Gallia Invicta mm-3 Read online

  “Take me to the watch centurion.”

  The soldier saluted and started to march off at high speed down the road toward the bridge. As they strode forth, Galba peered ahead into the darkness. It may have been dry, but the sky was filled with fast clouds that hid the stars from view and it was hard to pick out detail at any distance. The bridge was the only area of the camp defences that was still under construction. The old Celtic bridge of heavy wooden piles with no rails had been upgraded, given a new surface and sides, but also incorporated into a new fortified gate system at that end of the camp. It appeared, as he squinted into the darkness, that work was almost complete.

  Beyond, past the narrow, swift waters of the Dranse, the settlement of the Veragri lay silent and dark. It would have been eerie, but for the fact that, since the arrival of the Twelfth Legion, the native settlement had been silent and dark every night.

  The pair approached the gate and bridge to see a small group of soldiers at the entrance, two of them bearing officer’s crests.

  “Centurion?”

  The men turned and saluted as their legate came to a halt before them.

  “Legatus. You’ve heard the news, sir?”

  Galba nodded.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Well, sir” the centurion said, tapping his vine staff idly on his leg, “one of the lads thought he saw something out there in the fields about an hour ago. We didn’t think much of it. Picket guards is always seeing things in the dark and this was on the other side of the river, way out past the town…”

  Galba frowned.

  “What did he see?”

  “Said he thought he saw maybe a half dozen people running off toward the valley side, sir. Well we watched for another twenty minutes or so, sir, but saw nothing more. No one else appeared and no other guard saw them.”

  The irritation was welling up in Galba. Baculus was right. These men were too inexperienced to be commanding a campaign like this.

  “And this seemed unimportant enough to go on watching without having any kind of alarm raised?”

  The centurion flinched.

  “Well sir, it was only a few folk and they was running away, not coming toward us; and that’s even if he wasn’t mistaken about it anyway.”

  “Centurion, we are in hostile lands, surrounded by a treacherous bunch who would outnumber us a hundred to one if they all pull together. What else happened?”

  “Well, I looked hard at the town and realised that there was no smoke coming from the roofs and it’s quite a cold night, sir. If they was just settled in for the night, they’d be keeping warm sir.”

  “And this didn’t push you to raise the alarm?”

  “I sent a patrol across the bridge to check the town, sir.”

  Galba rubbed his temples as he squeezed his eyes shut.

  “And they discovered the town was completely deserted. And then you decided to send for me?”

  “Yes sir. They must have run away.”

  Galba stared at the man. Clearly, he was an idiot. The legate was winding himself up to deliver a tirade when he noticed the startled looks on the faces of the soldiers around them and forced himself to relax, exhaling slowly. The officer class were still very inexperienced, but they were all he had and hauling them over the coals in front of their men would hardly serve to improve matters at this point. He nodded to himself and kept a straight face as he turned to the optio beside them.

  “Raise the alarm, but do it quietly. No buccinas or shouting. Just pass the word and get every man awake, dressed, equipped and to the wall as fast as you can.”

  The optio saluted and ran off, taking several of the legionaries with him to help spread the word and Galba turned back to the centurion.

  “I want a dozen of your fastest men out of their armour and split into groups of three. Send one group down each branch of the valley, past the town. I want a three mile search down there and then they can report back. The other two groups need to get up the valley sides and to the top of these hills. I want a clear picture of what’s going on here.”

  “You think there’s trouble, sir?”

  “You’re damn right I think there’s trouble. They’ve not run away; they’ve no reason to. And if they’re not running away that means they’re organising; massing somewhere. We could be knee deep in the shit any minute now.”

  The centurion nodded, a hunted look about his eyes, and sent one his men to rouse the soldiers of his century and bring them to the gate.

  Galba ignored the quiet activity going on around him as the camp burst into silent, eerie life. Instead, he climbed the steps to the rampart by the bridge gate and turned slowly, casting his gaze over their surroundings. The town had emptied under the cover of darkness, and that meant that they were gathering somewhere secretly. There were seven hundred or so left of the Twelfth and at least twice that number of enemies had just left Octodurus. There was no doubt in Galba’s mind that the Veragri from the town had met up with a much larger force somewhere. His uneasiness of the last few days seemed to have been well founded.

  Squinting, he peered off down first one valley and then the other, straying up the slopes and…

  He stopped dead. Silvery moonlight had just, for a fleeting moment, flickered through the fast scudding clouds and there had been reflections, high up on the hills above the valley. Galba found he was holding his breath. Sharply, he reached out to the legionary nearby, who stood fast, watching the empty settlement across the river.

  “Soldier, look up on the hills above us. What can you see?”

  The legionary, startled at being addressed directly by his senior commander, turned and cast his own gaze up the vertiginous valley side. There was a long moment of silence and the legionary made some uncertain noises in his throat before finding his voice.

  “I can’t see anything, sir.”

  But he had.

  Before the sentence was fully out there was another brief flicker of moonlight and this time they knew what they were looking for. Only one thing could produce that effect; like the myriad points of light as the moon reflected on calm seas, there was a scattering of reflections along the mountain top. Spinning round, already knowing what he’d see, Galba focused on the matching force of glittering men on the opposite side of the valley.

  “Shit.”

  Ignoring the shocked stare of the legionary as he gawped at the huge force that loomed over them, Galba scoured the camp. The watch centurion was returning to the gate with a dozen men from his century while Baculus, already armoured, strode down the street toward them. As he turned, he spotted the tribune, Volusenus, hurrying out of one of the buildings, strapping on his belt and carrying his helmet. Furrowing his brow, Galba gestured down to the watch commander.

  “Belay my earlier orders, centurion… no time for that now. The hills above us are swarming with Celts. Get every man to the walls; we’ve not got long.”

  Shaking his head in irritation, he beckoned to Baculus and Volusenus and the two most senior officers of the Twelfth hurried across the space before the gate and joined their commander on the rampart.

  “Bad news, sir, I take it?”

  Galba nodded at the tribune.

  “They’re all over the hills above us. If they charge, they’ll be on us in minutes. Our only advantage right now is that I’ve kept the buccinas quiet and I’m hoping they haven’t paid too much attention to all the activity in the camp. Thing is, as you know, we’re vastly outnumbered, so I need your opinions. Can we hold out, or is it worth trying an ordered retreat before they attack?”

  Baculus shrugged.

  “We can hold out for a while, but not forever. There’s a lot more Celts around here they can call on and precious little chance of us getting any support. It’s a ‘gates of fire’ situation, legate: glorious, but suicidal.”

  Beside him, Volusenus was nodding.

  “True, but there is some value in certainty. Here we have the defences and we know the land. If we pull out,
we’re essentially marching into the unknown and will likely end up joining battle somewhere much less advantageous. We have no idea how many there are of the enemy or their disposition and we don’t know the territory in any direction well enough to plan ahead. My heart is already running for home, but my head says stay and fight where you know what you’re doing.”

  The primus pilus raised an eyebrow as he regarded the tribune for a moment and he finally nodded.

  “I concur, legate. I don’t like it, but he’s right.”

  Galba sighed. He had reached much the same conclusion, but had hoped for a flash of inspiration from his two veteran officers.

  “Very well. Then if we’re going to stay and do this the old-fashioned way, let’s do it properly.”

  He turned to the watch centurion, at the gate below, waiting for further orders.

  “Have the call to arms delivered from the buccinas, get the cavalry in with the men, have all the spare pila brought out to the walls and get the artillery crews to their weapons. Time to let them know we’re aware of them.”

  Tribune Volusenus leaned past him, a grin on his face.

  “And when you’ve delivered the order, centurion, take these dozen men of yours across the river and fire the town. Get the whole place blazing as fast as you can and then get back here.”

  He turned to the quizzical looks of his peers.

  “Less cover for them to hide behind and it effectively prevents them from attacking on one side until the fire dies down.”

  Galba nodded.

  “Fortuna and Mars smile on us tonight!”

  Baculus stood on the platform above the east gate of Roman Octodurus, surrounded by a centurion, an optio and a number of legionaries, while the ramparts stretched off to left and right, manned by the diminished cohorts of the Twelfth. Galba had taken the south wall and Volusenus the west, leaving the watch centurion to command the bridge entrance, should the enemy try to navigate the blazing streets.

  The cavalry had dismounted and were now bolstering the numbers on the ramparts but at this moment, defending the walls of a fort against overwhelming numbers, Baculus wished once more that Pansa and his auxiliary archers were here and not still quartered up in Belgae territory with Labienus.

  The walls of the fortification were punctuated with squat towers, each home to one or more of the precious few scorpion bolt throwers left with the Twelfth, while the remaining two ballistae and the single onager, of little use in this situation, were positioned together in the fort’s central square.

  They were as prepared as the numbers permitted, and Baculus clenched his teeth as he looked back up at the vast swathe of men on the hillside above.

  Only seconds later, a call bleated out from on high: a horrendous honking, followed by a messy metallic crash as the Gauls rapped their weapons on shields, helmets, or anything they could find to make noise.

  “Here they come, lads. Hold fast and pray! Pila first, but make them count.”

  The Veragri and their allies, the blaring and crashing done with, began to roll down the hillsides from their dizzy heights like a wave crashing toward the beleaguered Roman defenders. Baculus heard a soldier close to him mutter a prayer to Fortuna and nodded approvingly. They could all do with a little luck right now.

  Closer they came, racing down the slopes and the defenders of Octodurus watched, patiently and professionally but, as Baculus glanced here and there, he noted that where the men changed their grip on the javelins ready to cast, there were a number of shaky arms.

  “Ready…”

  He concentrated on the enemy force that had reached the valley floor and picked up speed now they had to pay less attention to their footing. Most of them were unarmoured, much like any other Celtic force he had seen. The majority of those few with breastplates, mail shirts or helmets were in the front row; nobles and powerful warriors among the tribe, displaying their wealth through attire and their valour through the position at the front.

  Unfortunately for them, like so many other Celtic charges Baculus had faced, the veterans knew how to break the morale of a force like that.

  “Artillery: aim for anyone wearing bronze. Same goes for every pilum you throw.”

  A little bit closer…

  “Artillery: loose!”

  A chorus of sharp cracks from the five towers along the wall mingled with those of the others around the far sides of the defences as the outnumbered Romans faced the attack on all sides. The initial volley of eight shots peppered the front line of charging Celts, each blow picking out one of the armoured nobles, punching through the protective bronze and killing or mortally wounding the man, throwing him back among the charge.

  Such, however, was the blood lust of the Veragri that the loss of a few nobles failed to even slow the charge. Baculus watched them come on, judging the distance from the wall and counting under his breath. Briefly he glanced up at the towers, just in time to catch the second volley as it began, hammering into the bronze-clad nobles. He nodded as he counted; the third volley would coincide nicely.

  The primus pilus waited patiently, counting down and, as the line of charging barbarians finally reached a good range, he raised and dropped his arm, shouting a command to release. The order went unheard over the roar of charging Celts, but the men had been waiting for the gesture and, as the scorpions released their third volley, two hundred javelins soared out over the wooden palisade and swooped down like a deadly hail into the front lines of the Veragri.

  The effect was impressive. Eight bolts at a time, no matter how well-placed, hardly drew the attention of the frothing, frenzied barbarians. Two hundred javelins punching through the line was, however, an entirely different matter.

  The bodies of the initial targets collapsed to the ground, causing a number of their comrades to trip and fall across them. The front ranks of the Veragri slowed in uncertainty as a fresh line of iron tips appeared over the parapet, awaiting the order.

  “Release!”

  The second volley of javelins flew forth from the battlements and plunged into the seething ranks of the Veragri. Chaos ensued as many of the ordinary warriors on the front lines attempted to push their way back through the crowd to flee the deadly hail of pila.

  “Arm and release spares at will and then prepare for melee!”

  The reserves and support staff below the turf and timber defences passed the few remaining cached javelins up to their compatriots on the walls. Baculus watched as roughly every other man received an extra shot and cast it as soon as he could before settling into a defensive position with gladius and shield.

  There was an eerie pause as the front line of the Veragri shuffled around, punctuated occasionally by the shot of one of the scorpions as the engineers fired down into the mass. Baculus tensed. Something would happen any moment now. He had known this to be the breaking point of some weaker assaults, but the Veragri had been planning this for a while, knew they outnumbered the Twelfth tremendously, and were slowly becoming aware that the rain of missiles had all but stopped.

  “Steady, lads…”

  The strange silence, somehow made all the more oppressive by the distant sounds of battle on other fronts, was broken by a stone, flung with amazing accuracy and power by some hidden arm among the barbarian crowd. The missile crested the wooden parapet, catching one of the legionaries square in the forehead with enough force to knock him from the walkway and send him tumbling down the earth slope within. Instantly one of the reserves stepped up and took his place while a capsarius rushed to help the fallen man. All along the wall, helmets sunk a little to meet shields coming up, closing the gap through which a stone could strike.

  And then suddenly the Celtic army answered the Roman artillery with a volley of their own. Hundreds of iron darts and sharp rocks began to arc up from the crowd, aimed at the defenders on the wall. Baculus ducked back behind his shield as he watched the projectiles strike home in increasing numbers. Here and there one would manage a lucky blow between the shields, hel
mets and wooden palisade and the location would be marked with a shriek and a crack of bone. Baculus leaned back in time to see two men topple from the parapet and down the interior slope of the rampart, either unconscious or dead.

  A quick glance upward showed that the towers were out of effective enemy missile range, the few shots aimed at them bouncing off the timber or falling short. Over the enemy onslaught, the engineers kept up their steady pace with the scorpions. Another glance at the mass of Veragri confirmed that the artillery were picking off more targets every minute than the Celts could manage with their darts and rocks, but the Twelfth would be unable to withstand the attrition rate for long.

  He realised with irritation that even the support staff and reserves were in danger, as missiles that crossed the parapet without striking home were falling among those inside the fort. Something would have to be done soon, or the reserves would end up buried in a pile of rocks.

  “Reserves and support staff…” he shouted down inside, attracting the attention of everyone he could. “Gather all the fallen missiles you can and get up into those towers where you can throw them back!”

  There was a pause for only a moment, while the more nervous of the men within weighed up the chances of being struck by one of these projectiles while gathering them if he left the safety of his shield. Then the interior of the camp burst into life, men grabbing baskets and sacks and beginning to fill them with darts and stones.

  Baculus turned back to the enemy, trying to ignore the occasional cry of pain from behind where one of the support staff was caught in the open by a falling stone. The men on the wall had given up hope, if that was an appropriate word, of being able to take on the enemy with swords and had closed up in small pockets with their shields raised, forming mini testudos that effectively protected them from almost any angle.