‘Testudo!’ Fabius yelled at the top of his voice. While the majority of the men looked back in confusion or kept trying to catch the rising noble with their blades, nine or ten men reacted with the discipline bred into them and hunched down, bringing their shields up into a temporary roof.
Without pause, Fabius ran and jumped, landing on top of the testudo and racing across three shields with steady feet as the men beneath tried to keep formation under his weight. At the last step, the centurion leapt into the air, his sword lashing out even as his arm reached for the rope.
His gladius sank into the small of the Gallic noble’s back. His free hand missed the rope, but grasped the Gaul’s shoulder, and he clung tight to the thick wool of his tunic. The man screamed at the pain, arching, his fingers slipping from the rope.
For a desperate moment - a heartbeat, two at the most - Fabius was in the air, clinging to the stricken Gaul. But somehow his hand found purchase on the cable and he clung on with all his strength as the nobleman fell with a thud to be finished off by the legionaries below. The rope was still rising, the Gauls above oblivious to the fact that the burden on it was now a Roman and not their own noble. Hurriedly, Fabius dug his foot into the loop and held tight, readying his blade for the moment he reached the top.
Furius was gone. But Fabius was about to be the first man on the walls of Gergovia. His friend was gone, but he would be buried with a corona muralis!
* * * * *
Cavarinos raced alongside Lucterius and Vercingetorix, his horse’s hooves pounding as the three commanders raced ahead of the Gallic force. Upon hearing the call of the Carnyx that had come from a musician of the Nitiobriges, the leaders had realised too late that the gleaming legion in the woods and the supply wagons had been naught but a ruse. Those same Nitiobriges, presumably urged on by their king, who had remained at the oppidum, were now racing along Gergovia’s southern rampart and making for the point where the Romans were still fighting in small groups. Most of the legionaries were on the retreat now, making their way back towards the camp below, though with considerably less order than Cavarinos was used to seeing.
‘We’ve missed our chance,’ he yelled as they rode, the cavalry keeping pace behind, the infantry falling away further back, yet running as fast as they could.
‘What?’
‘Missed our chance. They’re pulling back.’
‘Oh, my friend,’ Vercingetorix smiled, ‘we have time yet.’
As Cavarinos frowned, his king turned and waved the cavalry on and down the slope after the retreating Romans.
‘Are you mad?’ Cavarinos yelled. ‘That’s too steep for cavalry!’
‘Not for Lucterius’ men. And look: the Romans are in disarray. Their middle legion is holding together well as they fall back, but the nearest one is all over the hillside, split up. And the far one…’ The king chuckled. ‘See the Aedui cavalry coming in from the east? Lack of communication can lose a battle. See how the farthest legion panics. They think the Aedui are ours!’
Cavarinos stared. It was true. At first glance, the Romans were pulling back well, but closer attention brought forth all the weaknesses. It looked like the legions to the east and west were not heeding the calls their commanders had put out, fleeing in all directions, so long as it was down, some even forming up to fight their own allied cavalry.
‘And look how slow they move,’ Cavarinos added. ‘They’re exhausted from the climb.’
‘Let us make them wish they had never set foot on our mountain,’ the king laughed and kicked his horse into action alongside the cavalry, who were now descending on the heels of the slower Romans, whooping and shouting with glee.
* * * * *
Fronto paused on the slope, heaving in gulps of air, sweat running into his eyes and soaking his helmet liner. Caesar was looking distinctly disgruntled.
‘The Eighth are falling back, but they’re in trouble. It looks like the enemy horse are riding them down as they retreat. A few of the better officers are trying to form the contra equitas, but they just can’t do it properly on this terrain and with no pila. They obviously weren’t expecting a cavalry assault. Who would? What mad bastard rides a horse down that slope?’
The sight of centuries trying to pull together further across the slope and create angled shield-walls was bad enough, but few men still had a pilum, so the formation would be unlikely to stop the enemy horse anyway.
The general rubbed his bare head angrily, his helmet long-since cast to the ground, sweat sprinkling his bald pate. ‘And yet note how few of them fall. They are good. The Eighth will remain in great danger until they reach level ground and can form against cavalry.’
‘There are a few centuries trapped at the top, too,’ Fronto noted, pointing to where several Roman figures were visible actually on Gergovia’s own rampart top.
‘And the Thirteenth are ignoring the call and forming against the Aedui, for the love of Venus!’
Fronto nodded. ‘They’re new to the army, most of the Aedui. They’re baring the wrong shoulder to signify they’re friendly, and our men don’t recognise their standards, so they resemble the enemy more than anything else.’
‘If the Thirteenth don’t hurry up and fall back, they’ll be cut off when the main Gallic force arrives,’ Caesar despaired. ‘See how more of their cavalry already close on them beneath the rampart wall? I am incensed, Fronto. I am quite livid. Someone’s head will roll for this!’
‘Later, sir. For now, we need to sort this mess out.’
Caesar nodded and turned to the cornicen standing nearby waiting to receive new orders. ‘You know the calls for the Thirteenth?’
‘Some of them, sir.’
‘Point that thing down at the valley, take the deepest breath you can, and give the cohorts back in camp the order to support the Eighth and form the contra equitas on the lowest slope. And do it loud. No one can hear the calls on this hill.’
The cornicen saluted and turned, blowing the staccato codes.
‘That should prevent the enemy from pushing their advantage and hopefully allow the Eighth to reform.’
Fronto nodded. ‘We need to advance the Tenth again, sir. Give the Thirteenth time to sort themselves out and begin to retreat. Shame we can’t get a message to the Fifth in those woods.’
Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance as he watched enemy warriors both on horse and on foot flooding back across the ruined camp, closing on the legions even as they tried to pull back. ‘Do what you need to here, Fronto. I am bound for the Thirteenth to have a few choice words with Sextius.’
* * * * *
Marcus Petreius, chief centurion of the Eighth legion, stepped back, his bloodied sword trembling in his weary hand. There were less than a century’s worth of men remaining below the wall, from the initial three. They had been unable to retreat as the enemy cavalry raced past them through the camp, making for the bulk of the Tenth and Thirteenth legions and racing down the slope after the rest of the Eighth. Wave after wave of the horsemen had stopped to engage the trapped Romans below the wall, and each fresh attack drastically reduced their numbers.
Above, on the wall top there had been a furious fight, as they could hear. Against all odds, that madman Fabius had secured the top of the rope and sent all three back down for others to climb. Five men in total had reached the top, but the increased shouts in the Gallic tongue and the growing desperation of Fabius’ imprecations in Latin spoke volumes as to how things were going up there.
As Petreius kicked away the flailing hand of the last enemy rider he had dispatched, he glanced around. The slopes were chaos, but not as bad as they were about to become. The main enemy force had finally arrived from the twin hills, thousands of warriors on foot, all screaming for blood. The cavalry had harried the Romans and caused the chaos, but the infantry would finish them all, given the time.
‘We have to go,’ he bellowed to the man clutching the century’s standard in crimson fingers, the signifer himself one of t
he many fallen in this disaster.
‘What about him?’ the man wheezed, clutching his side and looking up at the unseen fight on the wall top. Petreius turned his own gaze upwards, just as a shape launched out from the rampart. The two men stepped a few paces apart hurriedly as the body hit the ground between them with a wet thump. Centurion Fabius had died hard, his left arm gone at the elbow, his head at an odd angle, neck half severed through, his face partially caved in by some heavy blow and holes and slashes all across his front. He must have been dead before he hit the ground.
‘I think that’s our sign,’ Petreius breathed. He turned to see that more horsemen had appeared along with the infantry, and were racing towards them, whooping as they went.
‘Sir...’
‘I see them. Get that standard and the rest of the men back down to the camp.’
‘But sir?’
‘Go. While you have time.’
Casting his eyes around, Petreius spotted a pilum still jutting from that fallen nobleman’s back. Gripping it, he hauled it with a sucking sound from the body and pushed the tip against the turf to straighten the neck before raising it against the onrush of four horsemen.
‘Go!’ he bellowed, bracing himself.
The legionary, gripping the precious standard tight in his red, slippery hands, turned and began to run down the slope, shouting the call to fall back. The rest of the men were not slow to follow his lead, pounding off down through the enemy camp towards the relative safety of the valley below.
Petreius saw one of the horsemen turn, aiming for the standard bearer, and drew back his arm. ‘No you don’t, dickhead.’
With a heave and a grunt, he threw the missile, striking the horseman in the shoulder and knocking him from his mount where he rolled over and over on the grass, convulsing as he came to a stop. Petreius reached for a cavalry spear that lay nearby, snapped down to less than two thirds of its usual length, and raised it just in time to meet the next horseman face to face. The spear point took the Gaul in the chest as he swung his sword wide, but the Gallic blade came on unstoppably even as its wielder faltered, the edge smashing into the centurion’s mail shirt, splintering his ribs.
Petreius let go of the spear and drew his dagger in his free hand, wincing at the pain in his side. The remaining two horsemen turned and moved back to skirt this Roman lunatic, and Petreius staggered for a moment, righting himself as hundreds of howling warriors descended upon him on foot.
‘Come on then, you hairy fleapits. Let me show you how a Roman dies!’
* * * * *
Fronto glanced left and right, trying to keep himself aware of everything. The Tenth had moved in dense formation at an oblique angle to the oppidum’s walls, not an easy thing to do on sloping terrain like this, but his veteran centurions had managed with relative ease under Carbo’s expert leadership. There, they had halted and borne the brunt of the refreshed Gallic attack, the cavalry now flooding the camp and coming against them hard. Had Fronto had more pila among his men, they might even have been able to fight the horsemen back, but with so few, all they were able to do was shelter from them behind the relative safety of the two-tier shield-wall, the more talented soldiers among them turning their shields slightly every time a horse got close enough and slashing out with their gladius, maiming a hoof. A dozen or more of the enemy had been brought down this way, but that was just a bonus to Fronto. The main task was to protect the Thirteenth at this point and stop this cavalry attack from getting in amongst them.
Gallic warriors were now beginning to flood the ramparts above them, and bows and slings were in evidence. Once they started using them in force, this anti-cavalry formation would no long be viable. The enemy foot were on the approach too, behind the cavalry and no more than a few hundred paces away, moving carefully to negotiate the slope as they passed their own horsemen.
Behind, the Thirteenth were beginning to form up, Caesar having somehow managed to get through to the various commanders with the aid of Sextius - red faced and distraught - and a few signifers and musicians. If they hurried, they would be out of danger before the enemy foot got here.
A honking noise rose from the east, and Fronto squinted. The Thirteenth were now pulling back down the hill in ordered centuries, but the call had come from the Aedui cavalry, who even now were racing past the Thirteenth and making for the main fight. Fronto felt a flood of relief. Thousands of allied horse would make all the difference. The Aedui could deal with the enemy cavalry and take some of the pressure off the Tenth.
‘Carbo?’
‘Sir?’ bellowed the senior centurion from the end of the line.
‘Are the Thirteenth clear yet, d’you think?
‘As clear as they’ll get, sir.’
‘Good. Let’s abandon this formation. Individual century shield-walls. We’re pulling back to reform at the bottom of the slope.’
The centurion nodded and spoke hurriedly to his signifer. Fronto looked around and spotted the nervous figure of a young tribune. Was he the one who had warned him of the assault on the large camp? He really couldn’t tell. He was young, though, and nervous.
‘You! Tribune.’
The young officer scurried across and saluted.
‘Is your horse still nearby?’ Most of the beasts had been taken back down the slope the moment the officers had dismounted and joined their units in the thick of things, but half a dozen were still nearby, grazing contentedly as though nothing untoward had happened.
‘She’s gone back down sir.’
‘Then take someone else’s. Get back to the white rocks camp. I want every pilum, auxiliary javelin and cavalry spear in camp brought out to where the army will form up at the bottom of the slope. We’re going to stop them there, or die trying.’
The tribune saluted, looking rather relieved. Fronto watched him mount up and begin to pick his way down the slope with a great deal more care than the Gauls, and considerably slower, too. His attention was claimed a moment later by the cornu blasting out commands for the Tenth, who were formed up close enough to hear them. Carbo, ever the competent professional, had taken Fronto’s basic orders and expanded upon them with additional detail. The first and second cohorts formed into blocks of four centuries, presenting shield-walls to the enemy as they began to move down the slope. The third cohort formed up on the right, at the top of the slope, presenting an angled wall with a half-roof of shields over the front three rows of men against missiles from the ramparts above, protecting the flank as they pulled back. The remaining cohorts were already moving down the slope at the fastest pace they could maintain, protected from the rear by their fellows.
And suddenly the three cohorts were moving, their pace hampered by the need to maintain difficult formations on the dreadful terrain. Fronto moved to the downhill end, away from the danger of falling arrows, taking a moment to make sure that Bucephalus had been among the horses the runners had taken back earlier and was not now being left grazing for the enemy to claim.
The journey was one of the worst manoeuvres Fronto could remember from his entire career. The sun beat down, making the legions seethe with heat, their armour almost burning to the touch, sweat running in rivers from every man, yet all their concentration was required to keep the formation as tight as possible. Once Carbo had judged them far enough from the ramparts, he allowed the Third cohort to drop their shield roof, which did little to help the rest, but was clearly a relief to the men who had formed it.
And all the way down they were harried by the enemy cavalry and infantry, men falling out of the shield-wall, caught by a spear or a flailing horse hoof as they went until finally the enemy horse vanished, pulled back uphill to deal with the newly-arrived Aedui. The men had no time to recover, though, the pressure previously put on them by the horse taken up by the foot in their absence, causing more and more casualties and gaps in the line that the Tenth managed to plug with practiced manoeuvres.
Fronto glanced along the line to find Carbo, ready to give the or
der for increased pace, but where the primus pilus should have been was just a conspicuous gap. His heart sank.
Worse than the terrain, the sweat, the temperature and the death toll - worse than all that together and even Carbo’s loss - was the dejection. Every man remained silent, apart from the grunts of effort or the occasional curse cast either at the enemy or the treacherous slope. And yet despite their silence, Fronto knew what every man felt like shouting about, for he felt it too. This attack should have been simple. It should have been yet another genius exercise by Caesar’s legions - a swift in and out with minimal fuss depriving the enemy of their comfortable camp, defences and supplies.
Instead, it had become a shambles. A dreadful retreat. A near catastrophe, in fact. Individually, the factors that had turned success into chaos might have been overcome. The inability of some units to hear their orders over the combination of distance and din from the oppidum above. The apparent insubordination of the Eighth, who had pushed on to the oppidum walls against their orders, and the enemy that came upon them divided, managing to turn that legion’s orderly retreat into a panicked mob. The unexpected willingness of enemy cavalry to launch down a steep slope that no Roman horseman would consider, and thereby harry the fleeing legions. The panic that had broken out throughout the Thirteenth at the sight of Gallic cavalry on their unprotected flank and not recognising them as allies. Individually: troublesome issues. Together: a seething cauldron of chaos.
As the men of the Tenth reached the flatter ground at the base of the oppidum’s hill once more, they found the three cohorts of the Thirteenth from the white rocks camp formed up protectively and fell in alongside them. The Eighth were now forming up as well, presenting a barrier.
But it was too late. The legions had lost the day.
The enemy cavalry had turned and begun to return to their camps. The Aedui had considered their task complete when the legions had pulled back and had broken off and raced for the main camp. And the rebel forces en masse were returning to the heights, shouting jubilantly, whooping with victory and laughing.
The Great Revolt Page 34