(Quintilis: Darioritum, on the Armorican coast)
Tetricus sat in the cold pre-dawn gloom astride his horse looking uncomfortable. The other tribunes had ridden back along the line of the Tenth, making their final checks before moving off. Tetricus glanced over his shoulder. The front line of the First cohort stood ready to march a few paces behind him; the primus pilus, next to the chief signifer, backed by the rest of the standard bearers, musicians and a few immunes with tasks of their own, the bulk of the men waiting patiently behind them all. The tribune waved a hand at the primus pilus in what he hoped was a good, commanding, beckoning motion. The centurion strode forward until he reached the mounted officer.
“You should be doing this.”
Carbo grinned at him.
“Your rank says otherwise, sir.”
Tetricus sighed and made a desperate gesture with his hands.
“Fronto always leaves the primus pilus in charge of the Tenth when he’s absent. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust tribunes, probably because they’re all politicians-in-waiting. Priscus used to command the Tenth on a semiregular basis!”
That wide, infectious grin remained on the centurion’s face.
“I’m not Priscus, sir. My job is to direct the lads when we’re actually busy fighting, so I don’t have time to look all posh and official. Besides, the legate trusts you, even if he doesn’t trust the others.”
“And that’s another thing” Tetricus grumbled unhappily. “I’m the second most junior tribune, and yet I’m commanding the others. I’m going to be as popular as a turd in a bathhouse!”
Carbo gave him an expression of fake sympathy.
“Just mimic Fronto. Drink too much, argue with everyone, disobey some orders and then launch yourself into a potentially fatal situation. Everything will be fine…” the grin widened even further. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve already got his grumbling down to a tee.”
Somewhere way off to their right a buccina rang out with a call that was picked up instantly by the musicians of each legion. Tetricus started slightly in his saddle as the call blared out close behind. Traditionally the tribunes rode at the front of the marching column with the legate, but Fronto was somewhat unconventional and Tetricus usually travelled by choice with the artillerists and engineers at the rear of the column.
Carbo nodded and then saluted.
“Ready to move at your command, sir.”
Tetricus grunted again and settled unhappily into his saddle. The sound of racing hooves announced the return of the other five tribunes.
“Everything’s ready, sir.”
Tetricus nodded, trying not to catch the eye of the senior tribune who had reported to him. He swallowed nervously, keeping his hands tight on the reins to prevent their shaking becoming too noticeable.
“Tenth Legion: advance!”
Slowly, he moved his horse into a walk. Behind him, the centurions bellowed their commands, the buccinas blaring out calls.
The Tenth Legion set off for battle and, keeping his gaze steadfastly ahead, trying not to look at the other five tribunes, Tetricus’ mind raced ahead of them.
He was woefully unprepared for this. The tribunes were not meant to command the legion. Oh, in the old days, they did. These days, though, the big decisions were all made by the legate and the actual running of the legion, even in battle, was the province of the centurionate. The tribunes were expected to ponce around doing whatever menial chores the legate had for them.
By Tetricus’ estimate, at least two thirds of the tribunes he had met across the whole army were a complete waste of time from a military point of view. Most of them were power-seeking members of the equites class from Rome who were desperately looking for a leg up in the political circles of Rome. The tribunate was a well-recognised step for that.
Tetricus, however, had taken his commission originally in the Seventh Legion not to climb the political ladder, but because even as a boy he had been fascinated by the great works of the army. At the age of five he had watched as the men of Strabo’s legions had carried out emergency repairs to the aqueduct of his home city of Firmum Picenum after tremors had brought down an arch and effectively halved the city’s water supply. Observation of three days of repair work had instilled in him a life-long love of all things engineering, though reading accounts of the siege of Syracuse and the great military works of Archimedes had clinched his desire to serve in the legions.
And despite inauspicious beginnings in the Seventh, his great love, and talent, for designing ingenious and complex defensive and offensive systems had been given full reign since the army had first marched into Geneva two and a half years ago. He’d achieved all he ever really wanted from the legions: a certain level of autonomy and the opportunity to turn his mind to overcoming amazing challenges with his engineering skill. He’d certainly never pictured this: sitting nobly astride a horse at the head of several thousand men, leading an army into battle.
“Sit up straight, for Minerva’s sake.”
Tetricus shot a glance in the direction of the hissed comment to see one of the other tribunes glaring at him. He opened his mouth to apologise and then realised how idiotic that would sound. Instead, he tried to stop wallowing in his own discomfort and to sit proud like a commander.
Slowly, interminably, the entire army moving at the lowest common speed, that of the ox carts, the legions of Julius Caesar began to cross the stretch of low ground toward the looming ramparts of Darioritum. The land here was decidedly flat, so the Veneti oppidum on the low rise by the water stood proud and impressive, though not as impressive as the walls, Tetricus suspected.
The general had decided that a show of force was needed. This whole attack was more about frightening the local tribes than the mere conquest of a city and to that end, all four legions, along with their cavalry and auxiliary support, backed by the wagon trains and the artillery that remained with them, would move together to bear down on the Gaulish city with standards raised and fanfares blaring.
The tribune squinted into the dim pre-dawn light, trying to pick out more detail on the oppidum and watched with relief as the first shaft of golden sunlight touched the tree tops high on the oppidum. The information they had on the oppidum itself was, to his mind, sadly lacking. The scouts had not come too close for fear of tipping the Veneti off about the coming attack and thus their knowledge of the defences came from long-distance and second-hand accounts.
Once again he wished that Fronto was here rather than he and again he wondered how Fronto and Balbus had fared during the night. This entire escapade would be for naught if the two legates had not managed to secure the bay entrance. If the Veneti still held the promontory fortresses, their companions in the city would wait until the Romans had expended a great deal of effort and time getting to them and would then simply board their ships and flee as they had so many times before in the past few months.
Slowly, still running through possibilities and alternatives in his mind, Tribune Tetricus led the Tenth Legion across the low ground toward the bulk of Darioritum and as the paces passed interminably by the sun rose behind them, adding to the impressive sight of the four legions walking out of the golden glow, and gradually illuminating the oppidum ahead.
Darioritum was an impressive sight.
The Veneti had countered the inadequacies of the territory by increasing the man-made defences of the city. In Tetricus’ experience, most of the oppida the army had encountered across the whole of Gaul had taken advantage of a high site, bolstered by thick walls and occasionally a low ditch at the bottom.
Darioritum lacked great hills or rocky cliffs; there were no unassailable slopes. Three low hills surrounded the port at the head of the huge bay, and each was low and gentle. However, in response to nature’s failure, a man that Tetricus would have loved to speak to had carried out defensive works on an impressive scale. The walls of Darioritum were unlike any he had ever seen.
The oppidum sat on the slopes of the northernmost of the three hills, its ramparts reaching down to the water’s edge and rendering that approach impossible by the army. In place of the more common ditch, the architect of Darioritum’s defences had traced the two small rivers that skirted the base of the hill to both east and west and had widened the channel to create a moat a hundred paces wide.
Even if an army had managed to find a way by boat across the bay to the port or across the river, which would clearly be within easy missile shot of any defender, the Veneti had settled for not one, but two walls. A low wall constructed of timber and earth, much like a Roman camp, rose from the banks of the rivers and the rear of the port, leaving no flat land on which to marshal an attacking force. Twenty paces behind those rose the true walls of the city, high and powerful, with towers taller than was usual, allowing the defenders an unrivalled view of what was happening below the smaller wall, should anyone manage to get that close.
The result, as Tetricus had surmised from the scant accounts of the scouts, was that the only conceivable route of assault was to climb that northern hill and approach the oppidum from that side. However, the planners of the city had accounted for this weak spot in the defences by continuing both huge walls over the rise and allowing the slope several hundred paces from the enceinte to fill with dense woodland. The occupants must enter and leave the oppidum by boat at the port.
Clever.
The only possible land approach was hampered by trees and undergrowth. An army could pass through the terrain, but only slowly and individually, marshalling as a force once they had reached open ground, which would be in direct sight of the missile-wielding defenders.
It was well thought-out.
Again, as they moved on toward the looming fortress, Tetricus’ mind wheeled through ideas and concerns. This was why it was someone else’s job to lead the army: he needed his mind free to think on the problems ahead.
They could cut down the forest. They certainly had the manpower to do so. But it would be a slow job. Such thick woodland, it would be the job of a full day or two just to clear it out enough to pass a legion through. Even then, the ground would be impassable to carts and the artillery. Any attack would be delayed for the minimum of a day and would be down purely to legionaries with no artillery support.
They could try diverting the river into a narrow channel and filling the wide ditch enough to cross. But then they would still be working under missile attack of the defenders, it would still take more than a day and, once again, the ground once they had reclaimed it from the water would be too soft for easy traversing and would be impossible for the wagons.
It was a problem.
“Tribune Tetricus?”
Reeling his mind back in, he turned in surprise to see an officer he did not recognise from the general staff, closing with him.
“Yes?”
“The general requests your presence.”
Tetricus nodded nervously and turned to the more senior tribune by his side.
“Carry on. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
The man saluted, saying nothing, and Tetricus kicked his horse into action, following the officer back toward the command party.
Caesar, along with his senior officers, had ridden half a mile ahead of the slowly-moving army and they were standing beside their horses, staring out at the oppidum ahead. As the two riders bore down on them and slowed to a walk and then a stop, Caesar turned and nodded at them.
“Ah… Tetricus. Good. Join us.”
The tribune dismounted and led his horse by the reins to join the officers. He smiled as he recognised the figure of Appius Coruncanius Mamurra, the engineer from Formia. To his eternal satisfaction, the great engineer nodded at him as one professional to another.
“Mamurra tells me there is no quick and simple way into Darioritum. I brought him on board because he, like you, is a man who likes to find solutions to impossible problems. I refuse to believe there is a problem of defence that cannot be overcome by the pair of you. Find me my quick way in.”
Mamurra shrugged at Tetricus as though in apology.
“A full day is the quickest I can think of.”
The tribune nodded.
“A day either way; either to rechannel and reclaim the river, or to deforest and move in from the north. But either way we couldn’t get the artillery close.”
The officer nodded thoughtfully.
“We could perhaps speed things up with the river if we could get men across who could pull down the first wall and use it to fill the ditch?”
“Yes, but it’s still slow, and they’d be in direct line of any missiles from the walls. We’d lose a lot of men.” He shrugged. ”We could torch the woodland? It’s brutal, but a lot faster than men with axes.”
Mamurra shook his head.
“The ground and foliage are drying out, but they’ll still be very damp. If we burn it, it’ll smoke and smoulder for days. Too slow.”
“Then we’re back to axes and a full day.”
Caesar looked from one face to the other.
“The legions are catching up with us. Find me a solution.”
Mamurra frowned and rubbed his chin.
“Of course, we don’t have to remove the whole woodland; just enough to get a column of men through. Once we can get a century or two at the front they can perhaps use wicker screens to cover the rest as they filter through into the open ground?”
Tetricus nodded.
“Then we should concentrate on the low edge near the river. The trees are sparser there, and the men would be in less danger from the walls as they got closer. I’d be happier if we could get vineae to the front to cover the men. Wicker screens are a bit feeble. But then we’re back to being unable to move big, wheeled structures over the sawn stumps.”
“Oxen and ropes” Mamurra smiled.
“Better than axes.”
“And if they can tear the trees from the earth whole and with the roots intact, rather than just cutting them down, the ground can easily be levelled for the artillery carts.”
Caesar nodded.
“Good. Tetricus? Go back to the Tenth and bring them around to the north. We shall approach from that side.”
With a salute, the tribune shared a professional nod with Mamurra and then turned to ride back to the Tenth. It would still be a slow job but, with a little luck, they could be through the woods and able to begin the assault by the afternoon.
“Then we’ll find out what other little tricks they have in store for us.”
He just hoped like hell that Fronto and Balbus had secured those forts.
* * * * *
Centurion Atenos, commander of the Second Cohort and chief training officer of the Tenth Legion, glanced around him, taking stock of the situation. The depleted cohort, some of his men being on detached duty with the legate, had joined the First Cohort at the head of the Roman advance. Legionaries and officers stretched away on both sides of him, filling the deforested ground from the water’s edge along to the remaining tree line.
Behind, a detachment of engineers and legionaries moved around the denuded forest floor efficiently filling the holes left by the removed trees and levelling and packing the ground. Behind them, a dozen vineae trundled periodically forward as soon as the ground was readied for them, coming to a halt as they reached uneven earth once more.
Swinging his gaze back round to his left, he could see the river, wide and shallow at this point, washing away the debris cast from the dying forest by the multitude of workmen.
And finally back to the front.
Despite being the head of the army, the men of the Tenth were not the furthest forward at the moment. Ahead of them, soldiers of the engineering details strained, pushing the bellowing oxen as hard as they could until, with a horrendous tearing sound, another beech tree came loose, the huge root system snapping and creaking. As Atenos watched, the cart began to drag the tree toward the slope that dropped to the river so that the workmen could roll it down to the river with a quick push and watch it float out to the bay.
A call from ahead drew his attention again. Centurion Carbo, off to his left, took up the call. Only a few trees remained before the open space that lay between the woodland and the low outer wall of the oppidum. As carts lined up ready to remove the last boles and soldiers flattened out the ground behind them, the first two cohorts of the Tenth Legion moved forward, filtering past them and between the trees.
Atenos took a deep breath as his men stepped from the cover of the trees and into the open air once more.
“Shields!”
He was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which his new command put the order into action, the entire line raising and locking their shields and hunching over slightly as they advanced in order to present as small a target as possible to the enemy.
His call had been just in time, as the Veneti on the high walls let their first volley of arrows, stones and bullets go at that moment, the missiles rattling off shields and helmets or embedding themselves in wood with a ‘thunk’. Here and there, Atenos could hear the squawk of a man who had been unlucky; still, the manoeuvre had been smooth and resulted in fewer casualties than he’d expected from the first volley. The Tenth’s previous training officer had apparently done a good job.
A quick glance to either side, unimpeded by the cohort who were, to a man, at least a head shorter than he, told him that the entire line had moved into position, presenting a solid shield wall to the enemy from the water’s edge across to the eaves of the remaining woodland. More missiles rattled off iron and bronze.
“Screens!” came the call from the primus pilus to his left.
Atenos waited tensely as huge wicker screens, rejected as the main defence of the Roman lines, but very useful as a temporary measure to shield the men working behind, were raised by the second and third line and then filtered through to the front. Within a few moments, the whole shield wall now stood behind a row of eight foot wicker screens that blocked a number of the incoming shots. The screen supports were jammed into place and then the second group of screens were brought forward, raised to form a higher level of the wall and held in place by straining legionaries.
The First and Second Cohorts were in place, forming the first line, guarding the workmen and protecting them from enemy attack while they cleared the passage.
Behind, the ox carts were already working on the last few trees. Atenos glanced across at Carbo as, behind him, a young oak was violently torn from the earth and dragged away. The eaves of the wood were disappearing. Even as he waited tensely, he could hear the creak and groan and then the crack and crash of more trees being removed. The intensity of missile shots increased as the Veneti realised that the Roman attackers had forged a clear passage through the woodland.
“Watch yourselves. Step back from the screens three paces.”
Carbo, off to his left, cast him a quizzical glance, but echoed the order to his own men. As the confused legionaries stepped back and lowered the top row of screens, one of the men close by cleared his throat.
“Sir?”
Atenos shrugged nonchalantly and fell into place just as the first fire arrow hit the wicker screens and burst into a fiery orange ball that sent tongues of flame licking across the face of the wicker defence.
“Clearly none of you have studied the tongue of your enemy this past two years. At least learn enough to understand what their commands mean!”
The legionary blinked.
“Yes, sir.”
Atenos stood silent and afforded a quick glance at the primus pilus. Carbo was nodding at him appreciatively. Behind, the last trees had gone and workmen were moving up, filling in the few remaining holes. As they neared the last victims of the ox carts, the attacks intensified yet again, and a few blows struck home, taking the labouring legionaries through thighs and torsos as they worked.
Carbo nodded to him and, simultaneously, the two lead centurions gave their cohorts the order to fall back and protect the workers in close order. With perfect timing, the shield wall retreated a dozen paces and then, directed by a few gestures from their officers, split off into groups to produce individual shield screens for the work gangs as they flattened the forest floor.
At extreme range fewer of the missiles reached their targets and the instances of wounding decreased as the defences were reconfigured. The men worked under the shelter of the Tenth’s shields, and slowly the vineae, huge wheeled shelters, rumbled toward them. Beneath the protective rooves of the vehicles, the rest of the Tenth Legion moved toward the walls of Darioritum, the other legions preparing to move on after.
Atenos glanced around once more to make sure everything was in position and, raising his shield against the possibility of a lucky strike, marched across the uneven ground to where Carbo stood, directing the shield wall around a work party that had just completed the infill of another hole.
“Sir?”
Carbo looked up and nodded professionally.
“Centurion. Nice work back there with the fire arrows. I’d bet they were a bit disappointed at how little damage they did.”
Atenos ignored the compliment.
“Sir, when the rest pull forward this place is going to be seething with troops. I’d like permission to try something before it becomes impossible.”
Carbo frowned.
“Something dangerous?”
“I want to take the Second Cohort around the outside of the outer walls and try and get to the port. If the legates should fail and the fleet don’t make it into the bay, we could do with trying to prevent the Veneti from boarding their ships the way they usually do. Even if the fleet do get here, it would be better for our marines if the enemy ships weren’t packed to the rail with escaped warriors. Better to keep the numbers weighed in our favour.”
Carbo stood for only a moment before nodding.
“It’s a good thought. Be bloody careful, though. Perhaps you should take a few more centuries from the First?”
Atenos shook his head.
“Space will be quite restrictive down there. There may be too many of us already, sir. If you’re alright with that, I’ll move the men out as soon as the workmen have finished.”
“Good luck.”
Saluting, Atenos strode back to his men, watching as the last workmen packed down the former forest floor to prepare the way for the rolling vineae and the bulk of Caesar’s army that came with them.
The Second Cohort would miss out on the glorious assault and watching as the first Roman standard waved from the top of that high wall, but the enormous Gaul had served as a mercenary in some of the most hellish and deadly wars the world had to offer and he knew how much more satisfaction there was to be had by being an aged healthy veteran with a history of quiet successes than to be a crippled soldier after only half a campaign with a few proud medals to show for it.
Wars were won with the mind, not the heart.
Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the top of the high wall. Something was wrong; the missile shots had thinned out suddenly.
He took a quick look at the workmen and made a judgement call.
“It’s flat enough for the vineae; get back and arm up for the assault. Men of the Second Cohort: rally on me!”
Gritting his teeth as the men charged toward him, he set his sights on the low wall that ran along the river bank toward the bay, just a narrow strip of sloping land.
“Time to move.”
* * * * *
Carbo watched as the Second Cohort with their hulking giant of a chief centurion moved at triple time across the open ground to the low wall and began to move along it, staying as close as possible to the structure itself and moving toward the bay. As the primus pilus watched, he realised just how dangerous the run truly was. Almost everywhere along the route the Second Cohort was open to attack from the high walls above and had to run with their shields overhead like a high speed testudo. Even as he watched, three men fell foul of well placed shots and disappeared into the river and even as he turned away he saw two more topple.
Still, the First Cohort had its own troubles to look to. As the workmen had finished their tasks and fallen back to reequip and Atenos had taken his unit off along the river bank, Carbo and his men had moved back out of missile range to meet up with the advancing vineae. Space had been saved for the First Cohort beneath the cover of the vehicles and, as soon as they were in position, the buccina call had gone up, heralding the attack.
Now, the huge wheeled vehicles trundled toward the low walls, reaching the edge of the denuded woodland after a brief uncomfortable journey over the undulating ground. As soon as available space allowed the vineae, each sheltering half a cohort of men and either a huge tree trunk ram, carried by sweating legionaries, ladders or other siege gear, filtered out into a line three vehicles deep and four wide.
The arrows thudding into the dampened hide and timber roof were fewer than Carbo had expected, and while the lack of offensive activity should have been comforting, it wasn’t. Too many times this summer they had broken the defences of a stronghold to find that the place was empty when they arrived.
Grinding his teeth, he mentally willed the offensive on, the legionaries around him heaving the huge wheeled edifice forward until it closed on the low wall. The vehicles behind moved up to form an armoured tunnel that stretched back toward the army waiting out of missile range. Once they were through the outer wall, the tunnel would provide safe cover as the legions closed on the walls and climbed.
The outer defences were, just as had appeared at a distance, almost identical to those that protected a temporary Roman camp. The construction was clearly recent: a response to the growing threat of Roman action, or in preparation for a planned uprising, and following lessons learned from Crassus the previous year.
Carbo smiled. At least in this kind of construction they knew what they were dealing with. The earth embankment was only four feet high with no outer ditch and the wheels and height of the vinea allowed the occupants to reach the point where they could directly attack the wall without first countering the problem of the bank.
Listening to the thuds and crunches of the missiles hitting the roof and side walls of the vehicle, the primus pilus barked out his orders and watched as the men filtered along the side, leaving room in the centre for the huge treetrunk ram to be brought up.
Manhandled by forty legionaries, the tree took a short while to build up the kind of swing needed to damage the defences. As the ram first connected with the palisade, there were shouts of pain and anger from the men, their arms almost dislocated by the jarring impact. The entire vehicle shuddered, and Carbo winced at the noise before peering through the cluttered interior, trying to examine the damage. He could not get a clear look before the second heavily-swung blow connected, and the whole place exploded in noise and shaking again.
The first blow had clearly had the desired effect, the second merely knocking the timbers of the broken palisade to the side. As the ram was drawn back through the shelter and discarded to the rear, the men at the front filled the gap and got to work tearing the timbers apart and pushing them away, opening a large gap, while others took their dolabra and began to work at the earth bank, shovelling it out of the way. The task was made surprisingly easy by such recent construction, since the turf sods that formed the mound were still solid and could be easily shifted.
Carbo watched with a growing sense of uneasiness as the men worked, rapidly clearing a wide enough space in the low wall to allow the whole vinea to pass through. Peering ahead, past the workmen, the primus pilus sized up their next move. The ground between the two walls was low grass, perhaps a hundred paces across. The grass showed the growth of the season, but was all too neat for Carbo’s liking. Given the still decreasing quantity of missiles falling from the high walls, he was beginning to doubt vinea cover was even a necessity now.
He frowned and waved to his optio, who was busy directing the removal of the turf sods.
“Ovidius? Get back to the army and tell them that something’s up. The defenders are abandoning the walls, and we have to move now. We’re leaving the vineae at the first wall and moving forward at full speed. Get the army moving.”
The optio saluted and turned, pushing his way back through the men to make for the rest of the force. Carbo glanced out of the front aperture once more. Occasionally a stone or arrow would fall into the wide grassy plain that separated the walls, but it was hardly the concerted effort of a desperate group of defenders.
“Alright lads. We’re going to move forward quickly. No towers this time. Got to be quick and bold, so we’ll be raising ladders and using grapples. Once we’re through the first rampart, go very carefully; we’ve seen them use lilia pits in the past few weeks and it’s too nice and easy out there for my liking. If anyone slips into one and is wounded, we can’t stop to help you out; you’ll have to wait for the capsarii as they follow up after the assault.”
He waited as the various pieces of siege equipment were brought up from the rear of the vineae and then took a deep breath.
“Advance!”
Without waiting for the call to be taken up by other officers in the cohort, he began to move forward along with his men, clambering through the fallen rampart. As the legionaries of the First Cohort began to move across the intervening space at a run, watching the ground nervously and carrying grapples, ropes, and ladders, the primus pilus spared a moment to look to his right, where the other assault groups had broken through.
He squinted in surprise at the figure of tribune Tetricus, shield raised against the occasional projectile, running across toward him. Why wasn’t the idiotic officer at the back where he was supposed to be? Carbo ground his teeth, weighing up the possibility of running on with his men and later claiming he had not seen the commander. Shaking his head in irritation, he turned his back on his assault and strode across to meet Tetricus.
“Tribune?”
The temporary commander of the Tenth Legion bore a worried expression.
“Carbo... something is very wrong here. The closer we get to them, the less resistance there is.”
“Yes, sir. I have a feeling they’re pulling the same trick, but earlier than usual. Got to hope the legates managed to secure those forts or we might just have lost them for good.” In the privacy of his head, his thoughts flashed with sympathy to the sight of Atenos and his four centuries of men running under constant attack toward the rear end of the oppidum where the Veneti could take ship.
Tetricus sighed unhappily.
“As soon as we get confirmation from the first assault, get a message back to the army and tell them to send as many men as possible round between the walls to the far side. We have to try and catch them before they leave.
Carbo nodded and glanced toward the walls where the first men of the Tenth were now raising ladders, the defending shots hardly noticeable any more. There were no casualties to pits so either the men of the Tenth had been ridiculously lucky, or the enemy were prepared to give away Darioritum and sure of their ability to flee the field of battle safely.
“Sir, Centurion Atenos already took the Second Cohort round the outside before we even got to the outer wall. He had the same idea, and I think he might be in considerable trouble.”
Tetricus’ eyes widened.
“Jupiter’s balls! The man could be knee deep in body parts by now!”
The tribune spun around, shaking slightly, and spotted the centurion that had led the assault group from the second breach.
“Niger? Forget the wall assault. Get your men together and take them between the walls and round to the port area as fast as you can.”
He turned back to Carbo and opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a voice from the walls. The two officers turned to look. The first ladder was already in position, and a brave legionary had reached the parapet to peer over. He was waving and pointing across the wall.
“Looks like they’ve already left.”
Tetricus shook his head in irritation.
“Let’s hope the Second Cohort last until we get there.”
* * * * *
Atenos stared. The flow of missiles falling from the walls onto the four centuries of Romans skirting the edge of the outer defences had slowed almost to a stop as the column had approached the seaward end of the city, and now, as he peered around the stockade, he realised why. The defenders of Darioritum had not waited long under the threat of Roman victory before beginning the evacuation of the city.
Clearly the women, children and old folk had been moved out first while the warriors remained on the battlements creating the illusion of a fully-defended city. They must have started some time ago, given the empty supply carts that stood on the far side of the port area.
Atenos took in the situation at a glance.
The low outer wall’s gate was open, and a steady flow of the Veneti made their way through it, hampered and slowed by the available space. The flat ground between the gate and the dock was narrow and full of milling people. Beyond, three wooden jetties strode out into the waters of the bay, lined with Veneti bound for the great oak ships.
Several of the vessels were already wallowing out in the water, groaning under the weight of civilians. By the looks of it, already most of the noncombatants were aboard, leaving only the cunning and tenacious Veneti warriors at the dock, where they had set guards to watch for Atenos’ approach.
As the big Gaul came to the attention of the Veneti, a shout of alarm went up. The centurion ducked back around the wall to where the other three centurions had gathered to receive their orders.
“Alright” the big man said in a businesslike fashion. “We’re a bit outnumbered. Just over three hundred of us and thousands of them, but that means nothing. Remember Thermopylae?”
Two of the centurions grinned while the other looked dumbfounded.
“We need to stop them boarding any more people and try and contain the rest until the city is in the hands of the army.”
He pointed at the centurions of the Second and Fifth centuries.
“You two get the nastiest job. We’re going to go in en masse and drive a wedge between the wall and the docks. As soon as we’ve done that, your centuries get to push any remaining warriors back through that gate into the fortress and then hold it against them until help arrives.”
As they nodded their understanding, he turned to the centurion of the fourth century.
“I’m going to take the first in the other direction and push the enemy back along the jetties. We’re going to push them as far as the ships and, if things work out, we might even get on board and cause a bit of havoc. The job of the Fourth is, once we’ve pushed them clear, to demolish the landward end of the jetties and prevent any more boarding in case we’re overcome. Then you turn round and help the others hold the gate. Everyone clear?”
The centurion of the fourth frowned, a harelip disfiguration making his expression peculiar.
“We’ll be cutting off your exit, sir?”
“We can swim if need be, so just do it. And when we round that corner, no marching slowly forward in a traditional Roman line. Speed is of the essence. Run like Greek athletes and form up only when we reach them.”
The officers saluted and then ran back to their men to give the appropriate orders. Atenos waited until the men were in position and then raised his hand. Near him, the signifer of the First cohort waved the standard and the three hundred men of the Tenth Legion raced around the corner at speed, bearing down like a wall of bellowing iron.
The Veneti stood firm, planting their feet ready to withstand the smash of the Roman line, their swords and axes ready, spears held high.
“Wedge!” barked the huge centurion as they closed and, to the surprise of the Veneti, within moments the jumbled line of running men, each at his own pace and with no sense of Roman order, reformed into a wedge, shields interlocked to create an armoured point. The manoeuvre was so swift and slick it was like watching water flowing.
The Veneti, still braced for the crash of two solid lines, were totally unable to withstand the sheer force of the wedge formation driving into the centre and, in a disorganised mass of screaming, desperate men, were driven apart into two groups: one by the dock and one by the gate.
Atenos, leading the charge and in prime position at the head of the wedge, ignored the sudden sharp pain of a lucky slash from a broadsword that trimmed the bronze edging from the top of his shield and left a long, thin gash on his shoulder. As soon as he realised that they had broken through the far side of the Veneti mass, he shouted the order and the centuries split and began to go about their appointed tasks.
Reforming, the First cohort, formerly the left side of the wedge, turned and became a solid shield wall facing the Veneti dock. With shouts from Atenos, his optio, and century’s signifer, the wall began to move forward, the legionaries in a line three deep putting all their strength into the action.
They were less than eight feet from the water’s edge, and here the Veneti had taken the opportunity to cut out a proper dock side, so the gentle slope into the lake had become a sudden drop into cold water deeper than a man’s height. Rather than trying to inflict damage and butcher the men before them, the First cohort pushed at their shields, moving forward like a wall, gradually shoving the shouting warriors back toward the jetties.
Some of the enemy had foreseen what was about to happen and broke away from the fight, dodging back onto the wooden jetties to reform there. Others were less lucky and disappeared with shouts of dismay, plummeting into the cold water and effectively out of the fight as they swam variously for the Veneti ships or the nearest scalable bank.
Within moments the first century had reached the edge of the jetty, and with surprisingly few casualties, but then that was the advantage the legions had in cramped conditions: the traditional Gallic sword or spear required far more room to wield effectively than the enemy were being afforded in this desperate press of men.
As the space before them opened up, the remaining Veneti having retreated toward the ships, Atenos bellowed another command and the century split into three groups, each one numbering perhaps twenty men now, and moved as individual shield walls onto the wooden jetties.
The numbers here were easier, at perhaps two Gauls to each Roman, though the sudden acquisition of space now gave the defending Veneti enough room to wield their blades effectively.
Atenos grinned from the front rank of men as he eyed the biggest of the Veneti warriors; a big man by any comparison… except when compared to the centurion himself. The score of legionaries moved forward at a slow pace, presenting a column three men wide - as many as the space allowed.
Drawing a deep breath, the huge centurion growled something in the unintelligible language of the Gauls. The big Veneti warrior ahead blanched and shied away from the oncoming Romans, but the press of his fellows prevented him from escaping.
“What did you say to him, sir?” asked the legionary to his left curiously.
Atenos grinned. “I told him we were going to eat them all.”
And then they were upon the enemy, and the killing began. Lunging with his gladius, Atenos felt his blade bite deep into flesh and the big Veneti warrior cried out in pain, raising his sword defiantly and bringing it down heavily in an overhead blow. The centurion raised his shield and blocked the blow, though the previous damage that had shredded the bronze edging had weakened it and the broadsword cleaved down into the wood and leather, jamming deep into the central boss and just managing to draw blood from his arm behind.
“Bastard!”
Heaving the shield up and to his left, temporarily inconveniencing the legionary fighting by his side, Atenos pushed the man’s heavy sword away from him and leaned forward, thrusting his blade out to the right to cripple another warrior who had turned toward him.
His left arm occupied with the shield and jammed sword up to his left, and his other hand gripping the blade, deeply embedded in another man’s chest, Atenos gave up the hope of an organised attack and let go of both, lunging forward and head-butting the man, hard. His helmet struck the big warrior between the eyes, shattering his nose and cracking the skull. As the Gaul staggered back into the press of Veneti warriors, Atenos lurched forward again, bringing his face down into the curve of the man’s neck just above the collarbone.
With a snarl, he bit down, severing arteries and snapping tendons as he pulled his head back and ripped a huge chunk of flesh from the crippled warrior. The Veneti man screamed and collapsed back to the floor.
From amid a face covered in blood and gristle, Atenos grinned at the warrior who suddenly became visible behind the falling body. As the man went pale, Atenos spat a sizeable chunk of meat at him and reached out to his right, ripping his blade back out of the dying warrior.
Next to him a legionary fell, to be replaced instantly by another from the second rank. The Veneti outnumbered them, but the first century had added to their arsenal the weapon of terror, and the rear ranks were already throwing themselves into the bay in desperation.
Some fifty paces behind them the Second and Fifth centuries had mirrored Atenos’ initial manoeuvre, turning the outer face of the wedge and forming it easily into a heavy shield wall that began to heave the fleeing Veneti back toward the gate.
The low wall around the outer edge of Darioritum was formed after the Roman fashion, and the sole gate at the port end was no exception. The embankment, four feet high for most of its circumvallation, here rose to seven feet to allow room for a double heavy wooden gate, while the palisaded walkway marched up and across the top, giving the Veneti a defensible platform.
Simple mathematics told the men at the front of the Roman force that their mission was an impossible one. The number of Veneti already outside the gate equalled the Romans, without the many thousands behind the walls still trying to leave and the warriors who had climbed up to line the palisade and raised platform above the gate.
Valiantly, the centurions braced in the Roman line and began trying to heave the shield wall forward, pushing the warriors back toward the gate, but the sheer weight of the Gallic force pushing back out against them was at least equal, and the legionaries found they were having difficulty merely holding their ground.
Every few moments there would be a cry of pain or anguish as one of the Veneti warriors fell foul to a well placed or lucky sword blow from the heavy wall of iron. However, the cries of the wounded or dying Veneti were outnumbered heavily by Latin shouts of agony or consternation as the men of the two centuries fell to blows from the mass of warriors. The Veneti lining the palisade had found their range safely now and were throwing spears and releasing slingshot that fell constantly among the beleaguered Romans.
The shield wall buckled every second heartbeat as men collapsed and the legionary behind them stepped forward to take their place quickly before the momentary space became a full breach that the Gauls could push into.
The tussling back and forth between the two lines, one desperate to push through to freedom and the other frantically fighting to hold the line, gradually became more and more perilous as the moments passed, the ground beneath them becoming slick with blood and gore, men tripping and stumbling over the bodies of ally and enemy alike.
The centurion of the second century shook his head angrily. This was a disaster! A quick glance up and ahead confirmed his worst fears. The line was beginning to break in places and three of every four bodies he found beneath his feet as he was jostled back and forth in the press of men wore the tunic and mail of a Roman legionary.
They would not last another hundred heartbeats. By his estimate, a third of the men were already gone, and the number of Roman screams was on the increase as the odds gradually tipped further out of their favour.
Taking a deep breath, he roared the command for individual melee, recognising that the shield wall was doomed, and the men, understanding the reason for the call, abandoned all hope of holding the wall and fell, instead, to the precision butchery for which they were trained. They would not last too long, but at least this way they would take some of the bastards with them.
Centurion Cordius of the fourth century, a grey-haired veteran with a harelip and a face ‘only a mother could love’ as he was regularly told, glanced over his shoulder and watched with dismay as he realised that the line by the gate was failing fast.
His men were busy hacking with their swords or sawing with pugio daggers at the ropes that bound the jetty planks together. It was going to be a long job. They were not engineers and were ill-equipped for such a task. Again, his head snapped back to the working legionaries. The battle would be long over before they could take down even one jetty, though he could see the value in Atenos’ decision. Likely the gate would fall shortly and, if the jetties were still accessible, the Veneti would flee along them, massacring the Romans in the way and clambering onto their ships.
He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the shield wall by the gate buckle badly. They would never have time… unless…
Cordius grinned to himself, his harelip curling strangely.
“Stop work!”
The men looked up in surprise to see their centurion grinning and pointing to a small group of empty four-wheeled carts that stood off to one side up the gentle grassy slope, presumably having been used to load the ships with all the tribe’s goods before they began to board themselves.
“Get the carts. We’ll roll them down to the jetties. If you’ve cleared enough ropes, they might collapse them. If not, at least they’ll block them nicely.”
The gate was lost. They all knew it. There were now more Roman bodies underfoot than desperately hacking at the Veneti, and those remaining men were falling with every heartbeat. The centurion of the Second century that had put out the call for melee sighed as he realised that Cordius and the fourth had joined them, having finished with the jetties. The arrival of the fourth century would merely slow down the inevitable. Would anyone remember what a good job his men had done here against unreasonable odds?
He clucked irritably as he lunged out and stabbed another enemy warrior, pausing then for a moment to wipe the blood from his eyes where it continued to stream and pool from the throbbing wound on his forehead where a powerful blow had sheared off his cheek piece and sent his helmet flying off to the ground somewhere.
Whatever the chief centurion had meant by ‘Remember Thermopylae’ had escaped him but, perhaps, if it was pertinent, it would at least lead to him being remembered. Angrily, he lashed out at another man with his shield boss and drew back his gladius, watching with a doomed resignation as three burly Veneti singled him out and closed on him in an arc.
Close to the actual gate post, a small knot of six Romans had managed to reach the rampart and formed a defensive half-circle on the sloping bank, their backs to the palisade. Lunging repeatedly in an effort to keep the Veneti mass back from them, the optio among them paused for a moment to glance over the heads of the press of enemy warriors, trying to weigh up the numbers.
“It’s the lads!” he cried out suddenly and shook the man next to him by the shoulder. The legionary looked up in surprise and then grinned.
A moan of dismay flowed through the crowd of desperate Veneti as they saw the advancing lines of bronze and iron and red wool closing on them from both sides, filling the wide space between the high wall and the outer rampart and falling on the panicked rear of the fugitives.
Down in the press, the harelipped grin of Centurion Cordius turned to the centurion of the second whom he had rushed to support, relieved at the shouted news of reinforcements.
But the other centurion wasn’t there. The headless body lay on the ground next to him, blood pooling around the medallions and torcs on his chest harness. Cordius sighed and looked back up just in time to see a Veneti warrior gripping the head by the hair, grinning at him with a raised sword.
A thousand Gauls could not have blocked Cordius’ path as he bore down to take his revenge on the grinning warrior.
Atenos rolled his shoulders, allowing the mail shirt to settle into a more comfortable position. Glancing off to his left, he did a quick mental calculation. There were perhaps thirty of his men left. They had lost more than half the century on the jetties, a fact that was equally testified to by the sight of his remaining men having to grip onto one another to prevent slipping on the bloody slick that covered the timber, and plunging into the cold bay.
Heavy casualties, but the number of Veneti dead on the decking or bobbing around in the water made him feel a little better about it. As they stood on the empty ends of the jetties, all they could do was to watch helplessly as the Veneti fleet moved slowly off into the bay, unfurling their sails in preparation to catch whatever wind there was and take flight to their next fortress.
Would Caesar be angry? Probably, but then Atenos had seen angry generals before as both mercenary and war captive. Strangely, he found himself more worried about disappointing his legate than angering one of the most powerful men in Rome. Interesting, given that he’d only served under Fronto for a few weeks and had only known him at all for a little over a month.
He looked over his shoulder and squinted at the defences back on land.
Centurion Cordius had done a good job with the resources he had: One jetty had collapsed entirely at the land end, leaving a twenty foot gap over the chilly water. Another was in fragments, a broken cart wedged among the piles that supported the broken walkway. Even the third, though intact, was largely blocked by two more broken carts. The six other vehicles jutting from the water’s surface told of the effort required to do such damage.
The fighting around the gate had looked bad the last time he’d checked, the red of Roman lines seriously outnumbered by the multihued Veneti garb. Now, however, he could see the glinting lines of the other legions closing on the rear of the mass. Good. At least the day wasn’t a total loss. Caesar would have his meaningful victory.
“Centurion!”
He turned to the legionary who had called him, standing at the edge of the jetty, crimson from head to foot with Gallic blood. The man was pointing, and Atenos followed his gesture, gazing out across the water until he broke into a wide grin.
The wide, square sails of Roman triremes and quinqueremes were clearly visible beyond the Veneti ships.
The fleet had arrived.