Lucterius yawned. The night had been busy and dreadful and like every other man present he needed a few hours’ good uninterrupted sleep more than anything else in the world.
But that would have to wait…
‘Where did your vaunted leadership get us?’ Commius snapped petulantly, gesturing at Vergasillaunus, who simply shrugged calmly as he replied. ‘We suffered a setback. Nothing more. The Roman lines were always going to be difficult to break through. You knew that, Commius, for you would not even try.’
Commius ignored the barely-veiled insult and ploughed on angrily. ‘The fact remains that I had an army on this hill that was strong, well-fed and in high morale. You took the command from me and now we have an army that is licking its wounds after two utterly demoralizing defeats, down on manpower and starting to become restless as the supplies we brought with us dwindle.’
Lucterius rubbed his weary eyes. ‘You have a plan of inaction again, then, Commius?’
The former commander turned a baleful glare on him, but said nothing.
‘If you think our morale has taken a hit,’ Vergasillaunus went on quietly, ‘imagine how it has affected the Romans. Our first assault showed them our strength and that we were cunning - not the mindless howling barbarians they believed us to be. That will have given them pause for thought. Our second assault was so strong that we almost cleared the defences on the plains and the Romans were forced to draw reinforcements from their redoubts and forts all around the system. And throughout all this, their supplies have dwindled just as much as ours, but, while we can supplement ours with forage, the Romans are trapped within their fences and must make do with what they have. No. We have suffered two abortive attacks, but they were not defeats, for we are still here, are we not? We have suffered two abortive attacks, but the Romans are hard pressed and becoming more so with every passing day. I would by choice now give them a couple of days to simmer before we hit them again’
He looked across the slope of the hill, past the encamped army and at the oppidum ringed in a double line of fortifications which tore a thick brown line across the land.
‘But I am ever heedful of my cousin’s army in Alesia and their own dwindling supplies. We must finish it soon for their sake. And so we move tonight.’
A sneer crept across Commius’ face. ‘A night attack? Because our last attempt was so successful. No new ideas, then Vergasillaunus?’
The king’s cousin gave his opposition a curious half-smile.
‘Not so, Commius. My scouts were at work throughout the night. While we kept the Romans busy on the plain, my cleverest and quietest riders probed the entire circuit of the Roman defences undetected. And even as we pulled back from the attack during the night, they delivered to me the path of our victory. For our next attack will be the last. We will cut through and save our brothers on the hill and bring ruin to Caesar.’
‘How?’ Lucterius asked hungrily, all need for sleep suddenly forgotten.
‘Their system has a weakness. The inner circuit is an unbroken line, following the rivers along the valleys and supported by the water trench at the western end. The outer line, however, is not as strong as it appears from here. While the view from our camp makes it appear unbroken, there is one place where the system peters out.’
‘That seems suspiciously unlikely,’ Commius sneered.
‘Nonetheless, the camp at Mons Rea is on the southern slope of the hill, overlooking the oppidum, with the inner circuit stretching to both sides. However, the outer circuit climbs the slope of the hill at both sides, but does not meet. The terrain at the top of Mons Rea is rocky. They could not put a ditch through it without many weeks’ work, driving in stakes is near impossible, and there is not enough earth on the ground to form a bank. Their only option would have been to encircle the entire hill, which would have almost doubled their circuit distance. And so the outer wall converges on the camp, just like the inner one. There is our weak spot.’
Commius blinked in surprise. ‘Our weak spot is a Roman camp occupied by two legions!’
‘But one camp. No trench, wall, tower and spike defences. Just a normal camp rampart. We break into that camp and take it and we have a defendable passage through the whole system to unite with the trapped army.’
‘I doubt the Romans will simply let us walk in. They will send everyone they have to defend it.’
‘They will not, Commius. For just before noon tomorrow you and Lucterius and the other solid cavalry commanders will lead the cavalry out onto the plain in a threatening manner, supported by a portion of the infantry. You will pose such a threat that the Romans will be forced to bolster the walls there against you.’
‘While you…?’
Vergasillaunus smiled. ‘As soon as night falls tonight I will take thirty thousand men - the strongest and swiftest we have, selected by their own leaders - and we will head west and then north. By the approach of dawn we will be in position behind the peak of Mons Rea. We will then spend the morning recovering and preparing and as soon as the Romans commit against you on the plain at noon, we will assault the Mons Rea camp from an unexpected direction. My cousin will, of course, see what is happening. He will commit as soon as we do, possibly against the plains walls, in which case you will aid them there, or against the camp with us. Either way, by the setting of the sun tomorrow we will secure a breach in the walls and unite the armies. Then Caesar cannot hope to hold us. We will wipe his army from the land.’
Lucterius felt his heart beating faster. It was a sound plan; a good plan. And if it worked, this would be it. The end of the war and the end of Caesar.
* * * * *
Cavarinos stood at the oppidum wall, looking over the Romans as they worked to repair and replenish their defensive system, past that to the piles of dead heaped on the plain and to the hill beyond where the relief army were encamped, and yet not really seeing any of it.
The Fortuna pendant at his throat seemed to burn cold now all the time, as if taunting him, or perhaps cursing him. His hand went to the leather pouch at his belt, which held the broken, spent slate tablet of Ogmios’ curse, once more wrapped snugly. In a seemingly miraculous fashion - curse the Roman goddess at his throat - the only people to have seen what happened down by the walls had fallen to Roman missiles before they could flee. No one here therefore was aware that the curse had been used - and to what dreadful effect.
And he would have to keep it that way.
He had revealed the curse to the leaders of the army so many weeks ago back in Gergovia and without it there would have been a revolt in which the king would have lost most of his forces. Instead, Cavarinos had shown them the tablet, bolstering their courage, and drawing them back to the fold. They followed Vercingetorix largely in the ridiculous belief that the Gods were with them. To show them the broken tablet would be to put the entire army’s future at risk. And, of course, there would be some rather awkward explaining to do, also.
Strangely, apart from a somewhat unsavoury dream during the three hours’ troubled post-dawn sleep he’d managed, in which his parents had beaten him to death for what he had done and demanded that he seek out and destroy Fronto, he had discovered that he felt absolutely nothing over his brother’s death. No guilt. No shame. Not even a jolt of sadness. But no joy or satisfaction either. Just a sense of sudden freedom, half-swallowed by a hollow emptiness. It had taken deep thinking to come to the conclusion that he had probably done the army and the tribes a great service in his fratricidal deed. It had come as a curious epiphany, as well, to discover that he prized the survival of one of the enemy over his own brother, and he was still unsure as to whether he had called down the curse primarily in order to kill Critognatos or to save Fronto. It was something he wasn’t quite ready to come to terms with. Indeed, until he looked into Fronto’s eyes across the battlefield, he could not be sure whether he would avenge his brother and settle the shades of his parents, or put friendship and the potential future of a peaceful Gaul ahead of such sick trivia.
‘He died as he lived,’ a voice said from behind, startling him. He turned to see Vercingetorix standing behind him, holding out a wooden platter with a few stringy fragments of meat and a chunk of bread that had clearly seen better days.’
‘Knee deep in blood and filth, you mean?’ Cavarinos said harshly and uncharitably.
‘A warrior’s death. They say that even as we pulled out and back to the oppidum, Critognatos and his cadre of warriors saw a small Roman sortie and decided to refuse them their victory. I gather that you were among that crowd, and it seems a gods’ gift that you survived. I am grateful for it, though… I will have need of your cunning these coming days. Now eat. There is not much, but we must all keep our strength up as best we can. We may not have broken out yet, but my cousin will not leave us languishing for long. Rest assured he will already have another plan, and we must be ready to follow along when he shows himself to us.
‘I am sick of war.’
The king gave him an odd look, but recovered quickly into an understanding smile. ‘None of us want to fight forever, Cavarinos. But it will end soon. And you know as well as I that this is about more than just throwing Caesar out of our lands. That is just the catalyst that will change everything. We are at last one nation under one man, and I will not let that collapse when the Romans are gone. If we want to take our place in the world in the manner of a Rome or Aegyptus or Parthia, we must centralise and become a power. The druids brought us here, though they now sit back in their nemetons and watch us carry out the war. It was they who began everything and they have been the glue that bound the tribes together. But now we are whole and it is time they relinquished their hold over our people. Rome has made us into Gaul, and I will continue their good work in their absence.’
‘It is a glorious dream,’ Cavarinos sighed.
‘It is no dream. We are on the cusp, my friend. The next few days will see this war at an end. I can feel it in my blood. And then we must begin the true work of building a nation. Gergovia will always be my home and our greatest fortress, but the Aedui are at the heart of the peoples and Bibracte must be our capital. We must have a senate like Rome, even if I am to be king. The tribes must all have a voice, but they must combine to become a choir with one song, the druids serving the people as Rome’s priests do, rather than guiding them. I need men like you in that senate, Cavarinos. My cousin is a good warrior and a great general, but you are a man with deeper intellect. You will lead the Arverni when I lead Gaul.’
Cavarinos was too tired even to show surprise.
‘I hope it all works out as you propose. But I have a nagging feeling that something is wrong somewhere. Something is about to halt us in our tracks, I fear.’ He turned looked out over the plain again. ‘Don’t misunderstand me - I very much hope I’m wrong. But I cannot shake the feeling.’
‘Intellect is a great thing, but sometimes it leads a man to question even the truths of the world. We will see what we will see. The gods are with us and the tribes are still spoiling for a fight. We have one more raging battle in us and we need to make it count.’
The king placed the plate on the wall top next to the silent nobleman and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder before wandering off back into the city. Cavarinos turned to watch Vercingetorix depart and noted out of the corner of his eye the figure of Molacos, the Cadurci hunter, standing impassively along the wall with folded arms. That cadaverous face twisted into an unpleasant smile as the man gave a tight nod and then turned and sloped off.
One last battle. And then? Peace either way, but what peace?
* * * * *
Fronto stood before the small mound that had been raised at the foot of the Gods’ Gate hill, at the southern edge of the plain and in the wider space between the two lines of rampart. Beneath it lay half his singulares unit, attested by the swords standing proud from the turf at the top. Silently, he listed their names reverently.
Palmatus. A man he’d only known two years or so, and yet had become as close a friend as any. A man who had treated Fronto as an equal despite the gulf in their rank and social status. And yet a good friend. Butchered by the bodyguard who had accompanied Cavarinos’ savage brother.
Quietus. A man who had joined him in more than one deadly struggle.
Celer. As fast as his name, with a mind and tongue even faster than that.
Numisius. Recovered from a broken arm after a fight in the Arduenna forest, tough as ever.
Iuvenalis. An artillerist by trade who had been a master of the grapnel.
The remains of his bodyguard - Masgava, Biorix, Samognatos, Arcadios and Aurelius - stood silent and respectful beside him, honouring the dead. Five survivors of a unit that had been almost twenty strong early the previous year. A former gladiator, a Gallic engineer, a Belgic scout, a Cretan archer. And Aurelius. Despite the sombre occasion, the presence of Aurelius always seemed to make him smile. The man was superstitious to a fault and unlucky enough that if anything humorous and embarrassing were to happen, it would happen to him. And yet a model soldier and a trusted friend.
Friends were becoming fewer and fewer these days.
His gaze dropped to the urn in his arms. Priscus. The cinerary jar was still warm from the ashes within, the pyre black and charred, staining the grass with the memory of death. Priscus. It was harder than anything to believe him gone. The men of his singulares deserved their honours, but somehow the loss of Priscus had utterly eclipsed them. He really had little idea what to do with the urn. It couldn’t stay here in Gaul, clearly. When this was all over, it would have to go back with him, but where? To Massilia where he would no doubt have to think about constructing a family mausoleum? Or to Rome, where his family already had such a tomb? Or perhaps to Puteoli where the family mausoleum still had spaces from generations of dead? Or better still, to the holdings of the Vinicii down in Campania? It would be the most appropriate compliment to take him back to the arms of his family, but somehow he felt that Priscus might be more at home with Fronto’s family, estranged from his own as he was.
He turned to the five men with him, reaching up and touching his tender nose and eye that were swollen and discoloured after the fight beyond the walls - an unending background ache.
‘That’s it. No more. I want each one of you to survive this, even if you have to hide in a ditch or run like a coward. I’ve lost too many friends this season. This morning I went to see the general, as you know. The thing is that while Masgava is a freedman and employed by me, and Samognatos is a hired levy, the rest of you are still tied to the eagle despite being in my guard. No more. I have attained your honesta missio this morning as though you had served a full term. When this fight is over and the season ends, you can consider yourselves free men. You will have your pension and your plot of land.’
The men looked at one another in surprise and Fronto gave that half-smile again. ‘But if you want to continue to serve the Falerii, I will be in need of good men in Massilia, and I have made sure that your land grants are within Roman territory but so close to Massilia that if you fart on your land I’ll hear it on mine. Make sure you survive these last few days and I shall be retiring to Massilia, hopefully with men I trust around me.’
An image of Lucilia and the boys swam into his mind.
‘The war is almost over, lads. Peace is almost upon us.’
* * * * *
The cornu blared its warning and Fronto looked up from the table, where Masgava had almost entirely cleared the latrunculi board of his employer’s pieces. For a gladiator who had never even seen the game until Fronto introduced him to it two years ago, he was unsettlingly good at it.
‘An attack?’ the big Numidian asked quietly, noting the distant call. He was gradually becoming used to the army’s signals, and recognised most of the Tenth’s, but he still had some trouble with the different unit calls, and the melody blaring out across the lines outside the small command tent belonged to the Fifteenth, one of the four legions whose men continually garrisoned the section of defences on the plain.
‘The Fifteenth - a call to the standard. Preparation, so something’s going on. Come on.’
The two men, already in kit given the lateness of the morning, spilled from the tent to see the legions moving to their standards or to positions on the ramparts, as assignment required. Beyond the Fifteenth’s calls, which were being issued by a cornicen only twenty paces from the tent, the musicians of the Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth were also calling the alarm. Biorix, Samognatos, Arcadios and Aurelius stood nearby, already having collected their weapons and shields in preparation. Almost a day had passed since the burnings and interment of the dead, and last night had been entirely uneventful for the six men who had joined Antonius and Varus to send off the souls of their friends through the medium of drink. But each had felt that building of pressure that a career soldier comes to recognise as the approach of action, and each of them was ready for the next Gallic push.
With his singulares in tow, Fronto jogged across the ground, trying to keep to the paths that the legions had laid with sections of timber amid the churned mud that had once been turf. Up the steps to the rampart he climbed, shading his eyes against the brightness of the day as he looked out across the plain.
The mass of horsemen spread out across the flat ground before the enemy camp seemed undiminished since they had first arrived. Despite being soundly beaten, the Gallic reserve cavalry appeared as numerous as ever and the huge press of men and beasts was gathering, seemingly for an attack, below their hill. Behind them, Fronto could just see another gathering of infantry on the hill.
‘What are they playing at?’ Fronto muttered, his eyes narrowing.
‘Massing for an attack, sir,’ said a centurion off to his left - someone he didn’t recognise, but probably from the Fifteenth.
‘Why the cavalry, then? Horse aren’t much use against ramparts.’
‘Perhaps they are hoping to draw out our cavalry again?’ Masgava hazarded.
‘Varus won’t do that. Caesar and he learned their lesson last time, when the enemy pulled tricks and traps on them. And the infantry are lurking at the back. It’s all a bit strange.’
‘Maybe they’ll do it the German way?’ Aurelius offered, and Fronto nodded at the thought. Despite the tactics of the German cavalry now serving with Caesar, the common method of Germanic horse was to ride to the fray, then leap from their horses and fight as infantry while their slaves held the reins until they returned. But that was not usually the way of the more civilised Gallic tribes.
‘Something’s wrong.’
Around the defences, more signals went up and Fronto turned to see Antonius marching along the space between the ramparts in full glittering kit. A distant shape was approaching from the south and the white horse and red cloak confirmed his initial thought: Caesar was coming to take a hand in matters. The legate frowned.
‘Caesar coming down here, and listen… those signals.’
The others cocked their heads or cupped their ears. Most of them were long-term soldiers and knew enough signals to catch the details long before Masgava had unthreaded them.
‘Calling down the reserves,’ Aurelius said quietly.
Biorix nodded. ‘Not just these four legions either. I can hear the Ninth and Fourteenth. Every man in the western half of the circuit that can be spared. Someone thinks this wall is about to be assaulted worse than ever.’
‘Which is, I fear, exactly what the enemy wants us to think. The commanders think they’re preventing a repeat of the last struggle by increasing the manpower here, responding to a simple show of force and starting to concentrate troops on the plain. But the enemy’s attacked here twice and I don’t think they’re daft enough to try the same a third time. This is a feint, and we’re falling for it.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’ Arcadios asked in his thick Greek accent. ‘Looks to me like the reserve force is spreading out to launch an attack all along the wall from hill to hill.’
Fronto followed his gesture. It did indeed look exactly like that. ‘I don’t doubt there will be an attack here,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t think it’ll be the main one.’
He turned at the distant sound of carnyxes.
‘Sounds like Vercingetorix and his men have woken up. They’ve seen it, too. Watch them go for the inner walls. We’re about to be hit from both sides again.’
‘So it’s not a feint?’ Arcadios frowned.
‘Yes it is, but it’s an enormous one. The enemy out there are using the cavalry to draw us all to the plains. The Gauls trapped in the oppidum are cut off. They can’t have any more idea what’s happening than we do, so they’re following suit. But something else is happening. I asked you why the cavalry? The answer’s simple. Their bulk is hiding the fact that their infantry is diminished. Half the enemy foot aren’t there.’
Masgava frowned. ‘So where are they?’
‘That,’ Fronto said flatly, ‘is the important question.’
Turning, he jogged down to where Antonius was approaching the sector’s command post, upon which Caesar was also converging.
‘Fronto. Good. I’ve drawn as many men as I can down here. I’m not going to let us fall short of manpower like last time.’
‘Counter the order,’ Fronto said, breathlessly.
‘What?’
‘Get everyone back to their posts,’ he added, hurriedly.
‘Why?’
‘It’s a feint. Something’s going on. We’re just playing into their hands.’
‘You been sacrificing goats and reading their livers, Fronto?’
‘I’ve been looking carefully at the enemy and working out what I’d do in their place. They’ve failed a direct assault on the plains twice, and only an idiot would try a third time with a tired army.’ He looked north and south along the open space between the walls, where men scurried around preparing the supplies against an attack. Fresh cohorts of men from six legions were hurrying to the flat ground to bolster the lines. He thought for a moment and rubbed his scalp. ‘You were involved in the planning of the circumvallation, Antonius. Is there a weakness anywhere?’
‘A weakness?’
‘Yes. A weak spot. Somewhere that the Gauls don’t have to face twin ramparts, ditches and lilia?’
Antonius fell into deep thought and shrugged. ‘Well there’s Mons Rea. We couldn’t drive the outer rampart and ditch over the hill and didn’t have the time to encompass it, so the defences there are basically the camp ones.’
Fronto’s head shot round to the looming bulk of Mons Rea.
‘But that’s where the largest camp is, Fronto. The home of the Twelfth and Fifteenth. Caninius and Reginus. Only a lunatic would attack the camp of two legions.’
‘Not if most of those two legions were busy down here. That camp is under-manned.’
Even as Caesar slowed on his approach, a question in his expression, Fronto realised how much danger they might be in, the alarms going up on Mons Rea. His searching eyes picked out a huge force of men on foot pouring down the slope above the camp, making for the northern walls. ‘We’ve got trouble,’ he shouted and pointed at the hill. Turning to Antonius and Caesar, he rolled his head, his neck clicking. ‘You need to give the orders to get the men back to their positions and send reinforcements to Mons Rea.’ Gesturing to his singulares, he pointed at the flood of men on the distant hill.
‘Come on.’
* * * * *
Cavarinos felt hollow. Around him, the entire population of Alesia swarmed, committed to the slope and to the push. The forces of the rebel army had been waiting, ready and twitching, for over a day now, watching the reserve forces like a hawk for the next move. As soon as the cavalry had taken the field and the infantry had begun to move off the slope behind them, Vercingetorix had given the order and the entire army had been let loose. No reserves; no wounded held back - there was no point. As the king had so carefully pointed out in private, the rebels had one good fight left in them before starvation and depression wreaked havoc through the mass and brought them to their knees. One last fight. One last try. The fifty thousand plus warriors of the trapped army were fanning out as they descended to attack each section of the defences at once, hopefully putting the Romans under enough pressure that they would have to divide their forces and thin out the defences.
And with them, the rebel army had brought every piece of equipment the king had commissioned during their time trapped on the hill. Grapple hooks on lengths of rope were wound over men’s shoulders. Similar hooks on the end of long poles rested over beefy shoulders. Hide-covered wooden shelters, large enough to cover half a dozen men and pre-wetted against fire, were carried by four strong men apiece. Then there was the usual array of ladders, faggots of sticks, wicker shields for the archers and so on.
It was the most impressive army on the move Cavarinos had ever seen. It was all or nothing; total commitment, and they stood as much chance of success as any Gallic army ever had. The chieftains of the individual tribes involved worked independently, just as Vercingetorix had planned, essentially the native equivalent of a legion. Each leader selected what they saw as a weaker spot in the defences and urged their men at it, the equipment shared out among the tribes as fairly as possible.
It should have been glorious. Win or lose, it should have been glorious. A teetering moment of victory and the end of Roman interference in the tribes. Or a wondrous, noble, fated charge into the face of annihilation. Either way, it should have been glorious.
But Cavarinos felt empty.
It was not the fear - he was Gaul enough to show no fear, and man enough to recognise that every man felt fear, but it was how that fear was dealt with that was important. He had forced the terror down and conquered it.
It was the sheer weariness of the whole thing. What had begun many, many months ago as a great and noble cause for freedom had been tainted so many times by division, betrayal, anger, selfishness and intolerance that it was hardly recognisable any more. And Cavarinos’ personal journey had uncovered something that had left him rather uncomfortable: that some of the Romans deserved preserving and encouraging more than many of his own people.
Fronto had told him that Rome would never give in. Vercingetorix talked big about the future of a united Gaul that was a match for Parthia or Rome, but Fronto had had the truth of it, and Cavarinos recognised it as such: Rome maintained a grudge that was centuries old, and defeating Caesar would not put an end to it. If anything, it would only fuel Rome’s fury. Only when either Rome or Gaul was subservient to the other would there be a chance of lasting peace.
Peace… that was what it was all about now.
And Cavarinos had come to the sad conclusion that he did not really care too much whether he lived to see that peace, for Gaul would seethe and fracture if it lost. Just as the Romans would not let the matter rest, men like his brother - or Vercingetorix, or Lucterius, or Teutomarus - would always harbour the desire to reignite the flame of rebellion, even if all there was in Gaul was already charred wood and ashes. Would it be a land worth living in? Among angry tribes feeling betrayed by one another and men endlessly pushing for hopeless rebellions?
No, he would fight as much as any man in this last battle, but that was exactly what it was for him: the last battle. No more.
Having left the leadership of the Arverni to the king, despite Vercingetorix’s request that he command them, Cavarinos drew his sword and left his kin, making for what looked to him to be the most distant sector of the fighting: at the Roman camp on the lower slopes of Mons Rea.
* * * * *
Fronto paused as they reached the small officers’ corral in the open ground at the centre of the defences, where the equisio and his stable hands were busy feeding and brushing the mounts. Here rested all the horses of the officers on duty in the sector, centrally gathered, as well as a dozen or more healthy mounts kept as spares or for long-distance courier duties.
The equisio - the man responsible for the welfare of all the mounts - was a curious fellow. Short and rotund, he bore little resemblance to an ordinary soldier, but then he had not been chosen for such a well-paid and sought-after post because of his fitness or weapon skills. An equisio was almost always a man more at home with horses than other humans, with an almost preternatural understanding of their needs. This particular one had a ruddy complexion, a slightly upturned nose that put Fronto in mind of a distinctly porcine creature, and between ten and twenty thick strands of ginger hair that crossed his head from side to side, kept down by the slick of sweat on his bald dome.
‘I need Bucephalus immediately.’
The equisio nodded, saluting but simultaneously gesturing for Fronto to lower his voice.
Fronto did so automatically. ‘And five spare steeds for my men.’
Without question or argument, the senior stable master gestured to one of his stable hands. ‘Have Bucephalus brought round, as well as Ajax, Thanatos, Sagitta, Sperus and Alba.’
Fronto turned to the others. ‘Thanatos sounds like yours, Masgava. The rest of you, pick a horse and mount up. I’ll see to it that we keep them afterwards.’ Masgava raised an eyebrow at his beast’s name, which he knew to be an ancient personification of death among the Greek peoples - he’d personally dropped two men who claimed the name into the bloody sand of the arena. Sure enough, when the animals were led out, Thanatos proved to be a great black beast with a fiery temper, larger even than Bucephalus and several hands taller than any other horse present. He looked at the beast for a moment and then broke into a broad grin and vaulted with ease into the saddle, dropping between the four horns neatly.
Fronto hauled himself with the usual difficulty, careful not to rupture something delicate and soft on the horns. Next to them the others mounted and, at Fronto’s gesture, they broke into a walk, a trot and then a run, making for the Mons Rea camp.
The double line of defences ran for perhaps three quarters of a mile from the command post of the plains sector to the southern rampart of the Mons Rea encampment. The camp began at the lowest slope of the hill and covered a large area to perhaps halfway from the crest, in a roughly square form. The inner and outer lines of defences converged here due to the terrain and, had Fronto even visited the camp since the circumvallation was first planned, he might have argued the poor defensive nature of this one position. Relying on the Gauls not having the balls to launch an assault directly on a two-legion camp was simply not enough, as those same Gauls had now proved by launching that very attack and using a continued sustained assault on the plains sector to draw away the Roman officers’ focus.
The horses thundered along the line, veering left and right to avoid large groups of supply officers and men rushing hither and thither in answer to their own unit’s signals. Still, overall, they could hear the sounds of six legions’ cornicens issuing the order for the men to return to their posts and halt the thinning of the defences elsewhere in favour of the plains.
Finally, after what felt like an age of plunging through ordered chaos, accompanied by the carnyxes and war cries of enemy forces seemingly all around, the six horsemen crossed one of the temporary plank bridges that carried the fortifications across the Osa River and left the flat of the plain, climbing the very lowest slopes of Mons Rea.
Already the other end of the camp - to the north and at the higher elevation - was clearly under serious attack and Fronto was surprised, as he looked up at the southern gate of the camp, to see a full complement of legionaries strung out along the rampart and above the gate. As the six of them approached and gave the day’s watchword, the gate swinging open to admit them, Fronto ground his teeth at the idiocy of it. The north wall of the camp was under attack by probably a third of the entire Gallic reserve army, and yet the camp’s garrison had spread their forces across all the walls evenly.
Angrily, Fronto rode inside and looked around until he spotted a centurion among the men behind the gate, overseeing the distribution of supplies and equipment along the walls and into carts for the plains sector. Leaving his friends to enter behind him, Fronto walked the impatient, snorting Bucephalus over to the officer. ‘What in the name of Juno’s greasy shit is going on?’
The centurion saluted with a confused frown. ‘Sir?’
‘Your northern wall is hard pressed, man, yet you’re concentrating men on every front. Explain?’
‘The signals, sir. Maintain positions and hold. Legate Caninius had told us that the general gave the order to hold and not redeploy, and all the legions are signalling that order.’
Fronto stared at the man. ‘The signals were to stop the redoubts and camps around the circumvallation sending their needed men to the plains sector, not to keep every man rigidly in position no matter what was happening around them. Use your damn common sense, man.’
‘Sir?’
Fronto resisted the urge to give the man a slap. ‘You’re wearing half a dozen decorations, so you should know better than this. Unless you have a serious fear that you’re about to come under attack from your sister legions, get these men up to the north wall and try not to let thousands of Gauls walk across it.’
‘Sir… respectfully, you command the Tenth. I can’t give that kind of order against the commands of my own legate.’
Eyes narrowed, Fronto scanned the other men nearby. Behind the centurion’s right shoulder stood a veteran legionary with a scarred face, holding the tablet and stylus that contained the watchwords. The Tessarius - the third in command of a century. The man was trying very hard to conceal an expression of mixed contempt and disbelief at his officer.
‘You. What’s your name?’
‘Statilius, sir. Tessarius. Second cohort, Third century.’
‘Congratulations, Statilius. This is a field promotion. You’re now an acting centurion. I’ll clear it with your legate when we’re not under attack and hip deep in the shit. Now take command of this shambles and get these men to the north wall.’
The veteran legionary saluted in a business-like manner and turned, immediately issuing the required orders, taking two men in every three and sending them up the slope towards the distant sounds of combat. Fronto looked at the centurion whose face was rapidly purpling, but who had finally found the sense not to explode in front of a legionary legate.
‘You can argue this out with your own legate when - if - we make it through this almighty cock up. For now, command your nice safe south wall.’ With a malicious smile, he kicked his horse and rode off towards the east gate, his singulares in tow, leaving the centurion on the verge of eruption, his face a marbled puce colour.
‘I wonder how many others are having similar problems with the calls and the orders,’ Masgava mused as he trotted alongside.
‘I don’t know, but blind obedience is only useful if you temper it with a bit of common sense. Look!’
The situation was clearly the same at the eastern rampart, though at least here there seemed to be an excuse. The incline upon which the camp sat gave the riders a good view across the defences down towards the no-man’s-land between here and the oppidum, and a small enemy force was rushing for the camp’s wall. Not many - perhaps four hundred, maybe four fifty - they were essentially the extreme right flank of the trapped rebel force that had sallied forth along the entire length of the walls.
Fronto looked across at the centurion commanding the gate guard and rode towards him, sliding from the saddle and clambering up the slope to the gate top. ‘Tell me you’re not going to keep a full complement of men here against a few hundred while many thousands attack the north wall.’
The centurion turned an embarrassed look on the legate. ‘Orders, sir, though I can’t say as I like it.’
‘Good. As a senior officer of Caesar’s staff, I am giving you a direct order. Take half your forces, including the reserve century, and reinforce the north.’
An expression of profound relief crossed the centurion’s face and he saluted and ran off, shouting for his signifer and musician. Mere heartbeats passed before the calls went up and every other man stepped back from the palisade, hurrying down the slope to form up on the standard.
Fronto looked along the line, having to lean past the bulk of Masgava who had taken the centurion’s place at his side. Another centurion, clearly of a lesser century, stood a dozen paces further down the rampart.
‘I am Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth Equestris, and I’m taking command of this wall’s defence.’ The centurion saluted and Fronto nodded his satisfaction. Better officers than at the south wall, then. Their shields bore the bull emblem of Caesar as well as the XV of Reginus’ Fifteenth legion. He looked down at the defences. While the double circumvallation consisted of a towered fence atop a rampart protected by sharpened branches, twin ditches, lilia pits, metal spikes, caltrops and pointed stakes, this was a standard camp. A timber palisade protected by a rampart and single ditch. If ever there was a weak spot begging to be attacked…
‘Hold the wall top, Centurion. There aren’t many of them, so you should have no difficulty. Use your discretion. If you manage to thin out the enemy enough to be sure they pose no further threat then send more men to the north. I leave that decision to you.’
‘And where will you be, legate?’
‘The gate. It’s potentially a weak point. There’s an unprotected crossing of the ditches there, so you can be sure a few of them will try for it.’
The centurion nodded and gestured to two of his men. ‘Calatorius? Nilus? Take your contubernia down below and support the legate at the gate.’
The men saluted and sixteen legionaries stepped back and descended, the soldiers at the rampart shuffling along to fill in the gaps they left. Fronto smiled again in recognition of the efficiency of the men around him. He had no qualms about leaving the upper rampart in this centurion’s hands, though as he approached the gate he was concerned to note that it was formed of only a single thickness of oak slats, bound and hinged with rope and barred with only a single light beam.
‘Whoever was in charge of this construction should be beaten with his own gate!’ he grumbled as he stepped close. ‘This wouldn’t hold long against a breathless old woman.’ The four men who were already here had the grace to look at the floor at the comment. ‘Apologies, sir. Not our construction, though.’
Fronto nodded. ‘Nothing we can do now. We’ll just have to hold it.’ He looked around at the force he commanded. Twenty legionaries, five singulares and himself. Twenty six men. A double-leaved gate some eight feet in width. He turned to look inside the camp and rubbed his purpled cheek.
‘We can’t keep this gate shut against them. It just won’t hold. So all we can do is form an inner redoubt. See those three carts?’ He gestured to the two contubernia who’d joined him from the walls. ‘Get them over here and form a ‘U’ around the inside of the gate with them. Tip them on their sides and form a rampart. Use any barrels, crates, sacks and ropes you can find to strengthen it.’ He looked at the four men who had been on guard here. ‘You four go get as many pila as you can. If any of you can use a bow, requisition one. Get the stuff and get back here before I have time for a long fart. Got it?’
The four men nodded, saluted, and scurried off towards the nearest supply dump. He turned to his singulares. ‘We’ll stand ready in case they break through the gate while the other lads are still working, but I think we have a short while yet.’
Leaving Masgava distributing the men in a semi-circle, Fronto jogged forward and put an eye to a crack in the gate. The enemy force were spreading out, only a few dozen paces away, but perhaps a hundred of them were making for the causeway that would lead them to the flimsy gate. A command above sent a flurry of pila out against them, dropping a score of running men at distance. Fronto blinked as a familiar figure pushed his way from the throng to the fore of the attack, his face a bleak and tragic mask.
‘Bollocks!’
* * * * *
Back along the inner rampart, as the artillery continued to thud and crunch and twang their deadly rain on the attacking Gauls, Vercingetorix stood tall amid the death, his winged helmet marking him as easily to his men as the red-robed figure on the white horse he could occasionally see behind the Roman defences did to his legionaries. Caesar was constantly on the move, encouraging and cajoling his men. Vercingetorix nodded in respect for his enemy, wishing there was some way he could magically transport himself to the old general’s side to face him in honourable combat.
‘We’re being thrashed,’ an old, cracked voice said from close by, and the Arvernian king turned to see the blood-spattered, aged figure of Teutomarus of the Nitiobriges, rubbing his sore back and standing with a slight stoop, leaning on his sword.
‘We are taking heavy losses, but so are the Romans, and we are but one hammer of three that pound them.’
‘If we keep this up for another hour or two there will be few of us left to boast of our glory,’ Teutomarus groaned and tried to straighten. Vercingetorix looked his ally up and down. The man was too old and weary really to be fighting. He should be at home, leaving this to his sons. But who was the king of the Arverni to deny a chieftain his right to glory. Instead he nodded.
‘We do what we must. Look to the hill,’ he pointed at Mons Rea and Teutomarus followed his finger. ‘See how my cousin has found their weakness. Vergasillaunus presses home an attack on the Roman camp there. That is where this battle will be won or lost. Like those on the plain outside, we do what we must to keep the Romans from sending reinforcements there.’
Teutomarus nodded and lifted his sword in a tired arm. ‘Then let us hope your cousin knows what he’s doing, my young Arvernian king. And we will go and kill some more Romans.’
The old man lurched off, staggering, towards the ramparts and Vercingetorix lingered for just a moment, looking up at the brutal fight going on at Mons Rea. As soon as he saw that north wall fall, he would pull his men in that direction and make for the camp to combine forces. Victory was almost in his grasp; so close he could almost taste it.