The orderly scurried over to the dressed and armoured senior centurion and helped him fasten on the leather harness draped with torcs and phalera. Still pale and unhealthy-looking, Baculus had been forbidden any kind of hard exercise by the medicus, but that hardly mattered now that the man was busy setting up his hospital for the inevitable influx of wounded, the orderlies rushing around obeying the man’s commands.
Even from here, if they paused and listened, they could hear the howling and baying of the enemy outside the walls. Baculus drew his gladius, nodding his satisfaction at the oiled hiss as the well-kept blade came free.
‘Is this wise, Sir?’
‘Just get back to counting bandages,’ Baculus snapped and turned, fully equipped and ready, if a little wobbly on his feet, just as the sick ward door opened.
He took a few tottering steps forward as half a dozen legionaries limped in.
‘Where are you lot going?’
The man at the front of the small group stopped in surprise, his eyes widening at the sight of the senior centurion before him.
‘Sir?’
‘I said: where are you lot going, soldier?’
‘Sick-listed, sir. We were all consigned to the sick huts and the duty centurion let us go when Trebulus back there threw up on his foot. We’re all sick, sir.’
‘You seem to have the requisite number of limbs and you’re walking a sight easier than me,’ Baculus growled. ‘I’ll give you the count of three to turn on your heel and get back out there to the camp walls before I test just how much strength I have beating the shit out of half a dozen shirkers!’
‘But sir?’
‘Now!’ bellowed Baculus glaring at them and underlining the word with a sword-waving gesture.
The legionaries, suddenly finding themselves a lot more hale and hearty than they’d reckoned a moment ago, turned and hurried out of the hospital. Baculus watched them go and glanced over his shoulder at the orderly. ‘Anyone else malingering needs to go to the wall. I will hold you responsible if we’re undermanned and I later find out there were men here abed who could stand and wield a sword.’
Without waiting for a retort from the medical staff, who were always outspoken and believed they outranked everyone bar the Gods, Baculus stomped out into the camp wishing he had his vine staff for his free hand.
Chaos appeared to be reigning in the fort. With no apparent organisation, men were everywhere, some huddled in the shelter of the granaries, where a small altar to Mars stood, throwing wine and offerings onto the hollowed top and casting up desperate prayers. Others ran back and forth, apparently randomly. A couple of men seemed to be loading a pack animal with bags.
At least the six he’d chastised were now making for the rampart. With a deep grumbling breath, Baculus stomped over to the men with the donkey.
‘What, pray, are you two men doing?’
‘Preparing to fall back, sir!’
‘What? Why?’
‘Centurion’s orders, sir. They say Caesar’s army has been defeated and now the tribes have come to finish us off.’
‘Do they indeed?’
‘Centurion wants the unit money chests and the standards secured to leave, sir.’
‘Does he? Did he tell you how he intended to retreat, given that, from a simple check with my ears, it appears that the camp is surrounded?’
‘Dunno, sir. We just…’
Baculus grasped the man by the scruff of the neck, bunched up his tunic in his fist and dragged the man forward until their noses almost touched.
‘Get back to the wall and leave the donkey. Draw a sword and shield and kill some of those bastards.’
‘But sir…’
‘If the enemy don’t kill you, I might consider it myself.’ His hand went meaningfully to his sword hilt and the two legionaries saluted hurriedly in a panic.
‘And when you speak to your centurion, tell that cowardly turd that when this is over, Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth Legion, would like to see him in the headquarters.’
Ignoring the two men as they ran off, leaving the donkey looking faintly bored and tethered to the wall, Baculus turned and picked out the men at the altar.
‘I think Mars is probably honoured enough, now.’
The men turned to see the senior centurion and saluted.
‘Well?’
‘Sir?’
‘Why are you still here?’
‘Sir, this place is cursed. We have to invoke Mars continually, because…’
‘Cursed?’
‘Yessir. Cotta and Sabinus, Sir. The Fourteenth died here to a man, sir, and the place is full of restless spirits. Now it’s our turn.’
‘No one is dying here without my permission!’ Baculus snapped.
‘The Gods, sir?’
‘Mars has been honoured enough, soldier. And no amount of divine favour compares to shields and swords up on that wall, now return to duty before I start laying about me.’
‘But sir…’
‘To the walls!’ Baculus yelled, so close and angry that flecks of spittle hit the man in the face. As the men scurried off, Baculus paused. He could hear the sound of a native charge, all ‘dying-ox’ music and screaming, outside the Praetorian gate. His eyes picked out an optio who seemed to be a man after his own heart, standing in the mud at the camp’s centre, grabbing soldiers who ran this way and that in a panic and issuing commands to them.
Striding over, Baculus stopped in front of the officer.
‘Good work. I don’t want to see a single man in this whole fort who is not busy on an assigned task or at the walls. No shirking or panicking.’
The optio saluted with a professional smile, and Baculus found himself starting to calm down. ‘Direct things here, but I need your shield.’
The optio without question handed over the curved shield, emblazoned with Caesar’s Taurus and the rearing horse over an ‘X’ that the Tenth Legion had affected since their arrival in Gaul. The Tenth? Then this optio was also officially on the sick list. Good man, to be out and doing his duty regardless. Grappling the shield, Baculus staggered a little, still weak, under the weight, and then jogged off towards the west gate, where the renewed sounds of battle were rising into the night air.
Rounding the last building and heading for the gate, Baculus found his heart almost in his mouth. Whoever was in charge of manning the walls was doing a poor job. There were maybe a dozen men around the gate top and another half dozen on the walls to either side. His ears strained over the noise and he could hear the tell-tale sounds of scorpion bolts being released up in the towers, but his experienced, professional ear could only pick out two sources, while there were four towers from which the weapons could be brought to bear. Sure enough, as he looked up, approaching the scene, only two of the towers showed any sign of occupancy. A legionary, leaning on his shield, his leg sheeted with blood, was busy giving out orders as though he held rank, and Baculus naturally made for him.
‘You in charge here, soldier?’
‘Yessir,’ the legionary said, bending to pull the tourniquet on his leg tighter, staunching the blood flow.
‘Where’s your officer?’
‘No idea, sir. He muttered something about supplies and pissed off a while ago, sir.’
Baculus shook his head in disbelief.
‘Consider this a field promotion, optio. Get runners sent to any barracks where the men are still not engaged. We need a full artillery crew in each tower, with support and any missile troops you can dig up. And I want ten times this number of men up on the wall.’
‘Yes sir,’ the soldier nodded emphatically. ‘If I’d had the authority…’
‘You’ve got it now. Invoke the name Baculus, Primus Pilus of the Twelfth and get everything you need.’
‘Yes sir.’
Leaving the soldier to his tasks, Baculus laboured up the steps to the wall, watching the timber gates bowing alarmingly and the locking bar straining as the four men there threw precious grain sacks be
hind the leaves of the gate to impede the attempts to break in.
Atop the wall things were already becoming desperate. The sparse defenders were fighting off a large force who were jabbing up with spears, the walls to either side of the gate kept clear by an almost constant rain of sling stones and arrows from the enemy, forcing the legionaries to hunker down behind the parapet and their shields. The ditches would protect the wall areas for now, but with the causeways across the gates were weak points, especially while undermanned and with inadequate artillery crews.
Baculus paused, wondering for a moment whether he really was strong enough for this. Taking a deep breath and trying not to shake, he clambered out onto the wall top and hurried to the gate area. A quick glance over the side brought home just how dangerous the situation was. The enemy out there - Germans by both the look and the sound of it - must outnumber the camp’s garrison by perhaps five to one, and that was including the absent forage party. More like ten to one with them gone. They could be in trouble.
The men outside the gate were infantry, the cavalry having failed in their initial assault and having pulled back to wait out the next hour or two. Men with spears jabbed up at the defenders, forcing the legionaries to duck back out of the way, while others were busy bringing forth the wreckage of what must have been sutlers’ stores and using it as a rubble ramp to give them easier access to the walls. Much longer and they’d have a slope up the outside to rival the earth bank on the inside. They had, cunningly, left a narrow gap in their makeshift bank so that their heaviest, hardiest brutes could smash and batter at the gates, in case they could break through that way, forcing the meagre defenders to divide their numbers between top and bottom.
‘They’ll be on us any moment, sir,’ a struggling legionary shouted, seeing the welcome sight of a centurion appear among them.
‘They will if that ramp gets any higher.’ He turned, looking down on the newly-raised optio with the leg wound. ‘Get me four men, a barrel of water, two buckets, a pot of pitch and two torches,’ he bellowed.
The man nodded, giving out the orders, and the legionary near Baculus frowned. ‘Sir?’
As soon as they get here, if I’m busy, get the gates thoroughly soaked with water and keep soaking them. Tip the pitch on that pile of broken lumber they’re building and fire it. Elseways they’ll be on the wall top before you’d have time to shit.’
‘Dunno about that, sir. Pretty close to shittin’ myself now!’
Baculus laughed and stepped to the wall. A spear lanced up at him and he ducked to the side, throwing up the shield and then swiping down, narrowly missing severing the spear’s tip. Even as he drew back, another spear danced up at him and a sling stone glanced off his crest holder, jerking his helmet back and ripping out horsehair on its journey.
Despite the fact that each legionary on the gate top was already as busy as possible, fighting off the dancing points of the enemy spears, the attack had suddenly redoubled in strength at the sight of a centurion’s crest. Such a prize, for an enemy warrior!
Another spear lanced past and Baculus managed to trap this one against the wall with his shield, leaning his weight on it until he heard the spear shaft snap and saw two feet of ash with an iron leaf-head fall back inside the wall. Taking the opportunity to glance over the parapet, Baculus felt his heart thump as the nearest warrior leapt, the fingers of his left hand catching the wall top as his right came around with an axe. The ramp was almost high enough.
He ducked to one side as the axe swung through the open air above the parapet, and then smashed down with the bronze edging of his shield onto the fingers wrapped around the timber top, smashing them to a pulp. The warrior screamed, falling away from the wall, but there were already other fingers grasping and an increasing number of bodies at the wall. Concentrating on them, Baculus failed to see the next spear thrust which came from his right until it was too late. Abruptly, he turned his head, hoping the wide, flared neck guard of his helmet would catch the blow, but the spear bounced off the steel, beneath the open ear hole, and ripped into the side of his neck, tearing muscle and tendon and spraying the inside of his helmet with hot blood. He staggered backwards, dropping his shield, his hand going up to clutch at his neck even while he swung with his sword, trying to knock that spear away. Barbarians were all over the wall top now, trying to climb.
‘Capsarius!’ someone shouted helpfully, spotting Baculus staggering, a torrent of blood pouring from his helmet and soaking his mail.
Ignoring them, trying to staunch the arterial flow with his hand pressing his scarf against the huge rent, Baculus moved to the wall again, swinging with his blade and smashing the nose of the first man he saw, cleaving his face horizontally. He could feel himself weakening again; refused to submit.
The legionary off to his right gave a blood-curdling shriek as a spear slammed into his face, driving home until the point cracked the back of his skull from the inside.
A sword swept at Baculus and he cut down with his own blade, severing the attacker’s arm at the wrist, but not before the blow had smashed a deep cut into his arm, sending broken mail links and slices of leather pteruge flying through the air. Baculus grunted at the pain, though it was considerably less than the wound in his neck. His body was weakening fast and his reaction time slowing and he knew it. He had moments left, and was a goner after that.
Another man appeared, clambering over the wall and Baculus jabbed at him with his gladius. The blow struck home, but merely knocked the man back off the wall, such was the apparent weakness in the centurion’s arm.
He saw death rise from the mass, a large sword held in both hands in an overhead chop aimed at him. It was something of a relief, really, after so long lying in a sick bed, to at least die actively, and he almost thanked the German warrior as the sword came down. The blow was at full reach, even given the height of the ramp, but there would be enough blade and enough force in it to split Baculus’ shoulder even if it glanced off his helm. But it would probably cleave straight through the steel and bronze, such was the length and weight of the native swords in the north.
Baculus winced as the blow came, feeling the slowing of the blood at his neck.
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes in surprise to see the man with the heavy sword hurtling away from him, screaming, sword still raised, and realised belatedly that an artillery bolt had smashed into his would-be-killer’s chest. Glancing up and left, Baculus saw the previously empty tower filling with men as the scorpion sought its next target.
He fell, but a legionary was suddenly there grasping him, holding him up. Then another, bearing the leather satchel of a capsarius. ‘Hold still, centurion and don’t move that neck.’
Feeling faint and weak, Baculus gave a low cackle as he saw the Germans, on the cusp of victory climbing over the wall top, suddenly repulsed by the relief force who now flooded onto the rampart. He could smell the tell-tale acrid odour of pitch and see the glow of orange torches. The sound of a huge barrel of water being hauled up the bank accompanied it.
‘I said stay still. This is bad, centurion, and if you want to live to shout at, beat, and belittle legionaries, you need to do exactly as I say.’ Too tired to argue, Baculus allowed himself to relax, the sword falling from his fingers. The newly field-promoted optio with the bandaged, bloody leg appeared in front of him.
‘All under control now, centurion. Thanks for your timely help.’
Baculus passed out.
* * * * *
Nasica, rare survivor of the Fourteenth Legion’s demise under Sabinus and Cotta during the winter, and now proud eagle-bearer of the same, reconstituted legion, leaned in and added his voice to the discussion. He was aware that the aquilifer held a rank that equalled most centurions, but wasn’t yet sure just how much he was expected to chip in to officers’ confabs.
The simple fact, though, was that not one officer here could hold a candle to any of those he’d served with over the past few years. They seemed to b
e indecisive and cautious, timid even. Especially the Primus Pilus, an ageing former training centurion from the camp at Cremona who’d not seen active service in almost a decade.
‘They will not be expecting an attack from their rear, sir,’ he said quietly.
The forage party, led by some of the legion’s senior officers, had been exceedingly late and there had been some discussion about the possibility of setting up a temporary camp for the night. It had taken some persuading by the more veteran centurions to get the Primus Pilus to march the wagons through the night rather than waiting for the dawn, and the senior commander had only seemed to be swayed by the notion that Cicero would be extremely unhappy with him if they returned to find Caesar had beaten them to the camp.
And so the five cohorts, with their accompanying wagons tended by the walking wounded, had pushed on back through the dark, past midnight and into black morning in an attempt to reach the camp before the infamous ‘kalends deadline’. Then, only half a mile from the camp, they had stopped, the scouts returning wild-eyed to inform them that the camp was surrounded by a huge barbarian force.
The Primus Pilus had dissolved into a mess, displaying the warning signs of panic, and Nasica’s already low opinion of his new commander had plummeted to subterranean depths.
‘You advocate an attack?’ the commander asked him incredulously.
‘Not an all-out assault, sir,’ Nasica replied patiently. ‘We could form into a wedge and break through. A five-cohort wedge is a solid, unstoppable force, sir.’ He remembered momentarily how long the centurion had remained idle in Cremona. ‘I’ve seen it done very effectively over the past few years, sir.’
‘Didn’t help you much in the winter, did it?’ the man snapped acidly, and Nasica had to fight to maintain his temper. This cowardly idiot was his superior after all - at least in rank!
‘Sir, if we do nothing, the camp will fall. The defenders are not numerous enough to cover all the walls. The fort’s huge, especially with all its annexes. A whole legion stands a chance, but only if we combine our cohorts with those inside. We have to give a warning to the fort, form up and break through the bastards and make for the walls. The decumana gate is the best, with the widest causeway. I know, sir. I dug the bloody thing myself last year.’
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 43