Invasion (Tales of the Empire Book 5) Page 6
Bellacon sagged. ‘That is where I hit a snag. I cannot see a way. They will not voluntarily leave their defences. The only answer I have is a full siege. We split the army and encamp at the two gated ends, with pickets set up between, and we attempt to starve them out.’
‘They will have livestock and agriculture up there,’ the general snorted. ‘And a well. They could last there indefinitely.’
‘Perhaps, sir. But if, as we understand, they have concentrated a large force of warriors here, they would require a great deal of food. I think their rations have to be reinforced by imports. It may take some time, but I think we can deprive them enough to bring them out.’
The general shook his head vehemently. ‘While I am happy to tarry here in the west for a while – for things to fall into place – I have no intention of spending half a year locked in a battle of wills with the Dunarii while Crito and Quietus head to… while they achieve all the glory for themselves.’
Bellacon glanced at the captains in the room. Where only days ago they had been regarding him as an interloper, now he could see them wavering, seeing the truth of his words in the face of the general’s bold but dangerous manner. He frowned for a moment. ‘Sir, speed aside, all logic and common sense suggests that we find a way to bring them to us.’
The general snarled. ‘Logic and common sense be damned! They have no place on this isle. They never did. Lissa saw us victorious and saw you making it happen. So go and make it happen. They will break. The southern tribes are feeble compared with their savage northern cousins, and they will break. Take a force and attack that fortress and secure it for me. Dismissed.’
Bellacon bowed, partially to hide the look in his eyes that he knew bordered on insolence, then shot a quick sour glance at the witch woman as he turned. She looked as unconvinced about this plan as he did. And he seriously doubted the general’s precis of the tribe’s weakness, too.
‘What will you do?’ one of the captains murmured as they left the tent and strode out into the rain again.
‘What else can I do? I will lead an assault on the gate.’
But Titus had assigned him to the general with the very purpose of trying to avoid such foolishness as this. He wished, and not for the first time, that Convocus was here with his sharp, inventive mind, or even Cantex – luckier than a dog with two dicks. Bellacon had nothing but his skill at things military, for all the good that did when presented with unsolvable problems. Perhaps a solution would present itself in time. But for now…
He smiled. Yes. That would do. Orders had to be obeyed after all.
‘Captain, go to the infantry. Find me one hundred men. The fastest we have. And preferably the craziest. And have a score of our best archers report to me too. I want them all assembled before the camp in a quarter of an hour.’
* * *
A short while later, Bellacon strode out before the neat rows of men, all with their weapons still sheathed and their bows in protective covers. The captain who’d been at his side most of the afternoon was chewing on his lip.
‘I support your view, Tribune,’ he said very quietly, glancing through the rain at the soldiers lined up. ‘None among us want to see the army brutalised by that lot and, whatever his reasons, the general is wrong. But this? This is suicide. Why so few?’
Bellacon smiled. ‘I am here to prevent mistakes. This assault is just such a mistake. And so I have to do what I can to put things right. I am under direct orders to attack the fort, but the general never made it clear with how many man. I will not waste life unnecessarily, but neither can I disobey orders. Now here’s what I want you to do, Captain. You take ten of these men and the twenty archers. Follow us when I launch the attack, and as soon as we have to retreat – and be sure that we will – get those archers onto the outermost rampart behind your men’s shields to cover our escape.’
The captain shook his head.
‘You don’t think that’ll work?’ Bellacon asked.
The man snorted. ‘I think it’ll work, but the general will tear you to pieces for it.’
‘It’ll buy us time to think and perhaps show him just how bloody dangerous that assault is.’
‘Right,’ he said in a louder voice, addressing the assembled soldiers. ‘We’re going to play a game. We’re going to leave here and move up through those defences. As soon as we’re close enough to draw the anger of the defenders, we’ll need to move quickly. One of us is going to reach their gate. I don’t care who it is, but the first man to touch the timber of that door gets a pouch of silver and a jar of wine and the next night off duty. As soon as an imperial finger has touched that gate, we withdraw as fast as we can, with the archers giving us cover. Do you all understand?’
There was a rumble of affirmation, though uncertainty also intoned every voice.
‘And I don’t want any other heroics. Alright? Just up there and back.’
He turned and looked up at the camp’s gate where several officers stood watching. ‘They are observing our actions, and right now they are unsure of what is going to happen. They think I might just be right that the place is untakeable, but they also believe in their general and thus they wonder if it might just be possible. Let’s show them what we’re up against and remove their uncertainty. Remember lads: coins and wine. And no suicidal stupidity.’
He waited only a moment and then gave the signal. At a second shout the captain, whose name was Arta, moved off at a tangent with his own force. Bellacon stomped off at a steady pace. They would be in little danger until they reached the defences, and it would be better to preserve their energy for when they needed it.
With ninety men at his heel he marched against the great fortress. Off to his left, he saw Captain Arta making for the lee of the outer rampart with twenty archers and ten infantry.
They had covered perhaps two thirds of the distance to the outer defences when Bellacon became aware of angry shouting behind him. A glance back revealed General Volentius standing atop that gate with the officers, gesturing at Bellacon and shouting his name, ordering him back. He smiled. At this distance he could claim not to have heard. And only a lunatic would be able to watch what was about to happen and not see just how brutal it would be.
The general would have to change his mind when he saw what the Dunarii had to offer.
Now, the defenders had raised the alarm. More and more tribesmen appeared at the innermost wall, where they would have an excellent view down into each of the successively descending ditches to where the imperial troops approached.
As the men closed on the outer defences, doubts crept inevitably into Bellacon’s mind. Was it possible that the general was right and he wrong? Could the place be taken with enough men? Had he, instead of preserving thousands of men, simply doomed a hundred?
He bit down on his fears and swallowed his doubts. He knew of which he spoke, and he knew that any assault here was doomed. Best to get on and prove that as fast as possible. They trudged on through the wet grass and the constant drizzle.
Finally, as they reached the edge of the defences, the angry, bellowing voice of the general was lost to him. With ninety panting soldiers, he arced around the outer bulwark and entered a hail of stone.
The sling shots struck home repeatedly, eliciting screams from the men and rattling off boards and armour. Shields were lifted slightly to protect as much as possible of the body and they moved on into the deadly cloud of missiles. Before them was a tall turf bank – the second rampart defending the gate, the approach path snaking around the side of it, in the lee of other great embankments. ‘On me!’ Bellacon shouted and ran straight forward.
With an immense sense of relief, he reached that turf bank and threw himself down against it puffing and panting. The sling shots whizzed and whirred across the top, but the height and angle of the bank kept him from their direct sight.
Seventy-nine men pressed themselves against the bank close by, out of danger. Eleven bodies lay on the grass behind them, only three still twitc
hing. More and more stones hit them until every last limb was stilled. There was then a pause and Bellacon prepared himself for the next stretch.
His wait was interrupted suddenly by a cry of pain, and he glanced left in shock. A soldier was clutching his shattered sword arm. Even as Bellacon realised what was happening, more shots whirred in, one glancing across his own shin and drawing blood.
‘Shit.’
The enemy defences were even better designed than he’d realised. The curved angle of these bulwarks in front of the gate made them visible from further around the fort’s curved rampart. Now the enemy had moved, or possibly just increased in number, and sling stones were coming from further around, skipping around the defences and striking the hiding men.
‘Onwards,’ Bellacon yelled, rising even as two more men fell with screams.
Holding his shield up to cover as much of his body as possible, he made for the end of this section of rampart, the men close behind once more.
While they had been in danger of being struck where they were, when they turned the corner and made for the next bulwark, just outside the gate, it was like running into a deadly hail storm once more. Stones whizzed and whipped, and among the barrage came arrows now, thudding into shields and occasionally into flesh or leather.
Bellacon tried not to count the men as they fell. He hit the next bank and turned to look back, dismayed at the sheer number of dead they’d left in the ditches.
‘This ends when we touch the gate, sir?’ growled a soldier.
‘It does.’
‘Then hold tight and give the lads the wine.’
The soldier threw his sword to the ground and put both hands on his shield grip, hunkering in behind it, then ran around the curve, bellowing curses and imprecations. There was a long, strange moment when the beleaguered soldiers suddenly found respite as every missile on the wall was trained on the one man. Bellacon could hear the brave, doomed soldier crying out in pain again and again as he was struck, but he also heard the cursing that proved the man was still active.
‘Run, you bastards,’ the soldier shouted from beyond the turf. Bellacon nodded. ‘Come on, boys.’
Each man hurriedly threw his shield strap over his shoulder, placing the huge, rectangular shields on their back, as they did on a march. Then they were running. There was no discipline. This was no orderly withdrawal, but a complete rout, each man as desperate as the next to reach the relative safety of the outer rampart.
Bellacon’s world became limited to his immediate surroundings. As they descended, men occasionally falling by the wayside, struck by arrow or stone, he caught sight of Captain Arta’s men cresting the outer rampart, shields slotting into place to form a temporary palisade, archers taking up position behind them. Arrows began to lance out from there, up towards the fort.
Still, the defenders’ arrows and stones thudded into the shields with depressing regularity, while the imperial arrows mostly fell short of the inner defences, but at least they were taking some of the heat from the fleeing infantry.
Bellacon opened his mouth to shout but found himself falling, slipping on the wet, muddy grass. He tumbled and slid, letting go of his shield immediately lest it break his arm as he rolled. Finally, he slithered to a halt and staggered upright as a stray sling stone dinged off the brow-plate of his helmet. The reminder that he was still in danger jerked him out of his confusion, and he rose and ran once more, legs pumping like pistons until he broke free of the outer rampart and hurtled across the grass, only staggering to a halt some distance away.
The hail of missiles had ended.
Heaving in breaths, he took in the situation. Nine soldiers had made it out with him. He would have a pouch of coins and a jar of wine distributed between them this night while they drank to the fallen. He still couldn’t say whether that brave man up at the fort had actually touched the door, but his sacrifice had been enough.
Now Arta and his archers were descending and crossing the grass to join them. He’d lost two soldiers and one bowman.
‘Alright,’ the captain said steadily, ‘I’m sold on your “untakeable” theory.’
‘That was like a jaunt into the underworld,’ Bellacon hissed.
‘And that wasn’t all they had, either, sir. More and more archers were arriving as you left. That was just a fraction of their force. I hope the general sees your point now.’
‘So do I,’ Bellacon sighed, ‘but in my experience, generals don’t like to be thwarted.’
He glanced around at a shout and noted that one of the archers had stopped and was compressing his bow, leaning on it with all his weight. Bellacon frowned. ‘Now is not the time, man. What are you doing?’
‘Got to tighten the string, sir. Damp’s stretched it.’
‘We’re only just out of their range,’ the tribune said, rolling his eyes.
‘But the sergeant will crucify me if he sees this. I’ve lost my spare string, see, sir.’
Bellacon gestured for the man to hurry, but his eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘So hang on. If the string gets wet it stretches?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the archer responded as he tried to retie the string and walk at the same time, failing dismally to do both.
‘And you tighten the string to give you good range again?’
‘Well it’s not ideal, sir. Normally I’d restring it with a dry one if I hadn’t lost it. And there’s always the danger that when it dries it’ll either snap the string or the bow. But it’s better than being bollocked by a sergeant, begging your pardon, sir.’
Bellacon smiled. ‘Report to my tent later and I’ll replace your string for free. And you can have some wine to go with it, too. You’ve given me an idea.’
With a confused but hopeful-looking archer at his heel, Bellacon strode purposefully back up to the camp, where the general and the other officers stood atop the gate.
‘I will have you flayed for this,’ snarled General Volentius furiously, gesturing at Bellacon with a wavering finger.
‘Sir, I sought only to show you how impossible such an assault is, without risking half an army to prove my point.’
‘I will have you broken!’ shrieked the general. The captains stepped subtly away from him, giving Bellacon sympathetic looks while saying nothing.
‘You must do what you think right, of course, General. But my point is well made, I think.’
And it was. The captains and the other two tribunes were with him. He could see it in their eyes. He had shown them the folly of the general’s plan, even if the commander himself remained oblivious.
‘I will skin you myself,’ snarled Volentius, drawing an eating knife from his belt.
‘That would be unwise, General,’ said a soothing, quiet voice. Lissa, the witch woman, drifted forward, holding up her shawl above her head to ward off the rain.
‘What?’ snapped General Volentius, turning to her, knife wavering in his hand.
‘I have seen Tribune Bellacon succeed here. How can he win the day if he is dead, General?’
Volentius paused, suddenly unsure, knife twitching.
‘Besides,’ the strange, striking woman went on, ‘the tribune was appointed by the highest imperial marshal at the request of the emperor himself. Executing him could be a poor… career move?’
The general’s eyes narrowed, but, lip twitching, he sheathed the knife once more. ‘Good job you have women around to protect you, eh, Tribune? Very well. You have been insolent, disobedient and foolish, but your punishment shall be to suppress the Dunarii for me. You have three days, or I shall have you shipped back to Marshal Titus Tythianus with instructions as to where he can stick you. I shall be in my tent,’ he announced like a petulant child.
‘…drinking wine,’ he added, rather unnecessarily.
‘Sorry about that,’ muttered one of the captains from the gate top as soon as the general and Lissa were gone from both sight and earshot. ‘He’s had a skinful already and we tried to explain. Good show you put on there.’
Chapter 4
‘This is an insanely bad and dangerous idea, Tribune.’
Bellacon nodded, glancing up at the lead-grey sky. The rain had stopped, but there was an overhanging promise of further downpour all around. ‘I appreciate that, captain, but if the alternative is to stomp up that slope under a hail of stones and arrows, I’m willing to take the risk.’
‘In fairness, sir,’ the artillery officer added with more than a trace of bitterness, ‘it will not be you taking the risk. It’s my lads.’
‘Nonetheless, it needs to be done.’
The captain turned, a helpless and disapproving expression on his face, to watch his men at work.
‘Every man at those machines has been taught in painstaking detail about their use, sir. Not just how to point it at the right place and how to make sure it hits some hairy-arsed barbarian between the knackers, sir. But how to assemble, disassemble, transport and maintain them. And about safety. Safety is a prime concern in artillery training.’
‘This is starting to sound like nagging, Captain.’
‘But with good reason, sir. That level of tension is extremely dangerous. Have you ever seen a bolt thrower break mid-shot?’
‘No, but I have the feeling I’m about to hear all about it.’
‘Last year in training a two-man bolt thrower cracked due to over-tightening the sinew. I had to pull the wooden cross arm out of the artillerist’s head so that we could lie him flat on his pyre. It had gone in through his eye and right out of the back of his skull. The other man survived the accident, but let me tell you, sir, the dead man was the lucky one.’
Bellacon closed his eyes, breathed deep and counted slowly to twenty.
‘Captain, you seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that this army is commanded by committee. It is not. My responsibility is to get the Dunarii under our heel, and preferably without losing half the legion in the process. So I realise this is no comfort to you, but I will watch every last artilleryman of your fifty-strong squad take a wooden spar to the head if it saves me losing four thousand men needlessly. Now kindly leave me and complain to your own men.’