Barely had he reached the cavalry contingent when the general’s call went up by buccina and the various officers blew their whistles and yelled their commands, the men falling easily into their mile-eating step. Varus watched from his mounted position as the lead elements approached the oppidum’s defensive ditch, and he marvelled once again at the hardened professionalism of those men at the front. He had been in a few life-and-death fights himself, but it was different for a horseman, especially one in a position of command. It could never be compared to being given a shield and a sword and told to march straight at a wall into a hail of arrows, probably over agonising obstacles. It took a special kind of guts to do that and not falter.
Slowly the rear ranks of the Thirteenth began to move, following on with no less valour than their mates at the front, and Varus set his riders off at a stately pace in response. They advanced, the oppidum beginning to loom despite the low angle of the slope, and he found himself willing the centurions in the van to give the order. He’d seen where that opportunistic arrow had fallen. The front men must be in range now?
Despite waiting for it, Varus felt his heart flutter at the sudden call for testudo given by the lead centurion just as they closed on the ditch. In near-perfect timing, the front ranks shifted into their individual centuries, and several hundred shields clonked into position forming a defensive shell around and above the men. Not even a pause or a missed step. The Gauls up on the ramparts reacted almost instantly, sending out a cloud of missiles at the advancing army. Again, Varus could not help but compare the five or six dozen arrows whispering through the air towards them with the arrow storms of thousands of shafts that had hailed out over oppidum walls earlier in the campaign. It was pitiful by comparison, but in reality they still represented a very real danger, as the odd blood-curdling scream attested. No matter how well-trained or efficient a century might be at forming the testudo, there would inevitably be a few gaps, especially when terrain dictated a change in elevation, and on occasion stray arrows found those gaps.
As the testudo centuries reached the lip of the defensive ditch and began to descend, the formations broke up a little, and the falling missiles found more and more targets. Varus couldn’t see the action from his position at the rear, even on horseback, but he could picture it after so many other sieges and counter-sieges over the years. Those men who fell would probably take down one or two others with them, and here and there the formation would collapse, but as soon as things fell apart, the centurions and their optios would be there, calling out and blowing their whistles, sending men to plug gaps. Indeed, a moment later he saw the first men cresting the far side of the ditch and beginning the march up the slope, their formations quickly put back together and once more largely impervious to missiles.
The arrow storm, now joined by sling stones, continued to thud down on the shields as the legion approached the south rampart, and Varus was afforded a good view of the action up the slope as he continued his sedate advance with his riders at the rear. The walls here looked to be a little higher than they had at Sidia, and Varus found himself worrying that the new tactics the two legions had adopted would be insufficient to gain the rampart. His fears were allayed as the whistles of the leading centurions sent out the orders and the lead testudo broke into a run as though they intended to barge the oppidum’s wall aside.
As they had practised many times this past week, the lead centuries reached the walls and came to a halt still in solid testudo formation, with their shield-roof up and interlocked, and the rear men in the units dropped to a kneeling position, their raised shields forming a lower step. At that same command, the second centuries following on behind broke into a run, their own testudos unfolding as they charged, using the lower shields as the step they formed and leaping up onto the precarious roof of shields.
Here and there a man slipped, his hob-nailed boots raking the painted surfaces of the shields, and plummeted off to the grassy slope at the side. But the majority of the men, now well-practised, ran up the roof of the testudo and at the Gallic walls, with which they were now more or less of a height.
The defenders panicked, suddenly faced with the presence of Romans right under their noses instead of at the base of a high wall. A few of the braver or smarter ones fought off the attackers for a few moments before succumbing, but many simply stepped back in consternation, uncertain of what to do now that their defences apparently counted for nothing.
What happened next was a matter of conjecture for Varus, as the cavalry officer and his riders at the rear of the legion reached the defensive ditch and had to carefully manoeuvre their beasts down the slope and then back up the far side, losing track completely of the struggle at the front. By the time the riders were back up onto the gentle slope and making for the oppidum’s defences, the ramparts were already swarming with legionaries and a mix of alarmed Gallic cries and victorious Latin shouts announced that the southern gate had fallen.
The legion surged forward up the slope with renewed energy, the missiles now falling only occasionally, and even then loosed wild and in panic. Varus held his men back as the centuries swarmed over the walls and through the gate into the city, and as soon as the gatehouse stood open, he pushed his way in behind them, leading his riders.
It seemed that the rebels still had some fight in them since the battle continued to rage in the streets as the doomed enemy fell back through the narrow streets of the oppidum, trying to hold back the Roman tide while seeking somewhere to either hide or make a stand. Varus looked this way and that, painfully aware of the fact that once an army got its blood up and was in the mood to pillage and burn it would take more than an officer with a loud voice to pull them back into line.
Fortunately, it seemed that most of the centurions had their men under tight control, and those units who had lost a centurion in the advance were continuing under the able command of their optios. Here and there a man would run into a clearly empty house with the intent to pillage, and Varus would send two of his men to bring the man back out.
Things were becoming more complicated as the local loyalists, who had been languishing in a town under the control of violent rebels, came rushing out into the streets, waving their arms and trying to explain desperately to the attacking force that they were not the enemy. Fortunately, after so many days of such actions the legionaries were experienced in this type of fight and avoided combat with women and children and anyone before them who was clearly unarmed.
To aid the swift return to control, Varus was pleased to see a few of the more enterprising loyal townsfolk pushing the fleeing rebels back out into the street before the Romans where they could be cut down without a chance to hide, and more than once he spotted locals busily kicking a captured rebel to death. After all, these men had brought a legion to their doorstep, and the loyalists blamed their revolting kinsmen for this much more than they did the Roman officers.
As the horsemen reached the central square of the oppidum with some sort of temple facing them, Varus sent his decurions and their units off in various directions with a remit to keep the peace and make sure the legion was behaving itself. Oddly, as the legionaries continued to push the few remaining rebels back through the streets and the loyal inhabitants largely stayed safely out of the way, Varus watched his horsemen melt away into the oppidum and found himself more or less alone in the packed earth square, just his standard bearer and tuba-player and a small honour guard of regular cavalrymen in attendance. The sounds of battle now seemed strangely distant and muted, though no birdlife yet filled the cold, damp, grey air. He leaned his head to one side, listening carefully to see if he could pick out any area of trouble where he might have to take a more personal command to ensure Caesar’s orders were complied with.
The sound had almost been a scream, but had then dropped to what sounded like a muffled whimper. Varus’ eyes narrowed as he peered around the square, still listening intently. A scraping noise could have been entirely innocent, though something wa
s troubling the cavalry officer and he dropped from his horse, handing his reins to a trooper as he strode towards the temple from where he was sure the noises were coming.
A two-storey building perhaps twenty feet square and constructed of timber and daub with thatched roof, the temple was dusty, unsophisticated and wet. The door facing the square was closed and its iron hinges were rusty. Varus approached and slowed as he neared the door. His hand went to the pommel of his sword and he momentarily wished he wore a shield, but he had not been part of the attack and had not bothered arming properly for combat. There was no noise issuing from the temple, but he was now absolutely sure something was amiss. The air had that leaden silence that tells of people deliberately holding their breath. His fingers slid down to the carved bone grip of his sword and closed into a fist. Slowly, carefully, he drew the blade. Perhaps he should shout for his men?
No.
Knowing that despite the grey dullness of the January weather, the interior of the temple would be extremely dim, he closed his eyes for a count of twenty, allowing them to acclimatise to the darkness, and then reached up with his free hand and unlatched the door, pushing it open even as he stepped forward.
He opened his eyes as he entered, cutting down the exposure to the outside light to a minimum. His nostrils were assaulted with a smell of mixed ordure, sweat and old blood. The temple consisted of a single room, the second storey more of a small tower with roof lights that illuminated the ground floor. A fire pit occupied the very centre, full of blackened wood, soot and ash, and the walls were daubed with crude designs and figures. At the far side, two tall stones, each higher than Varus, stood close to the wall, each carved with lumpen, misshapen figures, and a statue of a moustachioed man, highly stylised, with bulbous limbs and bulging eyes, stood between the stones.
On the floor, beneath the statue, a legionary knelt, his tunic hoisted up and his pale buttocks exposed in the light. His shield lay off to one side with his helmet and sheathed sword. As Varus’ eyes picked out every last detail, he registered the girl’s legs beneath the legionary, the heels thumping the packed earth of the floor desperately. At the sudden intrusion, the legionary looked around and Varus caught sight of the soldier’s terrified victim, struggling to fight off her attacker even with the legionary’s knife at her throat.
‘Get off her.’
‘Piss off.’
Varus blinked. Common soldiers did not speak to senior officers in that sort of manner, and it took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t wearing a helmet or cloak, and that silhouetted in a doorway he could be anyone.
‘Get off that woman, soldier. Now!’
He was rewarded with a response this time as the soldier rose, leaving the half-naked girl on the ground, pinned down with a nailed boot as he turned to look at the new arrival.
‘I don’t answer to donkey boys. Piss off and find your own girl.’
Varus felt the anger bubbling up inside him. ‘This girl is no rebel. Rape of the loyal subjects of Rome is a serious offence, legionary.’
He felt his nerves twang for just a moment as he registered just how big the soldier was. He was a bruiser and a veteran, going by his well-used but well-maintained equipment.
‘You threatening me, donkey boy?’
Varus cleared his throat. If the man had recognised him as cavalry, then he had probably also noted the apparent rank and seemed not to care. Moreover, Varus realised that now he had threatened the man with serious punishment, the legionary had less to lose.
He hefted his sword as the towering legionary stepped towards him. Freed, the girl curled in pain and shame, sobbing around her nakedness and the rents in her belly the nails of the legionary’s boot had caused. Varus snarled.
‘Name, century and cohort, legionary!’
‘Last chance, horseman. Leave the room and go hump your mare again.’
Varus raised his sword so that the tip hovered around the man’s neck height. He was no stranger to combat, though usually from horseback and in the open field. ‘Name, soldier.’
‘Ampelius,’ barked the legionary as, with lightning speed for such a big man, he jumped two paces forward, ducking left. Varus felt a moment of panic as he tried to bring his sword to bear. The legionary had recognised the long cavalry blade for what it was and had leapt in too close to allow for its effective use. Varus tried to step back, but the door had swung shut behind him and he was trapped. He angled his arm, trying to bring his sword close in defence, even if it might be useless as a weapon.
The legionary raised his dagger, an evil light in his eye, and only by some miracle did Varus manage to jam his sword in the way. He couldn’t possibly use it to fight from this distance, but the flat of the blade caught the legionary’s wrist, holding the plunging knife away from his neck. The man was strong and Varus’ sword awkward and heavy at this angle, and he could feel the blade being pushed downwards by the legionary.
The pressure on his sword was relieved so suddenly that he almost fell backwards with the movement. He stared in surprise at the legionary’s face as the man’s eyes widened in shock and pain and, as the brute stepped stiffly backwards, Varus caught a glimpse of the Biturige girl gripping Ampelius’ gladius in shaking hands, the tip still jammed in the soldier’s shoulder. With a grunt, the legionary stepped back again and the girl wrenched out the gladius, the sound of cracking bone accompanying the move as she retreated across the room. The enraged legionary, seemingly forgetting the presence of Varus entirely, spun painfully round, a low growl rising in his throat.
Varus smiled, calculating effective distance as the man took a third and then fourth step away from him, bearing down on the girl. Quietly, the cavalry officer raised his long sword, pulled it out to one side, and then delivered a hefty strike with the flat of the blade on the side of the legionary’s head. Ampelius jerked to one side with the blow, and he tottered and fell to the ground, shaking. Varus stood for a moment with his sword lowered, the tip pointed at the prone legionary, then raised his gaze to the girl. She was clutching her torn tunic around herself with one hand and wielding the gladius defensively with the other. Waving his flattened palm at her in a gesture for calm, Varus crouched carefully and rolled the legionary over, plucking the knife from his fingers. Ampelius was out cold but breathing, and the wound in his shoulder had been agonising and had actually chipped the bone, but was far from fatal and leaked blood only slowly. Varus rose once more and focused on the girl.
‘Do you speak Latin?’
‘Bit.’
‘I am sorry for the conduct of this man. He should not have done this. He will be sentenced to a flogging with the barbed whip for this.’
The girl stared at him in incomprehension. ‘Bit’ had clearly been a correct appraisal. Varus tried to give her a reassuring smile. She would have no idea what would happen to her attacker, but it would not be enough. Not for the man who had so brutally raped her. Varus found his own sensibilities a little unaccepting of the result too, and a nasty smile replaced the reassuring one.
‘Him?’ he tried, and the girl nodded. ‘Yours,’ Varus added, trying to mime giving her the prone soldier. The girl frowned in confusion and when Varus took a step towards her she held up the gladius in defence. The officer nodded and pointed at the sword. ‘Sword.’ Then at her: ‘you’. Then at the legionary on the floor. For another moment, the girl’s confusion reigned, but then it cleared as understanding dawned. From the violent, vengeful look in her eye, Varus decided that Ampelius’ future looked less than rosy. In fact, the man might shortly be dreaming of mere barbed whips. With a nod of approval, Varus cast one last spiteful look at the disobedient legionary and turned, opening the door and leaving the building. His small honour guard was still waiting in the square, and Varus gestured to two of them.
‘I’m going to report to the general. You two stay here and guard that door. Whatever you hear from inside, leave the door shut. No one goes in until the girl comes out. Then take her gently to a medicus and have her
fed and looked over.’
The two men looked at one another in incomprehension, but saluted and took up position. Varus crossed to his steed and pulled himself up into his saddle. If things were going to settle into the Pax Romana in Gaul, it was time someone started to take steps in that direction.
* * * * *
Two days later, Caesar’s army marched forth to repeat their success at the oppidum of Argatomagon on the south-western fringe of Biturige lands. The weather had turned less clement, and the sky intermittently spat down rain, sleet and hail depending upon Jupiter Pluvius’ mood. Yet despite the depressing wintry climate, the attitude of the legions remained optimistic and strong, partially through the ease of the campaign and partially the regular donatives Caesar paid them from captured goods.
Varus sat astride his mount, watching the Eleventh climb the gentle slope towards heavy ramparts which sat on a low ridge enclosing a tired-looking settlement that was sizeable, if sparsely inhabited. The warriors lined up on the parapet watching the might of Rome roll inexorably towards them were also few and far between, more like frightened mice than the heart of any rebellion.
Varus couldn’t help wonder how the general’s information had been so far off this time. With each and every action through these weeks of campaigning, the intelligence drawn from the Biturige loyalists had been accurate and had led to success time after time. Yet those same sources had apparently noted this very oppidum as the centre of the rebellion, the home of the revolt’s leaders.
Had the real enemy flown the coop before the Romans arrived?
A pitiful smattering of arrows and sling stones fell from the rampart, rattling off the painted surfaces of hundreds of red and black shields. Varus had seen stauncher resistance put up by wandering warbands than by this supposed nest of vipers.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 4