"It's still an advantage."
"But not a good one. We should have waited 'til morning."
Carbo shrugged. "The general was probably right about that, though, sir. With their scouts compromised, they'd probably be gone by morning and retreated to some other, unknown place. Gods, they might even have gone already. If they have, this is just a nice walk in the woods."
"Nice?"
"Figuratively speaking, sir."
Priscus tried not to voice his opinion any further. The legion would already be grumbling and it was unseemly for them to hear a senior officer moaning too. He had chided Fronto enough about it over the years and now here he was doing exactly the same. Was it something that legionary command did to you, or was it too much exposure to the scion of the Falerii?
He glanced around in the dark. They must have come seven or eight miles now. The sun had set two hours ago, leaving a chilly, oppressive darkness surrounding them. Not above, of course: the sky was still as clear as it had been through the day, the crescent moon and myriad stars twinkling merrily away, while the strong winds had not let up yet and caused a constant rustle of leaves and eerie howling. But even with the track wide enough for eight men to march abreast, the silvery light glinting off their armour, the gloom among the trees to either side was worrying - given what it might harbour.
Though they had followed a series of wide roads and tracks, Priscus would easily admit that he was turned around and lost and would totally fail to find the beach again if left to his own devices. They had taken side paths and turned at junctions more than a dozen times, and every meeting of paths in this endless woodland looked identical.
"Did you hear that?" Priscus said suddenly. Carbo frowned. "Heard all sorts, sir."
"The owl."
"Heard owls hooting all evening in these woods, sir. About the only thing you can hear over the damn wind. Nothing unusual there, though."
"There is with that owl. The call's faintly reminiscent of a snowy owl such as you get all over the north, even down to Cisalpine Gaul, but much more like the spotted owl that's common to the south of the Mare Nostrum. Either we have an owl that's well and truly lost, or we have another native scout who doesn't know the difference between species!"
Carbo nodded and gestured to his optio, who jogged forward. "Sir?"
"Get ahead to the officers of the Seventh and tell them we might be about to have company."
The junior saluted and ran off to the Seventh, who were leading the column. Behind them came the Tenth, then the Ninth and the Eleventh, with Caesar's staff and then the cavalry tagging along at the rear, the latter ineffective as scouts in dark woodland.
As Priscus scanned the pitch black boughs of the forest for the hidden scout - something he was unlikely to spot with the branches waving about in the wind like this - the column marched on. From ahead came the sounds of the Seventh splashing down into deep water, crossing a narrow but fast-flowing river. Another hoot drew his attention, this time from ahead, across the river. His eyes tried to pick out details in the darkness. Ahead, the land rose to a wide prominence - a hill that stood out from the surrounding woodland like the bald-spot on an old man's crown. As they emerged at the river's edge, however, he could see a stretch of open ground from the river to the summit.
It was a hill fort. Not like the walled and gated oppida they had faced in Gaul - such places were clearly the Gauls' version of a Roman civitas. The defensive ring around this hill consisted only of high ridges and dips designed to wear down attackers while the defenders poured missiles down upon them. There could well be a small palisade at the top, of course, but it was a far cry from the heavy defences of say Bibracte or Aduatuca. More of a fortified gathering place then than a permanent defended settlement - a place to retreat in times of danger, which is just what the Britons had done.
"Carbo! Look ahead. That must be where they're hiding."
"Then why all this hooting? They must know we're here by now."
Priscus nodded. The same question had occurred to him. "Well it confirms that they've not fled, anyway."
The last men of the Seventh dropped into the chilling waters of the river just ahead, holding their shields over their helmets with their weapons atop it to prevent rust damage. Pausing only long enough to allow the stragglers of Cicero's Seventh to clamber up the far bank and rearm, separating the two legions by a healthy thirty paces, Carbo gave the order to cross and the men of the Tenth drew their blades and placed them and their pila onto their shields, hoisting them over their heads and stepping down gingerly into the freezing flow. Priscus, at the head of the legion and bearing no shield, simply raised his sword high and plopped down into the water, clenching his teeth as the biting cold flowed around his crotch and thighs.
The following journey, struggling across, almost armpit deep at the centre, was among the least comfortable moments Priscus had endured in recent years and it was with audible relief - accompanied by chattering teeth - that he clambered up the north bank of the river and lowered his sheathed sword to hang on its baldric once more.
This side of the river, he noted as he stamped his feet to bring some life back into them, the edges of the forest lay some three hundred paces away to either side, leaving a wide swathe that opened up like a broad avenue leading all the way up the ever-increasing slope towards the hilltop fort. Ahead, the gap was opening up between the Seventh and the Tenth as the latter slowed to negotiate the river and reform on the north bank.
Three owl hoots came in quick succession from the edges of the woods to left and right. Priscus' head snapped round, the cold instantly forgotten.
"Carbo…"
"I heard, sir." Turning, Carbo eyed the men crossing the river. There were two full centuries on the north bank now, but the bulk of the legion were still on the south side.
"We're in trouble, sir."
"I know." Even as Priscus swept his eyes to the woodland on either side, figures began to issue from it. Eerie in the silver light, the figures of the Britons moved like ghosts, mostly naked to the waist and painted with patterns and images, their arms covered with swirls of dark paint and lines and dots that made the pale flesh almost vanish among the dappled moonlight. They were hard to concentrate on, difficult to precisely locate while they stayed close to the trees, especially with the branches and leaves waving in the winds and covering much of the movement. One thing that was instantly obvious to Priscus was that every last one of them was armed with a bow, drawn ready to release or a sling whup-whupping around their hand.
"To arms!" Carbo bellowed. "Look to the woods!"
All around, centurions began to bellow orders to their men. The two centuries that had already formed up on the north bank formed hasty testudos with their shields to protect from the missiles that were already being loosed. The century busy crossing the river was already doomed, arrows and sling stones smashing into men unable to bring their shields to bear. The choppy waters were a scene of carnage instantly.
Priscus looked this way and that from his position of dubious shelter between the two testudos. It was chaos. The question was: what to do about it?
The eerie figures that had emerged - several hundred of them - were standing at the edge of the woodland where they could easily retreat and melt away into the forest. The small force of legionaries would never catch them. On the other hand, the following legions had faltered in their crossing, the rest of the Tenth forming a shieldwall on the south bank to protect from arrows, so Priscus' diminished force could hardly wait for the rest of the legion to cross. The Seventh were already moving away at speed up the hill. For a moment, Priscus wondered what in the name of Janus' anus Cicero thought he was doing, but the reasons came clear soon enough. Ahead left and right a second force was pouring from the forest edge: horsemen and chariots. Cicero had his own troubles.
Again, Priscus regarded the shieldwall that marked the lack of advance by the rest of the legions. As long as the crossing point was under the attack of those slin
g and bow men, no centurion was going to have his men wade across nipple-deep and largely unprotected. Nine of every ten men would fall before crossing, as was evidenced by the number of bodies from the third century already disappearing beneath the surface of the water, concussed, wounded, or dead and dragged to the river bed by the weight of their mail shirts.
Two centuries. It would have to be enough.
"Carbo! Satrius! We need to break that missile attack. Carbo: go left. Satrius: right. Don't stop until you've secured the bank."
The two centurions gave the orders and the testudos separated, peeling off left and right, heading towards the missile shots at the forest edge. Even as the Romans moved toward their targets, half the Britons turned their shots from the shieldwall on the far bank to the mobile tortoises that bore down on them.
Priscus, shieldless, ducked inside the shielded formation as the century's optio opened up the rear and made room. This would be bloody work; and fruitless. Given the number of archers and slingers they faced, they would lose anything up to a dozen men to stray shots on the way - at least one man from each tent party - and when they finally got to the treeline, the Britons would melt away out of reach and disappear into their familiar forest. But at least the rest of the legions would be clear to cross.
Biting down on the inside of his cheek - a habit he had recently recognized in himself when faced with an unpleasant but unavoidable task - Priscus marched with his men into the storm of arrows and stones, trying to ignore the crack of missiles on wood and leather that came so thick it sounded like rain and the periodic cries of pain as a shot found a hole in the defensive formation.
It was a noble sacrifice. What more could be asked of a soldier of Rome?
* * * * *
Titus Pullo looked left and right at the vehicles and horses pouring out of the forest's edge. They presented a very real threat to the Seventh and it was abundantly clear that the legion was on its own with no hope of support from the rest of the army. The Tenth were split and in trouble at the river and the rest trapped off to the south somewhere. Cicero, somewhere in the press of men nearby, was bellowing orders to reform and stand fast.
Pullo had no such intention.
Turning to Vorenus, the second most senior centurion in the Seventh, he pointed at the hill fort that loomed ahead, above them.
"Get the men up there. The cavalry and chariots won't pass that first ridge, 'cause of the slope. We'll be safer there."
As Vorenus nodded and exhorted the men to a fresh turn of speed, running up the slope with little attention to formation, Pullo singled out the legate, easily recognised due to his position on horseback amid the infantry and accompanied by standard bearers and musicians.
"Sir! We have to get high enough up the slope to get away from the chariots!"
Cicero guided his horse forward, fury and desperation fighting for control of his face.
"We can't let ourselves get trapped between the fort's defenders and the cavalry, centurion!"
"Sir, the numbers we had are wrong. There's enough chariots and cavalry there to turn us into minced meat. They'll just ride over the top of the men and break our formation."
Cicero glared at him, aware of the fact that his legion was surging fast up the slope already, fleeing the vehicles.
"We cannot get trapped between…"
Pullo pointed at the hill. "I'm not going to get us trapped, sir. I'm going to take the bloody hill!"
Cicero stared at his senior centurion as though the man were mad. Pullo's jaw twitched defiantly. "Do you think…?"
"Legate Priscus can handle things here, sir. They just have to clear out those archers and then the army can cross. The chariots and cavalry will be little use to the Britons at the water's edge - no room to manoeuvre. We need to get up the slope and safely out of their way too."
Cicero dithered for a moment and by the time he nodded his acceptance of the choice Pullo was already gone up the slope, catching up with the foremost men of the Seventh. Briefly the legate cursed the loss of Furius and Fabius and the arrival of their replacements from the Thirteenth, but he could hardly kid himself that Furius would have made any other decision. No officer had more knowledge, skill, or authority in the thick of battle than a veteran centurion, and only a stupid legate would ignore their advice. Putting his heels to his horse, he urged the beast up the slope.
* * * * *
Priscus reached the first tree trunk with a great deal of relief, though that was tempered a little as he looked back and saw the bodies littering their wake. More than a dozen men, in fact. More like a score of them. Satrius immediately began to give the orders to his men, and three contubernia lined up as best they could in the woodland, their shields presenting a wall against the odd stray shot coming from the deep forest where the straggling archers took an opportunistic pot shot.
There was the distinct possibility the enemy might reform, and so a good number of men had to create a shieldwall to protect the rest. Even as Priscus looked across the open ground, noting the fact that Carbo's century appeared to be mirroring the activity at the far tree line, he realised they were not 'out of the woods yet' so to speak. Some half a mile up the slope already the Seventh appeared - perhaps out of some mad lust for glory - to be launching a full scale attack on the hilltop fort. Behind them, the Briton cavalry and chariots had come very close to catching the rear of the legion, but had been prevented from pursuing them by the gradient of the last quarter-mile of slope.
Clever. He belatedly realised that Cicero had examined the poorly-defended camp and the mass of vehicles and horse, and had shrewdly decided that the former was the safer option. He was taking the camp not because he wanted to, but because he had to. The alternative was likely destruction.
Of course, that had freed the Britons' vehicles and horsemen to turn to their other threat.
Even as Priscus watched, the mass of cavalry and chariots was already beginning to thunder down the slope towards the rest of the army.
Decision time: To re-cross the river, re-join the rest of the army and leave the Seventh to it? Harsh on Cicero's men, but so long as they achieved the fort, they could probably hold it until the army found another crossing point elsewhere. Or to stay where they were and try to hold off the mass of cavalry and chariots while the rest of the army crossed? Extremely hazardous, of course.
He found his gaze wandering along the bank opposite and smiled at what he saw.
His newly-raised tribunes, Furius and Fabius, were attacking the problem with the sharpness and decisiveness of veteran centurions, not the dithering foolishness of most of their rank. The two men had split the rest of the Tenth legion and were moving them both ways along the bank, sending their men across the river within the protection of the forest to either side, where they ran the risk of meeting fleeing archers who could cause damage, but where they could safely assemble on the north side among the trees without having to withstand cavalry charges or chariot attacks. It was a playoff of potential dangers against definite ones, and Priscus approved wholeheartedly.
"Alright, gentlemen. The rest of the Tenth will be joining us presently. Break up that rear-facing shieldwall and get back here to the treeline. As soon as those horses and chariots get here, I want every pilum we have thrown in among them to keep them milling about. They can't cross the river and they can't enter the woods, so we should be able to hold them off. As soon as you've thrown your pilum, start hurling rocks and logs at them. If you find a discarded bow or sling, pick it up and use it. Whatever we can to keep them disorganised."
"Why disorganised, sir? What can they do to us here?"
Priscus eyed the young legionary - he had not seen him before. A new recruit, then.
"Because as soon as they organise, they'll dismount and come at us on foot. Then the odds'll be about ten to one in their favour, so we have to keep 'em busy until the rest of our boys join us. Come on."
* * * * *
Pullo rushed up the steepening incline. Vorenu
s, just ahead, was yelling commands that formed each century into a testudo. It slowed the advance considerably, but the defenders had kept a few archers and slingers at the hill top and they, added to the bulk of the warriors hurling random stones down, were creating a veritable hail of missiles.
There was at least four hundred paces to go yet to the crest, and the gradient was gruelling. The men were beginning to flag and lose heart, knowing they were cut off from the rest of the army. Somewhere back there Caesar would be fuming at the hold up.
With a manic grin, Pullo stepped out into the open, ignoring the falling missiles, despite the fact that three of the smaller ones bounced from his mail shirt.
"Five amphorae of wine and a week excused duties for the first century over the top!"
He laughed at the sudden surge of enthusiasm as the half dozen centuries that led the assault suddenly pushed hard up the slope, the rest - still forming testudos below - rushing to catch up in the desire to collect such a valuable prize.
Caught up in the surge of spirit, Pullo fell in behind his century, already one of the leading units. The ground was eaten up pace by pace at a surprising speed, the only thing to mar the splendour of such a glorious assault being the legionaries caught by lucky shots. Every five heart-beats or so there would be a shriek and another body would fall out of formation and tumble back down the slope, his helmet a flattened, concave mess of blood and hair where a heavy stone had smashed his skull or an arrow jutting from beneath the chin of a surprised legionary face.
Death went hand in hand with victory in the legions. Attachments were formed between friends, but no legionary ever called a man friend without the underlying knowledge that the next morning they might be withdrawing his funeral costs from the kitty and divvying up his gear.
Pullo was no green recruit. He silently wished well to every man who fell as he ran, but his eyes and his mind remained locked on that bank ahead. The earthen rampart had been hastily bolstered by the addition of intertwined branches and felled tree trunks. A poor defence even against their own kind of disorganised mob. Against a legion of trained soldiers?
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 17