Five minutes later, Velius was back on the top of the wall, waving his vine staff with his one good arm, the other strapped to his side. Looking down over the side, he could see that the raft bridge had almost reached the bank, though the fire from the scrub and trees had all but disappeared under the constant hail of missiles from the wall.
As the centurion watched, a tall and powerfully built man, red hair and beard flowing behind him like a mane, came running out of the brush and onto the raft bridge, his long strides taking him from one vessel to the other easily. Velius held up his hand and the firing stopped.
“One shot from one man. In the head. Let’s give these hairy bastards something to think about.”
There was a moment of muttering among the legionaries on the wall, and then an optio, one of the precious few veterans in the Twelfth, stepped up to the front, carrying a javelin. Weighing it carefully and squinting along the line to the point, he hefted the weapon and raised it, standing sidelong with the point close to his chin.
“Give the word sir.”
The barbarian was getting close to the shore by now, a sword in each hand, one Roman gladius, and one Gaulish blade.
“Now, I would say.”
The missile arced out over the wall and caught the barbarian mid-leap between two rafts. Striking him just beneath the jaw, the point drove the man bodily backwards in mid-air, to pin him to the raft behind. A small crowd of Helvetii that had massed near the other end of the rafts pulled hurriedly back beneath cover.
Velius laughed. “Good man. Go tell the quartermaster that I want any heavy rocks he can lay his hands on brought up to the wall as soon as possible. And while you’re there, draw some wine from supplies. Tonight you’re excused duty and you’ll need it.”
“Rocks, Sir?”
Velius’ grin had turned vicious. I’ll need heavy rocks to collapse that thing while they come across it. No fun doing it now.”
Night was beginning its descent when Fronto finally arrived at the command redoubt of the Twelfth. A cheer went up as he jogged past the first of the main detachments from the legion, puffing and panting for all he was worth. He saw a square of guttering torches near the centre of the tents, by the bottom of the slope. Velius stood with three other centurions and a number of soldiers gathered around him. Fronto could hear him doling out orders in a clear, no-nonsense voice as he approached. Smiling, he ducked behind the last tent and watched Velius as he concluded his briefing. He was glad he wasn’t one of those who’d just had a chewing out for not reporting their situations regularly. He wondered for a moment whether he sounded like that when he gave briefings.
Probably.
Velius finished the briefing and gave the others permission to withdraw. As Fronto was about to come out and declare himself, the centurion turned toward him and called out softly enough to be heard by only the two of them.
“It’s bad enough for a legate to be absent for an entire afternoon of fighting, but it really makes him look like a prat when he skulks around behind tents like a teenage girl listening at a door.”
“Nice to see you too Lucius.” Fronto came out from behind the tent and walked into the circle of light.
“I see you’ve had fun” he said, gesturing at the flower of red blooming on the white bandages around the centurion’s chest and shoulders. “A new scar to show the ladies?”
“I don’t think anyone was prepared for this fight, and it shows. They were distinctly cunning and tactical. They used rafts, bridges and bows. I think we lost about a hundred men. Doesn’t sound many, but it certainly bloody felt like it.”
Fronto nodded, moving toward the command tent.
“You should have seen it a few miles upstream. They actually managed to get to the wall, and the Eleventh were stuck fast trying to cope with them. They were under fire too. As soon as I reached the Twelfth, I sent a detachment from Herculius’ century to give them some support. He had archers stationed down there, so they should hold, especially if the Eighth send someone too.”
Velius nodded. “I suppose I should give you a report.”
“Save the bulk for later, just the important facts. I can guess most of it anyway. Important thing is that you’ve held firm and everything’s under control. Would you like to explain that now?” Fronto pointed meaningfully at the bandaging.
“Arrow. Pretty deep. Capsarius fixed me up and I’ve been told I’m not allowed to leave the medical tent. I told him to stick it up his arse. Too much to do to convalesce.”
He sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear it all now, but suffice it to say they used missiles to cover the building of a raft bridge. We picked quite a few of them off and then dropped heavy rocks on the rafts when they were crossing in bulk. I don’t think they’ll try that again.”
He frowned at his commander. “Anyway, what the hell kept you so long? Longinus passed us on the way to the cavalry a few hours before you got back.”
Fronto glowered at his training officer.
“Caesar wanted a ‘quiet word’ with me and it took ages. He seems to be under the disturbing impression that you’re very competent and able to run a legion without me. There’s a whole long-term plan unfolding here, Lucius.” He lowered his voice again as they passed within earshot of a couple of legionaries stacking shields. “This doesn’t go anywhere else but between us two, alright?”
Velius nodded.
“I kind of wish Priscus was here for you to confide in. It makes me nervous when you confide in me. I’m more used to you shouting at me.”
Fronto smiled. “You should learn to filter some of what you say through your brain first, then I wouldn’t need to tell you off so regularly! Anyway, the general’s quite sure that the Helvetii will give up soon and go through the other pass into Gaul instead. He’s way ahead of us on that score. All three legions will be moving out as soon as he’s sure the Helvetii are gone. He’s taking us west, Lucius, into Gaul itself. That’s why he brought all this huge force with him. Not to frighten a few barbarians, but so that we’re mobile and ready to act. The Eighth, Eleventh and Twelfth will be coming with us and we’ll be meeting back up with the Seventh, Ninth and Tenth at Vienna. Anyway, that’s a job for after we’ve dealt with the immediate problems.”
The centurion stood, deep in thought and staring into the middle distance. Fronto’s voice pulled his mind back, and he shifted his eyes again to the legate.
“Has there been any news from the end of the wall?”
Velius grinned. “Occasional reports filter down. I gather the Sixth and Seventh Cohorts of the Eighth Legion are holding their own, and babysitting the outlying units of the Twelfth. Our far flank’s been under the general command of the primus pilus of this legion, a man called Baculus.”
“I’ve heard that name. He’s a good man from the Ninth, if it’s the same one.”
“Well anyway, this Baculus has managed all the work down there so far.”
Fronto sighed. “Where the hell’s Longinus been then?”
“Longinus, if you believe it, has been running a skirmishing group of cavalry beyond the end of the wall, keeping them from flanking us.”
Fronto frowned and scratched his ear.
“Longinus is an idiot when it comes to command and strategy, but I remember him in Spain, when he was just a military tribune. He was a good horseman. One of the best actually. Good place for the man to be. If he keeps running things like this, he might actually be a benefit, not a liability.”
The command tent appeared out of the gloom, burning torches lighting the front, and the flap pegged open.
“Let’s get inside, Lucius. I need a drink, and if the doctors catch you out here, they might forget about convalescence and just have you put down.”
The two made their way inside and a short while later the noise of concerted drinking was joined by the sound of laughter. Outside in the night, Gaulish voices whispered along the bank of the Rhone.
The first anyone knew about the second attack was w
hen it was already too late. One of the legionaries on watch along the top of the palisade suddenly burst into flame and dropped like a falling star, bouncing down the bank and into the ditch.
By the time the alarm had been sounded, others had been struck. Several had fallen, pierced and on fire, into the stake-filled ditch. Others had gone backwards, rolling down the bank and into the camp. A couple who had been unlucky enough to survive the initial blow from the arrows now blundered, blind and on fire, igniting tents and ropes. Chaos reigned.
Fronto, still dressed only in his tunic, breeches and boots, came running around a corner and into the central space, unsheathing his sword as he ran. Velius appeared from a side alley, also unarmoured.
“When the hell did they start using fire arrows? What’s it going to be next? Ballista? Catapults?”
Velius unsheathed his own sword. “Up to the wall, sir.”
Throwing a glance over his shoulder as he ran, the centurion cried “someone get water and put those fires out.”
Running up the slope to the wall, Fronto almost fell headlong over a smouldering body. He grabbed an optio by the arm. “Get everyone back behind cover, and make sure they all have a shield with them.”
The rain of blazing missiles had subsided a little, with the occasional arrow whistling over the wall, and a lot more hitting deep into the outer face of the palisade with a ‘thunk’.
Velius and Fronto reached the top of the bank and climbed to the parapet, keeping their heads down. A quick glance over the wall gave a clear view of the situation.
Velius shrugged. “What can they be hoping for? They’re not going to burn the wall down, and they know that once they reach this side, they’ll be in close with at least one legion.”
“Shit.” Fronto grabbed Velius by the shoulders, his eyes blazing like the fires surrounding him.
“It’s a diversion. It’s got to be. The troops will see this miles away. It’s a dazzling bloody distraction. I’ll give you ten to one they’re about to hit the Eleventh where I left them yesterday.”
He grabbed a passing legionary.
“Get a horse and ride down to the Eleventh straight away. Warn them they might be in trouble.”
A young optio appeared at the top of the ramp. “Sir, we’ve just seen a whole mass of the enemy moving upriver on the other side.”
As the legionary ran to find a horse, Fronto and Velius took another look over the parapet. A flaming arrow whistled by, close enough to light up the centurion’s face.
“Look sir. Over there. Must be a thousand of them.”
Fronto followed his gesture and saw the huddles of men, moving low to the ground.
“They’re probably pushing the other side, at the hill where the line ends. They’ve got to be disheartened after yesterday, and they must realise that they’ll never get through picking at us bit by bit. They’ve got to make one big push; all or nothing. I’d lay bets most of the tribe is gathering near the point where the Eleventh are weakest and at the far end, while the Eleventh are sending as many men as they can spare to help us here. I’d love to know what’s happening elsewhere. They might be trying to get across the fords down by the end of the wall. I hope Longinus is on top of it. I’ll bet something impressive like this is happening up by the lake too. They’ll have to keep Caesar distracted.”
Velius drew himself up as best he could while staying below the defences. “You can cope with anything they throw at you here, sir. The centurions know what to do as well as you. Let me take everyone we can spare and help the Eleventh. Tetricus may be a senior officer, but he’s no battle experience. They’re my responsibility until they’re fully trained and can carry their own eagle.”
Fronto deliberated for only a moment.
“Alright, centurion. Do it.”
Velius charged off in the wake of the dispatch rider, shouting the names of various centurions and optios, gathering whatever force he felt the legion could spare. A number of men were moving around the camp putting out fires, dousing everything flammable with buckets of water, and removing bodies from sight.
The wall was now packed with legionaries, all fully equipped and crouched below the top. Fronto looked around and saw the young optio who had addressed him earlier giving out orders to the men in a very professional fashion, ducking every now and then as a missile whistled over his head. He reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder.
“What’s your name optio?”
“Hortius, sir.”
“You seem to be remarkably together considering the situation.”
The optio nodded.
“I travelled everywhere with the legions when I was young sir. My father was a retired centurion, and he made a living as a blacksmith wherever the army settled for a year or more. I’ve seen pretty much everything sir.”
Fronto grinned.
“Stick close to me, Hortius. I may need your help.”
The two officers took another opportunity to peek over the palisade. The light and fast-moving barbarian force had gone from sight now, heading toward the defences of the Eleventh. The archers were still here and, judging by the increased flow of missiles, they were settling in for the night. Fronto glanced down. As yet they were making no attempt to cross the river.
“Hortius, keep everyone down, and return fire where possible, but on no account do we want to look like we’re besting them.”
“What?”
“We have a great opportunity here. We want to look pinned down, because they don’t know we’re reinforcing the Eleventh and that they’re walking into a trap. If we stop this lot too early, they’ll start to wonder if we know. The Eleventh need to look unprepared or the Helvetii might just give up and this’ll drag on for a lot longer.”
Hortius’ brows knitted above his nose, a worried look that Fronto recognised. “I hope you’re right, sir. If we send a sizeable part of our force to help the Eleventh and then they come at us, we’re in deep trouble.”
Fronto nodded. “I’m pretty sure. It’s what I’d do.”
Glancing back at the flaming arrows around the camp, he thought to himself ‘You’d just better be as bright as Caesar thinks you are.’
The fire in Caesar’s tent burned bright and the light reflected off the goblet in the general’s hand. Apart from the man himself, the tent’s only occupants were the two staff officers, Sabinus and Labienus, and legate Balbus, breathing heavily after his jog from the wall.
“Legate, what’s the latest news?”
Balbus relaxed into his chair. The last day or so had put an unusual physical strain on him and his legs were feeling a little shaky.
“There have been a number of attempts on the fords defended by the Sixth and Seventh Cohorts, though they’ve held firm. Longinus is spending most of his time with the cavalry on the other side of the river causing havoc among the enemy.”
“Good.” Caesar smiled. “And?”
“We’re having to deal with a small flotilla of boats attempting to cross the lake and come round behind us. Very flashy, but nothing to seriously worry about. I’ve sent a number of men under a centurion to bolster the Eleventh. I have a sneaking suspicion something’s up there. I gather Fronto had the same thought. My scout I sent with them for a report said that nearly a quarter of the Twelfth had been sent to support the Eleventh.”
Caesar steepled his fingers and smiled at Balbus. “And the Third Cohort up by the lake?”
“There’s been no signal from them, so no trouble there. Looks like they’re out of it completely.”
“Good. I expect the enemy will give up after tonight and try another way out.”
Baculus, the primus pilus of the Twelfth Legion, frowned worriedly. With half the legion under his direct command and a series of fords in the area, he’d been expecting a serious fight. His troops, green though they were, had been primed and ready and itching for bloodshed. He could understand that. They were new, and they wanted to prove their worth. They had seen a few barbarians moving on the op
posite bank, and had deflected or dodged the odd missile over the last few hours, but they seemed to have been forgotten. He sighed and returned to watching the river intently for any movement.
Fronto and Hortius sat below the level of the wall, playing with a pair of dice. The camp was now well organised, and twenty men patrolled with buckets of water, protected by shields. There was no fire in the camp, and the missile volleys had slowed again. Every half hour, Fronto ordered another concerted attack on the knot of Helvetii, to remind them they were still here, but all they could do now was wait. Once word was received that the Helvetii attack had failed, the Twelfth could mop up the archers across the river in minutes.
Balbus, sick of stalking the wall and watching the occasional Roman or barbarian die, made his way down to the lakeshore. Here, the contingent of siege engines from the Eighth had been active for quarter of an hour now, picking off boats crossing the lake. Almost every shot from ballista and catapult had hit directly. The legate addressed the centurion in charge.
“How’s it going?”
“Easy as target practice sir. Not one of them’s come within three hundred yards of the shore. I think there’s only about half a dozen left. Got to admire their spirit. They just keep coming, not giving up.”
“Let the others get to the beach. It’d do troop morale good if they got to have a proper fight. This to-ing and fro-ing is driving us all crazy.”
The Sixth and Seventh Cohorts of the Eighth Legion were being hard pushed by the fords. The Fourth and Fifth Cohorts upriver had suffered minor actions, but had sent more and more troops down to bolster their comrades. Even Marcus Petreius, the senior centurion on site had been surprised by the number and the sheer bravery of the barbarians who had swept into view as soon as he’d received word that the Twelfth were under attack. They had been fighting for the fords, and had been winning ground all night. Petreius’ men kept fighting them back, but the defences were slowly becoming compromised. The barbarians kept throwing their dead into the ditch and now the sharpened stakes in the bottom were all but gone beneath the pile of bodies. Petreius knew his tactics and his men well enough to know that the Helvetii still didn’t stand a chance, but the Eighth were losing a lot of men and, at this rate the legion would be thinned out considerably before the barbarians gave up.
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