Fronto dropped to a crouch and started to tap the wall top absently with a stick.
‘What we need to do is to get every man here with a brain thinking of ways to take down large groups of them and bolster our defences.’
Decius nodded.
‘I’ve a few ideas, particularly for the northern sector. You haven’t been round there yet, have you?’
Fronto shook his head.
‘That’s going to be the weak spot for missiles. The slope is covered with woods. The only bonus is it’s going to be a bastard of an ascent for the enemy too.’
Fronto frowned.
‘But you’ve got ideas?’
‘Sort of. Need to work on them a bit and perhaps try and speak to Iccius about it. Mostly I don’t want to do anything about it while we’re only expecting little forays. It’d be a shame to waste a good surprise on a few men.’
Fronto nodded.
‘Try and get everything ready so you can put any plans into action quickly. When they start to gather for a big assault, we might not get more than half an hour’s warning.’
Decius laughed.
‘I must say that serving with you is certainly an adventure, sir.’
‘Indeed. Go to it, Decius. I’m going to go speak to the others and see what ideas we can rustle up.’
Just as he had expected, there was little activity from the Belgae for some time. It was later morning before the first assaults began. Small pockets of Belgic warriors bravely tried the ascent from all sides, not a single man managing to survive within forty feet of the wall.
The fourth such attempt, as the sun rose high, involved what appeared to be a testudo formed of those wicker shields they had used to protect the miners. For a moment, the defenders were nonplussed and shot a few random stones and arrows at the approaching block, which bounced harmlessly from the protective surround.
Then, irritably, Decius had appeared on the scene and accosted one of his archers. Grumbling, he had snatched an arrow from the man’s quiver, dipped the head in the oil barrel stationed at the rear of the wall, lit it with one of the torches that had been kept burning throughout the day, and then passed the flaming missile back to the man. The Cretan smiled with comprehension and, aiming, sent the burning arrow in a tight arc, where it landed in the wicker with a thud. The dry screen caught light instantly, and the warrior was forced to discard it hurriedly to one side. Barely had he let go of it before two arrows plunged into his chest and a heavy lead sling bullet broke his temple.
The plan had quickly passed down the line of archers, and the wicker assault screen was left a flaming mass, surrounded by the bodies of the warriors that had borne it.
The morning wore on with regular small attempts to scale the hill. Those coming up the southern slope above the river found themselves easy targets for the defenders, who saved their missiles and dropped rocks down the steep escarpment. The brave few who took either east or west slope in full view of the walls on open ground learned quickly what Rome already knew about the quality of the slingers bred on the Balearic islands, and those who picked their way carefully through the wooded northern slope struggled as they reached the top only to be met with arrows.
As the sun began its lazy arc down toward the rear of the oppidum, Fronto once again found Decius, standing at the edge of the woods on the northern slope, where he could still make out the hordes of Belgae on the eastern plain.
‘Afternoon, Decius.’
‘Sir.’
‘I think it might be time to start putting together your surprise. We’ve not had an assault from any side in an hour, and there’s a lot of movement and organisation going on down below.’
‘You think the big push is coming?’
Fronto nodded.
‘I don’t know how big, but as big as we’re likely to see. That’s only a tenth of the whole Belgic army down there but, when you think about it, Bibrax is a relatively small target. I don’t think it can be that important to the Belgae or they’d have come here in all their glory. If it was only worth a small vexillation of their army, then I doubt their leaders will commit all thirty thousand or so. We’ll probably see half of them at most. If the cost of this place is too steep, they won’t buy.’
Decius nodded.
‘Still… that’s going to be about five to one. We’ll have to work to make the price too high.’
‘It’s all about keeping them at arm’s length. Up close these auxilia will be pretty useless. It’ll be down to the Remi to save the day then. Right!’
He took a deep breath.
‘Let’s get to work.’
* * * * *
In retrospect, Fronto had to express admiration for the timing of the Belgae’s attacks. They had estimated the time taken to assault all four slopes of the oppidum and had adjusted accordingly, so that the defenders could not draw men from one sector to help defend another. The first assault to be launched was the northern offensive, hampered by the thick woods and undergrowth of that slope. The second, perhaps a quarter of an hour later, was the steep incline above the river. Finally, the east and west assaults, the easiest terrain, began simultaneously a couple of hundred heartbeats later.
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 had 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 would not 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 Hispanics included, the Belgae gathered in large crowds, excited themselves into a frenzy of bloodlust and a need for personal glory, and then poured toward 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 quarter of an hour, 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 r
anks. 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 had been given the western slope - the best position to defend - his damned poor stagnant brain could not 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 could not find some clever way of gaining an edge, he could do what he had always tried 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 missile shot. The odds would be about six or seven to one. Really, there was not 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 had 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 Hispania, and he had 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 for 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 had 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 overarm 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 could not 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 could not 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 had ever heard it. They were having fun with all the tripwires, ankle-breaking covered pits and hidden sharpened stake p
oints 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 would not 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 just now. I’m 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.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 65