He sighed and stood.
‘I am allowing the remainder of the day to put the army in order. They have languished here a full month now, but it is time to gather their equipment, to take down the tents and prepare to move. In the morning we march for the coast, collect Sabinus and his forces, and then turn east. I will not return to Rome while any of Gaul is still refusing us. Gaul must be settled before we leave.’
* * * * *
The vanguard reined in on a low hillock, the army stretching out along the plain behind them. Caesar narrowed his eyes at the forests ahead as the senior officers walked their horses forward to join him.
The journey had been long and tedious since Darioritum, despite the camaraderie of the reunion with Sabinus and the tales he had to tell of his Gaulish warriors and their infiltration of the enemy. Sextilis with its welcome glorious sunshine and armour-heating temperatures had given way to September with its earlier nights that drew in with a chill, particularly this close to the roiling northern sea. Often the officers would awake in the morning to find that the night had brought with it a sprinkling of rain that left the morning grass damp.
The change in the season, following such a brief summer, affected the mood of every last man, and there was little joy to be found among the seven legions of Caesar’s army.
The knowledge that they were travelling to put down yet another insurrection by the ever rebellious Gallic tribes also frayed at the edges of Roman nerves across the whole range of rank and file. The officers had initially fallen in line with Caesar’s hope for a brief punitive push before turning south, but the past four days in the territory of the Morini had forced a change of plan.
Like the Veneti before, who had abandoned all their settlements and retreated to their coastal fortresses, the Morini and the Menapii had taken all the goods they could transport, left their oppida and villages, and disappeared into the deep woodland that stretched from the lands of the Belgae to the marshy delta of the Rhine.
The tribes had been short sighted in only one regard. Had they not left tracks, they could have disappeared without trace and the army of Rome might have searched the northern lands for a year without pinning down any number of the enemy to fight. But the Menapii particularly had been unwilling to leave anything behind for the Romans that they might save, and the wreckage done to the landscape by the traversing of thousands of feet and heavily laden carts spoke clearly not only of the directions that the tribes had taken, but also of how recently they had done so.
And now, here at what felt like the end of the world on an afternoon when the weather was threatening to turn inclement, the officers came to a halt with their general on the low rise, watching the tracks in the dirt before them that disappeared into the eaves of the forest in four different places.
‘Do we split the legions and send them in, Caesar?’
The general turned to look at Sabinus and shook his head.
‘No; it would be suicidally reckless to string out the army in the depths of the forest with the enemy already ensconced. It would be all too easy for them to decimate the legions that way. We need to meet them on open ground, which means forcing them out of there.’
Fronto frowned and gestured expansively at the forest’s edge.
‘Easy enough to say, but there’s a hundred miles of woodland there. They could survive there almost indefinitely, especially with all their goods they’ve taken in. We could send in scouts?’
Again the general shook his head.
‘These are their woods; they know them well. Our scouts would likely never return.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Firstly we make camp, and we make well-defended camp at that.’
He turned and cast his gaze left and right along the tree line.
‘Sabinus and Crispus? Take the Eleventh to the northwest and make camp within sight of the sea, close to the woodland; that’s about fifteen miles. As you travel, have signal stations set along the route. Rufus? You head east for twenty miles and do the same. Galba? You follow them and go a further twenty. We will create a cordon around these woods and keep them trapped and penned in while we work. Sooner or later they will have to show themselves.’
Fronto grumbled.
‘We could be here for a year doing that. And what happens when they just move further and further east and then leave the woodlands and pass round the end of your cordon?’
The general smiled.
‘Always so negative and pessimistic, Fronto. The lands to the east of that line are already being patrolled by Labienus’ cavalry and auxiliaries. The chances of the enemy fleeing the forests there are ridiculously small. And as for a timescale, I don’t think you need to worry too much. I have no intention of just sitting by and waiting for them to become bored enough to seek us out.’
He spread his arms to take in the whole forest before him.
‘There is nowhere they can take ship across the sea, the Rhine delta is too dangerous to cross, and we hold the south. Once we’re encamped, and the cordon is up, we will begin the task of deforestation. Some of the timber will be used to further fortify our positions around the woodland. As for the rest: I’m certain that Labienus could use the timber to build his ‘new Rome’ among the Belgae, and the rest will fetch a small profit back in Cisalpine Gaul. Let us see how long the Morini and the Menapii can last as the forest disappears around them.’
‘Months’ Fronto grumbled under his breath as he looked at the gloomy, looming eaves of the woodland.
* * * * *
Fronto mopped his brow and contemplated replacing the helmet on his head, but shrugged and let it hang by his side instead.
‘Carbo?’
The primus pilus of the Tenth turned at hearing his name and saluted before striding over, his vine staff jammed beneath his arm.
‘Sir?’
‘I know this is going to sound petty, Carbo, but I was rather hoping the tents would go up first before you started chopping the forest down?’
The centurion smiled, the sweat running from beneath the brow of his helmet and trickling down his cheek to his chin. Thunder was coming; probably before nightfall, and the lack of air was almost unbearable.
‘Camp prefect gave us all orders, legate, supported by the general. Caesar wants the palisade, mound and ditch up before anything else.’
Fronto rolled his eyes.
‘I notice that doesn’t apply to him. His tent is up and furnished already.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir’ Carbo grinned, ‘it isn’t seemly for a senior officer to be parading round like that in front of the men. If you’re not going to wear your armour, you should be all togate and patrician.’
Fronto stared at him.
‘It’s as sweaty as a Numidian’s boot here. I’m having enough trouble breathing in this armpit of a country without slapping on layers of leather and steel too. I don’t know how you can stand it under all that equipment.’
‘Practice, sir. Well…’ he winked knowingly ‘practice and a lack of underwear, anyway.’
‘There are some things, Carbo, that you really don’t need to share with me. Are you sure you can’t spare just four men to help me get the command tent up. I could find a nice convincing military reason if you like.’
The centurion laughed.
‘If you don’t tell the general, sir, I’ll spare the men.’
He turned to the group of four legionaries who were busy a few feet away, hacking away at the bole of an oak with their axes. He had opened his mouth to speak, but the smile slid from his face.
‘To arms!’ he bellowed, and, as the men turned to look at him, three arrows thudded into the timber, a fourth passing straight through a legionary’s neck and continuing merrily on its path as the surprised man grasped his throat with both hands, his eyes wide.
Fronto stared.
‘Oh shit, shit, shit.’
Around them legionaries across the edge of the woods scrambled back to grab their weapon
s, helmets and shields that lay in bundles nearby. Here and there a screech announced that another arrow had found its target.
Carbo turned back to Fronto.
‘Back to the camp, sir.’
‘Sod off.’
The centurion glared at him.
‘You’re unarmoured, a clear target, and being stupid, legate. Get back to camp.’
Fronto ignored the man and dived to the ground where a legionary had left his shield lying with his helmet, sword and other gear on it. Picking up the sword, he tipped the rest from the shield and slid his arm into the straps before jamming his helmet firmly back on his head.
‘Sir’ Carbo said again, his voice admonishing.
‘Rally to me!’ Fronto called.
As the men of the Tenth, along with a few stray workers from the Eighth and the Fourteenth, ran toward the officer’s call, Carbo glared at him and then collected his own shield.
Figures had appeared among the trees.
‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’
Fronto turned to see Atenos, the Tenth’s new training centurion, stomping across the grass toward him.
Carbo shrugged.
‘He seems to think he’s invincible even without armour.’
‘Form up!’ the huge Gaulish centurion bellowed as he fell in to the other side of Fronto, his shoulder at the same height as the legate’s scalp. Soldiers began to form a line around them, raising their shields protectively as arrows continued to whistle out of the woodland.
‘Here they come’ Fronto pointed.
Among the trees, the figures were clearer, more pronounced, as they neared the edge. The arrows stopped coming, and suddenly warriors were pouring out of the forest, brandishing a variety of weapons and screaming guttural war cries as they bore down on the Romans, many of whom were still unarmoured, gathering their weapons or running to fall in.
‘What’s going on?’ Fronto barked as he was suddenly squeezed between the two centurions until he found himself pushed out past them and standing behind the defensive line.
‘Stay back, sir.’
Fronto glared angrily at the men in front of him. He began to form a diatribe in his mind along the lines of how Priscus and Velius would never have dared to do such a thing, but realised with a strange fondness that this was exactly the sort of thing his old friends would have done. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. But just like those former veterans, these two had underestimated how headstrong their commander was.
Ducking to the side, avoiding the enormous looming bulk of Atenos, he gazed over Carbo’s shoulder. The enemy were almost on them. Legionaries were now falling in to either side of him, nodding respectfully as they took up their position in the second line. Fronto looked past them. Other soldiers had been less prepared or just less fortunate, and disappeared with a scream under the blows of axes and swords before they could reach their gear.
The legate concentrated for a moment, cocking his head and lifting the cheekpiece of his helmet. His fears were confirmed by the distant shouts and buccina calls: this was no small localised attack. The Menapii and their allies had waited just out of sight in the woods until their Roman pursuers had become complacent enough to drop their defensive line and go about the work of constructing the camp.
The surprise had paid off. Roman bodies littered the edge of the wood just within sight of Fronto, around the area the Tenth and Fourteenth worked. This could have been a disaster, but for the fact that the men were disciplined, trained, and prepared for just this sort of circumstance. This very tactic had almost obliterated the Twelfth last year, and these days no work party went about their business without their weapons and armour close to hand.
The enemy rushed on, warriors approaching the rapidly-forming shield wall and slowing to a more cautious pace. Elsewhere the situation was different, the Celts swarming over small pockets of Romans fleeing the trees. Here, though, the centurions were forming a solid defence quickly and efficiently.
As the enemy came on, running through the bracken and high grass, their fur-clad or naked torsos rippling, their muscular arms hefting axes, swords and spears, a man sprang onto a large rock, directly opposite them. His bushy beard and flaxen braids were peppered and tangled with bones and feathers, his arms wrapped in gold bangles, a grey, stained robe hanging limp in the warm, damp air. He bellowed something unintelligible and raised a staff, surmounted by a huge bird’s skull, waving it in encouragement.
‘Druid’ said Atenos flatly.
‘That’s a bloody druid?’ Fronto stared. ‘I thought they were all quiet and grim. That bugger looks like a cannibal madman!’
Atenos crouched for a moment and stood once more as the druid spat out curses and yelled something in a shrill voice, pointing at the officers with his bird-staff.
‘Same to you’ yelled Atenos and cast the large stone he had collected from the ground with a tremendous force and a surprising accuracy. The boulder caught the druid full in the face with a very unpleasant noise, hurling him from the rock and back into the unseen undergrowth behind. The staff arced up through the air and disappeared into the grass.
Carbo grinned at his subordinate.
‘You do a lot for Gallo-Roman relations, you know.’
‘He was pissing me off.’
Fronto smiled as the two men continued to banter while the enemy finally reached the line and threw themselves at the shield wall. A sword was thrust toward them and Carbo casually turned it aside before flicking his blade back and driving it forward into the man’s bared chest.
Beside him, Atenos leaned back as a swung axe whistled past his nose before the big man leaned forward again, putting all his not-inconsiderable weight behind his shield and punching the bronzed boss into the man’s face, shattering bones.
The two men continued to hack, parry, stab and duck, occasionally sparing a moment to sling a snappy and sarcastic comment at each other. Fronto smiled as he backed out of the line, unnoticed by the two centurions. The legionaries shuffled to fill the gap.
Stretching, he tightened his grip on the gladius. Scanning left and right, he watched the fighting carefully.
To the right, sections of the Eighth legion had managed to create a solid shield wall, just like Carbo’s, and were bringing up the rest of their men to plug the gap where the worst of the fighting was going on and join up with the Tenth. The situation was very much under control there.
To the left, however, a group of soldiers from the Tenth and the Fourteenth were forming a small core defence, but were clearly beleaguered and outnumbered.
Fronto glanced over his shoulder to see a soldier, clutching an arm that ran with a river of crimson, jogging back toward the future site of the camp to find a capsarius.
‘You!’
The soldier turned and tried to salute, but his arm was unresponsive.
‘Sir?’
‘Sorry, lad. Go see the physician, but find the reserves of the Tenth and the Eighth back there and tell them to stop digging and get down here.’
The soldier nodded, his teeth clenched against the pain, and ran on.
Fronto turned and took a deep breath. Carbo and Atenos and their growing force were beginning slowly to advance, pushing the desperately fighting Celts back toward the trees.
The combined units of the Tenth and Fourteenth were formed into some sort of mess of a war band, rather than a solid shield wall. Hefting the sword and feeling a faint twang in his arm, the occasional reminder as to how close he’d come to losing it last year, he turned and ran off down the gentle slope toward the mess.
‘Who’s in command here?’
The group, resembling a Belgic war band more than a Roman force, was fighting off enemies en masse and, miraculously, given the lack of defensive formation, seemed to be holding their own.
There was no answer, but the constant grunting and crashing and battering noises as the legate stood at the relatively peaceful rear side of the group.
‘I
said: who’s in command here?’
‘You are’ a voice bellowed from the centre.
‘Good. You’re about to be flanked. On my command, draw back three steps, keeping your shields to the enemy, and form a solid line.’
There was no response but the ongoing sounds of battle.
‘Now!’ he bellowed, and was gratified to hear a lessening of noise from the front as the soldiers disengaged.
‘Now form second, third and fourth ranks.’
Pushing his way in among the men, he heaved his way through the bodies until he was only a few men from the front line, once more under severe pressure by the enemy warriors. Reaching out, he tapped a man on the shoulder.
‘You’re the corner. Everyone to the right of you, swing back and form a side wall of shields.’ Another man got a tap. ‘You’re the other corner. That’s it. Now form into a square and seal off the rear with another shield wall.’
He watched as best he could from amid the centre of the mass, wishing he had Atenos’ height advantage. The man must have the clearest view of what was going on around him in a fight. It appeared that the shapeless mob of men had, without having to bare its underbelly to the enemy, managed to reform into a good, defensive square.
He grinned as he hefted his sword again and shifted his grip on his shield.
Better still, he was involved in it, with no irritating underlings that knew him to force him back to dull safety. He leaned closer to the men in the second and first line in front of him.
‘Are you lads going to be all good and deferential to a senior officer and make room for me? I’ve got an itch I need to scratch.’
* * * * *
Fronto gave a crazed grin as he lunged forward past the rim of his shield, plunging his sword into the mass of attacking barbarians and connecting with something soft and unseen. A squawk from somewhere among the pile of hairy, bellowing men announced his success. He withdrew the blade and shifted the shield slightly just in time to deflect the point of a spear, thrust from one of the warriors behind the front row.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 140