Atenos glanced around once more to make sure everything was in position and, raising his shield against the possibility of a lucky strike, marched across the uneven ground to where Carbo stood, directing the shield wall around a work party that had just completed the infill of another hole.
“Sir?”
Carbo looked up and nodded professionally.
“Centurion. Nice work back there with the fire arrows. I’d bet they were a bit disappointed at how little damage they did.”
Atenos ignored the compliment.
“Sir, when the rest pull forward this place is going to be seething with troops. I’d like permission to try something before it becomes impossible.”
Carbo frowned.
“Something dangerous?”
“I want to take the Second Cohort around the outside of the outer walls and try and get to the port. If the legates should fail and the fleet don’t make it into the bay, we could do with trying to prevent the Veneti from boarding their ships the way they usually do. Even if the fleet do get here, it would be better for our marines if the enemy ships weren’t packed to the rail with escaped warriors. Better to keep the numbers weighed in our favour.”
Carbo stood for only a moment before nodding.
“It’s a good thought. Be bloody careful, though. Perhaps you should take a few more centuries from the First?”
Atenos shook his head.
“Space will be quite restrictive down there. There may be too many of us already, sir. If you’re alright with that, I’ll move the men out as soon as the workmen have finished.”
“Good luck.”
Saluting, Atenos strode back to his men, watching as the last workmen packed down the former forest floor to prepare the way for the rolling vineae and the bulk of Caesar’s army that came with them.
The Second Cohort would miss out on the glorious assault and watching as the first Roman standard waved from the top of that high wall, but the enormous Gaul had served as a mercenary in some of the most hellish and deadly wars the world had to offer and he knew how much more satisfaction there was to be had by being an aged healthy veteran with a history of quiet successes than to be a crippled soldier after only half a campaign with a few proud medals to show for it.
Wars were won with the mind, not the heart.
Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the top of the high wall. Something was wrong; the missile fire had thinned out suddenly.
He took a quick look at the workmen and made a judgement call.
“It’s flat enough for the vineae; get back and arm up for the assault. Men of the Second Cohort: rally on me!”
Gritting his teeth as the men charged toward him, he set his sights on the low wall that ran along the river bank toward the bay, just a narrow strip of sloping land.
“Time to move.”
Carbo watched as the Second Cohort with their hulking giant of a chief centurion moved at triple time across the open ground to the low wall and began to move along it, staying as close as possible to the structure itself and moving toward the bay. As the primus pilus watched, he realised just how dangerous the run truly was. Almost everywhere along the route the Second Cohort was open to fire from the high walls above and had to run with their shields overhead like a high speed testudo. Even as he watched, three men fell foul of well placed shots and disappeared into the river and even as he turned away he saw two more topple.
Still, the First Cohort had its own troubles to look to. As the workmen had finished their tasks and fallen back to re-equip and Atenos had taken his unit off along the river bank, Carbo and his men had moved back out of missile range to meet up with the advancing vineae. Space had been saved for the First Cohort beneath the cover of the vehicles and, as soon as they were in position, the buccina call had gone up, heralding the attack.
Now, the huge wheeled vehicles trundled toward the low walls, reaching the edge of the denuded woodland after a brief uncomfortable journey over the undulating ground. As soon as available space allowed the vineae, each sheltering half a cohort of men and either a huge tree trunk ram, carried by sweating legionaries, ladders or other siege gear, filtered out into a line three vehicles deep and four wide.
The arrows thudding into the dampened hide and timber roof were fewer than Carbo had expected and while the lack of offensive activity should have been comforting, it wasn’t. Too many times this summer they had broken the defences of a stronghold to find that the place was empty when they arrived.
Grinding his teeth, he mentally willed the offensive on, the legionaries around him heaving the huge wheeled edifice forward until it closed on the low wall. The vehicles behind moved up to form an armoured tunnel that stretched back toward the army waiting out of missile range. Once they were through the outer wall, the tunnel would provide safe cover as the legions closed on the walls and climbed.
The outer defences were, just as had appeared at a distance, almost identical to those that protected a temporary Roman camp. The construction was clearly recent: a response to the growing threat of Roman action, or in preparation for a planned uprising, and following lessons learned from Crassus the previous year.
Carbo smiled. At least in this kind of construction they knew what they were dealing with. The earth embankment was only four feet high with no outer ditch and the wheels and height of the vinea allowed the occupants to reach the point where they could directly attack the wall without first countering the problem of the bank.
Listening to the thuds and crunches of the missiles hitting the roof and side walls of the vehicle, the primus pilus barked out his orders and watched as the men filtered along the side, leaving room in the centre for the huge tree-trunk ram to be brought up.
Manhandled by forty legionaries, the tree took a couple of minutes to build up the kind of swing needed to damage the defences. As the ram first connected with the palisade, there were shouts of pain and anger from the men, their arms almost dislocated by the jarring impact. The entire vehicle shuddered and Carbo winced at the noise before peering through the cluttered interior, trying to examine the damage. He couldn’t get a clear look before the second heavily-swung blow connected and the whole place exploded in noise and shaking again.
The first blow had clearly had the desired effect, the second merely knocking the timbers of the broken palisade to the side. As the ram was drawn back through the shelter and discarded to the rear, the men at the front filled the gap and got to work tearing the timbers apart and pushing them away, opening a large gap, while others took their dolabra and began to work at the earth bank, shovelling it out of the way. The task was made surprisingly easy by such recent construction, since the turf sods that formed the mound were still solid and could be easily shifted.
Carbo watched with a growing sense of uneasiness as the men worked, rapidly clearing a wide enough space in the low wall to allow the whole vinea to pass through. Peering ahead, past the workmen, the primus pilus sized up their next move. The ground between the two walls was low grass, perhaps a hundred yards across. The grass showed the growth of the season, but was all too neat for Carbo’s liking. Given the still decreasing quantity of missiles falling from the high walls, he was beginning to doubt vinea cover was even a necessity now.
He frowned and waved to his optio, who was busy directing the removal of the turf sods.
“Ovidius? Get back to the army and tell them that something’s up. The defenders are abandoning the walls and we have to move now. We’re leaving the vineae at the first wall and moving forward at full speed. Get the army moving.”
The optio saluted and turned, pushing his way back through the men to make for the rest of the force. Carbo glanced out of the front aperture once more. Occasionally a stone or arrow would fall into the wide grassy plain that separated the walls, but it was hardly the concerted effort of a desperate group of defenders.
“Alright lads. We’re going to move forward quickly. No towers this time. Got to be quick and bold, so we’ll be raising ladder
s and using grapples. Once we’re through the first rampart, go very carefully; we’ve seen them use lilia pits in the past few weeks and it’s too nice and easy out there for my liking. If anyone slips into one and is wounded, we can’t stop to help you out; you’ll have to wait for the capsarii as they follow up after the assault.”
He waited as the various pieces of siege equipment were brought up from the rear of the vineae and then took a deep breath.
“Advance!”
Without waiting for the call to be taken up by other officers in the cohort, he began to move forward along with his men, clambering through the fallen rampart. As the legionaries of the First Cohort began to move across the intervening space at a run, watching the ground nervously and carrying grapples, ropes, and ladders, the primus pilus spared a moment to look to his right, where the other assault groups had broken through.
He squinted in surprise at the figure of tribune Tetricus, shield raised against the occasional projectile, running across toward him. Why wasn’t the idiotic officer at the back where he was supposed to be? Carbo ground his teeth, weighing up the possibility of running on with his men and later claiming he hadn’t seen the commander. Shaking his head in irritation, he turned his back on his assault and strode across to meet Tetricus.
“Tribune?”
The temporary commander of the Tenth Legion bore a worried expression.
“Carbo… something is very wrong here. The closer we get to them, the less resistance there is.”
“Yes, sir. I have a feeling they’re pulling the same trick, but earlier than usual. Got to hope the legates managed to secure those forts or we might just have lost them for good.” In the privacy of his head, his thoughts flashed with sympathy to the sight of Atenos and his four centuries of men running under constant fire toward the rear end of the oppidum where the Veneti could take ship.
Tetricus sighed unhappily.
“As soon as we get confirmation from the first assault, get a message back to the army and tell them to send as many men as possible round between the walls to the far side. We have to try and catch them before they leave.
Carbo nodded and glanced toward the walls where the first men of the Tenth were now raising ladders, the defending fire hardly noticeable any more. There were no casualties to pits so either the men of the Tenth had been ridiculously lucky, or the enemy were prepared to give away Darioritum and sure of their ability to flee the field of battle safely.
“Sir, Centurion Atenos already took the Second Cohort round the outside before we even got to the outer wall. He had the same idea and I think he might be in considerable trouble.”
Tetricus’ eyes widened.
“Jupiter’s balls! The man could be knee deep in body parts by now!”
The tribune spun around, shaking slightly, and spotted the centurion that had led the assault group from the second breech.
“Niger? Forget the wall assault. Get your men together and take them between the walls and round to the port area as fast as you can.”
He turned back to Carbo and opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a voice from the walls. The two officers turned to look. The first ladder was already in position and a brave legionary had reached the parapet to peer over. He was waving and pointing across the wall.
“Looks like they’ve already left.”
Tetricus shook his head in irritation.
“Let’s hope the Second Cohort last until we get there.”
Atenos stared. The flow of missiles falling from the walls onto the four centuries of Romans skirting the edge of the outer defences had slowed almost to a stop as the column had approached the seaward end of the city and now, as he peered around the stockade, he realised why. The defenders of Darioritum had not waited long under the threat of Roman victory before beginning the evacuation of the city.
Clearly the women, children and old folk had been moved out first while the warriors remained on the battlements creating the illusion of a fully-defended city. They must have started some time ago, given the empty supply carts that stood on the far side of the port area.
Atenos took in the situation at a glance.
The low outer wall’s gate was open and a steady flow of the Veneti made their way through it, hampered and slowed by the available space. The flat ground between the gate and the dock was narrow and full of milling people. Beyond, three wooden jetties strode out into the waters of the bay, lined with Veneti bound for the great oak ships.
Several of the vessels were already wallowing out in the water, groaning under the weight of civilians. By the looks of it, already most of the non-combatants were aboard, leaving only the cunning and tenacious Veneti warriors at the dock, where they had set guards to watch for Atenos’ approach.
As the big Gaul came to the attention of the Veneti, a shout of alarm went up. The centurion ducked back around the wall to where the other three centurions had gathered to receive their orders.
“Alright” the big man said in a businesslike fashion. “We’re a bit outnumbered. Just over three hundred of us and thousands of them, but that means nothing. Remember Thermopylae?”
Two of the centurions grinned while the other looked dumbfounded.
“We need to stop them boarding any more people and try and contain the rest until the city is in the hands of the army.”
He pointed at the centurions of the second and fifth centuries.
“You two get the nastiest job. We’re going to go in en-masse and drive a wedge between the wall and the docks. As soon as we’ve done that, your centuries get to push any remaining warriors back through that gate into the fortress and then hold it against them until help arrives.”
As they nodded their understanding, he turned to the centurion of the fourth century.
“I’m going to take the first in the other direction and push the enemy back along the jetties. We’re going to push them as far as the ships and, if things work out, we might even get on board and cause a bit of havoc. The job of the Fourth is, once we’ve pushed them clear, to demolish the landward end of the jetties and prevent any more boarding in case we’re overcome. Then you turn round and help the others hold the gate. Everyone clear?”
The centurion of the fourth frowned, a harelip disfiguration making his expression peculiar.
“We’ll be cutting off your exit, sir?”
“We can swim if need be, so just do it. And when we round that corner, no marching slowly forward in a traditional Roman line. Speed is of the essence. Run like Greek athletes and form up only when we reach them.”
The officers saluted and then ran back to their men to give the appropriate orders. Atenos waited until the men were in position and then raised his hand. Near him, the signifer of the first cohort waved the standard and the three hundred men of the Tenth Legion raced around the corner at speed, bearing down like a wall of bellowing iron.
The Veneti stood firm, planting their feet ready to withstand the smash of the Roman line, their swords and axes ready, spears held high.
“Wedge!” barked the huge centurion as they closed and, to the surprise of the Veneti, within seconds the jumbled line of running men, each at his own pace and with no sense of Roman order, reformed into a wedge, shields interlocked to create an armoured point. The manoeuvre was so swift and slick it was like watching water flowing.
The Veneti, still braced for the crash of two solid lines, were totally unable to withstand the sheer force of the wedge formation driving into the centre and, in a disorganised mass of screaming, desperate men, were driven apart into two groups: one by the dock and one by the gate.
Atenos, leading the charge and in prime position at the head of the wedge, ignored the sudden sharp pain of a lucky slash from a broadsword that trimmed the bronze edging from the top of his shield and left a long, thin gash on his shoulder. As soon as he realised that they had broken through the far side of the Veneti mass, he shouted the order and the centuries split and began to go about their appoin
ted tasks.
Reforming, the first cohort, formerly the left side of the wedge, turned and became a solid shield wall facing the Veneti dock. With shouts from Atenos, his optio, and century’s signifer, the wall began to move forward, the legionaries in a line three deep putting all their strength into the action.
They were less than eight feet from the water’s edge and here the Veneti had taken the opportunity to cut out a proper dock side, so the gentle slope into the lake had become a sudden drop into cold water deeper than a man’s height. Rather than trying to inflict damage and butcher the men before them, the first cohort pushed at their shields, moving forward like a wall, gradually shoving the shouting warriors back toward the jetties.
Some of the enemy had foreseen what was about to happen and broke away from the fight, dodging back onto the wooden jetties to reform there. Others were less lucky and disappeared with shouts of dismay, plummeting into the cold water and effectively out of the fight as they swam variously for the Veneti ships or the nearest scalable bank.
Within moments the first century had reached the edge of the jetty, and with surprisingly few casualties, but then that was the advantage the legions had in cramped conditions: the traditional Gallic sword or spear required far more room to wield effectively than the enemy were being afforded in this desperate press of men.
As the space before them opened up, the remaining Veneti having retreated toward the ships, Atenos bellowed another command and the century split into three groups, each one numbering perhaps twenty men now, and moved as individual shield-walls onto the wooden jetties.
The numbers here were easier, at perhaps two Gauls to each Roman, though the sudden acquisition of space now gave the defending Veneti enough room to wield their blades effectively.
Atenos grinned from the front rank of men as he eyed the biggest of the Veneti warriors; a big man by any comparison… expect when compared to the centurion himself. The score of legionaries moved forward at a slow pace, presenting a column three men wide — as many as the space allowed.
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