousands of warriors up there in addition to the general population and the large number of animals to provide sustenance. They cannot have been expecting to lose their water supply, and this will be a very final blow to them. Their water will soon run dry in fine weather.’

Varus approached and saluted rather soggily, his face tired but satisfied.

‘What’s the lie of the land, Quintus,’ asked Antonius.

The cavalry commander stretched and rolled his shoulders. ‘We took serious losses near the spring. It was a good call assigning the Tenth under Atenos. That man would hold the gates of Hades itself against Cerberus if you asked. I hear he took a place in the front line and suffered a head wound, but is in no danger. The general estimate is somewhere around eight hundred dead. Wounded are few. Nearly anyone who engaged the enemy is gone, rather than injured. As soon as the spring disappeared, the enemy lost heart and pulled back. The other varied assaults suffered minor casualties, but never really got the chance to involve themselves before the mines did their job.’

He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. ‘The enemy are already starting to come down the slopes in twos and threes, testing our resolve and trying to get close to either the new spring spouts or the tributary rivers. They’ll get a nasty surprise. I watched one of the scorpions finding their range and the artillerist put three bolts into the same tree way beyond the water, so unless our men fall asleep there will be no water for Uxellodunon.’

‘Shame we can’t get anyone inside to ruin the water supplies,’ Antonius mused, and Varus nodded his agreement.

‘No matter, gentlemen,’ Caesar smiled. ‘In my experience, Gauls are impetuous, and only a strong leader can impose any true order, in the Roman sense, over their forces – they are too individual in their ways. They have no leaders, for Lucterius is fled and Drapes is ours. The Gauls will drink their water in desperation, without thought for a long-term plan. Where their supplies might be made to last weeks, in current conditions I would expect it to manage only days.’

Somewhere behind Varus, in the trees at the lowest slopes of the oppidum, the distinctive sound of artillery at work cracked and thumped and echoed, their victims adding counterpoint with screams and cries of alarm. The Cadurci were learning a hard lesson, it seemed.

‘There will be a night and a day of such attempts, I think,’ Caesar mused. ‘They will want to try the cover of darkness, and will hope that we become complacent the next day. We must continually rotate the units of archers and artillerists on watch and make sure we plug any gaps, and then the day will be ours, gentlemen.’

‘Will they not make an attempt to break out?’’ Antonius mused.

‘No. Not without their leaders to drive them. They are surrounded by our defences and outnumbered, with six legions here. And their life expectancy in the oppidum has just been reduced to almost naught in a matter of hours. Tonight there will be desperate last attempts, and throughout the morning, especially if it remains misty in the valleys as seems the norm. If we continue to deny them water, I will expect their first emissaries after noon tomorrow. By the kalends of the month, we will be dividing the spoils and the slaves, reducing the oppidum and assigning winter quarters.’

‘I somehow expected a fight,’ Antonius frowned.

Varus cocked an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t voice that sentiment near Atenos and the men of the Tenth and Fifth if I were you.’

‘You know what I mean,’ grumbled Antonius.

Caesar smiled and slapped his friend on the back, raising a shower of rain droplets. Above, the rumble of thunder had moved off, southeast. ‘Not every season need end with an earth-shaking contest of arms, Marcus. Be grateful that we have thwarted their army here and now. Gaul, my friends, is pacified. We will be forced to make an example, of course, to prevent further risings, but I do believe that this winter we can begin the grand task of turning this place into a province.’

Varus nodded wearily. By autumn, there was every chance that many of the legions would be disbanded and settled strategically in colonies among the Gauls. And where would that leave the officers? Where would that leave him? Back to Rome to climb another rung of the Cursus Honorum, chasing on the heels of his little brother Publius, who had flouted the family’s ties to Caesar and thrown in his lot with Pompey? To be rewarded for his long service to this army with a comfortable provincial governorship, where he could grow fat and slow as slaves fed him peeled grapes and rich, red Rhodian? After eight years of cavalry service in Caesar’s army, it would take a decade to remove the constant smell of horse-sweat and oiled leather from his nostrils.

He laughed at the thought of Varus the Senator.

‘Something amuses you?’ mumbled Antonius.

‘Oh nothing really. Just pondering on the vagaries of the future, picturing myself joining the ranks of men like Fronto the wine merchant and living the peaceful life.’

The three men smiled at the thought.