* * * * *
Caesar stood before the gathered men. The legionaries had the look of an army on campaign, unshaven and dirty with ragged hair and mud-spattered kit. Their appearance was not improved by the fact that the morning’s drizzle had strengthened as the day wore towards noon and had become the spirit-crushing rain that seemed so endemic of Gaulish winters.
And yet the sodden, unkempt and dirty legionaries gathered on the flat turf stood proud and in neat lines, despite the order to attend at ease. The optios and centurions had waived that order and kept their armour, crested helmets and staffs that marked their rank. They made their commander proud. And they had been attentively silent, without a word of complaint as they waited.
The general took a few steps forward into the centre of the arc of men.
‘Men of the legions… soldiers of Rome… conquerors of Gaul. Thank you.’
There was a mix of confusion and pleasure at this odd profession of gratitude, apparent in every face, and yet not a voice broke the silence, such was the discipline of the veterans.
‘You face hardships with the stoic acceptance of true Romans. For that is what you are. Some of you have been drawn from my provinces and from underprivileged societies, regardless of the standing senatorial orders for the raising and manning of a legion. But every man here is now a citizen of Rome - a chosen son of the republic. And you make your nation proud with your manner.’
As pre-arranged, Marcus Antonius stepped up from the back, carrying a tray of small bags. Caesar took the first from the tray.
‘Our allies have been requested to supply us with extra grain and, though their attempts to send us goods seem to have been waylaid by the enemy, this is naught but a setback. You have faced the hunger of halved rations with strength and dignity, and I salute you for it. I am told that conditions worsen, and am sure that rumour of this will already have reached you. Rations will have to be cut again unless our convoys reach us.’
He paused, waiting for the groan, though only a few small voices murmured, their optios jabbing them with staffs to keep them quiet.
‘I will not ask any of you to suffer in a manner that I am not willing to experience myself. In order to drag out our supplies as best we can, as of this morning, the officers are all moving to quarter rations to help stretch the food supplies.’
He cast the small bag into the crowd, where a legionary caught it with ease.
‘This is the officers’ rations. Good white flour. The finest milled. It will be added to your supplies today.’
There was a cheer as Antonius began to fling the small bags of flour out into the mass of men, Plancus and Fronto stepping forward with two more trays and joining the display of largesse. It would make little real difference in terms of hunger, but the gesture would be more than appreciated.
‘In order to bring matters to a close here,’ Caesar announced, while the distribution continued, ‘it is my intention to construct a ramp. The work will cross the dip and the marsh and will deliver us dry to the walls, allowing us to complete our siege in the usual manner of a Roman army. Vineae will be placed as we work to keep enemy missiles from your heads.’
He paused, a sly look passing across his eyes, unnoticed by the crowd.
‘But I will never carry out such a work at the expense of my legions. If you are feeling the pinch of hunger too deep to commit to such work, then I understand. If we reach the point at which you can no longer go on and it becomes critical for us to return to our supply bases, I will raise the siege without further comment, and the army will break camp and move away.’
‘Piss on that!’ came a voice from the crowd, and the statement brought a small chorus of agreement and no ding on the head from his optio.
‘You would have us continue?’
A man in the press of legionaries looked left and right and, seeing no reason not to, rose to his feet. His ochre-coloured scarf identified him as an engineer, and he cleared his throat noisily.
‘We can have that ramp up for you in two weeks. Three at most.’
Caesar frowned - he’d planned on not more than a week. The legionary noted the look of surprise on his general’s face and pursed his lips. ‘It’ll need to be maybe four hundred paces long and upward of eighty feet in height. And the width will have to be a lot more than that of a simple siege tower to provide adequate stability. Two to three weeks to be sure of success.’
Someone nearby muttered something Caesar couldn’t catch, but which earned him a clout with an optio’s staff.
‘Don’t you worry sir,’ shouted another man. ‘We’ll get it done fast. We’ve never abandoned a siege yet, all through this piss-poor land, an’ we ain’t going to start doin’ it now.’
‘Yeah,’ threw in another. ‘Remember the mounds at Cenabum? Those poor bastards! For them.’
Caesar bowed his head in response. At least a week longer than he’d expected, then, and possibly more. A week or two more of starvation and hardship, and yet his men were unbroken, prepared for the troubles ahead and undaunted. It was what Pompey always missed in his aloof separateness from his army: the sheer humbling nobility of the ordinary soldier.
‘For the victims of Cenabum,’ he said quietly, but loud enough to be heard across the space. ‘For all those who have fallen in the name of Gaul’s pacification, we will crack Avaricon and bring the Bituriges to heal and by the kalends of Aprilis we will stand in their halls eating their bread and drinking their wine.’
He closed his eyes and basked in the roar of approval.
* * * * *
The days wore on in privation and poor weather. The rain had set in as a constant - that early spring rain that battered the land with misery rather than a winter chill and dragged down the spirits of the men off whose armour and shields it pinged and clattered.
The rough turf of the hillside became a mire of sucking and oozing mud, with brown streams and rivulets carrying the mess down into the dip before the city, adding to the burgeoning swamp at the bottom.
Caesar took one more look through the interminable rain at the ramp, already impressive and marching out across the soggy dip, lined with the roofed vineae through the tunnels of which men moved constantly, carrying baskets of rocks and earth or lengths of timber. Occasionally one of the more hopeful of the Bituriges would loose an arrow at them, but they rarely struck, the defenders having discovered early on the protective power of the timber-and-hide sheds. There seemed nothing to do for either force but to watch the ramp’s gradual rise as it approached the walls.
‘Caesar?’
He turned at the voice and registered again the Aedui scout standing patiently waiting for debrief. ‘Speak.’
‘There is much to tell, Caesar.’
‘Go on.’ The general clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he watched Fronto stomping angrily up the ramp with his engineer, Pomponius, in tow, and slapping a legionary around the back of the head, at which the man dropped his basket of rocks, earning him another hard slap.
‘We have located the enemy’s camp, general. I and my companion came across a single warrior separated from their army, scouting in the same manner as us. I persuaded him to answer a few questions, and then left his body hidden and we rode out to confirm the truth of his words.’
Caesar nodded, his mouth turning up at the corner as the legionary, struggling to pick up his rocks, dropped one on Fronto’s foot, bringing forth a stream of invective that could be heard even at this distance, followed by a fresh bout of head-slapping.
‘It seems,’ the scout continued, ‘that Vercingetorix had positioned his camp on the moors some fifteen miles east of here, back towards Aedui land. It was from that place that he sent out his raiders but, having burned all that could be burned within easy reach and effectively cut off all our supply routes, he broke camp two days ago and is now in position on the far side of Avaricon, less than five miles distant. He seems to have now positioned himself close to the supply route our wagons from the
north would take.’
Caesar’s stomach gave an involuntary and rather loud growl. He had stood by his word, the officers rationing themselves along with the men. He coughed to hide his irritation.
‘Cunning, isn’t he,’ the general murmured. ‘He has effectively removed all the forageable goods within our conceivable reach and now he moves in force to blockade any supplies. He is well informed, too, apparently. Less than a week since, I sent riders to Labienus and Trebonius, asking that they send well-defended columns with grain. Such a column would get through his usual raids, but not a large interception force.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I cannot believe this is his full army, however. He will have left men in the east to prevent supplies from the Aedui and the Boii reaching us. Perhaps he has split his army in two. Do you have any estimate of the camp’s numbers?’
‘Fewer than us, Caesar. Whether there is a second force elsewhere I cannot be sure, but as I observed the camp, I watched a man ride out with a large force of cavalry and infantry, heading north. From his entourage and all the commotion as he left, I can only assume it was Vercingetorix himself. He certainly rode under an Arvernian standard.’
‘So,’ Caesar mused, cradling his fingers, ‘more than likely we are looking at the enemy force being divided between two camps some distance from one another, and their leader has taken a number of them from the near camp. What can you tell me of their camp’s defences?’
The scout frowned. ‘There are no true defences, general, but they do not really need them. The hill upon which they are camped is low, but surrounded by the same swamps that defend Avaricon. The only feasible access to the hill is by two bridges. An attack would become congested at the bridge. I can only recommend against it, Caesar.’
‘What of their baggage?’
Another frown. ‘It sits atop the hill at the camp.’
Caesar pursed his lips, clearly tempted. ‘I relish the opportunity to strike at a minimal force and take his supplies, effectively pushing him into the same privations as us.’ He sighed. ‘But it is not to be. If I draw off enough men to deal with them, I imperil all we have achieved here. And as soon as they see us coming, they will destroy the bridges. We will be at great risk and likely impotent. Our best hope is to continue our action here until Avaricon falls and then raid its granaries, enabling us to continue our campaign and turn our sights on the great enemy himself. Perhaps if we are fortunate, his army will remain split until then.’
He shifted his gaze back on the walls of the oppidum before them, arms still behind his back as he sucked on his lip. The ramp was so close now, he could almost feel the walls starting to fall.
* * * * *
Vercingetorix slid from his sweating mount, the rain showering from him as he hit the sodden turf and shook out his cloak. Behind him, his vanguard of a score of the best cavalry dispersed at a nod from their commander, and the king of the Arverni smiled at his cousin.
‘Your face is dour and unhappy, Vergasillaunus. Does my appearance so distress you?’
The second in command of the Gallic army snorted, his eyes flinty. ‘The mood in the camp is not good, cousin. You return to find an army close to abandoning your cause.’
‘Oh? Do explain.’ His gaze took in the huge camp on the low hill, beyond which he could see the misty miasma of the marshes rising almost to obscure the hill of Avaricon a few miles distant. On the wide low crest here rested more than three quarters of his force, a small detachment left in the east to thwart the Boii and the Aedui in their efforts at resupply, and cavalry forces continually out and about burning anything they could find and still on occasion catching the Roman forage parties who would run cheering back to their camp even if all they caught was a brace of coneys. Avaricon may be denied them, since the swamps that kept out the Romans affected the Gauls the same way, but his army was still strong, while the Romans suffered daily.
‘Your men are hungry, cousin.’
‘Not as hungry as the Romans.’
Vergasillaunus clicked his tongue irritably. ‘Stop that. We burned everything within forty miles of this place, and anything of real value far beyond that. Well done. Your policy of charring the earth is starving the Romans. And yet they do not stop. They live on small biscuits and brackish water, apparently. But no forage for the Romans means no forage for us, too. Your army grows hungry and restive. We are close to the Romans, but we do not fight them, and the hungrier the men get, the more your allies begin to mutter against you.’
‘Then they will be pleased at what we bring.’
Vergasillaunus frowned, and his cousin broke into a wide grin. ‘The Romans have sent us a great gift: upwards of thirty wagons of grain and meat, with extra livestock, and even some of their emergency biscuits. And a few dozen of their men to entertain us, including an officer.’
‘You found the column from Cenabum? The spies were right?’
‘Perfectly. And I also have word that the Aedui noble who commanded half a dozen supply wagons from Dardon in the east threw in his lot with our forces and turned the whole column over to the commanders of our other camp. Our armies will both eat well tonight, while the Romans continue to starve.’
Vergasillaunus heaved a sigh of relief. ‘You still will not engage the Romans? Even though they starve and we must near their numbers?’
The king shook his head. ‘The Romans are tricky and tenacious. We know them of old. To be certain of victory we must overpower them completely. To try and to be uncertain of victory is to risk all we have done for the sake of impatience. See how the Aedui begin to fall to our banner, now? Soon their leaders will follow suit, and when we have them with us, they will bring dozens of other wavering tribes with them. Then we will have men enough to swamp Caesar. Patience, cousin.’
‘And if Avaricon falls?’
Vercingetorix scratched his neck. ‘The Bituriges will hold, especially with Cavarinos and Critognatos among their number. And should the worst happen and it does fall, it is little more than a setback in the grand scheme. We only came here to mollify the chieftains. I would have left well alone, for the Aedui continue to be my prime concern.’
* * * * *
The sound of a cornu blaring out the call for the third watch split the wet night, cutting through the fine mizzle that did its best to douse the torches and camp fires of the Roman army. Three officers stood on the low brow, careful of their footing in the mire, watching as the great ramp touched the walls. Already the bulk of the ramp butted up against the defences and within the hour the last few baskets of rubble and dirt would flatten the final stretch enough to bring the siege towers up against the walls. The Bituriges had taken over the last week to strengthening the defences here, where the ramp rose between two heavy, rebated gates, trying to raise the height of the walls and the towers that dotted them. But it would not be enough to render the siege ramp and towers ineffective.
One of the three legionaries who had brought the officers the wax tablets full of figures and numbers scurried over to right one of the flaring torches that had begun to lean as the mud into which it was jammed loosened. Antonius snapped one of the tablets shut and passed it across to Varus, who shook his head. ‘The attrition among our own forces is getting worse by the day. I hope this ramp is successful, general.’
Caesar’s stomach gave another hollow, unhappy growl, and he cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to cover it. It did not do when in the company of the ranking soldiers to show any sign of weakness, even hunger.
‘Did you hear that?’ Antonius said quietly.
Caesar turned, his eyebrow cocked.
‘I thought I heard a groan, sir?’
The general huffed irritably. If everyone was going to draw attention to the complaints of a shrinking stomach, they were going to be rather busy, given the level of hunger across the camp. He opened his mouth to frame a sarcastic reply, and then he heard it too.
It was a low, unearthly groan. Similar to those of his starving gut, but deeper, wider and all-encomp
assing. As though Tellus - the mother of the earth - showed her deep disapproval of something.
‘I do not like the sound of that.’
* * * * *
Critognatos peered out over the wall, watching the siege towers as they moved forward a couple of feet under the heaving muscle of hundreds of legionaries who used the vineae to shelter from attacks as they worked, their long ropes wound round huge stakes at the top of the ramp as a pulley system so that as they descended the ramp under the shelters, so the towers ascended in the open. Damn the Romans and their ingenuity.
Cavarinos clambered up to the top of the wall, carefully spooning some of the mutton and juicy broth from his wooden bowl and then, replacing the spoon, dipping some of the luxuriant bread into the liquid, watching it drip and then allowing the Roman army to come into focus behind it.
‘It is time, brother,’ he said, muffled through a mouthful.
Critognatos looked back at him. ‘About time. I have been restless.’
* * * * *
Fronto leaned out from the cover of the vinea, looking up at the defences as he rubbed his aching knee. ‘We’re there, lads. Come the dawn, we’ll be up those towers and onto the walls.’
Carbo looked back at him, his pink face streaked with sweat and rain that glistened in the torch light. ‘Any word from command as to who gets the chance at the corona muralis?’
Fronto smiled at his top centurion. The mural crown was one of the most sought-after military decorations, granted to the first soldier to raise a Roman standard above the enemy’s walls. Carbo, along with the senior centurion of every other legion present, would be twitching to lead the first assault in an attempt to win the coveted crown.
‘The general has not committed himself yet, Carbo. But I suspect he will grant the honour to one of the newer legions or one of the newer legates. We are his solid veterans and he will be looking to boost the morale of the newer men, after the past month of hardship. Be prepared to play a supporting role tomorrow, I’d say.’
The Great Revolt Page 19