His army, which numbered just under a thousand in total, was formed entirely of missile troops attached to the various legions. Slingers from the Hispanic islands drawn from the Ninth and Tenth marched alongside Cretan archers from the Eighth, Eleventh and Twelfth with their short, flexible bows. And from the Thirteenth and Fourteenth: yet more archers, though these were dark as night, mustered from the Numidian peoples of northern Africa and freshly drawn from the training centre at Cremona for those newly-raised legions. Almost a thousand non-Roman soldiers, of whom half at most would be able to speak Latin with any real aptitude. The Roman prefects in charge of these irregular units all bore tired and resigned expressions, sure that the path of their career had reached a dead end. Indeed, on their eight mile hike from the bridge site, only one of the prefects had displayed any enthusiasm at all; a man called Decius, in charge of a unit of Cretans.
Now, Decius lay next to his commander on the brow of the hill, looking down at the scene with trepidation.
‘How in the name of Bellona do you intend to get past them, sir?’
‘How, indeed?’ Fronto thought to himself as he once more examined the situation.
The oppidum rose amid a carpet of Belgic warriors, who surrounded the town, keeping currently at a safe distance from the walls. The only way that stood remotely clear for access was to the south, where a steep slope of the hill came down straight to the waters of the Aisne. The Belgic leader had thought to cover every conceivable escape route, though, and had stationed a group of several hundred warriors on the far bank.
‘Only one way in, Decius. Just the one. And it’s wet.’
The middle aged prefect, badly-shaven and vaguely dishevelled, blinked.
‘Swim? Are you mad, sir?’
Fronto grinned. He liked Decius. Being scruffy and unshaven was frowned on among officers and often meant that man was more concerned about doing the job than pleasing his commander.
‘It has been said, yes.’
He pointed down at the water.
‘Clearly there’s no way we can fight through them, so the only way is to sneak in. And the only way to sneak is to get into the water down here, wade along the bank to the slope and then climb up to the oppidum. There’s just no alternative I can see.’
Decius frowned.
‘I suppose you’re right, but we’ll be right under the gaze of those warriors on the far side.’
‘True,’ Fronto nodded, ‘but the water’s fast and noisy and will cover our sound. And if we go at night, we can probably get right up to the walls without being seen.
The prefect spluttered.
‘You seriously want to make a thousand men wade downstream in a strong current silently in the dark?’
He whistled gently though his teeth.
‘People are right. You are mad!’
Fronto laughed quietly.
‘Don’t panic. We won’t be swimming; just wading in the shallows. The bank’s high enough that we should be covered from view.’
Shading his eyes, Decius focused on the oppidum. ‘They’re holding back from the walls because they’re busy undermining them. They must have picked off most of the missile-bearing defenders, but there’ll still be a few. The Remi are screwed when that wall collapses though, so we’d best hope it lasts until dark.’
Fronto nodded.
‘If you look really carefully, you can see there’s no big piles of earth, so they can’t be very deep yet. We’ve got time. And I’ve got an idea, but we need to get in there first.’
Decius grinned.
‘Fair enough. I’d better warn the others.’
Fronto grabbed him by the wrist as he moved away.
‘Make sure they all know how quiet they’re going to have to be. I’ve seen Hispanic warriors in bars. They sing like they’ve got delicate parts of them caught in a door.’
Decius grinned.
‘Got it. Everyone very quiet; especially the Hispanics.’
The wait for darkness had been tense. Throughout the afternoon and evening, a four hour wait, the veteran commanders had become more and more twitchy, waiting for the off. It was anyone’s guess how the Hispanics, Greeks and Africans felt, but they were certainly fidgety and their officers had been forced to quieten them more than once.
Up high on their viewpoint with a constant watch on the action below, they were far enough away from the Belgae that conversation should have gone unheard, but Fronto knew better than to risk it. All afternoon and into the evening the Belgae had worked at digging their three undermining tunnels beneath the walls of Bibrax. Now, heaps of earth outside showed how far they’d got, though they’d disappeared from view in the failing light around half an hour ago.
And now, in traditional Celtic fashion, the Belgae had abandoned their assault for the night, safe in the knowledge they had Bibrax cut off and that it would fall tomorrow, and moved instead onto celebratory singing and drinking. Fronto smiled. It was not unlike the legions in a way. Still, a loud and drunken army would be considerably easier to sneak past. With a last glance toward the oppidum to be sure of his bearings, he wished them all a pleasant feast, offered up a quick prayer to Bacchus, and dropped down below the hill to issue the orders to move out.
He had entertained himself throughout his four hour vigil by conversing with Decius and had been surprised to learn that the man had served in many of the same places in Hispania as Fronto had during that campaign. Given the risk of what they were about to try, he found himself exceedingly grateful to have an experienced veteran of that calibre with him.
He crouched and made his way across to Decius and his archers. The Cretans looked so underdressed for war, in Fronto’s opinion. Plain linen tunics and sandals, with a helm, shield and bow. But he had to admit, they moved fast, light and quiet. In retrospect, given what they would have to do, he could not have chosen better units for the job, though he would have preferred a colour that stood out less than plain linen. At least they were not bright white. One of the prefects had come up with an idea that the men roll around in the dirt to darken their clothes, and it had worked to some extent. Black tunics would still have been better, though.
His jaw clamped tight, he gestured to his men and the various prefects began moving their units down the slope as slowly and quietly as they could. As always, Fronto led the column, Decius directly behind him, and the large, mismatched force slipped down the grass and into the reeds at the water’s edge like ghosts.
Fronto stepped carefully amid the treacherous plant life and sucking mud as he slowly made his way along the bank, watching for the occasional tree root that snaked out of the soil to his right and threatened to catch or trip him. Insects whined around his ears and repeatedly bit him on the arms and scalp while his feet slowly numbed in the cold water.
He smiled as he imagined what this would look like from the far side. Ghosts is what they’d seem, pale and silent in the darkness. It was going to be a long trek. They would have to travel the better part of a mile at this slow and difficult pace before they could even think of climbing the bank unnoticed. Somewhere behind him he heard a splash and he glanced irritably over his shoulder before stepping on.
The last purple shimmer of evening lay ahead and to the right on the skyline, outlining the bulk of the oppidum on its plateau and the shallow v of the river in its dip. Fronto kept glancing nervously ahead and to the left, trying to make out the details of the Belgic guards on the far bank.
He could see the flicker of camp fires, but could not tell whether they were singing and drinking due to the increasing noise from close by on this bank. They were approaching the host of Belgae now. Fortunately, the enemy had had the sense to encamp some distance from the river to avoid the midges and other winged nuisances that continued to bother Fronto and his men. Still, an insect bite was less worrisome than a sword blow, as he kept telling himself.
As least, even with plain linen tunics, they would be unlikely to be spotted from the far side. The temperature was drop
ping rapidly, as it seemed to do in Gaul during the late spring and early summer, and that had resulted in the Belgae huddling around their campfires. And the beautiful thing about fires was how thoroughly they destroyed a man’s natural night vision.
Fronto grinned at the twinkling lights slowly drawing level opposite.
They must be half way there now. Not as bad as he thought.
Suddenly the sound of splashing stopped him in his tracks. For a moment he could not discern from which direction the noise had come, and glanced back angrily, but the sound was coming from somewhere ahead.
Squinting into the ever deepening darkness, he finally spotted the man standing on the ground above them and ahead, noisily urinating down into the river while whistling some native tune. As Fronto watched with the growing relief that they were still upstream, he noticed that the man had a sack of wine in one hand. As he watched, the man let go of himself in mid stream in order to tilt his head back and use both hands to squeeze the last of the wine out of the skin. With a guttural laugh, he began to shake his hips left and right, spraying a wide arc out onto the water.
Were it not for his situation, Fronto would have laughed, it was so comical.
As he watched, he crouched silently in the shallows and waited tensely as the man finished, slung the bag over his shoulder, tucked himself away, spat down into the water, and finally strode away to rejoin his fellow revellers.
With a frown of distaste, Fronto waited a while, partially to give the man time to get out of earshot, and partially so that the water ahead would have cleared. A moment passed and then the column began to move again.
With interminable slowness they made their way along the shore, the sounds of the Belgae revels rolling down on them from above. Regularly on the unpleasant journey, Fronto found himself offering up fervent prayers to Bacchus that they would not suddenly find themselves under the aim of ten thousand emptying Belgic bladders.
It was with an immense sigh of relief that he noted the sounds of the drunken warriors next to them beginning to fade. Though it was now very dark down here in the river valley, shaded by trees and tall plants, the looming bulk of Bibrax was quite close and quite clear. That, combined with the decreasing volume, put them in the no-man’s land of the slope between the Belgae and the oppidum.
A quick glance across the rippling surface of the water placed the camp fires of the waiting Belgae almost opposite now. Fronto stopped and, turning, made a motion to Decius. The command went down the line into the distance. It was ridiculous, really. Much like a marching column of multiple legions, this line of almost a thousand men must stretch almost half way back to where they’d started. There could be Hispanics back there being urinated on by drunken Belgae, and he would never know until it turned into a brawl.
He clicked his tongue, irritated at his own distraction, and made further gestures to be passed on as he climbed slowly and as quietly as possible out of the water and began to clamber up the steep slope at a crouch toward the walls of Bibrax.
He was finding his breathing more ragged and laboured the higher he climbed and set his gaze resolutely on the nearest area of the walls. Bibrax was clearly packed tightly within its perimeter and limited by the geography. A sizeable building of typical stone and timber construction rose up amid the occasional trunks of oak and beech trees.
He examined the surrounding wall as he climbed closer. Strangely, despite having spent time around the walls of Bibracte, Vesontio and Durocorteron, he had never examined their defences. Of course, he had always been off-duty with no likelihood of having to utilise those walls. These ones might mean the difference between life and death for him and his army.
He tutted with irritation. The defences of Bibrax were clearly, even at first glance, nowhere near as strong as those of the larger oppida he had visited. Vesontio had had defensive towers, for a start. This wall had no towers, though at least, he noted with relief as moonlight put in a brief appearance, they were faced with stone. They had been constructed by creating a strong wooden framework and then packing the intervening space with tamped earth. Very good against men and they’d be superb against rams or onagers, but flimsy when it came to undermining the structure. Fronto frowned. His plan might still work, but now it carried more danger.
With a sigh, he finally reached the base of the wall and gestured to the men following him to form up on the riverward side. As the auxiliaries began to join him at the summit, Fronto gazed down the slope at the myriad fires twinkling out across the ground below like a mirrored image of the stars. With a deep breath, he called on Nemesis, his favourite deity, to protect them all tonight and tomorrow. That was a lot of Belgae. He’d have to play it smart, as a straight fight would be suicide.
Another few gestures and his men began to climb the side of the wall. Stretching, Fronto turned his gaze back the way they’d come. The last hundred or so of his men were just reaching the slope and climbing out of the water now.
Simultaneously, the world around him exploded into activity. Behind and above him, one of the Remi guards above the rampart had finally spotted the men climbing and had thrust out with his spear, catching a Cretan auxiliary with a nasty stab in the shoulder and hurling him from the wall. The shout went up on the rampart, and Bibrax burst into noisy life. Men appeared above them with spears and the Cretans climbing the wall paused in their ascent, afraid to climb further.
Fronto did not have time to worry whether he could call out to the Remi and claim friendship without drawing attention from the rest of the Belgae below and endangering the last of the troops in his column. Something had happened at the back; perhaps another urinating warrior had seen them? He could not tell from this distance, but clearly something had gone wrong.
Trying to block out the noises above him for a moment, he concentrated and could finally hear the faint sounds of combat down by the water.
‘Shit!’
He turned and looked up.
‘We’re Romans!’ he yelled. ‘Roman relief force, get it?’
There was no reply, so he bellowed out again.
‘Roman!’
Somewhere on the wall, a guttural voice said ‘Romani?’
‘Yes, bloody Roman! Roman!’ he shouted again, as the call was taken up by the prefects and other Roman officers.
Moments later, ropes were fetched and lowered down the wall for the Romans to climb. Fronto shook his head. Why the hell, now that it was clear who they were, didn’t they just direct them to a gate and open it? Grumbling, he turned to look back down the hill. There was now quite a clash going on in the narrow difficult triangle where the hill rose by the waterside. A small party of Belgae had risked the advance in the darkness and were engaging the rear of Fronto’s army. He barked his annoyance at Nemesis for her lack of care. The poor bastards at the back were a unit of Hispanic slingers, whose grand concessions to armour and weaponry were a linen tunic, a sling and a dagger. Caught up with fierce armoured Belgae wielding large blades, they would be cut to pieces in short order, and there was not much Fronto could do about it from up here.
‘Decius! Galeo! Get your archers gathered together here and start loosing down into that crowd.’
As Decius relayed the commands, Galeo stared at Fronto.
‘You’ll hit your own men!’
Fronto shook his head irritably.
‘Those men are already dead. The Belgae are cutting through them like a grain harvest. At least if we shoot down we might drive the Belgae back and save some of our men! Now get to work!’
As the two units of archers rained their arrows down over the small group of warriors laying waste to the slingers, the remaining troops, now running up the hill to get out of the line of missile attack, climbed the ropes and made their way to the relative safety of Bibrax. Fronto waited a moment, watching the carnage below, before turning back to the two officers overseeing the covering shots.
‘Keep going until the Belgae leave and the last survivors are on their way up, and then get
yourselves up and over the walls. I’m going ahead to find the chief.’
Decius nodded and turned back to his work as Fronto grasped one of the ropes and began to climb.
* * * * *
Inside the walls was a state of chaos. Many of the dirty and bedraggled archers and slingers who had arrived were in position on the walls, ready to give cover to their compatriots still clambering up closer. Warriors of the Remi were in position with heavy swords and long spears. Fronto gazed around the town itself. It looked surprisingly peaceful, with torches burning here and there, lighting the house fronts.
A figure strode forward out of the press of Remi warriors. He was only of average height, and armed like the rest, but wearing a heavy gold and bronze torc and expensive wristbands. He looked vaguely familiar for some reason.
‘You Roman… Durocorteron.’
Fronto frowned.
‘Yes, I was there… I… Wait a moment? You’re the other chieftain who was there with Antebrogius. Iccus or something?’
‘I Iccius. Bad Roman.’
Fronto stared.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Bad Roman’ repeated Iccius, and tapped himself repeatedly on the chest. Fronto laughed.
‘Ah, you can’t speak Latin! Of course.’ He frowned. ‘Then this is going to get extremely difficult. I’m assuming none of your people can, and I sure as shit can’t speak yours!’
‘Eh?’
Iccius’ face was a mask of incomprehension.
‘Oh for Gods’ sake, this is ridiculous. Thank you, Nemesis... I must remember to piss on an altar some time!’
‘What was that?’ asked Decius as he arrived.
‘Oh, nothing. Communication issues. Our men are all Hispanic, Greek or Numidian apart from the Roman officers. His are all Belgae. No one speaks anyone else’s language here. If it weren’t so bloody frustrating and inconvenient, it’d be comical!’
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 63