Gergovia
Cavarinos watched the Lemovices under their king, Sedullos, pulling back north along the hilltop towards the higher peak closer to the Oppidum’s gate, where Vercingetorix and his Arverni were in a similar state of decamping.
‘This is courting disaster,’ he muttered.
The king smiled and shook his head. ‘We need to secure the northern slopes and bolster the defences of the oppidum itself against potential enemy pushes, and that means a concentration of our forces. You were not here, but we saw first-hand what happens when our army is too widespread. I cannot blame Lucterius for having lost the white rocks. He was too far from support - too precarious - but I will not make the same mistake again.’
‘So you’ll clear off the peaks and gift them to Caesar for his new legions instead?’
The king gave him a dark look. ‘Do not think to second-guess me, Cavarinos. I am not such a fool as you think. We can re-garrison the heights far quicker than the Romans can storm the slopes to take them. I will leave plenty of scouts to watch for any move Caesar makes, but the man means to starve us and weaken us before he makes any push. With the loss of the white rocks, he has more than halved our access to water supply, and seriously limited our foraging capabilities. We have plenty of food, and the northern slope remains open to forage and supply, but we must consolidate now, while he is inactive, and prepare for the long term, even move most of our supplies into the oppidum itself.’
‘We just wait for Caesar to starve us out?’
‘Hardly, Cavarinos. Litavicus informs me that although the traitors took our Aedui horse over to Caesar, things are still uncertain among his tribe, and they can still be brought to our cause. Convictolitanis works on at this, and your brother is still abroad to the north, summoning up allies for us. Only yesterday, before you returned, a thousand Veneti warriors arrived, sent forth on his request to our aid. He does me good work. Our forces grow and, unless Caesar thinks to surround us - which is not feasible unless he can double his forces - new men and food can always be brought in from the north. But we must fortify if that is to remain the case. I have given orders for the low rampart around the main camp to be raised with stones to a height of six feet, and we will wall in the northern approach to prevent the same thing happening there as happened at white rocks.’
‘I’m not sure how far I trust your friend Litavicus. I think he’s rather more full of himself than of talent. Probably more full of shit than either, in fact.’
‘He remains loyal to us, nevertheless, and loyalty is a valuable commodity in these times.’
‘A loyal idiot can be more dangerous than a disloyal one. Nothing can be trusted when it is built upon tier after tier of lies and deceit, Vercingetorix. We believed the Aedui were ours because you had bought men working within them for our gain. But what this cavalry debacle should have taught us is that this is not a reliable way to achieve our goals. We had bought men, but Caesar had bought men within ours, it seems.’
Ignoring the disapproving gaze of his king, Cavarinos gestured at the flood of men leaving the twin hills and retreating north towards the oppidum’s western gate with a sweep of his arm.
‘We began this revolt to drive out Rome and the decadent influences and morals their culture seems to have introduced to the tribes. We were the heroes of our people, backed by the word of the druids and with the good of the people at heart. We would raise a great army with our words of freedom and justice, and we would take that army against Caesar and defeat him; teach the Romans that they would never take us.’
‘And that is what we are doing, Cavarinos.’
‘Is it? Is it really? It’s a rare and disturbing occasion when I find myself echoing my brother’s words, but he had a point. We have lost our way. Pride and stealth, treachery and subterfuge have become our core. We play tribes off against one another and sacrifice those we purport to champion for the good of ourselves. We trust to trickery and bribery to secure the support of others. If our cause was that just and noble, we should not need to buy our allies. I pictured this summer being my great war. I would be commanding half the warriors of Nemossos in battle, repeatedly defeating Romans until I had driven them back into the sea.’
‘Cavarinos…’
‘No. Instead, I spend my time running from one ruse or deception to another trying to hold our failing alliance together. And while I do so, you burn oppidum after oppidum to deny the Romans, but refuse to fire your own. What sort of message does that send? No wonder tribes like the Aedui will not flock to our banner. The Romans only punish their enemies… not their allies. Sometimes I wonder if our world would not be better under them!’
The king slapped his hand across Cavarinos’ mouth and rounded on him angrily.
‘You are long one of my friends and allies, Cavarinos, but talk like that could cause us more damage than a whole legion of Romans. If you want to free Gaul, then help me, but if you are to go on spreading such sedition, you have no place here.’
Cavarinos took a deep breath. ‘Give me your oath you will sacrifice no one else; that you will not put the Arverni above the other tribes that fight with us.’
‘You have it.’
‘And look me in the eye and tell me that you can win this. That you can hold Gergovia and beat Caesar.’
‘I can do it, Cavarinos. And I will.’
‘Then I am yours and I will keep my mouth sealed. But for the love of life and freedom, do not fail here, king of the Arverni. If you lose this mountain, then you lose everything and neither I nor the army, nor the druids nor even the gods can save us.’
* * * * *
Fronto blinked. ‘He’s right, general. They’ve left the heights. They’re still in their main camp below the oppidum wall, but both of the western hills are empty. It looks like they’ve moved back to the oppidum and the western approach. What the hell are they playing at?’
Caesar rubbed his jaw, noting with surprise how stubbly it had become and making a mental note to shave when he returned to his tent. Just because they were in the field was no reason to let standards slip, after all. ‘Whatever it is, the withdrawal is only temporary,’ the general noted, and gestured up to the hilltops. ‘If you watch a few moments, you will see the occasional glint of bronze. They have set scouts to watch. If they had no further interest in the place they would not be watching.’
‘Still,’ Plancus said quietly, ‘a few scouts are no worry. Two legions again and we could take those heights. Then we would really have them pinned, Caesar.’
‘Hardly,’ murmured Caesar. ‘They are half a mile from their former position. A mile at most, and at the same height. By the time we reach even the lower slopes they will be mobilising again. We wouldn’t be halfway to the top before they were waiting for us. It’s almost as if they’re inviting us. As if it is a trap.’
Fronto tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. A slow smile crept across his face.
‘Do you remember that pissy ordo member in Corduba, general?’
Caesar frowned in incomprehension.
‘The one with the… er… over-friendly wife?’
Light dawned on Caesar and he pursed his lips as he though back over the decades to the event of which Fronto was speaking. It had been so long ago, and there had been plenty of ‘pissy’ politicians, and no few over-friendly women, if he was to be honest…
A smile broke across his face.
‘I forget his name, but I think I see what you mean.’
Antonius cleared his throat. ‘Care to enlighten me?’
Fronto opened his mouth to speak, but Caesar cast him a warning look and began the tale. ‘There was a young lady in Corduba who availed herself of my time. She was rather… welcoming… to a young dashing quaestor from Rome. I only discovered the next day that she was the wife of one of the city council, and when the man found out, he blew his top. He knew I was too important to have it out in public - I’d achieved a certain fame for my orations and that ridiculous business with the pirates - so he invited me to dinner. He’d cleared out his atrium, you see, and hired half a dozen ruffians with the intention of beating me near to death when I arrived.’
‘But that love-struck young lady warned us in advance,’ Fronto grinned nastily. ‘When the silly old fart opened the door he found not Caesar, but a contubernium of veteran legionaries, all rather incensed and on extra pay for their time.’
As Antonius chuckled, Caesar smiled. ‘I think he rather regretted setting the trap as he watched the thugs beaten senseless, waiting for my men to turn to him.’
Fronto laughed aloud. ‘Not as much as he regretted the fact that, while all that was happening, you and his strumpet of a wife were going at it again in his own bedroom.’
Caesar gave him a hard look as the officers around him made straining noises, trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Anyway,’ the general replied loudly, ‘the point was that he had expected us to come in the front, but I used that expectation to distract him while I affected entry elsewhere.’
‘You’re suggesting something similar here?’ Antonius frowned as Fronto chortled in the background.
‘I am. Let me run my idea past you all. I think you’ll like it.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he rode across the hillside of the more southerly peak, which was dotted with scattered trees and yet nude in comparison with its northern companion, Vercingetorix and Vergasillaunus at his side and Lucterius and Sedullos close behind. Two of the Lemovices who had been left on watch atop the southern hill was waving over at them and pointing down the slope. The commanders of the rebel army trotted over to the scout and reined in, trying not to look east, where the early morning sun hovered just above the horizon with blinding golden light.
‘No need to ask what he saw,’ murmured Vergasillaunus as the five nobles peered down at the activity below. A train of supply carts was moving west along the valley floor from the Roman position, skirting the lowest reaches of this very hill. Roman regular cavalry moved among and around it in sizeable units, and Caesar’s allied Gallic cavalry were also in evidence, ranging across the lower slopes protectively.
‘What are they doing?’ Lucterius snorted.
‘They are transferring a sizeable part of their camp, building a new one,’ Vergasillaunus replied. ‘Perhaps they mean to seal off that northern approach after all. See how there are engineers among them. They have those strange stick things Roman engineers carry.’
‘Groma,’ Cavarinos noted.
‘Whatever they’re called, if those men have them, they’re engineers. Baggage, engineers and cavalry. They’re heading to a spot for a new camp.’
‘If they meant to seal off the northern approach they would have gone straight there, not skirted the whole place in a circuit. No, these men are heading to the western end, beyond the hills. What could they hope to achieve to the west?’
Vercingetorix took a deep breath. ‘They are not heading west. They are just moving into position. See also the gleam of steel down there?’ The king pointed at the lower slope, toward the Roman lines. As the others followed his gesture, they spotted the legion through the trees and scrubland, moving into position at the foot of the slope.
‘They hope to distract us with the carts to the west, while their supposedly-hidden legion assails the hill and takes our position. They can then hold it while those engineers come up with the carts and fortify, all with cavalry support. They are moving to take the hill, and they are attempting to be cunning about it, distracting us from their real target. But their legion is not as well hidden as they think.’ He glanced across at Cavarinos. ‘Well, this hill will not fall as easily as the white rocks.’
The Arverni king turned to the men of his personal entourage who had followed on and now waited behind at a respectable distance. ‘No signals or calls. Just have the word sent out. Bring every man we can spare across to the western hills. They will not take this position.’
* * * * *
‘A few horsemen at the crest,’ Brutus muttered. ‘Have to be nobles. The rebel king, you think?’
Aristius pursed his lips. ‘I don’t really know these Gauls yet, but it seems likely. Do you think he’s seen us?’ He glanced around at the glinting forms of the newly-assigned Fifth legion moving through the trees. What an order they’d been given: move as noisily as you can, but try to make it look like you’re sneaking!
How the hell were they supposed to do that?
As they’d moved through the woods, the clank and shush of mail and other kit vying with the call of the multitudinous larks in a dawn chorus of war, Aristius had not known whether to tell his men to quieten down or to move louder.
Still, they seemed to have done the job, if they’d drawn the attention of the leaders. Moreover, as he watched he saw one of the high, distant figures gesture out to the west, to where part of the camp’s supply train had been sent out as a distraction, the mule-handlers and teamsters kitted out in military gear and resembling cavalry to the untrained eye. The activity had to be causing the Gauls concern.
Above, the riders started to wave to someone unseen, and then turned and left the edge of the slope.
‘They’ve definitely seen us,’ Brutus smiled. ‘Job complete. Have the Fifth draw up and wait in formation in the woodland. Let’s keep their focus on us.’
* * * * *
Fronto stood between his fellow legates, feeling older than usual, given the company, despite his current level of vigour and the warm weather giving him relief from knee trouble. Seven years ago, he had come to Gaul in the company of his future father-in-law, and Balbus had been the old man of the army. Strange that these days he had become the elderly officer, Sextius to his left and Fabius to the right both more than ten years his junior.
The three legates straightened as Caesar and Antonius stepped out of the tent at the centre of the white rocks camp. Things had been crowded here last night with the arrival under the cover of darkness of the Thirteenth, and despite what was about to happen, every man was looking forward to moving out of their sweaty, tight, cramped quarters.
‘My scouts tell me that the Gauls have been flooding across to the twin hills for the past half an hour, gentlemen. It appears that they have fallen for our ruse. Brutus and Aristius have their attention riveted on the Fifth. Now is our time to ravage their camp. Are the men supplied?’
The three legates nodded. Every century had been given a dozen pitch-soaked torches and a slow-burning horseshoe fungus, barring three cohorts of the Thirteenth, who were to remain behind and guard the camp.
‘Remember that this is a raid, not an assault. Their camp is seriously undermanned now and with surprise we can deal the enemy a dreadful blow, but we are not attempting to take and secure that camp. Lying just below the oppidum’s walls, we cannot hold the camp and to do so would lead to disaster. We storm to stone wall….’
Fabius coughed, surprise overriding his good sense and leading him to interrupt the general.
‘We, sir?’
‘Yes. We. I shall be accompanying the raid, among the ranks of the Tenth.’
‘Is that wise, general?’
Caesar gave his legate a hard look. ‘Fabius, I am no stranger to battle. But this should not be a hard fight anyway. This is a swift raid only. I wish to have a closer look at the enemy positions and their defences, and this will give me the perfect chance for that.’ He paused and rubbed his chin. ‘As I was saying, we storm the stone wall and, as soon as we are in their camp, I want every remaining occupant killed. We do not have the time or resources for prisoners. Kill anyone you find. Take anything that stands out as valuable, useful, or informative, and then burn the rest. Every tent. Every cart. Every crate or sack. I want that camp a mile-long field of ash when we leave. The Aedui riders will be coming up the slope from the main camp to our right. They will hold back and not engage, but are there to provide support should it be needed.’
The general rubbed his hands together in a business-like fashion. ‘Are we all clear?’
‘Yes, general.’
* * * * *
Teutomarus, king of the Nitiobriges, was not a young man. Indeed, his sons had urged him time and again not to lead their tribe’s contingent in the war against Rome. But he had refused. It was his duty and right as king, and when they destroyed Caesar and his legions and pushed Rome back to its home peninsula, it would be his name that was sung in the halls of the mighty alongside Vercingetorix and his generals, and not that of a son or nephew whose only real concern for him was not for his health, but that he not hog all the glory.
He stretched out languidly. His joints had stopped aching with the change in the weather, at least, but the weariness refused to leave, and the protracted periods in the saddle were playing havoc with his back, which had plagued him since a hunting accident over a decade ago.
His bed was comfortable, transported for him by cart and stuffed with the finest down to soothe his ageing bones. And his tent was larger than the rest of the Nitiobrige nobles’, well-appointed with Gallic and stolen Roman goods. Outside, he could hear his horse whickering, but all else was the sound of nature at work. Comforting.
The bulk of the tribes had rushed across to the twin hills at the Arverni king’s call to hold the heights against a legion or two that were said to be moving on them. Teutomarus had been perfectly willing to take part, but when Vercingetorix had asked that the Nitiobriges remain at the oppidum to continue the fortifications, he had been secretly grateful. The men of his tribe toiled up at the oppidum’s west gate and inside, strengthening the walls and digging ditches as best they could until they hit white rock. But their king, who would hardly be expected to endure such manual labour, had taken the well-deserved and much-needed opportunity for forty winks.
He rolled onto his side, but that brought back the dull ache in his lower spine so, with a groan, he settled onto his back again. It was too warm, even this early in the day, to be covered up, and he lay there bare-chested and bare-footed, his tunic, cloak and boots, as well as his gold and bronzeware, lying on a purloined Roman chest nearby. With a sigh of pleasure, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes again, enjoying the tent’s dim interior, which kept the worst of the heat at bay.
And then, as he lay relaxing, his ears picked something out of the symphony of nature’s activity. It took his tranquil mind precious moments to discern the sound of an urgent voice among the strains of animal and bird life and the daily routine noises of the oppidum above.
For a moment, he didn’t believe what he was hearing, but there it was again: a shrill, desperate call. His ears focused on the call, blocking out all the other sounds as best he could.
Romans?
Scratching his head, he sat up - slowly, to save further back trouble - and blinked away the fuzziness of his rest. There were half a dozen shouts now, and close. Frowning, not quite sure what was going on, Teutomarus hauled himself to his feet with a long groan, whitening fingertips gripping a high cupboard to help him rise. He stood, stooped by his sore back, and slowly, carefully, straightened.
He tried to roll his shoulders to loosen up a little, but the movement hurt too much and he settled for at least standing straight. Were the voices shouting louder, or were they closer? Both?
Rubbing his chin and moustaches, he stepped gingerly to the door of his tent, his feet feeling every nuance of the soft grass beneath him. Still somewhat bleary, he threw back one flap of his tent door. His quarters were almost perfectly central in the long camp, half a mile along, and halfway between the stone wall and the oppidum’s rampart. And he had made sure the tent door faced south, partially to prevent the sun pouring in at any time of the day, and partially to afford him a view of the valley below…
…or of several thousand clattering, clanking, roaring and swearing legionaries charging across his camp. His eyes widened in shock. More and more were pouring over the undefended stone wall. Two legions? Three? Four? He could see the flag and even the eagle of one of them making straight for him, an ‘X’, which he knew meant ‘ten’ to the Romans. And they were already in the camp, swarming among the tents and supply dumps, some pausing to light torches, preparing to burn the place.
The Nitiobrige king found himself using language that his wife had almost succeeded in suppressing over their long years of marriage as he tried to decide what he could do. He needed his sword; his armour; his boots; something to eat and a lie down for preference…
What he actually had time for was to swear in a manner that would have his wife hitting him with a spoon and to run for his life. With a backward glance at the fine sword standing in the corner, which had been his father’s before him, Teutomarus ran from the tent door, his bare feet feeling every pebble and twig on the slope as the sun blasted his bare torso. His hand came round at a dreadful twinge to press on the sore spot at his back as he reached his horse, which was busy munching the few longer tufts of grass left here.
Nearby, a Roman officer, close to the ‘X’ standard, caught sight of him and ran towards him, half a dozen of his legionaries pelting alongside. The elderly king felt a moment of panic and, ignoring the sharp wrench across his lumbar region, bent double and wrenched out the iron piton that tethered his beautiful horse.
With a yelp of pain, he tried to straighten again, but discovered that his body would not allow him, limiting him once more to a stoop. With difficulty and pain, the old king grasped the reins and hauled himself up to the beast’s back. His saddle was in the corner of his tent too, and he hadn’t ridden bareback since his youth. Grasping the reins and whimpering, he tried to gee the beast up. His horse seemed to be having the same sort of morning as him, and it took a lot more effort than he was really willing to put in to get the beast moving.
The Roman officer was close now, his shining cuirass and red tunic bright in the morning sun, as was the fine, decorative blade he held high.
The horse moved. To a walk. To a canter.
He was going to make it.
One of the legionaries around the officer paused for a moment, his arm coming back, and he cast a pilum with surprising accuracy. Teutomarus, craning with pain as he rode to keep his eyes on the attackers, saw the throw and jerked the reins desperately. The iron point scored a line along the horse’s flank in its passage, causing the animal to bolt. He barely registered the Roman officer berating the legionary for his throw for some reason. Instead, he held on tight as the animal’s instincts took it and its rider away from danger at breakneck pace, sending wave after wave of agony through his back. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, but he was alive and moving out of danger. Now to find his men, present a force against the Romans and get a signal to Vercingetorix as fast as possible.
* * * * *
Furius and Fabius roared with rage as they raced up the gentle grassy slope and across the Gallic camp. The Eighth had been given the left flank, closer to the west and to the Gauls who were currently massed on the twin hills nearby. The former tribunes, now centurions once more and carefully placed in charge of men who had not been present at the mess that had resulted in them being here, led their centuries with the fierce voracity of men with something to prove.
A number of Gauls remained in the camp, mostly the sick or injured, though there were a few hale and hearty types who put up as stiff resistance as could be expected given their scant numbers and the strength of the army pouring up the hillside towards them, swarming over the stone wall and flooding the camp, already torching tents.
There were signs, to the trained eye, that the Gauls had not been quite as complacent as the Romans had initially imagined: scrape marks where crates and barrels and sacks of goods had recently been removed to the safety of the oppidum walls, bald spots where pack animals had been grazing before they’d moved, discoloured patches of grass where supply tents had been taken down and shifted to safety. But still there were plenty of targets for the torches.
‘Spread out,’ bellowed Petreius, the Eighth’s primus pilus, making sure his legion covered as much ground and caused as much destruction as possible. His musicians began to blast out those commands but they were hard to discern, given similar tunes being blared by the other legions across the slope and the honking and farting of the Gallic carnyxes up on the oppidum in response to the Roman attack. The sheer web of conflicting notes from numerous sources was headache-inducing.
A small group of the camp’s occupants had caught sight of the men of the Eighth, grabbed their weapons and run back up the slope towards the oppidum wall. Where they planned to go was anyone’s guess, since in both directions other units from the Eighth were in evidence, going about their destructive work.
‘Come on,’ Fabius shouted across to Furius, pointing his sword in the direction of the dozen or so enemy warriors rushing for the oppidum’s rampart, towering above them. Two of the men glinted with gold and bronze, marking them as nobles or commanders among the enemy, and Fabius grinned, recognising the means of their redemption in the eyes of their commanders. The order had been to kill, not capture, but Fabius felt certain that there was an implicit clause in the case of enemy commanders. Surely they would be too valuable to Caesar to kill out of hand.
And so, as the Eighth spread throughout the western third of the camp, burning tents and supplies, killing the few men they came across and taking whatever they could, two centuries raced on towards the upper slopes.
The dozen enemies were at the wall now, even as the legionaries hurtled after them. Fabius watched with a dawning of clarity as three ropes were lowered by unseen men above, atop the ramparts, the lower part of each rope looped and tied to provide a foothold. Even as the hundred and more legionaries closed on the scene, the first three men began to rise up the wall’s face, their feet in the loops, gripping tight as they were hauled upwards. Above them on the ramparts more native signallers were blaring out horrible melodies over the general din of the oppidum and work being undertaken to strengthen its walls, drowning out the more distant Roman musicians back down the slope.
Few legionaries had brought pila. The officers had given the order before the assault that only soldiers who felt comfortable carrying the bulky missile on the climb need do so, and most had left them back in camp to allow for an unencumbered ascent. Additionally, most of those who had bothered had cast them while crossing the wall in the initial surge. Yet one man in Furius’ century still carried his and the man paused, drawing back his arm and casting the pilum. The missile sailed true, striking one of the rising figures in the back. The fleeing Gaul cried out, his back arched around the weapon as his grip loosened and he fell from the rope.
Fabius almost laughed as he heard his friend turn to the pilum-throwing legionary, admonishing him. What if he’d hit the noblemen? ‘Make sure you take the two nobles alive,’ Furius yelled above the din and chaos as Fabius concentrated on the enemy group ahead. ‘I don’t care about the rest,’ Furius went on, ‘but those two come back with…’
The centurion’s voice trailed off, and Fabius had to turn his head considerably to see what had happened, his missing left eye narrowing his field of vision.
He lurched to a halt, his men still running past him.
Furius was standing, still waving with his sword as if berating his men, apparently not even noticing the wet crimson shaft of the arrow protruding from his throat-apple. The flights had prevented the missile passing straight through his neck, becoming lodged in his spine at the back.
Fabius felt his blood run cold as his old friend turned slowly towards him, a look of utter incomprehension spreading across his face, trying to look down and see what had happened, but the motion impossible as the arrow kept his jaw up. The mortally wounded centurion tried to call over to his friend, but all that came out was a gobbet of blood. Furius frowned as his sword fell from suddenly limp fingers and he collapsed to his knees, his chin bouncing off the arrow shaft with the movement.
He tried to shake his head in dismay, but it wouldn’t move. The dying centurion’s soldiers were now pulling to a halt in distress, not sure what to do.
‘Bastards,’ snarled Fabius with a vicious edge and, tearing his eyes from his stricken friend, pointed at the wall. ‘Get the fuckers!’ he bellowed to the men of both centuries. A dozen paces away, Furius, finally succumbing to the dreadful wound, toppled forward, where he lay face down with his legs kicking out spasmodically.
Somewhere above the din of battle and destruction and the thunder of his pulse in his ears, Fabius could vaguely hear the sound of a cornicen blowing calls to the legions. It mattered not. His men, and those of Furius, were now at the wall, stabbing and smashing at the Gauls as they attempted to flee. Two of the enemy were now two-thirds of the way up the wall and still rising. The third rope had been lowered again, and one of the nobles was struggling onto it as the men of the Eighth hacked away at his guards.
‘Fabius!’
He turned, his face pale and stony, to see Petreius, the primus pilus, waving at him.
‘That was the call to fall back.’
‘No.’ He’d heard a call, but hadn’t been able to hear precisely what command it carried. Not that it mattered to him at this point.
Petreius jogged over. ‘Don’t be stupid, man. We’ve done what we came to do. Now come on.’
‘No.’ Fabius turned his back on his commander, who raised his voice over the clamour.
‘Retreat, centurion. That’s a direct order.’
His words fell like droplets of water from the back of Fabius as the man ran on for the wall, unheeding.
’Shit,’ sighed Petreius, watching the vengeful veteran heading for the oppidum wall where his men were busy killing the last of the fleeing Gauls. For a moment, the primus pilus dithered. There were other blasts now, and not from Roman instruments. He couldn’t afford to wait. No one could. The Gauls were coming back.
Turning, he spotted his second centurion watching him intently.
‘Get the rest of the legion back away, out of here.’ As the second centurion saluted and began confirming the order to fall back among his men and the other centuries as best he could, realising he would not be able to rely on cornu calls in the din, Petreius took a deep breath and waved his own century on after the two at the wall.
The legionaries, weary from the climb and suffering the extreme effects of the heat in current conditions, shouldered their burden with fortitude and slogged on up the slope after the wayward Fabius and his men. Petreius cast a brief look at the still form of Furius as they passed, taking in the sight with mixed feelings. The man had been a veteran and clearly a daring soldier, but he had been unpredictable and carried a reputation for disobedience, and Petreius had argued against the man’s transfer in the first place. It was looking distinctly as though the man’s friend was cast from a similar mould, too.
At the wall, Fabius watched as his men dispatched the last of the locals, two legionaries trying desperately to slash at the noble on the third rope, who was just out of their reach.
‘Testudo!’ Fabius yelled at the top of his voice. While the majority of the men looked back in confusion or kept trying to catch the rising noble with their blades, nine or ten men reacted with the discipline bred into them and hunched down, bringing their shields up into a temporary roof.
Without pause, Fabius ran and jumped, landing on top of the testudo and racing across three shields with steady feet as the men beneath tried to keep formation under his weight. At the last step, the centurion leapt into the air, his sword lashing out even as his arm reached for the rope.
His gladius sank into the small of the Gallic noble’s back. His free hand missed the rope, but grasped the Gaul’s shoulder, and he clung tight to the thick wool of his tunic. The man screamed at the pain, arching, his fingers slipping from the rope.
For a desperate moment - a heartbeat, two at the most - Fabius was in the air, clinging to the stricken Gaul. But somehow his hand found purchase on the cable and he clung on with all his strength as the nobleman fell with a thud to be finished off by the legionaries below. The rope was still rising, the Gauls above oblivious to the fact that the burden on it was now a Roman and not their own noble. Hurriedly, Fabius dug his foot into the loop and held tight, readying his blade for the moment he reached the top.
Furius was gone. But Fabius was about to be the first man on the walls of Gergovia. His friend was gone, but he would be buried with a corona muralis!
* * * * *
Cavarinos raced alongside Lucterius and Vercingetorix, his horse’s hooves pounding as the three commanders raced ahead of the Gallic force. Upon hearing the call of the Carnyx that had come from a musician of the Nitiobriges, the leaders had realised too late that the gleaming legion in the woods and the supply wagons had been naught but a ruse. Those same Nitiobriges, presumably urged on by their king, who had remained at the oppidum, were now racing along Gergovia’s southern rampart and making for the point where the Romans were still fighting in small groups. Most of the legionaries were on the retreat now, making their way back towards the camp below, though with considerably less order than Cavarinos was used to seeing.
‘We’ve missed our chance,’ he yelled as they rode, the cavalry keeping pace behind, the infantry falling away further back, yet running as fast as they could.
‘What?’
‘Missed our chance. They’re pulling back.’
‘Oh, my friend,’ Vercingetorix smiled, ‘we have time yet.’
As Cavarinos frowned, his king turned and waved the cavalry on and down the slope after the retreating Romans.
‘Are you mad?’ Cavarinos yelled. ‘That’s too steep for cavalry!’
‘Not for Lucterius’ men. And look: the Romans are in disarray. Their middle legion is holding together well as they fall back, but the nearest one is all over the hillside, split up. And the far one…’ The king chuckled. ‘See the Aedui cavalry coming in from the east? Lack of communication can lose a battle. See how the farthest legion panics. They think the Aedui are ours!’
Cavarinos stared. It was true. At first glance, the Romans were pulling back well, but closer attention brought forth all the weaknesses. It looked like the legions to the east and west were not heeding the calls their commanders had put out, fleeing in all directions, so long as it was down, some even forming up to fight their own allied cavalry.
‘And look how slow they move,’ Cavarinos added. ‘They’re exhausted from the climb.’
‘Let us make them wish they had never set foot on our mountain,’ the king laughed and kicked his horse into action alongside the cavalry, who were now descending on the heels of the slower Romans, whooping and shouting with glee.
* * * * *
Fronto paused on the slope, heaving in gulps of air, sweat running into his eyes and soaking his helmet liner. Caesar was looking distinctly disgruntled.
‘The Eighth are falling back, but they’re in trouble. It looks like the enemy horse are riding them down as they retreat. A few of the better officers are trying to form the contra equitas, but they just can’t do it properly on this terrain and with no pila. They obviously weren’t expecting a cavalry assault. Who would? What mad bastard rides a horse down that slope?’
The sight of centuries trying to pull together further across the slope and create angled shield-walls was bad enough, but few men still had a pilum, so the formation would be unlikely to stop the enemy horse anyway.
The general rubbed his bare head angrily, his helmet long-since cast to the ground, sweat sprinkling his bald pate. ‘And yet note how few of them fall. They are good. The Eighth will remain in great danger until they reach level ground and can form against cavalry.’
‘There are a few centuries trapped at the top, too,’ Fronto noted, pointing to where several Roman figures were visible actually on Gergovia’s own rampart top.
‘And the Thirteenth are ignoring the call and forming against the Aedui, for the love of Venus!’
Fronto nodded. ‘They’re new to the army, most of the Aedui. They’re baring the wrong shoulder to signify they’re friendly, and our men don’t recognise their standards, so they resemble the enemy more than anything else.’
‘If the Thirteenth don’t hurry up and fall back, they’ll be cut off when the main Gallic force arrives,’ Caesar despaired. ‘See how more of their cavalry already close on them beneath the rampart wall? I am incensed, Fronto. I am quite livid. Someone’s head will roll for this!’
‘Later, sir. For now, we need to sort this mess out.’
Caesar nodded and turned to the cornicen standing nearby waiting to receive new orders. ‘You know the calls for the Thirteenth?’
‘Some of them, sir.’
‘Point that thing down at the valley, take the deepest breath you can, and give the cohorts back in camp the order to support the Eighth and form the contra equitas on the lowest slope. And do it loud. No one can hear the calls on this hill.’
The cornicen saluted and turned, blowing the staccato codes.
‘That should prevent the enemy from pushing their advantage and hopefully allow the Eighth to reform.’
Fronto nodded. ‘We need to advance the Tenth again, sir. Give the Thirteenth time to sort themselves out and begin to retreat. Shame we can’t get a message to the Fifth in those woods.’
Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance as he watched enemy warriors both on horse and on foot flooding back across the ruined camp, closing on the legions even as they tried to pull back. ‘Do what you need to here, Fronto. I am bound for the Thirteenth to have a few choice words with Sextius.’
* * * * *
Marcus Petreius, chief centurion of the Eighth legion, stepped back, his bloodied sword trembling in his weary hand. There were less than a century’s worth of men remaining below the wall, from the initial three. They had been unable to retreat as the enemy cavalry raced past them through the camp, making for the bulk of the Tenth and Thirteenth legions and racing down the slope after the rest of the Eighth. Wave after wave of the horsemen had stopped to engage the trapped Romans below the wall, and each fresh attack drastically reduced their numbers.
Above, on the wall top there had been a furious fight, as they could hear. Against all odds, that madman Fabius had secured the top of the rope and sent all three back down for others to climb. Five men in total had reached the top, but the increased shouts in the Gallic tongue and the growing desperation of Fabius’ imprecations in Latin spoke volumes as to how things were going up there.
As Petreius kicked away the flailing hand of the last enemy rider he had dispatched, he glanced around. The slopes were chaos, but not as bad as they were about to become. The main enemy force had finally arrived from the twin hills, thousands of warriors on foot, all screaming for blood. The cavalry had harried the Romans and caused the chaos, but the infantry would finish them all, given the time.
‘We have to go,’ he bellowed to the man clutching the century’s standard in crimson fingers, the signifer himself one of the many fallen in this disaster.
‘What about him?’ the man wheezed, clutching his side and looking up at the unseen fight on the wall top. Petreius turned his own gaze upwards, just as a shape launched out from the rampart. The two men stepped a few paces apart hurriedly as the body hit the ground between them with a wet thump. Centurion Fabius had died hard, his left arm gone at the elbow, his head at an odd angle, neck half severed through, his face partially caved in by some heavy blow and holes and slashes all across his front. He must have been dead before he hit the ground.
‘I think that’s our sign,’ Petreius breathed. He turned to see that more horsemen had appeared along with the infantry, and were racing towards them, whooping as they went.
‘Sir...’
‘I see them. Get that standard and the rest of the men back down to the camp.’
‘But sir?’
‘Go. While you have time.’
Casting his eyes around, Petreius spotted a pilum still jutting from that fallen nobleman’s back. Gripping it, he hauled it with a sucking sound from the body and pushed the tip against the turf to straighten the neck before raising it against the onrush of four horsemen.
‘Go!’ he bellowed, bracing himself.
The legionary, gripping the precious standard tight in his red, slippery hands, turned and began to run down the slope, shouting the call to fall back. The rest of the men were not slow to follow his lead, pounding off down through the enemy camp towards the relative safety of the valley below.
Petreius saw one of the horsemen turn, aiming for the standard bearer, and drew back his arm. ‘No you don’t, dickhead.’
With a heave and a grunt, he threw the missile, striking the horseman in the shoulder and knocking him from his mount where he rolled over and over on the grass, convulsing as he came to a stop. Petreius reached for a cavalry spear that lay nearby, snapped down to less than two thirds of its usual length, and raised it just in time to meet the next horseman face to face. The spear point took the Gaul in the chest as he swung his sword wide, but the Gallic blade came on unstoppably even as its wielder faltered, the edge smashing into the centurion’s mail shirt, splintering his ribs.
Petreius let go of the spear and drew his dagger in his free hand, wincing at the pain in his side. The remaining two horsemen turned and moved back to skirt this Roman lunatic, and Petreius staggered for a moment, righting himself as hundreds of howling warriors descended upon him on foot.
‘Come on then, you hairy fleapits. Let me show you how a Roman dies!’
* * * * *
Fronto glanced left and right, trying to keep himself aware of everything. The Tenth had moved in dense formation at an oblique angle to the oppidum’s walls, not an easy thing to do on sloping terrain like this, but his veteran centurions had managed with relative ease under Carbo’s expert leadership. There, they had halted and borne the brunt of the refreshed Gallic attack, the cavalry now flooding the camp and coming against them hard. Had Fronto had more pila among his men, they might even have been able to fight the horsemen back, but with so few, all they were able to do was shelter from them behind the relative safety of the two-tier shield-wall, the more talented soldiers among them turning their shields slightly every time a horse got close enough and slashing out with their gladius, maiming a hoof. A dozen or more of the enemy had been brought down this way, but that was just a bonus to Fronto. The main task was to protect the Thirteenth at this point and stop this cavalry attack from getting in amongst them.
Gallic warriors were now beginning to flood the ramparts above them, and bows and slings were in evidence. Once they started using them in force, this anti-cavalry formation would no long be viable. The enemy foot were on the approach too, behind the cavalry and no more than a few hundred paces away, moving carefully to negotiate the slope as they passed their own horsemen.
Behind, the Thirteenth were beginning to form up, Caesar having somehow managed to get through to the various commanders with the aid of Sextius - red faced and distraught - and a few signifers and musicians. If they hurried, they would be out of danger before the enemy foot got here.
A honking noise rose from the east, and Fronto squinted. The Thirteenth were now pulling back down the hill in ordered centuries, but the call had come from the Aedui cavalry, who even now were racing past the Thirteenth and making for the main fight. Fronto felt a flood of relief. Thousands of allied horse would make all the difference. The Aedui could deal with the enemy cavalry and take some of the pressure off the Tenth.
‘Carbo?’
‘Sir?’ bellowed the senior centurion from the end of the line.
‘Are the Thirteenth clear yet, d’you think?
‘As clear as they’ll get, sir.’
‘Good. Let’s abandon this formation. Individual century shield-walls. We’re pulling back to reform at the bottom of the slope.’
The centurion nodded and spoke hurriedly to his signifer. Fronto looked around and spotted the nervous figure of a young tribune. Was he the one who had warned him of the assault on the large camp? He really couldn’t tell. He was young, though, and nervous.
‘You! Tribune.’
The young officer scurried across and saluted.
‘Is your horse still nearby?’ Most of the beasts had been taken back down the slope the moment the officers had dismounted and joined their units in the thick of things, but half a dozen were still nearby, grazing contentedly as though nothing untoward had happened.
‘She’s gone back down sir.’
‘Then take someone else’s. Get back to the white rocks camp. I want every pilum, auxiliary javelin and cavalry spear in camp brought out to where the army will form up at the bottom of the slope. We’re going to stop them there, or die trying.’
The tribune saluted, looking rather relieved. Fronto watched him mount up and begin to pick his way down the slope with a great deal more care than the Gauls, and considerably slower, too. His attention was claimed a moment later by the cornu blasting out commands for the Tenth, who were formed up close enough to hear them. Carbo, ever the competent professional, had taken Fronto’s basic orders and expanded upon them with additional detail. The first and second cohorts formed into blocks of four centuries, presenting shield-walls to the enemy as they began to move down the slope. The third cohort formed up on the right, at the top of the slope, presenting an angled wall with a half-roof of shields over the front three rows of men against missiles from the ramparts above, protecting the flank as they pulled back. The remaining cohorts were already moving down the slope at the fastest pace they could maintain, protected from the rear by their fellows.
And suddenly the three cohorts were moving, their pace hampered by the need to maintain difficult formations on the dreadful terrain. Fronto moved to the downhill end, away from the danger of falling arrows, taking a moment to make sure that Bucephalus had been among the horses the runners had taken back earlier and was not now being left grazing for the enemy to claim.
The journey was one of the worst manoeuvres Fronto could remember from his entire career. The sun beat down, making the legions seethe with heat, their armour almost burning to the touch, sweat running in rivers from every man, yet all their concentration was required to keep the formation as tight as possible. Once Carbo had judged them far enough from the ramparts, he allowed the Third cohort to drop their shield roof, which did little to help the rest, but was clearly a relief to the men who had formed it.
And all the way down they were harried by the enemy cavalry and infantry, men falling out of the shield-wall, caught by a spear or a flailing horse hoof as they went until finally the enemy horse vanished, pulled back uphill to deal with the newly-arrived Aedui. The men had no time to recover, though, the pressure previously put on them by the horse taken up by the foot in their absence, causing more and more casualties and gaps in the line that the Tenth managed to plug with practiced manoeuvres.
Fronto glanced along the line to find Carbo, ready to give the order for increased pace, but where the primus pilus should have been was just a conspicuous gap. His heart sank.
Worse than the terrain, the sweat, the temperature and the death toll - worse than all that together and even Carbo’s loss - was the dejection. Every man remained silent, apart from the grunts of effort or the occasional curse cast either at the enemy or the treacherous slope. And yet despite their silence, Fronto knew what every man felt like shouting about, for he felt it too. This attack should have been simple. It should have been yet another genius exercise by Caesar’s legions - a swift in and out with minimal fuss depriving the enemy of their comfortable camp, defences and supplies.
Instead, it had become a shambles. A dreadful retreat. A near catastrophe, in fact. Individually, the factors that had turned success into chaos might have been overcome. The inability of some units to hear their orders over the combination of distance and din from the oppidum above. The apparent insubordination of the Eighth, who had pushed on to the oppidum walls against their orders, and the enemy that came upon them divided, managing to turn that legion’s orderly retreat into a panicked mob. The unexpected willingness of enemy cavalry to launch down a steep slope that no Roman horseman would consider, and thereby harry the fleeing legions. The panic that had broken out throughout the Thirteenth at the sight of Gallic cavalry on their unprotected flank and not recognising them as allies. Individually: troublesome issues. Together: a seething cauldron of chaos.
As the men of the Tenth reached the flatter ground at the base of the oppidum’s hill once more, they found the three cohorts of the Thirteenth from the white rocks camp formed up protectively and fell in alongside them. The Eighth were now forming up as well, presenting a barrier.
But it was too late. The legions had lost the day.
The enemy cavalry had turned and begun to return to their camps. The Aedui had considered their task complete when the legions had pulled back and had broken off and raced for the main camp. And the rebel forces en masse were returning to the heights, shouting jubilantly, whooping with victory and laughing.
The legions were not laughing. The remaining manoeuvres as the Romans prepared to repel the enemy were carried out in sullen and unhappy silence, though it rapidly became apparent that the enemy were not coming. The day was over.
They had lost.
That very fact rattled around Fronto’s brain as he knew it did with every man present. Despite dreadful predicaments and awful odds, ambushes, traps and disasters, Caesar’s army had not suffered even one single defeat in their seven years in Gaul as far as anyone could remember. Oh yes, Cicero had been in trouble for a while, and Sabinus and Cotta had lost a legion in the forest, but they were individual actions by unprepared or foolhardy commanders, and notably never with Caesar present. Today was something different.
It appeared that Caesar’s army could lose.