But then, seven days ago, such manufacturing became an impossibility.
The Second cohort had been on logging duties across the river when a sizeable force of Nervii had poured from the heart of the woodland, screaming and hacking. Felix hadn't been there, of course, but he'd heard the story a dozen times now and, despite minor embellishments with acts of individual heroism from the tellers, the tale was fairly uniform. The cohort had abandoned their tasks instantly at the calls from the centurion and followed the signals that told them to cross the river in their own way and form up on the far bank. A few men had been lost during those initial clashes, but the barbarians had been unwilling to cross the river in dribs and drabs with a full cohort forming up waiting for them. The moments that bought them allowed the Roman force to pull back to the camp with little harassment.
By the time the enemy leaders had arrived on the scene and driven their men across the river, the Legion was safely behind Felix's solid defences and on the alert. Bless that centurion for having the foresight to abandon protocol and let the men cross the river however they felt best and form up on this side. It had been a combination of that decision and the enemy's reluctance to cross into Rome's waiting arms which had saved the legion, giving them time to prepare.
That first day had been as fierce a fight as Felix had ever experienced - every bit as bad as the most brutal actions of the past four years. As soon as it became apparent that they were not facing a small-scale uprising, but a push on a major scale, Cicero had made the decision to inform Caesar. The small force of native cavalry that served with the Eleventh - including a surprising number of Nervii - had confirmed that not only were the force outside members of that self-same local tribe, but also the Treveri, the Eburones, the Centrones and half a dozen others. And that meant an organised, region-wide rising against the Roman presence.
As the enemy had drawn up their lines on the south and east, Cicero's couriers had issued from the north gate and raced for the treeline on horseback, hurrying to deliver news of the attack to the nearest of the other legions: the Tenth. The legion had then settled in to weather the storm and await relief. The initial assault on the walls had come dangerously close to success a few times, the Gauls apparently riding high on a wave of self-belief, but as night fell on that first day it became apparent that the Eleventh had the strength to hold them off.
The legion's proud satisfaction had received its first knock that evening as the first Gallic campfires burned away the shade of the night, illuminating a grisly spectacle: Cicero's courier riders, each bound and nailed to a cross in the Roman style. The next few hours had involved an object lesson in how serious the rebels were about removing Caesar's army from Gaul. A few legionaries had managed to put a pilum into the suffering, tortured messengers to bring them an easy, early death, but several of them had lingered until the moon was high.
Cicero, Pullo and Felix had immediately gone into conference and decided that the only thing they could do at that point was to strengthen the defences. As that first long night dragged on, the men of the Eleventh had constructed twenty-four towers at regular intervals around the ramparts using the stores of timber that had been destined for barrack blocks. The men sacrificed their comfort for their safety, remaining in their tents for the time being.
The Romans had made their move in the game of siege-craft, strengthening the defences and placing their few scorpion bolt-throwers atop the towers. The morning saw the reply of the Gauls, their force having almost doubled in size when the first glimpse of the sun brought with it half a dozen more tribes eager to put an end to Cicero's occupation.
The second day had been, if anything, harder than the first. The smaller tribes who were considered more expendable - or possibly had more to prove - came forward under the missile attack of the legion and began to fill in the ditches for their stronger compatriots, who would then launch another attack on the walls.
And that became the norm for the week: by day the Gauls would expend their weakest men in an attempt to neutralise the Roman defences as far as possible, and then launch a vicious attack against the walls. Each time they were driven off, but the damage was worsening each day. More legionaries were sent to the medical section or laid out ready for burning each evening, leaving an ever-reducing force. And while the losses of the Gallic army were horrible and outstripped the Romans' each day, their numbers never seemed to diminish as new small groups joined their cause daily, appearing from the woods with the pomp and splendour of the Gallic elite - all goose-honking horns and dragon banners.
And then each night the Romans slept in rotation while every man - soldier or officer, crippled or healthy - dug out the earth that had been dumped in the nearest ditches and repaired the walls and towers for the next day's assault.
By the fourth day stakes with fire-hardened points had joined the defences, as had lilia pits with sharpened sticks, sudis barricades and every trick the engineers could come up with. They needed it. The onager ran out of ammunition that very morning.
It had been the fourth day, too, when it had become apparent that Cicero was not well. He had been briefing the officers when he had staggered back and almost fallen. Righting himself, he had become worryingly pale. Despite the urging of the men, he had refused to halt the briefing and had finished up before allowing the medicus to speak to him. The physician had confirmed that the legate was suffering with a fever and should be confined to his cot, though Cicero had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of that idea.
And so the commander had continued to play his part each day, though every shift he took clearly further weakened him and he now occasionally forgot where he was or mixed up his words in the simplest of sentences. The senior centurions Pullo and Vorenus had wordlessly defaulted to delivering their questions and requests to Felix to alleviate as much pressure on the legate as they could.
"Looks like they've got some new men again" noted Vorenus, strolling along the rampart's walkway. Despite the arch looks Felix kept giving him, the second-most-senior centurion in the legion consistently failed to address Felix by his new title. However, since it was clearly because Vorenus still saw him as a colleague of equal ability, Felix had let it slide. Vorenus was a good man.
"This lot are from down south some way, I reckon. There's a lot of Roman kit there that's unavailable from merchants up here" Felix nodded towards the fresh group who were gathering just out of missile shot to get their first look at the hated legions. "Those mail shirts are definitely ours. I dunno whether they've been buying our kit from enterprising Roman merchants down Vesontio way or looting bodies, but they're well-armed and armoured for Gauls."
"They'll get their arses handed to them the same as the rest" shrugged Vorenus. "Hello, what's this?"
Felix followed his gaze and frowned. A small group of Gauls on horseback were approaching with their shields over their heads - noblemen judging by the expensive clothes, armour and gold accoutrements.
"Well I think the chances they're surrendering are pretty small, so I guess they want to talk."
"I'd be tempted to invite them as close as we can and then stick a few ballista bolts into the hairy turdbags myself."
Felix smiled. Vorenus had a curious habit of voicing whatever thought was currently running through Felix's head.
"It'd be nice, I have to admit. But we do things by the manual. Go tell the legate."
As Vorenus dashed off along the parapet, Felix clambered down the steps on the inside of the bank and gestured to the aquilifer and the standard bearers who were busy shifting grain sacks from the edge of the camp into the centre, away from danger.
"Get the eagle and all the standards over to the gate, and call the musicians across too. We're going to speak nicely to the hairy bum-holes who've been trying to kill us for the best part of a week."
Reasoning that they would have a few moments and that it would do the Gallic bastards good to have to wait, Felix swung by his tent and picked up his plumed helmet and c
rimson dress cloak, shaking out the dust and fastening it over his shoulder with his bronze fibula brooch. Best to look his intimidating best.
By the time he reached the gate, half a dozen of the most senior centurions and standard bearers clustered around Cicero, his tribunes and the silver eagle.
"Sir?" Felix said quietly as he approached the legate. Cicero had a waxy sheen to his skin and was pale and sweaty, his left eye flickering constantly and his stance that of a man who would have fallen to his knees by now without the crutch under his arm.
"Prefect?"
"Sir, it might be better for you to observe from the gate platform?"
"Thank you, prefect, but I'm just ill, not incompetent. It's my legion, so I'll hear what this man has to say in person."
Felix nodded, despite his disapproval. At least the equisio was bringing the officers' horses around. Cicero, his tribunes and Felix would ride out to meet the enemy party, the standards and a century of the best men accompanying them on foot.
He waited patiently as the horses arrived and then pulled himself up into the saddle with surprising ease. Though not a natural horseman - riding was hardly a required skill for a legionary centurion - he'd had cause to use a horse a few times in his career and managed to sit astride the beast without looking out of place. Riding in a cuirass was taking some getting used to, though. A mail shirt moved with the horse's gait and allowed for all sorts of jogging. A cuirass simply bounced around badly and bruised him in soft and giving areas.
As soon as the party was mounted, the signal sounded and the gates swung open, revealing the mass of Gauls just beyond missile range, the party of nobles out front at the far end of the causeway across the ditches, their carnyx horn bleating impatiently like a goat being slowly and painfully abused.
Felix eyed the party carefully as they approached. It was clearly formed of the leaders - kings even perhaps? - of the more major tribes present. He was sure he recognised one or two from previous negotiations or councils. Despite the gathering of high nobility, though, it was clear that one man had precedence. The noble at the centre sat with the ease and confidence of a senior Roman officer, for all his Gallic blood - a comparison that came easily to Felix's mind, given the fact that the man wore a cuirass clearly looted from a Roman. No merchant sold such goods. The embossed body armour was of the highest quality and had obviously been hand-made for a rich Roman. As they closed on the party, he realised also that the helmet beneath the Gaul's arm was also a fine Roman one with the military plume or crest removed and replaced with some native eagle design.
"Watch that one, sir" he whispered as he leaned towards Cicero who was himself also leaning, though for entirely different reasons.
"Hmm?"
"The leader. He's looted a senior Roman officer, sir. And he's proud of it."
Cicero squinted as he tried to make out details that should be clear at this range. His illness was robbing him of his faculties. Felix hoped he wouldn't fall off his horse unconscious during the negotiations - it would be horribly inappropriate.
The legate, however, held up his hand, halting the small Roman party as they sat between the middle and outer ditch, the latter currently partly filled with muck and clutter. The Gallic group sat some fifteen paces away.
"Quintus Tullius Cicero - Legatus of the Eleventh, lieutenant of Caesar and his representative in the lands of the Belgae. Who dares to raise arms against the forces of Rome?"
Despite a slight quiver in his voice, the statement was delivered with aplomb and gravitas, and Felix couldn't have done a better job himself of setting the groundwork for the meeting on Roman terms.
"I am Ambiorix" the Gaul said in passable Latin, with an accent that placed him among the Belgae.
"That means nothing to me without a tribal name" Cicero said flatly.
"Of the Eburones" added the Gaul with a flicker of irritation.
Cicero shrugged theatrically and turned to Felix. "Heard of them?"
The prefect hid his smile behind a hand raised as if to grip his chin while pondering. They all knew of the Eburones, of course. Every tribe in these benighted lands was marked on the military maps back in the headquarters. They were a sizeable group - the farthermost tribe northeast, by the Rhenus at its lowest reaches. Sabinus' winter command…
The smile of satisfaction at the irritation in Ambiorix's eyes died away as he pieced the two names together and realised whose armour and helm the Gaul was proudly displaying.
"The Eburones is some collection of piss-poor little barbarian hovels up near the Rhenus, sir" he replied, trying to keep the anger of his realisation from his voice.
"Oh, up by the motherless Germanics, then?" Cicero smiled. "You'd do well to go back there and take care of your farms, chief Ambiorix."
"King Ambiorix" the Gaul snapped. "Do you not even recognise the spoils of our war?" He slapped the bronze cuirass with the Pegasus embossed across its chest angrily.
Cicero squinted. He genuinely couldn't see clearly enough through the fever. It was a good thing, really. If he could, he might have lost his composure in his current state. Felix stepped his horse forward and to the left a pace to make himself the focus of enemy attention, trying to shield the ailing legate from their attention.
Best he take the reins now…
"I do. I trust that Sabinus and Cotta loaded you with curses before they passed to Elysium." He felt the other officers beside him reel as they took in this piece of information and processed what it meant. A legion and a half had already been defeated somewhere east of here. Before anyone could react, however, Felix went on. "I trust you are not expecting us to faint and wail like professional mourners because you have had a lucky encounter with an unfortunate Roman force. You will not find all legions such easy pickings."
"Prefect?" Felix heard the legate behind him and recognised a certain steel in his voice, despite the illness. Cicero stepped his own horse out again, taking the fore.
Ambiorix spat towards them.
"Romans always think they are indestructible. Be sure you're not! I obliterated a legion larger than this a week ago and with a force half the size of the one I have now."
Cicero had elected not to wear his helmet as they rode out, partially because the weight and heat of it was causing him a great deal of discomfort in his condition, but also because a bareheaded officer gave the impression of fearlessness. He reached up and scratched his head as though considering his next words carefully. Felix had the horrible feeling for a moment that the legate had drifted off once more and forgotten where he was, but suddenly Cicero leaned forward in his saddle and cleared his throat.
"I am not concerned with the failure of other officers to deal with a disorganised rabble."
Ambiorix was so surprised he actually blinked a few times and opened and closed his mouth trying to work out this hopelessly arrogant Roman. Quickly, though, the ire rose and brought out a flush on his cheeks.
"I will not waste any more time with you, Roman. I came to give you an offer and I will still deliver it, despite your words. If you surrender yourself and your men to our care, we will consider…"
Cicero swept a hand dismissively in front of him, again surprising the Gaul so much that he stopped mid-sentence.
"I have a counter-proposal" Cicero said in his haughtiest voice. "You and your ten thousand pig farmers can lay down your weapons and walk away now, go back to abusing their wives and marrying their own children and I will not see every last head in this valley atop a spear by the end of the week. Do you accept my terms?"
Two of the tribunes failed to hold their composure and barked out a laugh, drawing a disapproving look from Cicero, who swayed as he turned to silence them, almost unhorsing himself. Felix felt a swell of pride in his new commander. Crispus had been a young and untried legate, but had proved his worth and been adopted by the Eleventh. He'd been worried about the new posting - Cicero was a man with his own command habits and the word among the centurions had been that he was not one of Cae
sar's strongest. It was, however, hard to imagine any other legate pulling off such a breath-taking parlay while suffering the way Cicero was.
Ambiorix began to splutter, his anger simply too strong to grant him audible words. In the end he snapped something in his native tongue, spat once more at the Romans and turned, riding off among his own men.
Cicero smiled as he swayed again.
"Well that went as well as could be expected. Shall we get back to the camp before they decide to cut us to pieces here and now?"
Felix allowed himself a chuckle as the party turned back, despite the memory of Sabinus' armour on that Gallic runt. Ambiorix would pay for that little display.
* * * * *
Felix watched the equisio leading away the horses. Cicero was back on his crutch, skittering this way and that as he fought both fever and weakness of the bones to reach the rampart and a clear view of what was happening.
"Are they lining up to attack?" he asked as he struggled with the lowest step of the rampart climb.
"I haven't the faintest idea what they're doing, sir" Felix said, scratching his head as he turned back to look over the Gallic army arrayed before them.
He had half expected to charge back into the camp, dismount and clamber up the rampart just in time to see the entire collection of motherless sons of a septic sheep running at the ditches and walls screaming death curses at Rome. Instead, he had stood the past few moments waiting for the legate to join him and watching strange manoeuvres being carried out - like some sort of slow, laborious dance designed for a thousand men at a time. Whole tribes appeared to be de-camping and moving a few hundred paces in order to set up exactly as they had been in another spot, while a huge force disappeared into the woods. Another group had opened up huge square areas devoid of both men and gear. It was the oddest thing to watch. The most immediately disturbing thing was how the entire force had pulled back another fifty paces from maximum missile range as though they thought the Romans might find a sudden extra burst of power. It created a wide cordon all around the camp, beyond which they were still entirely surrounded.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 39