Alesia. Summer 52BC.
Vercingetorix stood tall on the bluff at the western end of Alesia’s plateau, both hands resting casually on the pommel of the long sword at his side, his intelligent, contemplative brow furrowed as he looked down over the aptly-name plain of mud below, his long hair whipping in the evening breeze.
Behind him the sounds of oppidum life went on. Alesia was perhaps a third as large again as Gergovia. Its slopes may not be as steep and unassailable, and its walls not quite as sturdy, but it made a more than adequate camp for the army of free tribes. Despite being so much larger than the Arvernian capital, Alesia supported less than half that population, leaving acres of space for the army that had arrived a few hours ago, even if much of that was at the eastern end and outside the walls. Even now the bulk of the force was still setting up, selecting where to site their tribes and assigning sections of rampart to watch over. Many of the nobles, including the king’s cousin, were busy working with the Mandubian elders of the city, trying to settle in without too much inconvenience to the population. But Cavarinos stood here with Vercingetorix, Lucterius, and the Mandubian chieftain, looking out over the plain, as much to be away from his brother as any other reason.
The local chief looked distinctly uncomfortable as he surveyed the scene before them, and who could blame him. He had not quibbled at the huge army that had arrived on his doorstep and asked that they be given space and food until further notice, warned that the might of Rome would be on his doorstep in a matter of hours. He had not complained at all. But the private silent panic supposedly locked in the darkness of his mind emanated from him like a carnyx call to retreat. Cavarinos could not help but sympathise with the man.
Below them, on the wide plain bisected by a narrow and shallow river, that Roman might was assembling, having appeared on the scene mere hours behind their quarry. Their baggage was yet to arrive, Caesar having clearly considered the wagons safe with the enemy in front of them, and the army had pushed on, harrying the rearmost of the tribes as they ran for the safety of this high mountain.
Legions were moving even now around Alesia’s bulk, heading for the heights of the other hills that surrounded it, where they could watch for every movement and maintain a siege if required.
‘They are sealing us in well,’ Cavarinos noted.
‘They might think so. They do not anticipate our reinforcements, I believe.’
‘We need to learn from the Romans,’ Cavarinos mused, tapping his chin. ‘They like their boundaries. They work by them. If our army is largely encamped at the eastern extremity beneath the walls, they are in danger. The Romans will consider them exposed. All we need do is build a stone wall like the one we had below Gergovia, and maybe a ditch, and the Romans won’t even think of attacking. And it’s a much shorter rampart to build than the last one was.’
The king nodded slowly. ‘Agreed. See to it, Cavarinos.’ He turned with a genuinely warm smile. ‘I value your perceptive observations on the enemy. I am pleased you returned to us safe.’
‘So am I. What do we do about the reinforcements?’
‘Ah, that.’
‘Yes.’
The king reached up and stroked his moustaches, watching the legions moving like some sort of machine down below. ‘They will attempt to seal us in completely. That is their modus operandi. They did so at Vellaunoduno and with the aid of the swamps at Avaricon much the same. They did not try at Gergovia - I believe because the sheer scale of the place put them off - and there they failed, so they will not make that mistake again. Watch for them constructing some sort of circuit.’
Cavarinos frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ He looked around at the landscape he could see in the golden light of the sinking sun. ‘That would have to be an enormous rampart… many miles long.’
‘Caesar has both the men and the patience. It will happen. If we are to do anything, it must be done before those defences go up. It must be done before the dawn.’
Cavarinos sighed. ‘What do you wish of me?’ Subterfuge and distant missions seemed to be his lot in life this year. Somewhere deep in his soul, though - where he would not admit to its existence - a small part of him cheered that he would not be forced to face Fronto in battle. The king’s words ripped that away in a heartbeat.
‘Nothing, my friend. Your place is here with us. You are a constant source of wise recommendations, and the way this war currently wavers I value that input.’ He looked across at the fourth member of their group. ‘Lucterius?’
The Cadurci chieftain turned, currently enjoying a satisfying moment in the late sun. His year had started with numerous failures, but his brave and dangerous cavalry action at Gergovia had finally restored his reputation. Indeed, of the dreadful cavalry attack on Caesar’s army yesterday, only Lucterius had managed to pull together a unit of survivors and get them across the river and back to the army. The rest of the survivors had fled in braces and rare dozens and had filtered back to camp over the following hours.
‘My king?’
Vercingetorix smiled at him. The Arvernian leader was not the king of the Cadurci, of course, but the honorific was heartfelt and he knew it. ‘Only you and the cavalry stand a chance of getting past the assembled legions fast enough to move to free ground and escape their clutches.’
‘You would ask me to leave, my king?’
‘For the good of the army, to seek aid’ Vercingetorix explained. Cavarinos nodded sagely, as aware as the others of the unspoken bonus there: that the loss of so many human and equine mouths in Alesia would ease the food issues somewhat.
‘You will need every good warrior here,’ Lucterius argued. ‘My place is at your side. Send someone else.’
The king shook his head. ‘No. It must be someone in whom I have the utmost trust, and who I know is bright enough and brave enough to get past the Romans and stay free. Take the surviving cavalry - both yours and those other tribes who remain - out of Alesia during the hours of darkness.’
‘And if we break past the Romans, what do you require of me?’ Lucterius asked, sagging slightly.
‘Before you leave, I want you to visit each of the chieftains, kings or higher nobles leading the forces of this army and acquire a seal or other token that confirms that you speak for them. Once you have those, take the horsemen and ride for Bibracte with all haste. With Roman armies in the field and the future of the tribes still at risk, I feel certain that the assembly of chieftains will still be present there. Speak to the assembly and press for war on the grandest scale. Do not hold back. Make certain they are clear on what is required to win this fight and on what is at stake here. We can win now, but only if the tribes decide to fight Rome as a nation. It is time to put aside tribal politics and devote all our power to destroying Caesar.’
The Cadurci leader frowned. ‘Do you think the chiefs here will agree to me speaking for them?’
‘You are respected, Lucterius. And each of those chiefs is now trapped here with us. They know first-hand what is at stake.’
Lucterius nodded and Vercingetorix peered down at the manoeuvring Romans again.
‘Every man who can fight.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We need every man old enough to carry a blade without the tip dropping. We want horse. We want swordsmen. We want archers. We want spear-bearers. Even the greybeards. Every man the tribes can provide. And if they do this, I will give them victory over Rome. If they do not, then we cannot fight our way out of Alesia and more than eighty thousand chosen men of the tribes will be sacrificed on Caesar’s altar.’
‘It will take time to gather the men of whom you speak.’
The Arvernian king nodded. ‘Even though the Mandubii are still in residence, with no cavalry to maintain we have grain for perhaps thirty days. If we agree to suffer hardship, that can be dragged out. Be quick, though, and urge the assembly to be quick.’
Lucterius nodded, his face serious. ‘I will bring you your army, my king.’
The Cadurci chieftain turned and strode off into the oppidum proper, hunting those leaders whose tokens he would need to convince their countrymen, and the king turned to the other two with him. ‘Thank you for your understanding and your hospitality, my friend,’ he addressed the Mandubian chieftain. ‘I would ask that you and my esteemed commander here,’ a gesture made to Cavarinos, ‘divide up the cattle and grain stored in Alesia and distribute it as fairly as possible between the tribes encamped here and the Mandubii population. Cavarinos is a good man. He will not attempt to feed our army at the expense of your people. But if we are to win here and to free our land of the nailed Roman boot, we must pull together as far as possible.’
Almost as an afterthought, he frowned and addressed the local before the two left. ‘I believe we have near two thousand Mandubii among our forces. I would ask that you follow the plan I have set for all the tribes. Any man old enough to lift a sword and young enough to still run would be valued among our army.’
The chieftain bowed his head, and Cavarinos could feel the nerves twanging in the man as he walked alongside away from the western bluff.
Finally alone, Vercingetorix looked down at the forces once more. Several legions had moved off along the valleys to either side of Alesia, taking up position on the hills facing it, but the bulk of the force remained on that wide plain before him. He fancied he could almost discern a white horse and a red cloak moving about among the rank and file, and he smiled coldly.
‘Your time has come, Gaius Julius Caesar, child of Venus and Proconsul of Rome. You came to our land hunting fractured tribes, but in your time here, you have turned us into one Gaul, strong and proud like the boar we revere. And this boar has razor tusks.’
* * * * *
Fronto stood on the low rampart of the large westernmost camp, which rose upon the slopes of a hill known among the scouts as Mons Rea - the mountain of guilt. The name did not sit well with him as a site for such a major base of operations, but Caesar had been set in his design. The general would command the Tenth and Eleventh in a camp on the apex of the southern ‘mountain of the gods’ gate’ hill as well as a second camp further round that same range, housing the Eighth and Thirteenth. Labienus commanded a third camp on the north-eastern hill, known as ‘the maw’, with the First and Seventh in residence. In the shallow valley to the north, a smaller camp would house the Ninth and Fourteenth under Trebonius. Here in the Mons Rea camp, the Twelfth and Fifteenth would guard the plain, with Antonius in command of both that and Varus’ three cavalry camps spread across the wide plain before Alesia. The plan neatly encircled the Mandubian city in a ring of iron and flesh.
Each officer and unit had its place and its hierarchy, though this evening Caesar was present at the site of the Mons Rea camp, overseeing the first phases of the work. Despite granting him a good view across the plain, this camp still looked up at the towering bulk of Alesia, which resembled an upturned boat with its prow pointing at the concentration of Roman forces on the plain. Caesar moved among the men constructing the camp, encouraging and providing heart, even sharing a crass joke here and there with the legionaries as though such talk came naturally.
Antonius produced his ever-present wineskin from the folds of his cloak as the two men moved towards the fire that burned just inside the camp perimeter, holding back the increasing gloom and providing heat against the chill breeze that seemed to come from nowhere to whip across the plain. Varus huddled by the fire, looking bored.
Masgava and Palmatus hovered nearby. Since that damned Priscus had let slip to them that Fronto had wandered off out of camp in the close company of one of the enemy, the singulares had never let him out of their sight and he was beginning to get sick of the admonishment and disapproval that flowed from the men in waves and the way they clung to him like a bad smell. He’d even found it near impossible to crap, with the sound of his bodyguard waiting patiently beyond the leather wall.
‘I’ve never seen a system like it,’ Antonius said between pulls on his drink.
‘It’s certainly one of the most impressive engineering plans I’ve heard come out of that command tent,’ Fronto agreed. ‘On a par with the Avaricon ramp, at least.’
Varus, his cavalry divided between the quarters on the plain and guarding the construction work, was left at something of a loose end and looked up from the warm glow of the fire. ‘Eleven miles of rampart and ditch. Eleven miles! That’s more than a mile for each legion.’
‘Don’t forget the palisade, the towers and the camps,’ Antonius reminded him. ‘It’s days of work at least. Twenty three redoubts, he wants, connecting the main camps.’
‘Caesar is clearly serious about pinning the rebels down this time,’ Fronto noted, warming his hands and gratefully accepting a drink from Antonius. ‘Vercingetorix has been too mobile and troublesome. Now the general has him trapped, he’s not going to give him the chance to slip away and run again.’
‘More than that,’ Antonius mused, ‘I think he’s still smarting from the beating we took at Gergovia. He’ll not let it happen again and he won’t leave this place until he has redeemed both himself and all of us.’ He looked down into the flames. ‘Truth be told, with the ongoing situation in Rome, he cannot afford to. Word of Gergovia has probably already filtered back to the city. I know the lines of communication are cut, but bad news spreads faster than you’d believe and can jump breaks in communication. Rome’s confidence in him will be shaken. He can put that right now, but if he lets the rebel slip away again or win one more fight, it might well be the end of his political career. Pompey will use the failure to destroy him. A lot rides on this fight.’
Varus shook his head. ‘I remember the general saying at Gergovia that we couldn’t afford the time it would take to lay full siege to the place. It would require a vast ramp that would take many months. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this place doesn’t look a whole lot different to me.’
‘There’s one major difference, though,’ Fronto said, passing the wine over to the cavalry commander. ‘Vercingetorix had always allowed for his capital to be a fall-back position, I think. It was extremely well supplied in preparation. The rebel army could have lived a year or more there without worrying unduly, and still had forage opportunities and water. Alesia is not his place, though. Indeed, this city was a peaceful, out-of-the-way town, a long way from the war. They cannot have expected to be besieged, and so there is little likelihood that they have anything more than their own declining granaries for supplies. And now he has a larger army to support. He’s going to start getting hungry fast, and when that happens he’s going to have to choose between starvation or coming down from his mountain to fight us.’
Antonius smiled wickedly. ‘I hope he does. It’s about time we got the chance to crush the man’s balls. My main concern is that they might try to break out before we construct the ramparts.’
The general had given the order for the circumvallation of the oppidum to proceed at the quickest pace possible. The army was moving in shifts, cohorts resting and on guard duty while others worked, all under the watchful eye of a few legionary guards and cavalry scouts. Then at the next watch the cohorts and guards would swap. But still, eleven miles would take quite a while.
‘Vercingetorix will not commit his entire army to that,’ Fronto replied. ‘If he was willing to meet us in battle he’d have done it before now. He might test us a few times, though.’
‘Sooner rather than later, too,’ coughed Varus, dropping the wine bag and leaping up to the low, unfinished rampart a few paces away. The other two joined him, picking out the faint strains of a cavalry tuba blowing a desperate call a mile or two out across the plain.
It was dark enough now that it had become tough picking out individual detail down on the plain, excepting the camp fires dotted about providing focal points for the legions at work and at rest. But there, perhaps a mile and a half across the flat grassland, something was happening. A flood of large shapes was moving from the lower slopes towards where the Roman presence was thinnest.
Cavalry!
Varus turned to the legionary who was tending the fire, adding roughly-hewn logs from a nearby pile.
‘Bring my horse over here and sound the general alarm.’ His narrowed eyes fell upon Antonius. ‘And where are the Germans quartered?’
* * * * *
Lucterius of the Cadurci clung tight to his reins, urging on his horse to an even greater turn of speed. It had quickly become apparent, as he had stood at the walls of Alesia with his best warriors, that the plain was the only option for a breakout, despite the concentration of forces there. No sensible cavalry commander would try and take his force north, south, or east, for the hills they would have to cross were high and surmounted by fortifying legions. The horses would be too slowed by the gradient to present a show of strength at the top. And the two river valleys that ran northeast and southeast were too narrow for comfort. If the Romans had already set defences there - which any sensible besieger would - then they would be riding into almost certain death.
That had left the plain which, at almost three miles in length, was good ground for cavalry, and a little careful observation had easily picked out the weakest point. Here at the centre, perhaps two cohorts of men worked at digging a trench, the bulk of the forces concentrating on the main camp to the north end of the plain and the area below it.
The hooves of the seven hundred beasts conveying his force thundered down the lowest slopes, every man keeping their silence. It seemed odd, at least for the Cadurci among them, to be riding into a fight without their traditional whooping war cries, but their hope of overcoming the encircling forces relied as much on surprise as it did on strength. They had lost only a dozen or so men on the horrific, helter-skelter plunge down the steep hillside. Maybe a score. Astounding, really, considering the terrain in the dark.
Ahead, on the plain, the legions were now beginning to spot something happening. The odd native horsemen stationed around the place as scouts had noticed the force sweeping down the slope towards them. A horn blew to warn the Romans. Too late, thought Lucterius with a savage grin.
His horse was the first to reach the enemy, as was appropriate for a respected war leader, and his steed easily leapt the four foot ditch and the panicked legionary busy with his pick, tearing out chunks to deepen the defences. The mound behind it, made with the spoil from the ditch, was no more than three feet high yet - nowhere near enough to deter Lucterius’ forces.
His arm came out and back while his horse jumped and he swept it forward as a legionary rose from his digging, trying to present his tool as a defensive weapon to parry the blow. The long blade, its edge honed sharp for just such cavalry manoeuvres where thrusting was useless and backed by immense momentum, carved straight through the man’s arm as though it were naught more than butter, on and into his neck, where it bit deep, severing arteries and muscles and tendons. He felt the familiar tug as the dying body clung on to the blade wedged in it, but with a twist of the elbow, Lucterius changed his sword’s angle and it ripped out, already held to the rear and ready to sweep for another kill.
The Cadurci chieftain realised he was laughing maniacally, and had to force himself to remember that this was not a cavalry charge into battle. He was not here to maim and kill Romans. He was here to make it to freedom and carry the urgent request for reinforcements. His men seemed to be suffering a similar urge to kill. The first few men who had touched turf behind the defences alongside him had actually reined in their beasts and were busy laying about them with their blades, cutting down exhausted Romans.
More were arriving in the oppressive darkness and taking to the battle with glee.
There were so few enemies here really - just a few tired engineers building a wall. Perhaps he could allow his men the freedom to spend their time killing Romans for a few moments before they made for the south-western horizon?
No. This was no time to indulge their whims. Time now to get the Arvernian king’s message to the gathering at Bibracte. The army was relying on them, and Lucterius was once more a respected figure among them. He would not risk failure and ignominy again.
Turning, he spotted his standards - two men bearing the boar and the dragon - and near them the man with the horn on a strap round his neck. ‘Sound the signal to move out. This is not a fight, but a break out.’
As the three men did so Lucterius defied his own orders, aware that it would take a number of heartbeats yet for his entire force to cross the ditch and rampart, and devoting the time as he watched them jump down onto the flat turf to unleashing his fury upon the poorly-armed Romans. They had been digging, not preparing for the fight, and only one man in four was armoured and had kept his shield, most of them labouring away in just their russet tunics and unarmed apart from their tools. With a snarl of pure hatred, Lucterius hacked down with his gleaming, red-stained blade, cleaving through tunics, skin and muscle again and again, killing men with wild abandon.
Nearby, one of the enemy scouts - possibly Remi, certainly of some Belgic tribe - levelled a spear and charged across at him. Lucterius wheeled his horse to present his shield to the man, hefting his blade ready. The Belgian was good. His spear changed angle, and Lucterius had to adjust again and again as they closed until, with a crash, the spear slammed into his shield, ripping deep and splintering near the head.
Before the man could recover himself, Lucterius swept his sword down, carving off the rest of the spear and leaving the man with only a jagged two-foot stump. Turning his horse again, the Cadurci chieftain pulled back his blade to deliver a killing blow, but the Belgic scout was better even than he’d realised, and the man lunged forward in his saddle, his grip changing on the spear as he did so. Even as Lucterius’ blade managed a glancing blow that tore the mail shoulder-doubling from the main’s armour, the scout slammed the broken shaft deep into his thigh muscle, ravaged point first.
Lucterius bellowed his pain, drawing startled attention from all around him as the scout reached down, trying to draw his sword with a shoulder badly bruised from the previous blow. His eyes watering from the pain, Lucterius pushed his beast forwards with his knees, pumping blood out from his leg around the jutting wooden shaft, and hacked down again. His blow was well-aimed, brought down at the same point as his previous strike that had ruined the man’s mail shirt. The sword’s edge bit down into the angle of the Belgian’s neck and shoulder, sending shattered iron links showering up into the air and delivering a crippling and ultimately death-dealing blow. He did not have the luxury to finish the man swiftly, though, for already one of the few fully-armoured legionaries was running at him while his friends began to form up, collecting pila from a stack nearby.
The Cadurci signaller was blowing his instrument for all he was worth, trying to force the battle-hungry riders to move on and not delay just in order to murder Romans. Wheeling his horse away from the running Roman, Lucterius dropped his shield and used his left hand to wrench out the wooden shaft with a cry and then clutch his thigh, which pulsed with agony, sending waves of shock into his brain.
Ahead, he could see Nonnos, his second in command, entirely ignoring the order to leave as he delivered several unnecessary blows to a Roman who was already dead, though had not collapsed yet. Hoping he had time, Lucterius grabbed hold of his friend’s upper arm with a blood-soaked hand, almost bringing a sword blow upon himself from the surprised nobleman.
‘We have to go.’
Nonnos hesitated for a moment, his blood-lust up and visible in his wild eyes.
‘Set an example!’ snapped Lucterius, wrenching his hand back and clamping it over the thigh wound again. The chieftain turned to the open plain to the southwest. Some of his more obedient and wise riders were already making for the safety of the horizon. Far more, though, were mired down in killing Romans from whom they could very easily flee. He felt anger course through him. The signallers were still blowing the horn and waving the standards, but nothing seemed to be stirring his men from the fight. At least Nonnos had freed his blade and turned.
The legionary who had marked him earlier was closing on them, but two of the horsemen rode the soldier down and cut him to pieces long before he could get to the chieftain.
They had to go.
A new noise cut through the din and Lucterius peered into the inky dimness, his eyesight made all the poorer by the dotted Roman fires and the reflections they displayed in shield bosses and helmets. A new shape was moving in from the north. Roman tuba calls announced that their cavalry was on the way to take up the fight. They absolutely had to go now. Otherwise they would be caught here and kept busy until two or three legions converged on them, fully prepared, and cut them down.
One last try.
Turning, he viewed the battle in full swing. There had been remarkably few cavalry casualties, the Romans unprepared and unarmoured. And many legionaries lay around the earth, their blood mingling with the red of their tunics. But all that would change any moment.
‘Pull out and run!’ he bellowed into the press and was rewarded with attentive looks from the nearest perhaps half-dozen men. The tuba calls were nearer now, and a glance over his shoulder revealed a huge mass of horse hurtling across the plain towards them. It was too dark to pick out any useful detail about them, but it was impossible to miss, over the din of the approaching mob, the blood-hungry yelling and hooting in the guttural growl of the Germanic peoples. A memory swum into Lucterius’ mind of a big monster riding past him on the grass before Novioduno, fastening a severed head to his saddle horn. He shuddered. Any man not fleeing now… well gods help him!
Way to the rear of the Roman force, back up towards the large camp, he could hear the sound of cornicen calling out orders to the legions present as they fell in to protect the camp and the siege works, preparing for a full scale assault, even though only Lucterius and his cavalry had been in evidence so far.
Of the seven hundred men that had descended the hill with him, perhaps forty or fifty were now clear of the area, racing off into the southwest. Half a dozen of those men had the presence of mind to slow and check what was happening behind them, trying to ascertain where their chieftain was, aware that his continued survival as an ambassador was the prime reason for their flight. Maybe thirty or forty were now dead or down. Another twenty were gathering around Lucterius now, preparing to run, having heeded his final call. The remaining six hundred were clearly a lost cause, engaged in a melee with the Roman workers, heedless of the danger coming their way, despite the many warnings he had given them.
For all Vercingetorix’s grand talk about disregarding tribal boundaries and forming one great Gaul, such a possibility was still clearly far off. Far from the tightly-knit force of Cadurci Lucterius had led down that treacherous slope at Gergovia - many of whom had perished during that ill-fated attack on Caesar’s army a couple of days ago - the band of riders he had led down from Alesia this night had been the survivors of that assault, a mix of men from a dozen tribes and more, most of whom were only vaguely familiar with Lucterius and owed him no long-standing fealty.
This was no cavalry army of ‘one Gaul’. It was a mess of arguing tribes who paid little attention to the calls of their signallers or commanders. And because of that they would perish. He could only hope this wasn’t a simile for the whole war.
With a sad expression, he turned away from the bulk of his cavalry who were ignoring the closing Roman signals and taking out their frustration from their previous defeat upon the workmen. Joining the less-than-a-hundred men who had heeded his calls, Lucterius began to race southwest, away from the battle. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the majority of the Roman horse had maintained their course, making for the fracas, but some of the Germans - two or three hundred in total, perhaps - had veered off, their gaze locked on the fleeing riders.
The Germans! What had he done to deserve this?
The important thing was to get away, to carry the message. It left a sour taste in Lucterius’ mouth to flee the battlefield and not turn and face the monsters, but he could not afford to fail. Tearing his anxious eyes from the whooping, bellowing ironclad Germans, he leaned forward in the saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, and kicked his horse into whatever reserves of speed the animal could manage.
A spear arced through the air a few feet to his left, indicating just how close their pursuers were, and a moment later one of his men disappeared from his saddle with a shriek, the horse pelting on riderless, its course unchanged.
‘Come… to… me… Arverni!’ snarled a hungry-sounding voice only a few paces back in a Germanic growl and Lucterius felt his heart pound all the faster. It seemed pointless to waste breath and focus correcting the man, and the Cadurci chieftain kept his sight fixed on the lead men among his fleeing force.
The first he knew of his pursuer’s attack was when the moonlight betrayed the man, casting a shadow across his own horse’s flank. He glanced right urgently just in time to see a giant, hairy German atop a shaggy horse five hands higher than his own, his sword raised ready for a downward chop. There was little he could do to stop it. In desperation, he raised his own sword.
The German’s strength was impressive. The big sword came down like the collapsing of mountains, unstoppable and irresistible. Lucterius watched in horror as the heavy blade smashed his own to pieces, carving straight down through it, hacking off the front left horn of his saddle and then chopping deep into the back and shoulder of his horse. The animal lurched and the missing horn of his saddle, combined with his wounded thigh and the horse’s bucking, served to easily unseat him, expert horseman though he was.
Lucterius knew he was in trouble. Wounded, weaponless, and now falling from his steed, he would never see Bibracte and bring aid to the army. His arms flailed out as he fell, instinctively and with no conscious purpose in mind.
The fingers of his right hand closed on the German’s saddle, grasping desperately at the leather. As he felt his fingers scrabbling for purchase, his left hand closed around the man’s leg wrappings. Knowing that letting go meant death added a hitherto untapped strength to his struggle, and he was swiftly hauling himself up. The German, his face betraying no fear - only irritation - raised his huge sword and tried to angle it down at the figure clinging to his leg and saddle.
Lucterius’ right hand, still finding it almost impossible to maintain a good grip on the leather due to the bouncing, jolting gait of the horse, came up sharply and grabbed the wrist of the descending arm, forcing the sword out away from him at the same time as using the grip to pull himself further up.
He almost lost control when his left leg bounced against something, causing his wound to send sheets of jagged pain through him. Then he realised what it was his leg had hit: his wounded horse had somehow veered back in its excruciated, panicked race. With only a moment’s thought, he thrust out with his good leg, found purchase against his ruined animal’s bloody shoulder, and braced, launching himself with a push.
The sudden manoeuvre took the German by surprise, and Lucterius hit the big man hard and felt him falling away to the far side. Instantly, he let go of the man’s wrist and leg and scrabbled for the reins. One hand closed on the leather and, as the German disappeared down the other side with a cry that became a scream as his own huge horse ran over him, Lucterius fell. His feet hit the ground at speed, bad one first, and he shrieked. Then he was hanging from the reins, feet bouncing along the turf as the horse ran, riderless.
His arm muscles creaking and shrieking with the effort, he hauled himself up the beast’s side and slowly, with dreadful exertion, into the saddle. The horse was so large it felt odd to be up here.
Settling in the saddle, he looked around. Most of the Germans had given up the chase as unproductive, and had turned to the majority of Lucterius’ horse, who had finally learned their folly as their massacring of the Roman workers turned to their own demise, a huge cavalry force ploughing into them. Fools.
Perhaps a dozen Germans were still on his heels, though, their horses large and tireless. And he was now unarmed too, of course.
‘Save the king, Lucterius,’ a voice called from his left. He turned in confusion to see Nonnos slow and wheel his horse to face their pursuers. Of the other five men around them, three joined him - all men of the Cadurci, Lucterius noted with curious pride - while the other two raced on. Four men on tired mounts, some wounded, facing a dozen of the heavily armed and armoured German riders. They would be dead in heartbeats.
But they might buy his life with their own.
Lucterius kicked the huge horse and was surprised at the extra speed the big beast seemed to find, racing off ahead, quickly outstripping the other two and gaining on the rest of the fleeing tribesmen ahead. He bit his lip and raced on, feeling somewhat sick at the fact that he was using all those behind him to buy time for his own survival. A quick glance at the two men racing with him confirmed that they were already falling behind, and he realised from their panicked faces that the pair could hear the Germans gaining on them. Sickened with himself, he nonetheless willed them to slow and be caught by their pursuers, buying him yet more precious moments.
He kept his head down and forged ahead into the darkness, ignoring any peril and concentrating on his path. He felt the ground falling away and managed to bring the big beast up and into a jump as he reached a stream bed, clearing it and landing with ease on the far side, feeling tears stain his cheek at the fresh wave of pain from his leg.
His racing mind gradually registered a noise from far behind: a new call on one of those dreadful honking German horns. His gaze shifted over his shoulder again and for the first time since he had reached level ground, his heart sent a calming wave through him.
There was no longer any sign of pursuit. The call he’d heard must have been for them to fall back and abandon the chase. His heart leapt again as a horse suddenly burst through the undergrowth at the far side of the stream, behind him, but the animal slowed as it reached the water, suddenly intent on drinking its fill. The limp body of Nonnos leaned in the saddle, spattered with blood and death-grey, but still wedged between the horns.
Staring at Nonnos, Lucterius sent up a prayer of thanks to the gods for the bravery of his tribe and his second, and for his own survival. Then, convinced of his safety, for the time being at least, he paused and unwrapped the rough leather belt that he had around his tunic, tying it around the top of his thigh and pulling it tighter and tighter until he gasped at the pain, then cinching it.
Now at least he shouldn’t bleed out before he reached Bibracte.
Time to raise the tribes to his lord’s cause.
* * * * *
‘What is the result?’
Fronto turned at Caesar’s question, the early morning sunlight still gracing only the oppidum and the surrounding peaks, leaving these low valleys and the plain in shade. The attack of the Gallic cavalry had been pointless and brief, doing little damage to the legions and the defences they were constructing, but it had become apparent that there was more to the action than just a suicidal attack.
‘They’re still bringing in the odd body from as far as the Brennus river a couple of miles to the south, general, but the current count is four hundred and twenty three Gallic dead and one hundred and eight captives. Most of them are at least lightly wounded, but the medicus reckons only thirty or so of them are on their way out.’
‘I want them roped and sent under guard to Agedincum. When we finish the rebels, we will require a goodly number of slaves to fund a healthy donative to the men for their hard work.’
Fronto nodded. ‘There is one that you might be interested in, though, Caesar.’
Speeding up, Fronto wandered along the lines of dejected prisoners being herded this way and that by hard-faced legionaries, and the blood-slicked stinking dead being stacked ready for disposal. At the end of the busy area, huge stacks of timber and wicker, piles of rope coils and heaps of tools awaited transport to the next section of the construction. Among them a man sat slumped, naked to the waist, wounded in a dozen places, missing a hand, which was bound with a soaked scarf, and coated with blood and grime. He was clearly a Gaul, his hair long and braided by the ear, moustaches clogged with blood and stuck together, almost comically jutting out to the side of his face, like a hairy, crimson wing.
He was not bound, but there seemed little chance of him running, since his leg lay at an odd angle from the knee, broken more than once, and badly so. Amid the grime, the general could pick out bronze and gold, including arm rings and a torc. A noble, then.
Five legionaries and an optio stood around the man, the officer a lantern-jawed fellow with gimlet eyes.
‘Talk to us,’ the optio urged his prisoner in a gravelly tone. When the captive simply turned a defiant stare on him, the officer stepped forward and placed his hob-nailed boot on the man’s ruined knee, gently rolling it back and forth. The man screamed, but bit defiantly down on the cry and fell silent, hissing against the pain. Caesar raised an eyebrow, but Fronto cleared his throat.
‘That’s enough,’ he said to the optio. ‘He’ll not break like that.’
As the optio saluted and stepped back, Fronto crouched close, though not close enough to endanger himself. ‘I can see from your expression that you understand my words. You are broken, my friend. Quite apart from the leg, I note that one of your wounds oozes very dark blood from the belly and that you are already noticeably greying. I suspect your liver has been nicked. If you’re lucky, that’s the case and you’ll slowly bleed out over the next few hours. If not, then I’m wrong, and the belly wound will be the one that kills you, very slowly and very painfully. Ever seen a man die from a belly wound? It’s not pretty, and it can last for days.’
The man glared at Fronto. ‘Threaten me all you wish, Roman. I will not break.’
‘I’m not threatening you,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘I’m simply explaining the facts. What I will offer you is this: you answer a few simple questions and I will grant you a very quick warrior’s death. How’s that?’
‘No.’
Fronto looked up at Caesar. The general was clearly weighing his options, and the legate felt certain that he would come down in favour of torture soon enough… experience suggested so, anyway. He smiled. Sometimes the most defiant man could be the most revealing. Priscus had taught him the trick with recalcitrant legionaries during disciplinary hearings. He leaned forward again.
‘It was no attack, clearly. Only a fool would commit such a small force to an attack like that. Your king must have known that you would lose. And when our cavalry countered, the officers said that your men fled not in the direction of Alesia, but away, towards the river and south. After all this time in the field, I find it hard to picture cowards among your army.’
At the word coward, the man’s face hardened and his eyes glittered angrily. Fronto nodded. ‘They were not running from the battle, of course. They were no cowards, were they? And if they were not running from the fight, that suggests that they were intending to run in the first place. Perhaps that was the whole purpose of the attack? A breakout of the cavalry? But not simply to save you, even though you’d be of no further benefit in Alesia, eating all the grain but providing little use. So why?’
He smiled again. ‘Where would you run but to fetch reinforcements?’
He was rewarded with an involuntary flicker of the eyelid as the man tried to keep his face expressionless. Fronto nodded. ‘Reinforcements. Possibly already gathered, but I suspect more than that. You were to raise new troops to relieve the rebels, yes?’
Another flicker and Fronto almost laughed at how easy the man was to read. ‘And you broke southwest. I suppose the riders could have gone anywhere once they passed from our view, but my money’s on them staying on that very course. Because if I opened up a map right now and drew a line southwest from Alesia, where the riders went, it would pass right through Bibracte, where the tribes so often gather to sort things out.’
Again the man flinched slightly at the name of the Aeduan capital. Fronto chuckled and looked up at Caesar. ‘That’s it. Vercingetorix sent his cavalry out to Bibracte to raise the rest of the tribes. And over the years we’ve more or less made that place the political focal point for the whole of Gaul. By noon today, if they ride their horses into the ground, the survivors will be there.’
Caesar took a deep breath. ‘Then we have days - weeks at the most - before a relief force gathers here. Potentially a very large one.’
‘It seems likely.’
‘And currently we are already slightly outnumbered. If a sizeable second force comes, we could find ourselves in dire straits.’
‘Quite.’
As Caesar stood in silence, Fronto turned back to the Gaul. ‘Thank you for your silence.’ Quickly, he ripped his blade from its sheath and used his left hand to push the Gaul’s head forward, placing the point between two vertebrae at the bottom of the neck. The Gaul put up no resistance and Fronto took a deep breath and jammed the blade down. There was a crack and a spray of blood and the body jerked and then slumped beneath him.
Nonnos passed from the world of men with honour and Fronto tore a strip from the man’s discarded bloody tunic and rose, wiping his sword thoroughly and sheathing it once more.
‘What do we do? We cannot afford to abandon this place. If his force builds again and we let him go, we’ll end up on the run.’
Caesar nodded. ‘It has to end here, no matter what. The siege works must be enhanced. We have eleven miles of circumvallation planned already: a ditch and rampart connecting the redoubts and camps all around Alesia. This is clearly not going to be enough, however. The rampart will be raised to a height of two men and then topped with the palisade and towers. Instead of one ditch, we will have two. I will have lilia pits, sharpened branches, spikes and caltrops in the flat ground and more branches at the bottom of the palisade, and any other measures our engineers can come up with. And the flat lands will need an extra hurdle for the enemy. The engineers will drive a wide, deep ditch across the entire plain at the base of the hill, connecting the two rivers and flooding it.’
Fronto whistled with a frown. ‘Juno, but that’s some work, general. I’m not sure we’ll have time to carry all that eleven miles before a relief army gets here. Besides, I don’t understand how that helps us against a second army.’
Caesar straightened.
‘That is because I haven’t finished, Fronto. Eleven miles facing inwards will keep Vercingetorix and his hounds caged. A second line of fortifications - identical ones - will be drawn outside the first. It will have to be several miles longer and will face outwards to protect against any relief force.’
Fronto’s eyes widened. ‘Another? That’s weeks of work even if we use every man we have. Can it be done?’
Caesar smiled. ‘You should spend more time reading your histories and less time cavorting, Fronto. Scipio built a stone wall six miles long around Numantia, with added defences and towers, and all in a few short days. Our line may be a lot longer, but I am not asking for stone. Just earth and timber. And we have a much larger army than he to do it with. It can be done, Fronto. It will be done. And when it is done, we will draw all the army and supplies between the two circuits.’
‘Caesar, if a large enemy force arrives, we’ll essentially be under siege ourselves.’
‘But so will the rebels on the hill, but they will become hungry and we will have time to gather plenty of supplies. We do not have to be able to last forever. We only need to outlast the rebel king.’
Fronto stared, still shaking his head. As the general nodded, satisfied, and walked away, the Tenth’s legate looked down at the peaceful, still form of the rebel horseman, released from pain.
‘I have a feeling that in the coming days, I might envy you.’