Carbo nodded and then saluted.
“Ready to move at your command, sir.”
Tetricus grunted again and settled unhappily into his saddle. The sound of racing hooves announced the return of the other five tribunes.
“Everything’s ready, sir.”
Tetricus nodded, trying not to catch the eye of the senior tribune who had reported to him. He swallowed nervously, keeping his hands tight on the reins to prevent their shaking becoming too noticeable.
“Tenth Legion: advance!”
Slowly, he moved his horse into a walk. Behind him, the centurions bellowed their commands, the buccinas blaring out calls.
The Tenth Legion set off for battle and, keeping his gaze steadfastly ahead, trying not to look at the other five tribunes, Tetricus’ mind raced ahead of them.
He was woefully unprepared for this. The tribunes weren’t meant to command the legion. Oh, in the old days, they did. These days, though, the big decisions were all made by the legate and the actual running of the legion, even in battle, was the province of the centurionate. The tribunes were expected to ponce around doing whatever menial chores the legate had for them.
By Tetricus’ estimate, at least two thirds of the tribunes he had met across the whole army were a complete waste of time from a military point of view. Most of them were power-seeking members of the equites class from Rome who were desperately looking for a leg up in the political circles of Rome. The tribunate was a well-recognised step for that.
Tetricus, however, had taken his commission originally in the Seventh Legion not to climb the political ladder, but because even as a boy he had been fascinated by the great works of the army. At the age of five he had watched as the men of Strabo’s legions had carried out emergency repairs to the aqueduct of his home city of Firmum Picenum after tremors had brought down an arch and effectively halved the city’s water supply. Observation of three days of repair work had instilled in him a life-long love of all things engineering, though reading accounts of the siege of Syracuse and the great military works of Archimedes had clinched his desire to serve in the legions.
And despite inauspicious beginnings in the Seventh, his great love, and talent, for designing ingenious and complex defensive and offensive systems had been given full reign since the army had first marched into Geneva two and a half years ago. He’d achieved all he ever really wanted from the legions: a certain level of autonomy and the opportunity to turn his mind to overcoming amazing challenges with his engineering skill. He’d certainly never pictured this: sitting nobly astride a horse at the head of several thousand men, leading an army into battle.
“Sit up straight, for Minerva’s sake.”
Tetricus shot a glance in the direction of the hissed comment to see one of the other tribunes glaring at him. He opened his mouth to apologise and then realised how idiotic that would sound. Instead, he tried to stop wallowing in his own discomfort and to sit proud like a commander.
Slowly, interminably, the entire army moving at the lowest common speed, that of the ox carts, the legions of Julius Caesar began to cross the stretch of low ground toward the looming ramparts of Darioritum. The land here was decidedly flat, so the Veneti oppidum on the low rise by the water stood proud and impressive, though not as impressive as the walls, Tetricus suspected.
The general had decided that a show of force was needed. This whole attack was more about frightening the local tribes than the mere conquest of a city and to that end, all four legions, along with their cavalry and auxiliary support, backed by the wagon trains and the artillery that remained with them, would move together to bear down on the Gaulish city with standards raised and fanfares blaring.
The tribune squinted into the dim pre-dawn light, trying to pick out more detail on the oppidum and watched with relief as the first shaft of golden sunlight touched the tree tops high on the oppidum. The information they had on the oppidum itself was, to his mind, sadly lacking. The scouts had not come too close for fear of tipping the Veneti off about the coming attack and thus their knowledge of the defences came from long-distance and second-hand accounts.
Once again he wished that Fronto were here rather than he and again he wondered how Fronto and Balbus had fared during the night. This entire escapade would be for naught if the two legates had not managed to secure the bay entrance. If the Veneti still held the promontory fortresses, their companions in the city would wait until the Romans had expended a great deal of effort and time getting to them and would then simply board their ships and flee as they had so many times before in the past few months.
Slowly, still running through possibilities and alternatives in his mind, Tribune Tetricus led the Tenth Legion across the low ground toward the bulk of Darioritum and as the yards passed interminably by the sun rose behind them, adding to the impressive sight of the four legions walking out of the golden glow, and gradually illuminating the oppidum ahead.
Darioritum was an impressive sight.
The Veneti had countered the inadequacies of the territory by increasing the man-made defences of the city. In Tetricus’ experience, most of the oppida the army had encountered across the whole of Gaul had taken advantage of a high site, bolstered by thick walls and occasionally a low ditch at the bottom.
Darioritum lacked great hills or rocky cliffs; there were no unassailable slopes. Three low hills surrounded the port at the head of the huge bay and each was low and gentle. However, in response to nature’s failure, a man that Tetricus would have loved to speak to had carried out defensive works on an impressive scale. The walls of Darioritum were unlike any he had ever seen.
The oppidum sat on the slopes of the northernmost of the three hills, its ramparts reaching down to the water’s edge and rendering that approach impossible by the army. In place of the more common ditch, the architect of Darioritum’s defences had traced the two small rivers that skirted the base of the hill to both east and west and had widened the channel to create a moat a hundred yards wide.
Even if an army had managed to find a way by boat across the bay to the port or across the river, which would clearly be within easy missile shot of any defender, the Veneti had settled for not one, but two walls. A low wall constructed of timber and earth, much like a Roman camp, rose from the banks of the rivers and the rear of the port, leaving no flat land on which to marshal an attacking force. Twenty yards behind those rose the true walls of the city, high and powerful, with towers taller than was usual, allowing the defenders an unrivalled view of what was happening below the smaller wall, should anyone manage to get that close.
The result, as Tetricus had surmised from the scant accounts of the scouts, was that the only conceivable route of assault was to climb that northern hill and approach the oppidum from that side. However, the planners of the city had accounted for this weak spot in the defences by continuing both huge walls over the rise and allowing the slope several hundred yards from the enceinte to fill with dense woodland. The occupants must enter and leave the oppidum by boat at the port.
Clever.
The only possible land approach was hampered by trees and undergrowth. An army could pass through the terrain, but only slowly and individually, marshalling as a force once they had reached open ground, which would be in direct sight of the missile-wielding defenders.
It was well thought-out.
Again, as they moved on toward the looming fortress, Tetricus’ mind wheeled through ideas and concerns. This was why it was someone else’s job to lead the army: he needed his mind free to think on the problems ahead.
They could cut down the forest. They certainly had the manpower to do so. But it would be a slow job. Such thick woodland, it would be the job of a full day or two just to clear it out enough to pass a legion through. Even then, the ground would be impassable to carts and the artillery. Any attack would be delayed for the minimum of a day and would be down purely to legionaries with no artillery support.
They could try diverting the river into a
narrow channel and filling the wide ditch enough to cross. But then they’d still be working under the fire of the defenders, it would still take more than a day and, once again, the ground once they had reclaimed it from the water would be too soft for easy traversing and would be impossible for the wagons.
It was a problem.
“Tribune Tetricus?”
Reeling his mind back in, he turned in surprise to see an officer he didn’t recognise from the general staff, closing with him.
“Yes?”
“The general requests your presence.”
Tetricus nodded nervously and turned to the more senior tribune by his side.
“Carry on. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
The man saluted, saying nothing, and Tetricus kicked his horse into action, following the officer back toward the command party.
Caesar, along with his senior officers, had ridden half a mile ahead of the slowly-moving army and they were standing beside their horses, staring out at the oppidum ahead. As the two riders bore down on them and slowed to a walk and then a stop, Caesar turned and nodded at them.
“Ah… Tetricus. Good. Join us.”
The tribune dismounted and led his horse by the reins to join the officers. He smiled as he recognised the figure of Appius Coruncanius Mamurra, the engineer from Formia. To his eternal satisfaction, the great engineer nodded at him as one professional to another.
“Mamurra tells me there is no quick and simple way into Darioritum. I brought him on board because he, like you, is a man who likes to find solutions to impossible problems. I refuse to believe there is a problem of defence that cannot be overcome by the pair of you. Find me my quick way in.”
Mamurra shrugged at Tetricus as though in apology.
“A full day is the quickest I can think of.”
The tribune nodded.
“A day either way; either to re-channel and reclaim the river, or to deforest and move in from the north. But either way we couldn’t get the artillery close.”
The officer nodded thoughtfully.
“We could perhaps speed things up with the river if we could get men across who could pull down the first wall and use it to fill the ditch?”
“Yes, but it’s still slow and they’d be in direct line of any fire from the walls. We’d lose a lot of men.” He shrugged. ”We could torch the woodland? It’s brutal, but a lot faster than men with axes.”
Mamurra shook his head.
“The ground and foliage are drying out, but they’ll still be very damp. If we burn it, it’ll smoke and smoulder for days. Too slow.”
“Then we’re back to axes and a full day.”
Caesar looked from one face to the other.
“The legions are catching up with us. Find me a solution.”
Mamurra frowned and rubbed his chin.
“Of course, we don’t have to remove the whole woodland; just enough to get a column of men through. Once we can get a century or two at the front they can perhaps use wicker screens to cover the rest as they filter through into the open ground?”
Tetricus nodded.
“Then we should concentrate on the low edge near the river. The trees are sparser there and the men would be in less danger from the walls as they got closer. I’d be happier if we could get vineae to the front to cover the men. Wicker screens are a bit feeble. But then we’re back to being unable to move big, wheeled structures over the sawn stumps.”
“Oxen and ropes” Mamurra smiled.
“Better than axes.”
“And if they can tear the trees from the earth whole and with the roots intact, rather than just cutting them down, the ground can easily be levelled for the artillery carts.”
Caesar nodded.
“Good. Tetricus? Go back to the Tenth and bring them around to the north. We shall approach from that side.”
With a salute, the tribune shared a professional nod with Mamurra and then turned to ride back to the Tenth. It would still be a slow job but, with a little luck, they could be through the woods and able to begin the assault by the afternoon.
“Then we’ll find out what other little tricks they have in store for us.”
He just hoped like hell that Fronto and Balbus had secured those forts.
Centurion Atenos, commander of the Second Cohort and chief training officer of the Tenth Legion, glanced around him, taking stock of the situation. The depleted cohort, some of his men being on detached duty with the legate, had joined the First Cohort at the head of the Roman advance. Legionaries and officers stretched away on both sides of him, filling the deforested ground from the water’s edge along to the remaining tree line.
Behind, a detachment of engineers and legionaries moved around the denuded forest floor efficiently filling the holes left by the removed trees and levelling and packing the ground. Behind them, a dozen vineae trundled periodically forward as soon as the ground was readied for them, coming to a halt as they reached uneven earth once more.
Swinging his gaze back round to his left, he could see the river, wide and shallow at this point, washing away the debris cast from the dying forest by the multitude of workmen.
And finally back to the front.
Despite being the head of the army, the men of the Tenth were not the furthest forward at the moment. Ahead of them, soldiers of the engineering details strained, pushing the bellowing oxen as hard as they could until, with a horrendous tearing sound, another beech tree came loose, the huge root system snapping and creaking. As Atenos watched, the cart began to drag the tree toward the slope that dropped to the river so that the workmen could roll it down to the river with a quick push and watch it float out to the bay.
A call from ahead drew his attention again. Centurion Carbo, off to his left, took up the call. Only a few trees remained before the open space that lay between the woodland and the low outer wall of the oppidum. As carts lined up ready to remove the last boles and soldiers flattened out the ground behind them, the first two cohorts of the Tenth Legion moved forward, filtering past them and between the trees.
Atenos took a deep breath as his men stepped from the cover of the trees and into the open air once more.
“Shields!”
He was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which his new command put the order into action, the entire line raising and locking their shields and hunching over slightly as they advanced in order to present as small a target as possible to the enemy.
His call had been just in time, as the Veneti on the high walls let their first volley of arrows, stones and bullets go at that moment, the missiles rattling off shields and helmets or embedding themselves in wood with a ‘thunk’. Here and there, Atenos could hear the squawk of a man who had been unlucky; still, the manoeuvre had been smooth and resulted in fewer casualties than he’d expected from the first volley. The Tenth’s previous training officer had apparently done a good job.
A quick glance to either side, unimpeded by the cohort who were, to a man, at least a head shorter than he, told him that the entire line had moved into position, presenting a solid shield wall to the enemy from the water’s edge across to the eaves of the remaining woodland. More missiles rattled off iron and bronze.
“Screens!” came the call from the primus pilus to his left.
Atenos waited tensely as huge wicker screens, rejected as the main defence of the Roman lines, but very useful as a temporary measure to shield the men working behind, were raised by the second and third line and then filtered through to the front. Within half a minute, the whole shield wall now stood behind a row of eight foot wicker screens that blocked a number of the incoming shots. The screen supports were jammed into place and then the second group of screens were brought forward, raised to form a higher level of the wall and held in place by straining legionaries.
The First and Second Cohorts were in place, forming the first line, guarding the workmen and protecting them from enemy attack while they cleared the passage.
Behind,
the ox carts were already working on the last few trees. Atenos glanced across at Carbo as, behind him, a young oak was violently torn from the earth and dragged away. The eaves of the wood were disappearing. Even as he waited tensely, he could hear the creak and groan and then the crack and crash of more trees being removed. The intensity of missile fire increased as the Veneti realised that the Roman attackers had forged a clear passage through the woodland.
“Watch yourselves. Step back from the screens three paces.”
Carbo, off to his left, cast him a quizzical glance, but echoed the order to his own men. As the confused legionaries stepped back and lowered the top row of screens, one of the men close by cleared his throat.
“Sir?”
Atenos shrugged nonchalantly and fell into place just as the first fire arrow hit the wicker screens and burst into a fiery orange ball that sent tongues of flame licking across the face of the wicker defence.
“Clearly none of you have studied the tongue of your enemy this past two years. At least learn enough to understand what their commands mean!”
The legionary blinked.
“Yes, sir.”
Atenos stood silent and afforded a quick glance at the primus pilus. Carbo was nodding at him appreciatively. Behind, the last trees had gone and workmen were moving up, filling in the few remaining holes. As they neared the last victims of the ox carts, the fire intensified yet again and a few blows struck home, taking the labouring legionaries through thighs and torsos as they worked.
Carbo nodded to him and, simultaneously, the two lead centurions gave their cohorts the order to fall back and protect the workers in close order. With perfect timing, the shield wall retreated a dozen paces and then, directed by a few gestures from their officers, split off into groups to produce individual shield screens for the work gangs as they flattened the forest floor.
At extreme range fewer of the missiles reached their targets and the instances of wounding decreased as the defences were reconfigured. The men worked under the shelter of the Tenth’s shields and slowly the vineae, huge wheeled shelters, rumbled toward them. Beneath the protective roofs of the vehicles, the rest of the Tenth Legion moved toward the walls of Darioritum, the other legions preparing to move on after.
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