The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto, commanding the main gate and the eastern sector above the camp of the Belgic army gritted his teeth and hoped that these often-overlooked and unsung auxiliary prefects were worth their pay grade, and more besides.

  A quick glance back down the slope and he shook his head. The main block of the assault was coming at him; somewhere around seven or eight thousand men, all told. He’d seen a legion with its auxiliary contingent many times and that was roughly what he was looking at here: the Belgic equivalent of a standard Roman field army. If the Belgae had been innovative thinkers, Fronto and his men wouldn’t have stood a chance. If what people said about the Belgae’s fierceness was true, only their own ingenuity would save them.

  He turned to look at his small groups of defenders in position along the walls, shading his eyes from the sun that sank over his left shoulder toward the now thinning treetops of the oppidum. Perhaps six hundred men, including the Remi sword and spear bearers that stood interspersed with his auxiliaries.

  Shit.

  Odds of more than ten to one were enough to put the wind up even the most seasoned commander. He smiled a grim smile.

  Still, large numbers was no offset for monumental stupidity. They may be brave, but they were also foolhardy.

  He watched the front line of the Belgae. Like most barbarian armies he’d had to deal with, the Spanish included, the Belgae gathered in large crowds, excited themselves into a frenzy of bloodlust and a need for personal glory, and then poured towards the enemy like a burst dam in no semblance of order and with no real plan of attack.

  Seven thousand men or more in a heaving sea of violent lust pouring up the hill.

  With a weary smile, Fronto turned to the Remi warrior nearby and made throat-slashing motions.

  The man nodded and gabbled off in his own dialect with other warriors. Fronto turned back to the massed charge on the slope and watched with interest.

  There was a crunch to his left and a bang, followed quickly by similar noises to his right. More noises sprang up from both sides and he nodded sadly.

  It had taken a little over an hour for his men, along with the Remi, to saw down six of the beech trees at the far side of the oppidum; the southwest, out of sight of the main force. They had been stripped of branches and cut down to lengths of around twenty feet before being transported across the village and raised up onto the walls. There they had stood for the last ten minutes, just out of sight of the attackers below, until the signal was given.

  The Remi warriors along the walls braced themselves on the stonework and heaved at the logs until they began to rock. A little more leverage and they tipped from the wall and began their lethal descent down the slope.

  The Belgae experienced instant panic. Those at the front turned and tried to push their way back into their own ranks. Some men at the edge of the assault manage to get clear, leaping to the left or right to avoid the horrifying assault from above.

  The first tree trunk hit the front line of warriors, already in chaos and trying to push in half a dozen different directions. The momentum after thirty feet of slope carried the trunk over and through the army with an almost unstoppable force. Some men were broken in half while others were crushed or driven into the ground, their limbs torn from them by the force. They had no chance to deal with the carnage before the second, third and fourth logs hit the mass.

  By now, the assault had failed utterly. The charge had died in the opening moments as the remaining tree trunks hit each other and bounced around like some sort of toy, creating an unpredictable rolling hell than flattened all before it. One of the last few logs pitched as it struck something and leapt into the air, carried by its downward motion, plummeting down into the centre of the fleeing mass.

  It was possible the remaining warriors might form up and try once more but, given the phenomenal losses they’d just suffered, Fronto doubted the warriors would charge again, even if their chieftains ordered it.

  Prefect Galeo rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he watched the Belgae at the base of the slope on their way up, howling like wild dogs. Galeo had been in the service all his adult life and had, he believed, reached as high as he was likely to reach. The only promotion an auxiliary prefect could look forward to was perhaps as a tribune among the legions, but most auxiliary units were commanded by their native leaders. Only the longstanding units like his had reached such a point of permanency that they attracted a Roman officer. And they were then pretty much forgotten. In the field, Caesar’s staff only noticed the job done by the auxiliary cavalry.

  He grunted. Look at that young ponce Ingenuus! Barely out of children’s clothes and now commanding Caesar’s bodyguard. But nobody even saw the Numidian archers or their commander.

  Another grunt. Today was a chance. Make or break, as they say. A good job here and he might get commended and tagged for higher things.

  And yet despite the fact that he’d been given the western slope; the best position to defend, his damned poor stagnant brain couldn’t come up with anything useful to help him. His wits had atrophied from so long babysitting these Africans that when legate Fronto had asked the officers for suggestions to even the odds, while the others had been coming up with clever little ideas, Galeo had just stayed quiet, flapping his lips worriedly like a stunned fish. Fronto had even frowned at him.

  “Damn it!”

  “Mmm?” enquired the dark skinned archer next to him.

  “Oh, nothing! It’s not like you understand a damn word I say anyway. If it weren’t for your centurions, I might as well not even be here.”

  He looked back at the line of men slowly advancing on his position.

  Very well. If he couldn’t find some clever way of gaining an edge he could do what he’d always tried to do. To fight a decent and solid action in the best traditions of the legions, even saddled as he was with a load of illiterate Numidians.

  He carefully scanned the crowd below. Couldn’t be more than a couple of thousand there. This place was the furthest from the main force of Belgae and one of the most easily defensible positions with a good field of fire. The odds would be about six or seven to one. Really, there wasn’t much chance to show off but, on the other hand, he should be able to safely hold his position. Each of his men would have time to let off over a dozen shots before the Belgae got anywhere near closing with them.

  He smiled.

  They may be strange and have precious little Latin among them, but the one thing he did know was that his centurions were confident, and they’d had the archers practicing on a daily basis, even over winter. In theory, even if his men missed with every other shot, they should be able to deal with the situation before there was hope of close combat. He turned to the centurion nearby, a Romanised Numidian with reasonable Latin.

  “Get ready. Every man marks his target and makes each shot count. I want every single one of them dead before they get anywhere near this wall. Caesar wants the Remi, so we’ll save ‘em eh?”

  Above the slope, looking down at the river below, prefect Pansa smiled at the Belgae. There would be perhaps four thousand or so down there. They could so easily overwhelm his position, should they get within reach… but Pansa had plans. He’d almost laughed when he explained to the legate what he wanted to do. In fact, Fronto had chuckled a little himself, which must be unusual, given the legate’s dour reputation.

  Four thousand, or possibly five, against his less-than four hundred men, including the Remi natives with their Celtic blades. Something like ten to one odds. Frightening, he supposed, but there was just something comic about watching these heavily armed barbarians floundering on the slope as they tried to climb the steep ascent while keeping their eyes on the defenders above. More than once he saw a figure slip and slide, toppling backwards and taking a few of his fellows.

  Pansa had served in Caesar’s legions since the early days in Spain and he’d seen some of the most horrifying sights a man could ever hope to on a battlefield. He was aware of how little regard Caesar held fo
r human life. Pansa was different and had been relieved to discover that legate Fronto was, too.

  To Pansa, it was far more important to save his men than to win some kind of glory. He’d seen the look in Galeo’s eye at the briefing. Hopefully the fool would stick to his defence and not go trying to win points.

  He smiled. The leaders of the Belgae were now two thirds of the way up the slope and almost in missile range for the slingers and the few archers he had with him.

  “Right lads…”

  He gestured with an over-arm swing down to the advancing barbarians below.

  As he shaded his eyes and peered down at the eagerly-advancing defenders, he chuckled. Behind him were several dull thuds. He stepped back from the edge of the wall for the sake of his own safety and watched as two dozen large barrels, much of the stored drinking water of the Remi, were tipped over the wall and the liquid began to pour down the slope in rivulets.

  There was no tide that threatened to wash away the attackers; that was not what Pansa wanted. His objective was to make the ascent here so difficult and unpleasant that the Belgae would give up in disgust. Gallon after gallon of water tipped over the wall and flowed down relentlessly, softening up the earth and making the grass slick and slippery. The effect as the rivulets finally reached the advancing warriors was almost too funny for words.

  Pansa looked back at his men and cleared his throat. He couldn’t be seen laughing at this. People would think he was an idiot… but it really was quite funny.

  He turned once more to gaze down the hill. The barbarians were slipping and sliding around like something out of a Plautus play. Where the water had made the lower slope wet, the longer Pansa watched, the more hilarious the comedy ascent became. Men trying desperately to keep their feet and climb were making the ground worse, churning the mud and creating slides. Some of the mid section, as they slipped, took a dozen or so warriors with them and the whole group collapsed in a flurry of arms and legs as they slid gracelessly into the river.

  Off to the right, one of the men laughed. He opened his mouth to discipline the man, but changed his mind. Let them laugh. It was funny and, after all, being laughed at might demoralise the enemy. Turning, he addressed the centurions.

  “Save ammunition. I don’t want anyone to waste a shot until they get up to the level of that pile of rocks.”

  He smiled. If they get that far, he thought to himself, and found that he was laughing along with his men.

  To the north, Decius peered down into the woods. Though he couldn’t speak a word of this local language, he could make an educated guess as to what was being shouted by the Belgae as they climbed through the woods. That was swearing and cursing if he’d ever heard it. They were having fun with all the trip-wires, ankle-breaking covered pits and hidden sharpened stake points that his men had been placing in the woods for the last hour. Their advance had initially been at a good pace and presented a reasonable front, or so Decius’ scouts had reported as they returned from their observation points in the woods. But now they had slowed to little more than a crawl as the first few men fell foul to the Romans’ hidden defences and the attackers began to carefully scour the forest floor for traps as they moved.

  He smiled at the thought of so many eager warriors milling about in the trees, getting sore feet, tripped up, broken bones, lacerations and general irritations. In all likelihood the rest of the siege would be over for the day before these Belgae reached the top.

  He kicked an errant pebble from the wall down into the trees and eyed, once again, the piles of heavy boulders lining the walls. This was his second surprise for when the Belgae finally reached the higher slope. These piles of stones, each boulder almost a foot across and weighing the same as a small cart, would bounce several times on the forest floor and would rip through even the toughest of undergrowth. He certainly wouldn’t like to be climbing that hill when the piles were levered off the walls.

  He sighed and sat down to take a long swig of water from his flask.

  Somewhere down below there was a shriek and a great deal more swearing.

  Time drifted slowly on for Decius, listening to the sounds of slowly advancing soldiers.

  “Need a hand?”

  He looked around in surprise to see Fronto.

  “Legate? Not seen a sign of them yet. I think they’re getting a bit pissed off with my woods, to be honest.”

  Fronto laughed.

  “You must have led them a merry dance, man. The main frontal assault dispersed in agony about five minutes ago. I’m just on my way to see what’s happening at the other sectors, but I’ve left a skeleton crew watching the main gate area. I’ll leave you a couple of hundred more men.”

  “Why thank you, sir. And it’s not even my birthday!”

  He grinned at Fronto and the legate strode off, laughing, toward the western slopes, hundreds of men following him.

  Three of the centurions led their units across to Decius, who smiled and examined his reinforcements. Two were Cretans and the other a Spaniard; probably not a word of Latin between them.

  “Get into positions,” he told them, waving his hand and pointing vaguely up and down the line of the wall.

  He kicked his heels absently on the defences and smiled down into the forest. It was looking increasingly like reinforcements would be unnecessary. Suddenly, he saw a movement in the trees. He strained his eyes peering ahead. Was that the Belgae?

  Standing, he shaded his eyes and peered into the canopy of gloom.

  No, that was another of his scouts. He sighed and sat down again. Slowly, the scout clambered up through the undergrowth and then climbed the wall close to his commander.

  “Are we expecting them any time soon?”

  The Cretan looked at him quizzically.

  “Gods, I’ll be pleased to get back to camp where at least the occasional person understands a single word I say!”

  Pointing down into the woods, he tried to mime Belgae warriors climbing the hill. The scout shook his head and said something unintelligible. Decius had never bothered mastering Greek. It was the language of thinkers, not doers; but even if he had, the strange dialect these Cretans spoke was an entirely different entity. He listened with an uncomprehending smile as he realised what the accompanying hand gestures meant.

  The way he was waving his hand flat and gesturing to the plain…

  “They’ve given up?”

  He laughed.

  “We loaded all these boulders on the wall and they never even got halfway up?”

  Grinning, he slapped his thigh.

  “Wait ‘til Fronto hears that!”

  * * * * *

  Fronto passed his wine skin to Decius, who took it gratefully and drank deep. Down on the plain, the last of Belgae tribal bands were striking camp and moving away to join the massive force leaving the valley.

  “I’d say we have to call that a rousing success, wouldn’t you, gentlemen?”

  Decius nodded wearily. To the other side Pansa and Galeo smiled.

  “Think Caesar will give us any kind of reward, sir?”

  The other three turned to stare at Galeo.

  “Reward?” Fronto said in surprise. “The fact that the Remi have our back now is a pretty bloody good reward as far as I can see. Iccius over there…”

  He pointed at the chieftain, who was grinning like an idiot. His reputation would be growing among the Remi now. Regardless of the help of Rome, his small oppidum with its few warriors had fought off a huge army of their countrymen and had lived, intact, to tell the tale. The role of Rome would, of course, be downplayed in the tales of the Remi, but Fronto couldn’t blame them for that. Whatever anyone could say, the Remi would now recognise their ally, Rome, and honour them. For the cost of remarkably few men, Fronto had given Caesar what he needed most. Not because of the general, but rather in spite of him.

  Fronto sighed. He was in danger of getting very angry and bitter once again over Caesar’s lack of concern. One day he would snap. Admittedly
, it would be Fronto who ended up being sent back to his sister in an urn if that was the case, but there were days when…

  Decius nudged him.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re making people nervous with that grimace. And you didn’t finish your sentence.”

  The legate shook his head.

  “Sorry. Where was I? Ah yes, Iccius. Lack of sleep, you see.”

  He sighed and squared his shoulders.

  “Iccius will pass the word of what we’ve done for him among his people. And it might put a bit of fear into the enemy too. All in all, I think the benefits of what we did here today are tangible. And of course, most important of all, we lived to tell the tale!”

  He sighed again.

  “By rights we should get our gear stowed now and get underway back to camp.”

  He noted with humour the tired and crestfallen expressions of his officers.

  “But we can move a lot faster than an army that size. Besides, they’ve got to meet up with the rest of their people before they move on Caesar. We’ve got time and I, personally, need a rest.”

  He smiled at Iccius and mimed drinking from a mug. The chieftain laughed and shouted something to one of his spear bearers.

  “Besides… I believe Pansa spilled all their drinking water, so we’ll have to rely on their beer instead.”

  He noted with genuine humour the look of distaste that crossed Pansa’s face.

  “Yes,” Fronto smiled, “I’ve never acquired a taste for the stuff myself either, but Crispus, the legate of the Eleventh, is quite a fan. He can even work out where it’s been brewed by the taste, or so he says. To me it always tastes like it’s been brewed in a sock.”