The man’s achievement had been enough, though. His valiant fight had allowed time for two more men to reach the top, and the spear man was quickly dealt with, the legionaries pushing the defenders back along the wall as more and more of the cohort arrived. Slowly and painstakingly, the wall was coming under Roman control and, as he watched, the men at the base of the palisade threw ropes up to the top where they were caught and secured.
Rusca had not even been aware that the cavalry had joined them until four horsemen raced past him, leaping the ditch with ridiculous ease and slowing at the wall. The tribune, now approaching the rampart, watched as the ropes were secured to the horses and the cavalrymen slowly walked their horses forward, each line threaded round the saddles and straps of two beasts.
A cry from above announced that something had happened on the wall, but Rusca was now too close to see clearly and his first warning that the defenders had gained the upper hand was when half a legionary plummeted to the ground next to him, his spine severed above the pelvis and the lower portion remaining somewhere above. He stared in horror as another man fell, screaming, a rent so deep through his shoulder and into his chest that his arm flapped about unpleasantly as he landed.
He stepped back, fighting the bile back down in his throat and tore his gaze away from the men and to the horses, who had reached the strain limit of the ropes and were pulling with all their might, their riders urging them on, ropes groaning and creaking with the tremendous force. Rusca took a deep breath and offered up a quick prayer to Minerva, hastily promising to raise a new altar as soon as he was somewhere he could do it reasonably.
Whether it was Minerva listening or pure chance, the tribune almost lost control of his bowels as the palisade suddenly gave way a few feet from him. The whole defence had been constructed Roman fashion, with the palisade backed by a huge earth embankment that formed the walk at the top and which would give great support to the timber when pounded by siege weapons but was of precious little use when the walls were pulled outwards.
The sudden force as they gave way, the bindings at the top having been cut by the legionaries in their initial attack, was so powerful that four of the great timbers were literally torn from the ground. The one directly attached to the horses hurtled into the air like some gargantuan pilum, crashing to the earth with tremendous force some twenty paces away. The other three, still initially bound near the base, but wrenched from the earth with the fourth, exploded and smashed to the ground all around, one whooshing dangerously close to the ear of the devoutly praying tribune.
Rusca stared as the great log that had almost taken off his head rolled slowly into the ditch where it came to rest at an odd angle, pointing accusingly at him.
He was still watching, stunned, when the cornu sounded and the remaining three cohorts ran screaming from the eaves of the wood toward the ramparts. The earthen embankment behind the shattered wall had crumbled, being only a recent construction, and was now a mere mound that stood between the tribune’s forces and the interior of the enemy camp.
The centurion, about whom he had almost entirely forgotten, but who remained close by, nodded in his direction.
‘Would you like the honour, sir?’
Rusca wondered what the man meant for a moment, then realised and, swallowing nervously, nodded and strode forward toward the breach.
As he reached the shattered section of wall, he heard the explosive sound of the timber being wrenched free in two other locations along the defences, the distant thunder of hooves that announced the cavalry were on the way, and the roar of the three other cohorts rapidly closing the distance behind him.
Readying his sword arm, the tribune stepped up onto the slippery, smashed earth bank and clambered up into the gap. His heart almost failed him as he crested the top. A virtual sea of enemy warriors swarmed toward the attackers between him and the fort’s interior buildings. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the sword.
So many men. How could they ever hope…
Beside him, the centurion clambered onto the bank and grinned.
‘Now we’ve got the whore dogs on the run, eh sir?’
Rusca turned to stare at the centurion but, as he did so, two barbarians that had been running along the interior of the earth bank bellowed and ran at them.
The tribune raised his blade as the first man launched at him and managed to turn the initial blow aside, more by luck then skill. He prepared himself for the lethal blow as the second man lunged, but the centurion was already there, smashing the sword aside and leaping at him, shouting curses.
Rusca drew back. The barbarian lunged again, a blow that the tribune narrowly dodged. Panic began to set in as he took two more steps back. Any moment he would be at the loose soil where the palisade had been and then he was in trouble… unless he could make it work for him. Fight dirty. Always fight dirty.
Watching nervously as the barbarian ducked left and right, his eyes darting around, Rusca felt back with a foot and encountered only empty air. He’d been that close already.
Preparing himself, he watched the man. It was all about which way he went. He’d been on his right foot for both attacks so far, so Rusca needed to go left.
The man attacked with lightning speed, the long, leaf-bladed Spanish sword, so similar to a gladius in many ways, lashing out toward him. The tribune was prepared, however. As soon as the man put the weight on that foot and pushed, Rusca was already dodging to his left. Grasping the warrior by the shoulder, he used the man’s weight to throw him forward and past. The Celt cried out in surprise, his balance suddenly upset, as he plunged on and down the shattered bank. Rusca regained his own footing and shot his gaze around him. What had looked so hopeless mere moments before now held a strong grain of hope.
Galronus’ cavalry were pouring in through a hole in the rampart further along, and the four cohorts of legionaries were now almost all at the defences and beginning to push inside, the First forcing a bridgehead in the very heart of the enemy camp. One of the advancing legionaries paused as he climbed the bank to thrust his blade through the back of Rusca’s fallen adversary and curiously the tribune felt cheated and a little disappointed.
The wall was theirs and, given the calls that he recognised from a cornicen far away, Crassus’ force knew it and were pushing with renewed vigour.
It would all be over soon.
Gritting his teeth and silently thanking both Minerva for her assistance and the unnamed legionary for his advice, Rusca stepped down the embankment and put every ounce of his strength into the kick that he delivered with feeling into the dead Gaul’s bared crotch.
* * * * *
Rusca and his senior centurion straightened, their helmets beneath their arms, as they strode across the centre of the enemy camp toward the legate. The battle had ended only a quarter of an hour after the south wall fell, the situation becoming increasingly hopeless for the enemy with every passing moment.
Once the Roman force was inside, forming up into shield walls and squares, the fort had effectively fallen and many of the enemy had clambered over their own defences, fleeing down the slopes and into the woodland, leaving their comrades behind and running for their lives. Those who remained and surrendered had been surprisingly few in number.
Crassus stood in the central space before the enemy commander’s tent, his standard bearers, cornicen and the other tribunes behind him, various senior centurions about and legionaries lining the square. Before him and under guard, perhaps two dozen richly attired and adorned Celts knelt, their heads bowed. Roman spears hovered close to their necks.
The legate looked up and gave Rusca a rare and uncharacteristic smile.
‘Ah, tribune. My congratulations and thanks for a very successful action. Is the cavalry commander not present?’
Rusca smiled back at him.
‘Galronus has gone for a while. I doubt he’ll return before nightfall. He and his men went off to hunt down the fleeing enemy. Whether he intends to retur
n with them in chains, or just ‘chastise’ them, I’m not sure.’
Crassus nodded in satisfaction.
‘He is to be commended.’
The legate turned his attention back to the cowering men before him.
‘Who is your leader?’
There was a pregnant pause and finally one of the kneeling figures spoke in a deep, cracked voice.
‘I am Beltas of the Cantabri. I lead this camp.’
Crassus shook his head.
‘You led this camp. I am impressed with the scale of your adoption of our ways, though I am somewhat dismayed to find you using them against us, particularly in the defence of another people.’
The man remained silent.
‘Good. At least you know when not to talk. Not all the Cantabri crossed the mountains to fight us?’
‘No, general.’
Crassus nodded.
‘Good. I do not want to be remembered as the man who destroyed an entire people. You realise that I am not afforded a great deal of room for mercy?’
Silence again.
‘You must die, Beltas; you and your followers. I cannot have the peoples of Aquitania and Spain believing they can rebel as much as they like without punishment. You have forced my hand to this, but you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that I will carry no campaign against your people across the mountains. You will suffer for what you have done, but your wives and children will live on safe in their homes, so long as they stay there.’
The legate turned to the tribunes behind him.
‘Round up every survivor you can find from the area, marshal them here in the fort and then split them into tribal groupings. There are at least a dozen different peoples involved here, some Aquitanian and others Spanish. Take them in those groups and crucify them in all the high places so that they can be seen from afar.’
A moan of dismay rose from several of the kneeling men.
‘Make sure that any Spanish tribesmen are raised on their posts in the passes that lead down from the mountains to greet any reinforcements that may be tempted to continue on against us.’
He turned to walk away, but stopped, tapping his lip as though with an afterthought.
‘But I shall still show the little mercy that I can. Should any man request mercy, you may cut and break them to speed their death. Moreover, any survivor you find that you feel should be too young or too old to take up arms, send them home and tell them to stay there and grow crops.’
As the legate strode away, Rusca wandered across to him.
‘Mercy? Is it wise?’
Crassus shrugged.
‘With the will of the Gods, this will be our last battle in Gaul, and I have no wish to provoke any further rebellion. Hopefully this will have broken resistance but not prompted the surviving tribes to continue the troubles. We will wait three days to see if any other force turns up and then I shall send to Caesar my compliments and the message that Aquitania is ours. I don’t think we will see any trouble in those three days.’
Rusca nodded.
‘But we stay here as garrison for now, sir? To be sure?’
The legate nodded.
‘For now. At least until Caesar clears my return to Rome. Summer passes rapidly, tribune, and I have no desire to winter with the troops another year.’
Rusca nodded his heartfelt agreement. The more he thought about Rome and its pleasant diversions, the more he yearned for it. Perhaps they would all return soon, if the general had managed to suppress the Veneti.
Chapter 18
(Sextilis: Darioritum, Caesar’s camp on the Armorican coast.)
Fronto drummed his fingers irritably on the tent frame, half hoping that the noise would distract the general inside enough to open up. The courier had been inside for a while now, while Fronto paced back and forth, grumbling, under the watchful eyes of Brutus, Roscius and Crispus. Sighing, he rapped angrily on the wood and then began to pace once more.
‘You’ll wear a rut in the turf, then we’ll all trip over it on our way out.’
Fronto threw a dark look at Brutus and continued to stomp in the springy grass.
‘Well we’re clearly not going home, anyway.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Fronto pointed at the tent door in an exaggerated gesture.
‘Don’t you think that if everything was tidy and neat and dealt with, the general would have bounded out of there like a spring lamb, all smiles and so on? No. Something’s happened.’
Brutus frowned. The messages of Sabinus’ success on the north coast of Armorica and then the remarkable news that Crassus had tamed Aquitania had come in swift succession, a cause for celebration throughout the army, both officers and men alike. It did appear that finally the general’s claim to have conquered Gaul could actually be said to be accurate. The northwest was settled, the south west cowed, the centre and southeast largely allied with the general…
Which left the northeast; the territory of the Belgae and the Germanic tribes, under the watch of Titus Labienus and his small force. The past two weeks had seen the celebratory atmosphere fade once more as the army settled into an uneasy wait for news from the northeast. And this morning, just as Fronto had finished bathing away his bad head and dressed in clean gear, Labienus’ riders had finally arrived and made straight for the general’s tent.
Crispus shook his head dismissively.
‘Don’t read anything into it yet, Marcus. Only the Gods and the entrails of goats know the future. You’ve just been on edge ever since Priscus’ last letter.’
Again, Fronto stopped pacing to throw an irritated look at one of his friends, and there was a muted warning in that gaze.
‘Oh come on, Fronto. You’ve been so edgy since then, your friends have been walking on egg shells. Your patience seems to have all but vanished. Why won’t you tell anyone what was in the letter.’
‘Aulus, you of all people should know when you need to keep that nose out of things. It’s personal, alright?’
Brutus shook his head.
‘ It’s not just the letter… I think he’s been like this ever since Balbus left.’
Fronto drew a deep breath. His face was beginning to colour.
‘Why don’t you lot piss off and stop trying to analyse my mood? I just want to get home and…’ he threw his arms up in the air ‘I just want to go home, right?’
The others fell silent, unwilling to provoke the older legate again. Fronto had been quick to anger for the last fortnight. He had been involved in three brawls and had blackened the eye of one of the staff officers who'd had the unfortunate luck to remark on men of Balbus’ age being allowed to remain in command while in Fronto’s earshot.
‘I just want to go home’ Fronto repeated as though to himself, his gaze falling to the floor.
He’d been unaware of the general’s presence until Caesar’s smooth voice spoke nearby.
‘Not quite yet, I’m afraid, Fronto.’
He looked up sharply to see the general standing in the tent’s doorway. The man moved with such silence and grace when he wanted to and had made no noise as he lifted the tent flap aside.
‘Come in’ he addressed the officers.
Fronto was first through the flap and, while the other three walked across and hovered by chairs until the general returned to his desk, the legate of the Tenth simply sank straight into a chair. The general gave him a sharp look, but then seated himself and gestured to the rest to do the same. A cavalry trooper, still dirty and fully equipped from his ride, stood to attention to the side of the table.
‘I expect you’re all eager to know the situation?’
‘We’re not going home. That means someone else needs a kicking’ Fronto said flatly.
Again, Caesar’s sharp gaze passed across the legate. Brutus frowned. Could it be that even the general was treading carefully around him?
‘There will be a little delay in our campaign’s conclusion, yes. Labienus has done some sterling work among t
he Belgae. It appears that Nemetocenna is becoming something of a cultural centre, where the locals are beginning to learn a more civilised tongue and to appreciate the benefits of heated floors, fresh water supplies, and the security afforded by Rome. He believes he has the trust of the local tribes now to the extent that he feels a caretaker garrison will soon be entirely unnecessary.’
The general leaned back.
‘He has a number of men due their retirement and has requested that they and any others among our own legions who are amenable be granted funds and lands around the Belgae. He believes that mixing our veterans in the local environment will help lead them toward becoming more Roman.’
Fronto let out a low rumble.
‘What was that?’
The legate looked up, his head still lowered so that his eyes shone white, and slightly pink, in the dim tent interior.
‘I said: why the hell are we not going home then?’
Caesar’s eyes flashed again momentarily and then he forced a smile, clearly covering his irritation.
‘Not all of the north eastern tribes are settling with Labienus’ view of the future. Two tribes…’ Caesar unrolled the scroll on the table and scanned down it once more ‘the Morini and the Menapii, are causing trouble.’
Brutus frowned.
‘They’re coastal tribes if I remember my geography correctly? On the north coast, opposite Britannia, yes? Is the fleet to be mobilised?’
Fronto shook his head.
‘Screw the fleet. Labienus has a cohort of legionaries, loads of auxiliary units and enough cavalry to flatten a small country. Why can’t he deal with them? Is he too busy teaching Belgic children to read and massaging the feet of their women?’
The general glared at him again.
‘Try to act like a commander in the army of Rome, Fronto, and not a petulant child. The bulk of Labienus’ forces are spread out all along the Rhine, making sure that the German tribes don’t decide to cross and get involved. To withdraw them to deal with two rebellious tribes would be to put the entire Belgic region in danger of German raids or even invasion. The tribes across the Rhine have not forgotten the chastisement at Vesontio two years ago.’
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 139