Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  Sabinus’ eye flickered irritably.

  “I wasn’t aware that the situation was that bad.”

  “With respect sir, nobody is aware, because nobody ever asks.”

  The general let out a low grumble, the twitch still evident. He was barely controlling his temper and the centurion bit his tongue as he waited. “Then we have a problem. The Fourteenth are the only legion that can do it. Perhaps we can apply a little incentive?”

  “Sir?”

  “For the morale of your men, I offer phalerae to every survivor who takes a part, along with a crown to pin to the legion’s standards. If such is not enough of an incentive, there are other, more ‘disciplinary’ methods, if you follow me. I understand the plight of the Fourteenth and the stigma that has become attached to them, but I cannot allow the attitude of the men to dictate our strategy. The legions serve Rome, not the other way around.”

  Cantorix pursed his lips.

  “Yes sir. I meant in no way to imply that the men were rebellious or anything, sir, and a little recognition does buy a great deal of morale, sir.”

  Sabinus leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  “Go select your men Cantorix; as many as you can find. It’s time to teach the ‘free Gauls’ the cost of liberty.”

  Cantorix, centurion in command of the Third century in the Third cohort of the Fourteenth Legion, wrinkled his nose in disgust. The grand Roman officers in this army still thought of the Gauls as a single people with a common culture and identity, a laughable idea to Cantorix, who had been raised as one of the Segusiavi, far from here, near the borders of Roman territory. The Segusiavi had traded with Rome for as long as the tribe could remember; many spoke Latin and some even Greek and wine, not beer, was the beverage of choice among the more wealthy.

  How far removed could he be from these coastal ‘barbaroi’ who lived in relative squalor, many still running into battle naked to prove their vitality and resisting the inevitable march of progress. Yet the Roman-born officers saw them all the same, assuming that these men, enlisted into the Roman army a little over a year ago, but from a very civilised culture and already largely ‘Roman’ in their outlook, would find it a simple job to assume the guise of the northern Veneti warriors.

  He ground his teeth, wondering whether to try and affect a local accent. The idea would likely be a disaster. He would stand more chance of sounding like a native Greek than a native of Armorica.

  Beside him, Idocus, a flaxen-braided optio from the Fifth cohort, held out a pair of trousers and stared at them as though they might bite him.

  “Do these Unelli not understand the principle of washing clothes?”

  He sniffed the material and recoiled. Cantorix gave him a lopsided smile.

  “Be fair; a man died in them a few hours ago. He probably soiled himself.”

  “Thanks” the optio replied drily. “I wish we had time to take them to a river and give them a good scrub. I’m worried I might catch something. These trousers smell like a sick dog with an arse infection.”

  “Just stop complaining and put the damn things on.”

  The other thirteen men were busy climbing into their new clothes, mostly with looks of disgust and one even holding his nose. Cantorix shook his head. Thousands of men to choose from, and the general had clearly expected him to produce a large force. The fact was, though, that over the last year, most of the men of the Fourteenth had adopted the Roman style so thoroughly that very few legionaries retained enough of a Gallic look to even attempt this. These fifteen were the only ones with the appropriate physical and mental qualities that the centurion believed could even faintly pass as natives.

  They had waited until the last attack by the Unelli and their allies, not long before sundown, and, once the enemy had returned to their town, the squad of soldiers had had their pick of disguises and armament from among the hundred or so enemies killed in the latest engagement close to the wall.

  Cantorix straightened and held the torc up to his neck for a moment, but then decided against it. They had to look nondescript; no good wearing or carrying anything that could easily be identified as belonging to a fallen warrior of the Unelli.

  Rolling his shoulders, he allowed the clothing to settle and watched Idocus trying to tie the trousers around his waist while touching as little material as possible with his hands.

  “Will you stop buggering around?”

  The optio looked at him with distaste.

  “I have to eat with these hands. I may never feel clean again.”

  Cantorix stepped across to the doorway of the tent and turned to his men.

  “Alright. Let’s get moving. Come on.”

  The other fourteen soldiers finished their dressing and gathered the swords, axes and spears before filing out into the early evening gloom.

  “Right. Simple route. Out of the back gate of the camp, down the hill and a quarter of a mile out into the woods, then we swing out wide and come at Crociatonum from the west. Once we leave the gate, I don’t want to hear a word spoken in Latin and remember to concentrate on your conversation. Don’t even think Roman, or it’ll still show through. And no discipline or attention. Try not to look like legionaries. Got it?”

  The men nodded, variously grinning and grimacing. They were, as the general had requested, the sort of man who, if they weren’t in the army, would be robbing and murdering for profit. He watched them with interest as they filed past into the evening air. On the bright side, they really looked like thieves and vagabonds, and they smelled like refugees who’d been travelling for days without a change of clothes. Possibly they could pull this off after all.

  Once they were all outside, the centurion nodded with apparent satisfaction, concealing his shaky nerves.

  “Right. Let’s go. Remember everything we agreed.”

  As they strode across the grass of the camp, Cantorix noted the watching faces of the many legionaries who stood beside their tents. Many held a look of vague, unintentional contempt. Others, though, nodded respectfully, fully aware of what these ragged men were about to attempt.

  The rear gate of the camp opened as they approached, without the need for orders, and the legionaries on guard saluted as they passed. Cantorix peered into the gloom as he broke into a jog, the light from the torches and braziers in the camp fading behind him.

  He was impressed, as they reached the bottom of the slope and made for the eaves of the nearby woodland, at the singular lack of noise the men around him made. They moved like cats in the night, hardly a twig cracking when they passed among the boles of the trees. After a few minutes the silence became oppressive and the centurion cleared his throat, speaking in his native Gallic tongue.

  “Alright. I think we’ve probably come far enough south. Let’s cut west and make our way round. Feel free to talk, but only in low voices. We’re supposed to be refugees and bandits, after all, not thieves. But remember to watch what you’re saying.”

  He took a deep breath. “And don’t try to put on any kind of accent. It’ll just end up sounding stupid and obvious. We’ll just have to hope that they don’t know the Veneti accent that well. We’re more than a hundred miles from their lands, so that wouldn’t surprise me.”

  One of the men grinned at him.

  “Are you doin’ all the talkin’, or are we all goin’ to chatter?”

  Cantorix nodded back at the man.

  “You all need to talk; we spoke about that before. We’re not supposed to be soldiers, so act just like you would expect fleeing Veneti warriors to. Just leave the initial explanation of matters to me. Feel free to chip in with bits and pieces, but don’t get too creative.”

  The man grinned.

  “Oh I know. Art of any scam’s keepin’ it simple as possible. So’s not to trip yerself up.”

  The centurion smiled. “Precisely. So everyone should talk.”

  “’cept Villu, ‘course.”

  Cantorix glared at the man’s poor taste in jokes, and glanced across at
the afore-mentioned man, who was grinning wide and displaying the messy hole where his tongue should be, result of some unknown incident many years ago.

  “Come on.”

  Listening to the general conversation as they moved speedily through the woodland, the centurion began finally to relax a little. He had to admit that, to his own untrained ear at least, they sounded every bit the band of Gallic brigands. But then, truth be told, when you took away the mail and the tunic, that was very much what they were.

  No surprise really that they were treated the way they were by the other legions. He resolved to try, once this was over, to get these men to mingle more with the other legions. Closing the cultural rift would require effort on both sides, after all.

  He was still pondering on what could be done for the Fourteenth when they reached the edge of the woodland and gazed out across the open grass to the walls of Crociatonum, the fort they had so recently left rising from the crest of the impressive hill off to the right.

  “Alright. Let’s run. Try to look relieved.”

  Breaking into a fast pace as they left the trees, the fifteen men sped across the open land, keeping low and moving like a pack of wolves on the hunt. They were perhaps four hundred yards from the walls when the shout went up from within.

  Warily, mindful of the possibility of missiles being hurled at them before any opportunity was given to explain themselves, the unit slowed and raised their arms, indicating the fact that their hands were empty of weapons. They continued to walk like that toward the town’s solid gate until, perhaps ten yards out and without the need for an order, the unit came to a stop.

  Cantorix, listening carefully, could just make out the noise of urgent discussion behind the gate. Screwing his eyes shut momentarily, he took a deep breath.

  “For Belenus’ sake, let us in. There’s thousands of Romans a cat’s fart away!”

  He couldn’t stop himself flinching, but managed to stay steady and not drop to the ground in case of missile fire. Straightening, he threw an angry glare in the direction of the optio who was stifling a small laugh.

  “Who are you?” called a voice from an unseen figure above the gate.

  “I’m Cantorix of the Veneti!”

  There was another muffled exchange and finally a figure appeared above the gate, tall and powerful, wearing bronze helm and a chain mail shirt, a heavy blade in his hand.

  “You bring us a message?”

  Good; a chance. “A message? Shit, yes, I bring you a message. Let us in and get ready for the sky to fall.”

  “Explain yourself, stranger.”

  “The Roman, Caesar is about a day behind us with enough men to trample a forest.”

  Cantorix was pleased to note a sudden, yet more urgent murmur behind the gate.

  Off to his right, one of the men bellowed “Bloody Romans everywhere. How come you haven’t flattened that lot on the hill?”

  The leader dipped down behind the parapet for a moment, and then reappeared from a discussion with his compatriots.

  “The Veneti have fallen to Caesar?”

  “I’m not bloody proud of it, but yes” Cantorix snapped. “Now will you let us in? There was a lot of activity in that fort when we came past, and I don’t want to be standing in the open playing with myself when they decide to come and stand on my throat.”

  He had to force himself not to smile as the urgent voices muttered again, a little louder and with a note of panic. The leader tilted his head to one side; a sign of worry, perhaps?

  “Activity? What activity?” he asked.

  “A lot of men moving around late at night and clanking stuff. Sounds a lot like the army of bastards we’ve had nipping our heels all the way. You wouldn’t believe how fast those bastards can move when they want to!”

  “And you said Caesar is a day away?”

  “Yes, now let us in!”

  “Where are the rest of the survivors?”

  “How the hell should I know? Some left by ship and headed for the Osismii. Others fled into the woods to hide. It was chaos. The Romans enslaved most of the survivors. A few of us got out ahead of them to bring warning to the other tribes. We’ve been running for four days.”

  The armoured leader stood silent for a moment.

  “Think very carefully, stranger… when you saw the activity at the Roman camp, was it concentrated at the rear gate?”

  Cantorix smiled to himself. The man was hooked now. Time to haul him in.

  “I think so. What would you say, Idocus?”

  “Yeah… off t’the other side, defnitly!”

  There was another pregnant pause as Cantorix held his breath and finally, after an age of nerves had passed, the gates of Crociatonum crept slowly open.

  Chapter 14

  (Iunius: Sabinus’ camp, near Crociatonum.)

  “I’d say that Cantorix and his men pulled it off, then?”

  Sabinus glanced at legate Galba of the Twelfth beside him and then turned his gaze back on the approaching mass and smiled.

  “I would say so, yes. How far would you say that is?”

  “About a mile I’d say, sir.”

  Sabinus’ smile widened.

  “About a mile. Up a gradually steepening hill. And running.”

  Galba nodded.

  “And apparently carrying piles of kindling.”

  “That’ll be the bulk to help fill in the ditches so they can get to us quicker. Sensible idea under most circumstances, but I’m not sure that if I were their leader I would have sent them running up a steep slope carrying them.”

  The legate sighed.

  “I wish you’d let me use the fire arrows and set fire to them while they’re running. It’d scare the hell out of them.”

  “No. They must think we’re leaving and not prepared for this. You warn them while they’re still a mile off and we’ll lose the small chance we have. Besides, we only have a few archers and precious little ammunition, so we can’t waste it. Stick to the plan.”

  They returned to looking down the long slope, soldiers and officers of three legions stretched out along the ramparts to either side of them, mostly crouched out of sight, the occasional man standing at the wall, giving the impression of a badly defended palisade. The Unelli would expect the bulk of the Roman force to be at the rear gates, preparing to march.

  The Gaulish force, enormous and chaotic, came on at a surprising speed, given the gradient of the approach. The front runners among them carried huge bundles of faggots and wood, those behind ready with their swords and spears, and all ran swift as the wind, desperate to overcome these invading foreigners before they had the chance to join with an even larger army.

  The Romans stood silent behind their wall, watching.

  “Now?”

  “I think so. For the sake of realism.”

  Galba turned and shouted along the wall.

  “Raise the alarm!”

  Buccinas blared and, in a carefully organised manoeuvre, other soldiers appeared at the wall, standing from where they crouched, creating the illusion that the warning of attack had gone up and men were being rushed to a hurried defence.

  “I hope this works” Galba grumbled darkly. “One hopeless last stand in defence of a fort is enough in a single year.”

  Sabinus nodded.

  “It’ll work. So long as the timing’s right.”

  Silently they continued to watch, faked commotion all around them, and the confederation of northern tribes, along with their allied refugees, bandits and vagabonds ran ever upwards, bellowing their defiance, their anger and their determination to rid Armorica of the Roman presence. Sabinus’ gaze strayed to the ground before them and he noted carefully the location of the marker. All along the hillside, these markers stood in a line, crimson against the green; small enough to be unnoticed by the attacking mass and just large enough for the men of the legions to locate when concentrating.

  Fixing his eyes on the red mark, he nodded with relief as the front ranks of Gauls r
aced past it, hurrying up the hill. He risked a quick glance up to the faces of the approaching warriors and was gratified to see the heaving, laboured breaths the enemy were now taking as they approached the Roman position, their faces red and sweating with exertion.

  For a moment he worried that he had lost the marked position as his eyes wandered back and forth, but it took only a moment to pick it up from the terrain, without being able to see the crimson mark beneath the stomping boots of the Celts. Almost ready… the Gauls were perhaps two hundred yards from the outer ditch.

  He watched, tense, as the Gaulish throng passed over the spot he had kept in mind and, finally, squinting, he saw the bright red mark emerge once again between the heads of the charging Gauls, at the back of the mob.

  Turning to Galba, he noted relief in the face of the legate.

  “First stage: fire!”

  At the shout, a dozen archers, part of the small complement of auxiliaries accompanying them, rose above the parapet, the tips of their arrows already flaming, aimed and released in a smooth action before retreating below the palisade once more.

  The fiery missiles arced out over the heads of the Gallic army, now so exhausted and obsessed that they hardly paid any heed to the act until the arrows came down behind them, several striking the hillside along the line of crimson markers and only a few going astray.

  The swathe of ground where they struck, amid the deep, dry grass, held small pockets of pitch that had been carefully distributed the previous night, small enough to go unnoticed by the Gallic army as they ran past and across them, some inevitably coating the bottom of running boots, but most remaining in place.

  In several locations across the slope, pockets of pitch caught, the fire spreading into the dry grass, quickly igniting the next and, within moments, a curtain of flame extended across the hill behind the Gauls, effectively sealing off their retreat.

  Largely due to the sheer size of the attacking army and its lack of organisation, most of the enemy failed even to notice the move, the few at the back who did going unheard by the rest. A veritable sea of bodies rushed up toward the ramparts and their encircling ditches. Sabinus watched, his breath held, as the front lines cast their burdens of sticks and brush into the ditches.