Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  The centurion, clearly relieved that the two officers had also noticed the eerie emptiness, nodded and turned to pass on the word.

  “What the hell’s happened here? We’ve been away, what, a month you think?”

  “About that. I think Rufus might be in trouble.”

  “Not just Rufus.”

  “Maybe we should just get back down to the ships and head down the coast a way? At least wait until the rest of the fleet gets here?”

  Fronto shook his head. “Quite apart from the fact that I don’t think they’re all that safe or seaworthy now, I’m not at all convinced what’ll happen if we turn around and start to walk away.”

  Brutus nodded unhappily.

  “Come on.”

  Slowly they climbed the slope, the liquid mud running into boots and making the thoroughfare treacherous. They had almost reached the main crossroads when Brutus grabbed Fronto’s arm.

  “Look!”

  “What?” Fronto peered up the street into the pouring rain.

  “The smoke.”

  “It’s making it quite hard to make out the fort.”

  “Fronto, it’s coming from the fort.”

  “Oh shit.”

  Fronto fought the rising alarm and resisted the urge to start shouting. Smoke could mean several things, even in those amounts. It could mean a larger force of men inside than the fort was designed for, sharing outdoor fires. It could mean the place had been ransacked. But it could also mean an ongoing siege. There was no way to tell without seeing it close to hand.

  “We’ve got to pick up the pace.”

  “You want to go there?” Brutus said incredulously.

  “We’ve got to. Rufus could still be up there with his men.”

  “Then let’s move.”

  Fronto glanced back at the centurions behind him.

  “Subtlety over, lads. Swords out. Double time to the fort.”

  The officers saluted, shouting out the commands to their men, who drew their gladii with an enormous, collective rasp.

  The shape of the fort was starting to resolve better now in the gloom as Fronto squinted ahead. His heart skipped a beat when he realised that the smoke was rising from the front gate, and apparently outside rather than inside.

  “They haven’t fallen yet. We have to get inside!”

  Without the need for a command, the four centuries put a little extra speed into their ascent.

  “Fronto!”

  The legate glanced across at Brutus’ shout just in time to see the opening shutters of windows all around them, silhouettes of men formed by the warm firelight within.

  “Testudo!” he bellowed, dropping back several steps and grasping Brutus by the upper arm, yanking him back down the street. The legionaries raised their shields, moving into formation better than Fronto could have hoped, given the incline and the fact that they comprised men of two different legions unused to working together. Here and there were gaps that quickly closed up, while others lifted their shields to create a roof. The four centurions joined the two legates as they disappeared inside the relative protection of the ‘tortoise’ formation just as the first arrows, stones and spears started to strike.

  The regular drum of the heavy rain on the shields joined the falling missiles to create an almost deafening noise.

  “Piss!” shouted Fronto with feeling.

  “Move forward” Brutus commanded. “We have to get to the fort.”

  The testudo started to stumble up the slope under a constant hail of missiles and Fronto shared a look with his fellow legate. They were both horribly aware of the shrieks from further back down the testudo where gaps opened due to the near impossibility of holding to formation while climbing an uneven, slippery slope.

  “This is going to fall apart soon” Brutus said.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that” replied Fronto with a grim expression. “Listen.”

  Above the drumming of rain and missiles and the occasional yells of wounded men, they could now hear the roar of the natives rushing them from the side streets and the slope behind.

  “Bollocks.”

  Chapter 20

  (Gesoriacum)

  Fronto glanced left and right in the almost claustrophobic press of the testudo, his vision filled with mail-shirted torsos, dirt-streaked arms, sweat and dripping water. Brutus gave him an equally helpless look.

  “We’ve got to take control of the street or we’re done for!” Fronto shouted.

  “On the bright side, they’ll stop firing things at us once they’re carving us up!”

  “We’ll have to break the testudo — get the men at the front to split off and deal with the ambushers. They can block the windows with their shields and maybe kill the bastards while they’re at it.”

  Brutus nodded, taking a deep breath. “Then we can form a defensive retreat up the hill. You take the lead and I’ll form the rearguard.”

  The two men held one another’s gaze for a moment and then Fronto returned the nod.

  “At my command,” he bellowed “the front tent party in each line will break formation. Pick a target from the men shooting at us. Get to his window, take him out and block off any further attack with your shield. Hold that window until further orders.”

  Pausing, he could hear the war cries of the Morini closing on their rear and steeled himself.

  “Break!”

  The men of the Tenth and Seventh legions that led the advancing ‘tortoise’ immediately scattered at the command, eight contubernia splitting off, their shields coming up directly in front as they ran to protect them from the inevitable fire pouring out of the open shutters of the low, squat Gaulish buildings, their swords gripped ready for action.

  It was obvious to Fronto’s professional eye which legion was which even when scattered. The Tenth had been a proud unit with a strong bond among its men, well-trained and constantly drilled over years by some of the best officers the Republic had to offer. The Seventh was a recent hotchpotch of men from different legions as yet new to working together as a unit, lacking the focussed training of a veteran legion. Almost every man in the Tenth marked a window and ran for it, a contubernium of eight men held back for a moment, ready to take the place of any man who fell on the way. The men of the Seventh, however, moved in sporadic groups, often two or three men marking the same window.

  Fabius and Furius would have their work cut out over winter if they survived all this.

  An archer at one of the nearest windows managed to pick off his attacker as the legionary pelted across the street, the arrow taking him in the chest and knocking him back to the slippery, muddy road, tripping the next legionary so that they rolled down the gentle, messy slope in a tangle. Before Fronto could shout the order, two of the reserve party were moving. While one ran off up the street after a different target, the other raised his shield and charged the window where the archer was busy nocking another arrow as fast as he could. The legionary, two broken shafts already protruding from his shield from his time in the testudo, angled his shield slightly to lessen the chance of the arrow punching straight through as he ran. The archer proved to be both quick and surprisingly accurate as the arrow thrummed out of the window and punched into the wood and leather. A look of wide-eyed desperation fell across his face as he desperately fumbled another arrow from the sheaf on the timber in front of him and tried to bring it up in time to fire again at the legionary.

  There was clearly no time and the Roman was upon him before he could draw the string back. As the soldier swatted the bow aside with an almost contemptuous and amazingly dextrous flick of his shield, the archer screamed, his arm broken by the bronze edging strip. He floundered, dropping the bow from useless fingers, and reached down for the hilt of the sword at his side. The legionary leapt up, leaning in through the window and driving his gladius though the man’s throat before twisting it and ripping it back out.

  The archer fell away, gurgling and clutching his neck with his good hand, blood spray
ing up and around the window, while somewhere back in the dim interior lit only by the glow of the warming fire a woman screamed and threw a red clay bowl that skimmed the legionary’s helmet and crashed out into the street. A quick glance inside confirmed for the soldier that no other missile wielders occupied the room and he set his shield to block the aperture, keeping only enough space free to peer over the top and keep watch on the woman.

  Similar stories were playing out along both sides of the street. Here and there a legionary had fallen foul of a well-aimed arrow or slingshot, or a sword or spear thrust from a better prepared defender. It seemed, though, that the ambushers had not expected such an efficient and organised reaction, and only one Gaul had taken position at each window. With only seven men down, the small Roman force had quickly taken control of the street’s edges, nullifying the dangerous crossfire. The last few stones and arrows bounced down to the ground and allowed the hiss of the rain and the roar of the pursuing Morini to fill the air once more.

  Brutus had pushed his way through the centre of the mass of legionaries, most of whom were still holding to an almost testudo formation until further orders came. Arriving at the rear of the small force, he strained his ears, listening out. After a few tense heartbeats, during which the Morini began to rain blows down upon the shields of the rearmost legionaries, he finally heard Fronto’s call that the missile fire had been nullified.

  Taking a deep breath, he gripped his sword tight in his hand and looked about.

  “On my command, everyone but the rear four ranks will turn and break towards the fort, taking further orders from legate Fronto when you reach him. The rest of you will hold with me until we have room to manoeuvre.”

  Fixing his thoughts arbitrarily on a number that would give Fronto plenty of time to consolidate further up the hill, Brutus counted to ten and bellowed “Now!”

  Almost two thirds of the force in the street, some two hundred men, broke from the party and began to hurtle up the incline toward the looming shape of the fort walls, their passage now safe, legionaries from Fronto’s vanguard holding the windows against further assaults.

  “Right!” Brutus yelled. “On my next command, the entire force will take three quick steps back and reform as a solid shield wall three men deep that fills the street. Mark your position in advance. There cannot be any gaps!”

  Even as he prepared to give the order, the legionary in front of him suddenly exploded like a ripe melon, a Morini axe finding its way over the top of the unfortunate soldier’s shield and cleaving both helmet and skull in its descent. Brutus spluttered for a second, stunned and coated in blood and brain matter as he saw the axe man withdraw his weapon with the grating of bone and a slopping sound, pulling it back for another blow. There was little room in the press to react with the sword which was held down by his side and he bore no shield.

  “Reform!” he bellowed, bracing himself.

  As the axe reached its apex and began its extended descent towards the Roman officer, Brutus felt the press of men around him suddenly give as they shifted into position and he found himself almost manhandled back out of the way as a legionary stepped in front of him and brought his shield up high. The axe buried itself in the wood, becoming lodged only six inches from the boss. Grimly, the legionary heaved the heavy, cumbersome shield and trapped weapon to the side a few inches — enough to drive his gladius into the pit beneath the man’s extended arm.

  Not even waiting to see him die, the soldier pulled the blade back and closed the gap. Some of the weight on his shield fell away as the warrior expired and released his grip on the axe, though the weapon itself remained wedged.

  Brutus, his heart pounding a tattoo in his chest, stepped back a few paces and took stock. The seething mass of the Morini tribe were now held back by a thin shield wall. It would do for a while, but not for long.

  “On my command, the line will begin to withdraw in good order up the street towards the fort.”

  He took a deep breath and raised his voice enough to double as a signal for Fronto back up the street.

  “On the count of five, strike and then take two paces back and reform.”

  “One… two… three… four… five!”

  En masse the thirty men angled their shields and stabbed out into the mass of howling Gauls, took two steps back and locked shields again.

  “Good!” Brutus bellowed. “Now we repeat the move until we reach the fort. And I can’t afford to lose the line, so any man who dies will get docked a week’s pay!”

  A laugh rippled through the desperate defence despite the situation, and Brutus straightened.

  “Here we go… One!”

  Further up the street, Fronto heard Brutus’ shouted commands and sighed with relief. They might pull themselves out of this after all. Watching the approaching men who had broken from Brutus’ force, he felt a lurch of worry again as he realised how few soldiers his fellow legate had left himself to bar the way to the enemy.

  “You men” he addressed the legionaries guarding the windows. “You will hold position until the rearguard reaches you and then fall in and join their line as they pull back.

  Pinching his nose, he looked down at the blade hanging from his hand. He’d not even drawn blood yet. Was this what it felt like to be a normal commander? Ordering men around with no personal involvement? Blinking, he refocussed on the large force of soldiers slowing as they reached him. No time to muse on the nature of command now.

  “You men come with me. I want you formed into an advancing shield wall. The bulk of the enemy may be behind us, but there could yet be Gauls between us and safety. Someone was trying to burn the gate, after all. Form up and prepare to advance in good order.”

  The legionaries, a confused mix of the Seventh and tenth, quickly formed into a column ten men wide, the front line holding their shields up ready to meet any resistance.

  “Advance at the steady march.”

  With the slow, determined tramp of a marching legion, the column of protected and armed legionaries began to stomp up the road towards the camp. Up here, the houses of the Morini townsfolk — rebels? — petered out with no archers in windows threatening them, and were replaced by small orchards, vegetable gardens, animal pens and patches of waste ground.

  Closer they moved until finally the path curved slightly and gave them their first clear view of the fort. Fronto grinned. Rufus had really gone to work on his fortifications. An extra ditch had been dug around the fort, and the joins between it and the new settlement ramparts had been severed and cleared, the ditches extended through them.

  The smoke that had appeared to be from an attempted burning of the gate proved instead to be the charring, smouldering remains of the Morini’s attempt at creating a vinea — a protective mobile shelter — that they’d apparently used to cover a battering ram. The ram itself was now a huge, black cinder in the centre of the smoking pile, hissing in the rain.

  The fort had held and held well. The amount of churned mud and destruction around the outer ditch and the bodies piled within it suggested that the siege was probably in its second or even third day now.

  “Come on, lads. We’re clear” he shouted to the legionaries.

  A few figures appeared at the top of the gate, on the parapet. A man with a transverse crest on his helmet, visible in the light of a guttering torch, turned and bellowed out commands. Fronto couldn’t quite hear what the man had said, but the words ‘Roman’ and ‘relief’ were definitely among them.

  The fort’s gate began to swing open and the duty centurion and his men issued out in full battle array, looking about as relieved as Fronto had ever seen a man. The advancing force came to a halt and Fronto strode out ahead.

  The centurion saluted and grinned. His face was streaked black with soot and dark circles hung under his eyes.

  “It’s very good to see you, sir. Can I ask what legions you bring?”

  Fronto sheathed his sword and coughed quietly.

  “Just four centurie
s of the Seventh and Tenth returned from Britannia, I’m afraid. We’re not so much a relief force as fellow prisoners.”

  The centurion tried to hide his disappointment, his face hardening. “Then it’s good to see you back, sir. Legate Rufus is in the headquarters building. I assume you’ll want to see him straight away?”

  “I will. Legate Brutus is on his way up the hill with the rearguard, followed by a sizeable force of Gauls. Get these men fell in with your own and prepared in case they decide the night can stand another attack yet.”

  The centurion nodded as Fronto strode in through the gates.

  “Legate Rufus sends these with his compliments, sir.”

  Fronto turned, taking some care on the slimy timbers of the rampart walkway, to see an optio from the Ninth saluting him, two legionaries behind him carrying a bundle of javelins some twenty-odd in number, bound into a sheaf with leather ties.

  “Thank you. I suspect we’ll need them. Looks like they’ll coming back for another try any time now.”

  The two soldiers struggled up the ramp to the parapet with their burden and then upended it to rest against the palisade wall, saluting as they caught their breath before turning and jogging back the way they’d come. The junior officer threw out another salute and marched back to his duties.

  Geminius, a hard-bitten ginger haired centurion with a flat nose and a hare-lip that showed failed stitch-marks, grinned his ugly grin along the palisade.

  “Shall I distribute them, sir.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Fronto watched Geminius as he began the task. The centurion was one of the two from the Tenth who had disembarked with him last night, the other having fallen foul of a particularly vicious sword wound in the retreat up the street from the port, and currently waiting to greet Hades in person in the makeshift hospital. The wounded centurion’s optio had only been made up in Britannia and was, as yet, not ready to take full command and so Geminius had combined the survivors of the two centuries into one outsized unit that had been given the northeast sector of wall.