Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  He tapped the map decisively.

  “That means that the Veneti are running out of both room and time. Sooner or later we will trap them and destroy them, but until that happens we should continue to squeeze them against their allies until the alliance becomes strained and breaks. To that end, I feel we need to find plausible victories of the variety that will break their spirit. Symbolic victories.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Ideas, gentlemen?”

  Cicero stood and gestured at the map on the table.

  “May I, general?”

  “By all means.”

  The officer stepped forward, his crimson cloak swaying around his calves as he leaned over the map. He studied it for a moment and then smiled.

  “Darioritum, general?”

  Caesar frowned as he looked down.

  “Darioritum is inland. We have it on good authority that the Veneti have abandoned their land-locked towns in favour of their coastal escape routes.”

  Cicero nodded.

  “Yes, sir. In almost all cases that has proved to be true. However, with respect, there are several things that need taking into account with Darioritum.”

  Caesar narrowed his eyes as he gazed down. Now, Fronto, Balbus and Brutus were on their feet approaching the table with interest.

  “Firstly, Caesar, this map is not accurate” Cicero continued. “I have spent time speaking to some of the less reticent captives of Crassus’ campaign last year and, in return for a little lenience, they can be very talkative. The map shows Darioritum some six or seven miles from the sea. In actual fact, the oppidum is by a large gulf or salt-water lake that has an opening to the sea. Two spits of land reach out like the horns of a bull. Darioritum is, essentially, by the sea. Moreover, it is also, according to two different sources I have questioned, considered the capital of the tribe, or the nearest approximation they have to a capital.”

  Caesar nodded slowly, scratching his chin.

  “A symbolic victory indeed.”

  Cicero smiled at the general.

  “Given its importance and location, it is almost certainly occupied, even if only by a small retainer force. That, I would suggest, is the victory you’re seeking, Caesar.”

  The general smiled.

  “An exceptional suggestion, master Cicero. Moreover, it gives us an even greater opportunity. Brutus?”

  The fleet commander frowned.

  “We can cordon off the south, Caesar and, given the right weather, possibly even engage.”

  The general smiled wolfishly.

  “You are thinking too small, Brutus. Think on what Cicero just told us.”

  There was a moment’s silence and suddenly a grin split Brutus’ face.

  “An enclosed bay. The horns of a bull, you said?”

  “Indeed.”

  Brutus laughed.

  “If the army can lure the fleet into the bay, we can seal them in and deal with them at our leisure.”

  “And what would draw the fleet in more than having to evacuate their capital?”

  Fronto became aware that most of the other officers had stood and approached the table, the entire officer corps now trying to see the map. Brutus cleared his throat.

  “Can we get a more accurate map of the situation around Darioritum?”

  Fronto shrugged.

  “Easily. Send some cavalry scouts from the Gallic wings to go and check out the lie of the land. They can bring us more accurate details. And, of course, if the weather stays kind, you can send a couple of ships up there to get a look at the coast.”

  Caesar sighed with satisfaction and stood straight.

  “I think, gentlemen, that we have a workable strategy here. We must not, however, rush into early action. If this is to be the point at which we break the Veneti, things need to happen in perfect order with no ghastly mistakes.”

  Fronto frowned down at the map, trying to picture the large bay with its surrounding horns.

  “You realise, Caesar, that those two promontories that seal in the bay will have Veneti fortresses on them. We’ve not yet encountered a defensible headland without one and they must have a way to control the entrance.”

  The general frowned and looked back down at the map.

  “I do believe you are right, Fronto. The scouts can confirm their presence, but they are almost certainly there and occupied.”

  Balbus ran his finger along the coastline on the map thoughtfully.

  “They will need to be secured before any attempt by the fleet to get into the bay and deal with the enemy ships. In fact that will have to be the first move in the whole plan.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “Indeed. Shall I take that as you volunteering for the task, legate?”

  Balbus nodded without looking up, still intent on the map.

  “The Eighth would deem it an honour, Caesar.”

  “So would the Tenth” Fronto cut in. Both the other men looked up at him.

  “Well, these strongholds could be only a few hundred yards apart, but getting to them will require miles and miles of marching. Both will have to fall at the same time to attacks from opposite directions. That’s a job for two separate forces.”

  Caesar shook his head vehemently.

  “No. I cannot spare fully half my army to take two peripheral forts.”

  “With respect, general, these would hardly be peripheral. I realise that until we have seen the bay, this is all speculation, but if what we surmise is really the case, those forts will be key to controlling the bay and therefore destroying the fleet.”

  He smiled.

  “But we’re not talking about two legions anyway, are we?” He glanced across at Balbus, who shook his head.

  “This would have to be subtle, general. We’d have to control the entrance to the bay before your main attack begins, or we risk giving their fleet time to organise and escape. For subtlety we’d only want a small force.”

  “And engineers” Fronto added. “Once we have control of the forts, we’d have to try and get artillery set up to help seal off the bay.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “Very well. It’s an eminently workable plan at this point. We will have to see what happens when we have a better idea of the landscape and disposition. The timing will have to be very tight to achieve what we’re talking about.” He glanced across at Brutus. “And some of this is still reliant on the mercy of the Gods. Brutus is right. Everyone should pay their proper respects and try to keep Jupiter happy for the near future.”

  He straightened again.

  “Very well. We will reconvene each morning and hammer out the dents in the scheme until we are convinced the time and situation are right. In the meantime, each of you needs to think on what your own forces can do to improve our chances and have scouts sent out to bring us accurate intelligence of the bay and the town. Dismissed.”

  Fronto nodded to Caesar and joined the general exodus of officers.

  Outside, the air was chilly and there was a faint tang of salt, though the sky had cleared overnight, leaving wispy clouds on the horizon to both south and west; clouds which threatened less than the heavy-bellied ones that had hung over them for the past weeks. The day felt fresh and new.

  He turned to Balbus as the man left the tent.

  “You realise we’ve just volunteered for about the most dangerous part of the whole show?”

  The older legate laughed.

  “Nothing new there, Marcus. Care to join me for a bit of breakfast? We’ve a few things to think on.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “I’d like to, but I have a prior engagement. I’ll call on you before lunchtime.”

  Balbus nodded, slapped him on the shoulder and, turning, wandered back toward the camp of the Eighth. Fronto strode on toward the Tenth, smiling as he appreciated the dry crispness of the air. Was Fortuna favouring them at last?

  His tent stood off to one side of the legion’s headquarters and his prior engagement stood at ease besid
e the tent flap, idly examining the sky, while drumming his fingers on his thigh.

  “Atenos? Thank you for coming.”

  The huge Gaulish centurion turned his pale grey eyes on Fronto and he saluted.

  “Legate.”

  Fronto wandered past him into the tent, gesturing for him to follow. As the big man stooped and entered the tent where the legate had not even ducked his head, Fronto wandered over to his cot and unclipped his cloak, sitting down to undo his boots.

  “Please centurion, sit down.”

  “That’s disrespectful in the presence of a senior officer, legate.”

  “My arse. Not when we’re alone it isn’t.”

  The Gaul shrugged and dropped into the nearby chair, unfastening his chinstrap and removing his helmet.

  “I expect you can guess why I’ve asked you over?”

  Atenos nodded.

  “I did, with respect, inform the legate that I was happy where I was.”

  Fronto laughed and sat back.

  “I’m sure it’s all very comfortable working with a legion largely composed of Gauls. Very homely. But the thing is, not only do I agree with my primus pilus that you would be a serious asset to the Tenth, but I have been in consultation with the general and both he and I are of the opinion that the division between the two largely Gallic legions and the rest has gone on too long.”

  Atenos focused a shrewd look on the legate.

  “You’re planning a large shake-up, sir?”

  “To an extent. There is a stigma attached to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions just because they were raised from Gauls. The thing is: we are trying to build something in this land, not to just wipe it out; a new Gallia Narbonensis in the north, if you will. If we have any hope of incorporating Gaul into Rome, we need to start getting both peoples used to one another. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth have become almost perfect model Roman legions in the last year. I rarely even hear your own language among them these days, since nearly everyone among them now has at least passable Latin. It’s time to start mixing the blood in the legions.”

  Atenos shrugged.

  “It may not work. It may, in fact, cause resentment among the other legions.”

  “Possibly, but it’s not a given. Remember that most of the Ninth were raised in Spain. There are surprisingly few native Romans among the Ninth, and Balbus’ legion are largely formed from the Gauls in Narbonensis. The future depends on the present, after all.”

  The large Gaul nodded thoughtfully.

  “If you are insistent, you will need to speak to Caesar, sir, since he is still nominally in charge of the Thirteenth.”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “No longer. Caesar has assigned the Thirteenth to Lucius Roscius. I’m not sure how brilliant an idea that is, given that the bulk of the Thirteenth have only been speaking Latin for a year and Roscius is from Illyricum with Greek as his first tongue. But… well we said it was time to start mixing the blood. Roscius won’t deny me the transfer. He and a few of his friends are a little… frightened of me.”

  Atenos leaned back in the seat.

  “You do realise, legate, that if you assign me to train your men, I expect full and total control of the training regime. No interference from senior officers?”

  The legate nodded with a smile. “I’d expect nothing less. Velius used to say the same.”

  He sighed and lay back on his bunk.

  “Do the Gauls have any weather Gods that like slightly stale wine?”

  Atenos frowned in incomprehension.

  “Never mind” Fronto smiled. “Jupiter will do.”

  Fronto lay on the slope and brushed a few blades of grass with his fingertips, immensely grateful that the weather had held. Two weeks now of largely blue skies and soft breezes had dried out the land and lightened the mood of the entire army. Two weeks, moreover, that had seen intense activity throughout the camp in the planning of the upcoming strike, despite the enforced wait.

  Scouts had been sent out immediately by both horse and ship following the meeting, and had roved for nine full days, before returning to produce a detailed and thorough plan of the area concerned. Fronto’s concern that the two long promontories that almost sealed off the bay would be crowned with strongholds had been borne out.

  Planning had then begun in earnest, and had concluded with the legions moving out two days later in individual fragmented groups, each on their own mission and with precise timing in mind. Brutus, along with his marine contingent, had left first, heading out to the open sea to practice before they were required for the third phase of the plan. Caesar and the bulk of four legions had left, heading inland to bring the second phase attack on Darioritum from the east as a surprise. Finally, Fronto and Balbus, with less than four hundred men between them, moved northeast up the coast, separating once they closed on their destination, Fronto waiting a full extra day to allow his peer the time to bring the other force down from the north.

  Once more, Fronto glanced over his shoulder and down the gentle slope. Close behind him, two centuries from the Second cohort crouched in the grass in the last embers of the fading light. Behind them, their cohort’s artillery section loitered by the carts among the sparse trees. Next to him, the two centurions and two optios peered across the two hundred yard strip of land that led up to the walls of the fortress.

  For a while as they had approached he had been filled with apprehension, worrying that he had underestimated the place with only two centuries at his command. The scouts had been spot on, though. The fort was only around two hundred and fifty yards across, built on a rise above the entrance to the bay, but with sloping land to each side rather than cliffs. The whole fortress couldn’t hold more than a thousand men at most; likely less than half that.

  Curtius, the optio to his right, rubbed his eyes and squinted again in the dim, fading light.

  “There’s hardly any movement. I make it perhaps three or four on the wall facing us.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “That was my estimate too. Assuming they have the same guard on each wall, there are only about a dozen men watching the defences. But then, I suppose, it’s nightfall and they’re not expecting any trouble.” He turned to his left.

  “Virius? What are your thoughts on the walls?”

  “They’re not bad, but quite low. I’m thinking that the whole place was designed more to watch over the channel than to defend against any land attack. Still don’t know how we’re going to do it sneakily, though.”

  Fronto harrumphed quietly. His own opinion on the plan he kept staunchly to himself.

  “It all depends on whether Tetricus was right and how good your men are. If Tetricus was wrong then we’re screwed when we get to the walls. If your legionaries aren’t sneaky enough, then all hell could break loose any time before then. Alright. Do the men all know their assignments?”

  Virius nodded, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Forty men apiece, sir. Who are you going with?”

  Fronto gazed out over the small fortress.

  “I’m going with Curtius.” He leaned over toward the optio and waved a hand. “No reflection on your ability. Yours is the most critical task, so I want to be there.”

  Curtius nodded.

  “Glad to have you, legate.”

  Fronto returned the nod, his gaze lingering on the bearded optio for a moment. Curtius had distinguished himself two years ago at Bibracte as part of a death-defying mad charge against well-defended rocks, the only survivor of the four men who had made the attack. Despite being watched and appraised by his commanders following his actions, the man had been involved with dangerous lunacy regularly enough that it had taken well over a year before he was considered for a promotion. Tonight would be his first individual command and Fronto couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive.

  “Alright. The artillery are well hidden, everyone knows what they’ve got to do and it’s almost dark. Time to start getting into position.”

 
; The officers beside him saluted as best they could and then shuffled back down the slope. Fronto remained for a moment, studying the small fort. So much could go wrong tonight, beginning with crossing the intervening space to the walls. He briefly offered up a half-hearted prayer to both Nemesis and Fortuna and then shuffled back on his elbows until he was out of sight of the target.

  Curtius beckoned to him from his section and the legate crawled down the slope to the forty-strong force. They hardly even looked Roman. Due to the nature of the mission, the legionaries had left their armour, helmets and shields in the carts with the artillery, now dressed only in tunic, breeches and dulled cloak with a belted sword.

  “Alright. Remember: a crawl at most. You have to be virtually invisible from the walls. Stay close to scrub and rocks for cover and only move when you think they’re not looking. It doesn’t matter if we take an hour or more to get there, so long as we’re not seen.”

  There was a quiet murmur of understanding among the men.

  “Good. The light’s almost gone now. Let’s get moving. When this is over, you can all have two days’ leave to drink yourself into a stupor.”

  Without waiting, he nodded to the optio and the group began to move slowly up the slope toward the crest. Fronto’s heart thumped noisily in his chest as they reached the rise and slid gently over, slowly, like a tide of men. Making small hand gestures, he motioned for the men to separate and slow down.

  The next minute was nervous enough to age Fronto several years as the men of the Second cohort moved across the most open section of ground, far too tightly-packed, fast and obvious for his liking but, after that heart-stopping minute, they began to settle into a strange, broken rhythm.

  Each man would wait until there was no movement close by, and would then shuffle slowly to the nearest piece of unoccupied cover. As soon as he was in place, someone else would move up to his unoccupied position and, gradually, the entire half-century moved forward at a barely noticeable speed.

  Fronto grinned with relief as he realised it was possible. Other options had been quickly pushed aside, leaving this as the only feasible means of advance. Boats would be too obvious, and even swimming and then climbing the cliffs would draw too much attention. For all the openness of this approach, the defenders would be paying most of their attention to the water and the channel between the headlands, and much less to the remaining strip of land that connected them with the mainland.