A Gallic arrow thudded into the wooden tower post a few feet from Fronto’s head, and the whole structure shook as the ballista atop it launched another rock over into the Gaulish army that seethed on the flat ground below the oppidum. Even back beyond the twin ditches the ground was so strewn with native bodies that little grass or mud could be seen - men who had been crippled or killed by the stake-filled lilia pits or the sharpened branches, embedded iron spikes or the armfuls of caltrops that had been hurled down from the rampart to spike running feet, and others who had fallen to accurate strikes from pila, arrow, sling or scorpion.
‘Legate!’
Fronto turned at the call to see a courier racing across the grass towards him, saluting as he ran.
‘What?’
‘Compliments of commander Antonius, sir. He asks that you move a third of your men across to the outer rampart to aid in a concerted push.’
Fronto blinked. ‘Is he mad? I can’t spare a third of my men.’
The courier looked distinctly uncomfortable, and closed his eyes as if trying to repeat something from memory. ‘The commander said you’d argue, sir. He told me to tell you “I can end this in half an hour, now give me the troops”, sir.’
Fronto frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like Antonius.’
‘Respectfully, I cut out some of the worst language, sir, and he called you something I cannot bring myself to repeat to an officer.’
Fronto laughed. ‘Now that sounds like Antonius. Alright, tell him to make room. They’ll be across shortly.’
As the courier saluted and ran off, Fronto prepared himself for trouble and marched along the rampart, ducking stray arrows and dodging lucky blows, until he reached Atenos, two towers south. As he moved, Masgava and Quietus fell in to protect him, the latter running to his left, holding up his big shield to protect them both from stray missiles.
‘Centurion?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have your officers mark every third man and then pull them off the walls and send them over to Antonius. He needs them for something.’
Atenos frowned, ignoring the Gaul he had by the throat dangling over the drop beyond the fence. ‘We need them for something too, sir.’ Half turning, he head-butted the struggling Gaul and dropped the broken form back among the enemy.
‘I know that. Do it anyway.’
As Atenos, still with an expression of disapproval, snapped out the orders to his optio and the two men began marching along the rampart in opposite directions tapping men on the shoulder, Fronto staggered, a stray arrow passing close enough to take a nick out of his earlobe and draw a hot, bloody line across his neck. Masgava fixed Quietus with the most malevolent of glares and the bodyguard hoisted his shield higher, being sure to cover his legate from further strikes. Grabbing his scarf and wiping away the blood, Fronto looked down at the legionaries from the Tenth stepping away from the wall and then across at the outer rampart where a similar fight continued.
Whatever Antonius had in mind, he’d better make it work, and do it quickly. Night would descend all too soon. This was starting to look a little too much like a repeat of Gergovia for comfort.
* * * * *
Lucterius was exultant. As his horse shouldered its way through the press and he brought his heavy blade down on one of the Roman auxiliaries - a Remi perhaps? - he almost laughed. The Romans were beaten. Oh they fought on like lions, as one was always to expect with the legions, but their cavalry were fighting for their very existence now. Hours of combat had passed, with the Roman commanders repeatedly sallying forth in waves and breaking the Gallic morale, only to find that Lucterius and his companions could all-too-easily pull things back together, and turn the tables on their enemy, often accompanied by attacks from those bands of archers still present on the field. And so it had been all day, the Romans charging and the tribes pulling back accordingly under the onslaught, and then the rebel horse making their own brutal attack, only to see the Romans fall back under the pressure and regroup elsewhere. From the point of view of Toutatis, looking down upon the war, the cavalry battle must had looked like the waves of the sea, repeatedly crashing upon the shore and then ebbing back as the sand dried, only to see the next wave coming to soak it.
But the important fact was that the rebels would win. Although the attrition of this unpleasant engagement was wearing down both forces at a surprisingly equal rate, Lucterius and his people outnumbered the Roman cavalry by a high enough margin that the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
As he fought his way to the edge of the latest clash, he allowed himself a moment to gaze upon the other battle upon which today hinged. The Roman defences were still holding, but they were almost submerged beneath a sea of good tribal warriors and their future was already written in thick, oozing blood. The fact that, from what he’d heard, the Romans weren’t even sending support from their other camps to aid the beleaguered defenders could only speed their demise.
It would be over tonight, then. That sector of defences would break, the two forces would join up, and then the Romans would die, for the men of the tribes would not relent with the sinking of the sun. The Romans might not like to fight at night, but now the tribes had victory in their grasp and they would not pause, even for a moment.
A new noise entered the aural tapestry of the battle, and Lucterius frowned, peering at the Roman ramparts as he tried to discern what it was. Even at this distance it was evident that the Roman defenders atop the walls had suddenly increased in both number and voracity. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. At this stage, many hours after the first blow, they should be tiring, unable to rally like this. Unless something had given them heart?
There it was again: that strange insistent chord somewhere in the din. What was it?’
He felt a sense of rage begin deep in his belly and spread out to fill him entire as he recognised finally the booing horn calls of the damned German cavalry. He was distracted for a moment as a Roman auxiliary suddenly appeared in the press and made a lunge for him. Only half paying attention, Lucterius blocked the blow high and then swept down, his sharpened blade carving across the enemy’s face and almost separating the top half of his head.
Ignoring the gurgling, dying man, he turned back to the distant walls. His heart lurched as he realised that a section of the mass attack on the rampart had been pushed back through concentrated assault by missiles and artillery and then the increased manpower at the walls. Even as he realised why, the first ranks of the savage head-hunting riders appeared in the opening, racing out into the open ground beyond the fight.
No!
The infantry at the walls attempted to close the gap and prevent the sally of the Germans, but they were simply unable to stop the flood of horsemen at a charge, their blood up, having been frustrated by a day’s inactivity and finally given the opportunity to deal death. Lucterius could imagine what was happening at the gate.
And then the Germans were hurtling across the open ground. For a moment, Lucterius was forced to pay attention to another auxiliary intent on taking his life and as he swiftly dispatched the man, he turned back to see the thousand-strong German unit halted, forming into a tight unit. This was new. The few times he had seen - to his detriment - the Germanic cavalry in action, they had been a loose mob of screaming lunatics. Cohesion seemed unlikely. And yet there they were, forming up.
His heart began to pound as he watched the Germans start to move, picking up speed at an almost unbelievable rate and racing towards the fray like the avenging fury of Gods. Wicked gods!
He had only heartbeats. What could the enemy do? They might be savage individually, but the field was currently a swamped mix of Roman and rebel, thrashing around in a disorganised mass. If the Germans hit them - which seemed to be their intention - they would as likely kill as many Romans as rebels. He almost laughed. Releasing the Germans was no guarantee of aid to the Roman force. It was like letting a fox loose in a pen with two chicken coops. Only the Gods knew which army w
ould take the brunt of this attack.
A honking and then a shrill whine rang out from the west, and Lucterius frowned for only a moment before his eyes widened. No!
One of the rebel signallers had called the orders to pull back and form up. The idiot!
Lucterius swung his horse, trying to find a man with a horn to countermand that order, but the press was too chaotic. Even as he felt the panic rise, he noticed that already the concentration of men around him was becoming more and more Roman as his own men pulled back from the fray and formed into a block at the call.
Lucterius tried to shout, but an opportunistic Roman appeared in his way, swung a cavalry sword and hit him hard. The mail shirt prevented most of the damage from the blade’s edge, but he felt two or three ribs crack and was thrown back in his saddle. Recovering as best he could, he fought desperately for a hundred heartbeats, struggling, but eventually managing to fight back and kill his attacker, only to find himself face to face with another who he killed with four strokes, taking a ragged wound to the back of his hand in the process. He was almost alone among the enemy now, though close to the edge of the fight. Urgently, he pulled out from the press and into the open.
The scene that greeted him sent a flood of horror through him, though he’d been expecting it in his heart.
At the sight of a clearly-rebel force gathering under a banner, the Germans had changed course en-masse and charged them. Even as Lucterius moved out away from the Roman horde who were busy rallying to kill the enemy among them, he saw the Germans hit the block of rebel horse.
When he had been a boy, his people had played a game in the street where a wooden ball was rolled at six wooden sticks standing on end, the objective being to collapse all six in one roll - a Roman game, sickeningly, that had come to the Cadurci through traders. And now he was watching the same game carried out live, the ball a tight-knit force of slavering Germans, the sticks a terrified block of Gallic horse.
The rebels exploded as the Germans hit them with seemingly unstoppable momentum.
Lucterius felt a cold stone of despair sink into his belly as he watched his men fall to pieces, standards cast down, nobles unable to control their men no matter how loud they shouted. A concentrated area of the block was savagely cut down by the newly-arrived force, but the bulk of the rebels were lost without even a blow landing. Terror flooded the horsemen, leaping from beast to beast and gripping the heart of each rider, widening his eyes, bringing forth the cold sweat, and sending him racing, as fast as his tired horse could carry him, for the hills and the camp atop them.
Lucterius tried to call things to order. He saw a musician - the moron who’d called the formation, perhaps? - but before he could shout to him, one of the Germans was there, ripping the man’s horn from him - along with half a severed arm - and then crushing his skull with the crumpled instrument.
What had been a foolish call by a foolish man quickly turned into a panic, and before Lucterius’ dismayed eyes, that panic slipped into a rout.
The few of his men still among the Romans were no longer fighting for freedom or victory. They were fighting to escape. The Romans had seen what had happened, too, and numerous horn calls went up as heart flooded back into the beleaguered cavalry.
Lucterius watched as the spearmen and archers, who had remained on the periphery and made their mark every time the Romans came too near, were suddenly swamped by auxiliary horsemen. In the time it took to blink, the sure victory of the rebel force had been turned into a panicked, ignominious flight. Only a few hundred of his men, rallying to banners, remained to fight, but they would not last long against the Roman cavalry in those numbers. Most of the men were even now racing up the slopes towards the relative safety of the relief army’s camp.
Lucterius looked around himself, hardly able to believe what had happened. Then, with no other option barring certain - if glorious - death, he kicked his horse to speed and made for the slope to the camp. He never looked back, but he did not need to. His acute hearing noted the gradual shift in calls. The carnyxes that had been urging the infantry on against the Roman fortifications were now calling the calls of defeat: rally, withdraw, fall back. The Roman horns, with a distinctly higher pitch, had changed too. He didn’t know those calls, but the melodies went from sad, discordant ones to uplifting, encouraging tunes. It didn’t take a genius to work that out.
They had failed. A whole day. A battle the likes of which the tribes had never seen, and planned with the most cunning strategies, and it had failed. Even now, the rebels would be falling back to their oppidum or camp, depending upon which side of the fortifications they stood. The armies had not managed to link up and the Romans would now be able to shuffle their forces around and repair the damage.
And it would take time to bring the reluctant leaders of the relief force around to the idea of another attempt. Likely a day or more of marshalling their forces, no matter the logic in forcing the point. The momentum would be lost in hesitation.
Failure.
It would be easy enough to blame the Germans. After all, they had had just such effects more than once on this campaign. But the truth of the matter was that, had the two armies remained mixed, the Germans would have been an unknown quantity, as dangerous to Rome as to the tribes. What had been the true cause of the failure had been one man with a horn.
He found himself hoping that the culprit was that poor fool with a missing arm and a bent horn jammed in his brain.
* * * * *
Cavarinos heaved in ragged breaths as he struggled up the slope nursing his arm, which had been dislocated during the last press and had caused him agony to pop back into the socket with the help of a nearby warrior. All around him, the dejected warriors of Vercingetorix’s army returned to the oppidum with a feeling of loss and hopelessness.
They had been so very close to breaking the defences. Indeed, in that last quarter hour, when the Romans had thinned out their numbers, small forays had actually made it across the fence and into the Roman fortifications. But then the attack of the reserve army had faltered and crumbled, and the Romans had been free to redeploy their men, strengthening the inner rampart. Perhaps hundreds of warriors had been lost inside, captured and killed by the Roman defenders, as the king had come to the inescapable conclusion that the day was lost and had the call for retreat blown. The various leaders of the tribes had echoed the call, and the attackers had pulled back from the ramparts, making their way back up the hill under the occasional shot from the Roman artillery.
Defeat!
His already failing spirits hit new lows as he spotted his brother picking his way among the dejected warriors. Cavarinos closed his eyes, steadied his breathing and counted to eight slowly.
‘Why did you sound the retreat?’ snapped Critognatos, shoving his brother roughly in the recently-dislocated shoulder and sending waves of pain through him.
‘Because we’d lost, you idiot,’ he replied just as peevishly. ‘Better to preserve our men than fight a lost cause.’
‘Bollocks. We were almost there. If we’d got more men across the fence, we’d have swamped them and won the day. You pulled the men back on the cusp of victory!’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ snarled Cavarinos. ‘We’d failed. Anyway, it was the king who called the retreat, not me.’
‘He doesn’t do things like that without you or his cousin telling him to. That’s why he keeps you around.’ Critognatos brandished his still-naked blade angrily. ‘I’m beginning to regret his investiture as leader of this army. He’s almost as big a coward as you!’
Cavarinos snorted. ‘Piss off and find someone else to insult. I don’t have the patience. It’s time to lick our wounds and rally. There’ll be another day.’
His brother simply sneered. ‘We should rally now and charge back. They won’t be expecting us again so soon, and the sun is setting. We could pull victory from the jaws of defeat.’
‘Just stop talking,’ Cavarinos snapped. ‘I get sick of the sound of your
belligerent yapping. You’re like an overgrown kitten who thinks he’s a lion.’
‘And you are a pointless, womanish coward.’
‘Piss off.’
Cavarinos’ world exploded into a cloud of white hot pain as his brother suddenly grabbed him by the bad arm and yanked, pulling the shoulder partially out again. Despite of the agony, acting entirely on impulse, Cavarinos swung round, his good arm connecting with his brother’s cheek in a powerful right hook. Critognatos staggered back and his feet slipped from under him, leaving him rolling several paces back down the slope.
Cavarinos clutched his ruined arm and hobbled over to a nearby tree, setting himself against it. That he’d fixed himself once without breaking his arm or collar bone had been a surprise, and his entire body ached from the pain, his eyes dry from the seemingly endless tears he’d already cried. Preparing himself, he pushed the joint carefully, slowly, against the bark, slowly turning and extending his arm to provide the best angle.
With a flood of pain that eclipsed any wound he’d ever received, the joint clicked back, though an extra, new, pain suggested that he might have chipped a bone doing it. His eyes almost blinded with tears of pain, he turned to march on, only to see Critognatos bearing down on him angrily, his nose awash with blood, crimson-tinted sword in hand.
Through the flood of pain, Cavarinos tried in vain to draw his sword as his brother broke into a run, blade raised for a strike. Cavarinos was fairly sure he’d have died there and then had not half a dozen other Arverni rushed over and restrained the furious noble. Cavarinos watched through tears and half-interest as the big man was held back, spluttering curses, his face purple with rage.
‘This is not over!’ Critognatos snarled as he stopped struggling.
Cavarinos sighed as he turned and hobbled on up the slope. That was for certain…
Chapter 21
Fronto stood atop the outer rampart, feeling the cool night breeze rippling across his features, the slight chill cleansing and cathartic after a day filled with searing heat and the sick-sweet smell of death and charring meat, clearing the defences of the Gallic dead and burning the Roman bodies. A night and a day had passed since the attack with no sign of movement from the enemy reserve camp, nor from the oppidum. The Gaulish bodies had been cleared from the ditches by repeated Roman sorties and piled in the open land beyond the furthest hazards, where they were distant enough that their stink was muted and they would cause an extra obstacle to attackers, at maximum effective missile range. Indeed, the ditches had been cleared of all refuse - barring the water channel that had been filled in with cartloads of earth - and replanted with deadly points.
The Great Revolt Page 47