Gallia Invicta mm-3 Read online

  Baculus was impressed. He knew there were still a few veterans among the men, but that kind of quick thinking was what saved armies. Keeping himself covered as best he could, he watched tensely as bags and baskets were hauled up the towers on ropes that were used for rearming the artillery from the ground. The hail of projectiles was beginning to slow. Soon the enemy would run out of missiles, both purpose-made and hastily-gathered, and the assault would begin in earnest. At that point it would come down to pure numbers. The Roman army was the most effective force the world had known. Gods would tremble before the legions, but the simple fact was that no army, no matter how good, could fight odds like this for long.

  Men were now hurrying up the ladders and to the towers. As the primus pilus watched, two were caught mid-climb by stray weapons and thrown clear into the fort’s interior, but more arrived on the raised platforms every moment and, without waiting for the order from a superior, they began to cast the waste projectiles back among the enemy.

  Once again, the Celtic lines faltered under this fresh barrage and slowly the missile fire from both sides diminished and tailed off to the occasional lob, while the ‘thunk’ of scorpion fire continued unabated.

  “This is it, lads. Break your testudos now and get ready. I don’t want to see any of you fighting cleanly or being fair. If you see Gallic flesh, stab it, hack it, kick it or bite it. I don’t care what you do, just keep them off the ramparts.”

  There was a trickle of nervous laughter along the palisade as men resumed the traditional stance of the legionary line, shields presented and blades hefted at the ready.

  “Remember, we’re eagles, not sparrows! If the Twelfth are destined for Elysium today, we’re going to swim there in a river of barbarian blood!”

  A roar ran down the line, triggering a similar response from the enemy thirty yards away and the whole mass suddenly broke into a screaming run, bearing down on the walls with their handful of Roman defenders.

  “Here we go!”

  “Sun’s coming up!”

  “Thank you for stating the bloody obvious, Sep!”

  Baculus took the opportunity between exhausted sword thrusts to glance down the line at the source of the banter. Once again it reminded him of a truly veteran unit, where even hard pressed and in constant bloody danger, the troops could find something to laugh at. Off down the wide valley, past the pillars of smoke and the smouldering remains of the native settlement, the first glimmers of morning were showing between the mountainous spurs. A welcome sight, even in the circumstances.

  His attention was drawn back to the present situation as one of the barbarians still seething below the parapet threw himself up to the top, hooking an arm over the palisade while trying to swing wildly with the sword in the other. The situation, grave at the onset, was becoming more and more perilous all the time. The centuries defending this wall had suffered almost a fifty per cent casualty rate and, though they had only ever lost control of small sections of rampart very briefly before regaining them, the incursions were becoming more frequent and harder to repel. The end was close.

  Unable to step back far enough to stab effectively at this latest interloper, Baculus swept his sword out to the side and head-butted the man with every ounce of his remaining strength. The helmet’s iron ridge smashed into the barbarian’s face, shattering bone and loosing him from the wall to fall back among his companions. The primus pilus blinked away the spattered blood that had sprayed across the helmet’s front and raised his blade to strike as something grabbed at his arm.

  His arm swept wild as he realised the hand grasping him was a Roman, and the blow fell into empty air.

  “You bloody idiot. I nearly cut your arm off!”

  The soldier, his eyes wide, shrank back.

  “Sorry sir. I couldn’t get your attention. Legate Galba sent for you. Wants you to meet him at the headquarters, sir.”

  Baculus growled at the man and then nodded.

  “Well since you’re nice and clean and fresh, step up here and take my place. Don’t let one of those shit-eating dogs across my wall.”

  The legionary nodded meekly and stepped up to the rampart, drawing his sword and settling his shield in front of him. Paying the lad no further attention, Baculus dropped from the parapet and slid down the grassy bank of the rampart to the ground. A quick glance back told him that, despite his fears, the Twelfth were still miraculously holding the walls, though for how much longer remained to be seen. Squaring his shoulders he set off at a quick march toward the squat stone building that served as Galba’s headquarters. No matter how dire the situation, a centurion should not move at an unseemly run.

  A minute later, he rounded a corner to face the building, its usual guard stripped to help man the walls. No man was being excused today, even the legate’s bodyguard, as Baculus was pleased to note. The door stood open and the primus pilus entered, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim glow within, darker than the pre-dawn light outside despite the guttering candles. As he strode into the room, the legate and tribune Volusenus looked up from the table and a hastily prepared model of their immediate surroundings formed from the various small pieces of clutter they had gathered.

  “Ah, Baculus. Come and join us, quickly.”

  “Sir.”

  The primus pilus, aware that this was a gathering of desperate minds rather than a situation for high etiquette, strode over, dropped his shield and helmet and sank into one of the two spare seats around the table.

  “We were just trying to find a way out of this mess, Publius.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I might add” agreed Volusenus quietly.

  Baculus nodded as he examined the makeshift model.

  “We’re certainly in the shit, legate. The enemy have all but filled in the ditches, the piles of bodies are giving them a ramp to reach the palisade top, and we’re out of missiles. My lads are down to about half strength and the wall will go within the hour. I can’t imagine either of you are managing to fare any better?”

  He was greeted with silent nods.

  “Then frankly, we’re bollocksed. We’re trapped here. We must number maybe four hundred by now and, though we’re killing them in droves, there are still quite a few thousand out there. Once they get inside the walls, we’re done for.”

  Galba shrugged.

  “Then we either fight on like this and fall, however heroically, to the barbarians, or we have to find a means to get away.”

  The tribune rubbed his eyes wearily.

  “The only thing for it is to try and buy ourselves a little time somehow and then make a break through the south gate, out up the valley and back towards Cisalpine Gaul. I don’t like running, but it’s better than extermination and losing the eagle.”

  Galba shook his head.

  “No chance from the south. The Veragri pushed a cart up against it twenty minutes ago and lit it. My men are trying to stop the spreading fire, but the chances are that gate will be ablaze any time now and will fall soon.”

  Baculus shrugged.

  “Then we have an obvious choice. Our walls are all heavily under attack, but the bridge across to the town still stands.”

  Galba raised an eyebrow.

  “You are aware, I suppose, that that bridge leads to the north, deeper into enemy territory.”

  “Indeed, sir, but beyond that lies Geneva and friendly tribes like the Allobroges. We might be able to make it, so long as we can get out of here.”

  Volusenus frowned as he examined the makeshift model.

  “We might be able to take them by surprise… if we timed it right?”

  “Explain?”

  “Well,” the tribune said, furrowing his brow as his gaze swept back and forth across the model, “we don’t care about holding the walls, just about getting the men out as fast as possible, yes?”

  He was greeted by nods from his fellow officers.

  “We don’t want to stay here now, so everything is disposable. Also, we’ll need to travel as light
as possible to outrun them until we’re a long way from here. So…”

  He gestured around the model walls and then pointed to the centre.

  “We’ve still got the siege weapons and we’ve got pitch. What would the barbarians do if we set fire to our own walls?”

  Galba blinked.

  “I expect they’d laugh, once they were able to believe it. Why would we do that?”

  Volusenus shrugged.

  “We can’t hold them much longer and we need to buy some time while the enemy can’t cross them. If they’re on fire, the barbarians will have to hold back at least for a while. They’ll be in a state of confusion. We can add to that by madly firing the ballistae and the onager into their ranks.”

  “But what good does it do?”

  “While they’re milling about in confusion, we form the men up into testudos and break out of the north gate, across the bridge. The enemy are thin over there and the river will prevent the rest from joining them without following us over the bridge which, of course, they can’t do because of the blazing walls. Then it comes down to discipline, the ability of the men, and a little bit of luck. Once we’re clear of the barbarians, we do a triple time and head northwest as fast as Mercury himself.”

  Baculus frowned as he stared at the model.

  “It has merit, but there were a mass of barbarians on the hills on that side of the valley as well as this. Will they not be waiting for us in the open across the river? I’d assumed only the river and the bridge were stopping them from taking the north gate easily.”

  Volusenus shook his head.

  “We watched them from the west gate as they first charged. Once they realised we’d fired the town and they couldn’t get in that way, they spent a good hour and a half crossing the river to join in the attack. Had to put together rafts. Might piss them off a bit when they realise they have to do it again.”

  The legate leaned back in his seat.

  “It’s a mad plan… absolutely barking mad. Even Fronto would think twice before doing this, but then, I really can’t see any other way. Can we do it, tribune?”

  Volusenus grinned.

  “Given the alternatives, I’ll have to say yes.”

  “Then lets get back out there and start passing the orders down.”

  Baculus mopped his forehead and then replaced his helmet.

  “Are we set?”

  The wounded legionary with the empty pitch bucket nodded and gave a weary half-salute, being careful to avoid the medical padding at his temple. The primus pilus turned and peered into the early light. Someone by the south gate was waving a torch. Reaching down, he lit one of his own from the brazier that burned at the top of the sloping rampart and as it burst into life, passed it to the legionary.

  “Wave that like you’re at the races.”

  The man did so and Baculus squinted off across the camp once more. Two tense minutes followed until he finally saw the twinkle of a torch being waved across at the west gate.

  “Fire!” he bellowed and, as the dozen men standing ready with blazing torches stepped up to the rampart, in a precision manoeuvre as beautiful as any parade ground exercise, the beleaguered legionaries defending the walls stepped back, disengaging the barbarians and feeding between the torches, retreating down the bank in an orderly withdrawal. Barely had they left the walkway and stepped onto the grass slope before the torches of those men that had stepped forward connected with the pitch that had been liberally spread on as many of the wooden surfaces as possible.

  The victorious cries of the Veragri as they began to clamber across the palisade in pursuit of the fleeing defenders turned in short order to panicked screams as the timber defences around them caught like dry tinder and leapt into roaring flames. Many of the front line of the barbarian attack were unable to pull back from the flames, the crowd behind driving them on, and blazing figures dotted the ramparts, screaming and floundering, as the Roman lines reached the bottom of the slope and, turning at Baculus’ orders, reformed quickly and ran in perfect order along the street toward the fort’s centre.

  At the call of a buccina from somewhere in the heart of the camp, Baculus and his men split into lines and hugged the buildings at the sides of the street as they ran. Overhead, a half dozen rocks, each larger than a balled fist, arced across the heavens toward the mass of barbarians beyond the walls. The chances of one falling this far short were very small, but Baculus had lost enough men for one day and motioned the centurions around him to keep close to cover.

  A roar of dismay arose behind them outside the fort, as the artillery fire of the Roman defenders began to take its toll on the mass of enemy milling around in confusion below the blazing walls.

  As they approached the central square where the siege weapons kept up as speedy a barrage as they could manage, Baculus spotted the men from the other walls, pouring in good order from different roads and into the space, where they converged, creating larger units and moving toward the northern street.

  With a quick gesture, the primus pilus passed down the order to continue on to the north gate, while he marched at speed from the advancing column toward the onager and its crew. As he reached the engineers, they finished winching the machine and stepped back. Baculus waited patiently until they fired the shot, launching a collection of small but deadly rocks away toward the distant unseen attackers. As the crewman reached for the next in the pile of ammunition, the primus pilus waved his vine staff.

  “Forget that now. Cut the cables, get your gear together, gather the ballista crews and fall in with the rest of the men. Time to go.”

  Leaving the men to their work, Baculus strode back, picking up his pace yet more in order to catch up with his unit. As they marched off down the street toward the north gate and the bridge that would take them to relative safety, he spotted legate Galba striding out alongside another column and angled across to join him.

  “Centurion.” The commander looked tired and drawn.

  “Sir. All went off rather nicely, I thought.”

  The legate shook his head.

  “We’re not out of it quite yet, Baculus.”

  The primus pilus nodded.

  “Perhaps, sir, but we’re on our way. We’ll be out in no time and then heading down for friendly territory. Mind if I ask, sir, what we do then?”

  Galba nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Caesar promised us extra recruits that we never got. He’s going to be a little put out by what happened up here, but even he can’t push the matter, given our numbers and situation. Even Scipio would have pulled out of there. So we’re going to go stay among our allies in Gaul and I’m going to start recruiting myself on Caesar’s behalf. Then I’ll send another report to the general.”

  “What do you think the general’s plans are for the coming summer, sir?”

  Galba shrugged.

  “That all depends on what’s happened to him in Rome, Crassus in Armorica and Labienus and the Belgae. I can see this being a problem season for us, Publius. Once we’ve replaced some of the losses and I’ve sent off a report, we’ll march off up to Vindunum, training the recruits while we move, and joining the main force there. At least there we can make use of their stores and armourers to rebuild the Twelfth.”

  Baculus nodded as they approached the gate. The massing Roman force within, added to the burning of the camp, had struck the smaller force of Veragri among the charred ruins on the opposite bank with uncertainty and, far from gathering to prevent the legion leaving, they had skirted away out of reach to the east and west, watching warily.

  “Been a hell of a winter, legate.”

  “That it has, Baculus… that it has.”

  Chapter 2

  (Februarius: The Andean oppidum of Vindunum in northwestern Gaul)

  “Have you made an example among the locals?”

  The tribune sighed inwardly but was careful to keep his expression neutral. He’d managed to avoid much direct contact with Crassus, but word got aro
und.

  “With respect, legate, we’ve made an occasional example, but it really is no good. They simply don’t have the corn to spare and no amount of beating is going to made more corn grow.”

  He winced, aware that he could have overstepped the mark there. Crassus may be only one of several legates with a command at Vindunum, but Caesar’s orders had been clear. Crassus was in overall command of the army in this region over the winter months. There were many rumours as to the reason for the extra power granted to the man, but the most common was that Caesar needed to tighten the bonds between himself and the legate’s father in Rome.

  Crassus stared at him, silent, those piercing eyes boring into his skull.

  “Also, legate, the Gauls are a proud people. If you push them hard, they don’t bend, sir; they break. I and the other officers are walking a fine line between keeping them subjugated and trying not to fan the flames of revolt. The failure of the Belgae’s revolt last year may have settled things for now, but they will only take so much.”

  “I fear you forget your place, tribune…”

  Gallus, senior tribune of the Ninth, ground his teeth, irked at such a rebuke from the commander of a different legion. A complaint to legate Rufus would be no use; Rufus was as powerless as he to put the influential Crassus in his place.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir…”

  Somewhere deep within, Gallus laughed at his own words.

  “…It’s just that the Andes have been nothing but accommodating and helpful. Given that we have effectively displaced them and tithed their stores during a fairly harsh winter, I feel we should be rewarding them, rather than punishing them. Perhaps we can send to Caesar and request that extra supplies be sent up from Narbonensis?”

  Crassus swept a hand angrily through the air.

  “I have conquered Armorica with one legion, tribune! Imagine that! While the rest of the army was bogged down with the Belgae, the Seventh alone pacified the whole of the north west! Do you think I am about to crawl to Caesar with my tail between my legs and beg for some extra supper?”