The Primus Pilus glared at him, and Nasica felt hopelessly outnumbered by the armies of incompetence. His eyes strayed, and he could see several of the lesser centurions, as well as a few signifers and musicians nodding their agreement. He had support, just not from the top ranks.
‘The rest of the army will be back soon, aquilifer, and then this rabble will die beneath the boots of ten legions.’
‘Nine,’ Nasica corrected angrily, ‘because the Fourteenth will be gone! Again!’
‘An assault is suicidal,’ the commander declared, straightening. ‘We will form up on that hill to the west. It is a good, defensive high point. The enemy will have to split their forces and deal with us as well as the camp. Thus we can survive the night and draw some of the heat for the legate.’
Nasica squared up to his commander. ‘Respectfully, you will draw the heat from him for about quarter of an hour. After that all you’ll do is occupy the carrion birds until the sun’s up.’
The Primus Pilus stared at him, eyes bulging and his face turning a faint puce colour. ‘You, man, are on a charge, awaiting disciplinary measures. Hand that eagle and your blade to the centurion there.’
‘With respect, stick it up your arse, sir. This eagle’s almost fallen once and it ain’t happening again. This bird will not fall into enemy hands. I am taking the poor bloody thing back to the fort.’
‘You will surrender your weapon until this is over!’
‘Make me, and I might just find a new fucking sheath for it, sir,’ Nasica snapped and stepped a few feet away, to where a cornicen was watching with fiery defiance in his eyes. The man had nodded at every word Nasica said.
‘Sound the wedge formation,’ he ordered. The musician saluted and put the cornu to his lips.
‘Belay that order!’ spluttered the Primus Pilus, pointing angrily. ‘Arrest that man.’
The cornicen blew the wedge order, and there was a strange pause as every centurion in the knot of officers looked at one another uncertainly.
‘Up the hill!’ bellowed the commander. ‘Now!’
‘Come on!’ shouted one of the senior centurions, running over to Nasica and beckoning to his standard bearer. ‘Get the men fell in for an attack… wedge formation. We’ll take the tip.’
The Primus Pilus stared in disbelief, but rose imperious as several centurions flocked to him, shouting orders for their men to assemble and advance up the hill.
Nasica glanced over his shoulder as he began to give out commands to the men around him. A brief headcount gave him about two thirds of the officers, the rest rushing to toady to the Primus Pilus. Three cohorts, then. It would be enough. They would make the camp. ‘Cornicen: as soon as we start to move, use that thing and let the legion know we’re coming. For the decumana gate if you can. Then as soon as your call’s done, fall in at the rear of the wedge as we pass. Once you blow that thing it’ll not take long for the enemy to realise what’s happening. And you don’t want to be left out here for the crows like those poor bastards will be on the hill.’
* * * * *
‘What about the carts?’
Nasica shook his head at the centurion.
‘Screw the carts.’
‘But the low supplies, man! If we’re going back to be voluntarily under siege, we’ll need all the grain we can get.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ Nasica sighed, ‘a lot of men will die in the next few hours, so supplies will gradually stretch that much further.’
‘But can we not…’
‘Look: we can’t form into a wedge to charge the enemy with ox carts among us. If you’re worrying about getting hungry, go join that lot,’ Nasica snapped, pointing at the two cohorts climbing the slope to their position on the crest of the hill. ‘None of them are going to be worrying about empty bellies. They won’t be around long enough.’
The centurion fell quiet and, turning, shouted his men into better order.
‘Soon as we round those bushes, we’ll be right on them. We’re stupidly close. The only reason they’ve not noticed us behind them so far is that they’ve been making more noise than us in their attack. Soon as they hear the cornu and see us, they’ll turn and try and present a solid wall. They won’t have time. We run. No marching. No treble time or crap like that. Run, and run fast. Stay together as best you can, especially towards the front, but anyone who lags, trips, falls and the like will necessarily be left behind. We have to hit them hard and punch through before they have the chance to form up and prevent it.’
He glanced across at the cornicen and nodded. ‘Now!’
The cornicen filled his lungs and began to blow calls into his curved horn, directed at the Fourteenth, using their specific commands, announcing a charge in wedge shape. There was little else he could do. There were no calls to demand the gate be opened, or tell them which gate, but a wedge call to charge from behind the enemy should indicate what was happening, and they could guess where from the call’s direction. Emphatically, he repeated the call again and again as hard as he could.
Simultaneously, the wedge burst into life, haring forward across the shadowed grass, making for the beleaguered fort. They were close, which was a gift from the Gods, since with the pace they were moving at, they wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long. A mere dozen footsteps and Nasica began to round the trees and the scrub bushes that poked out from beneath them, the fort lying directly ahead behind a seething mass of Germans.
Some were already facing his way, their attention drawn by the cornu calls, but most were intent on the fort. Moments later, two cohorts appeared from the treeline off to the side, marching up the bald slope to a crest that rose above the entire scene.
Nasica hoped he was right. Was sure he was. Knew he was.
Now, they were past the trees and hurtling towards the barbarians, who were starting to respond to this unforeseen threat. The men beside and behind him were pounding across the turf. It was a loose wedge. It had to be for the men to run so fast. But it would tighten automatically any moment now. The cornicen’s calls had stopped, meaning that the man had fallen in with the wedge and was charging along with everyone else.
Nasica was not quite at the front, but behind and left of the lead centurion - the one who’d been concerned about the carts. As aquilifer he had only a small round shield, which was strapped to his arm rather than held to allow him the free hands for the eagle. As such, he could reasonably be assumed to be a weak point in the wedge. Except he was anything but. Keeping the eagle clutched tight in his right hand, he prepared for the sudden crushing pressure.
It came soon enough.
The front of the wedge hit the disorganised army of Germanic warriors while many of them were still unaware of the danger. A few had turned and fought hard, swinging swords and axes, lancing out with spears and swords. A few of them, displaying what seemed to Nasica unusually good sense, dived back out of the way, pushing into the throng of their own warriors so as not to be in front of the wedge.
The Germans were knocked aside, battered out of the way and even trampled under hob-nailed feet as the wedge drove deep into the mass with the momentum of running, furious, desperate men.
Nasica’s world became a flashing kaleidoscope of scenes, his vision restricted by his helmet and the press of men: a sword swinging. A German’s face exploding in carnage, teeth flying up into the air, shattered by a bronze shield boss. The centurion at the front jerking to the side as he stabbed a man and a counter strike took his arm off just below the elbow, his sword skittering away into the press, and yet the man pushing on with the single-mindedness of a centurion in battle. A barbarian looming. A man falling by the wayside, his leg maimed, as the waiting mob fell on him, hacking him to pieces.
But they were still moving well and gaining ground. Having only slowed to a heavy jog, they had covered half the ground to the gate.
‘Come on!’ he bellowed.
Suddenly hands were clawing at his small round shield, pulling him out of the formation. One of
his assailants was afforded a heavy blow by the legionary behind, but the other clung on, snarling at him. Unable to do much else, Nasica let the heavy weight of the eagle pull the top of the staff in his hand to the right, bringing up the butt end to the left, where the shield-struggle was going on.
The two legionaries to his right shouted complaints at almost being brained with the legion’s eagle, but he had it at the right angle for a moment and jabbed with the iron spike used to drive the staff into the ground when needed. The point of the staff smashed into the barbarian’s face, imploding flesh and bone, and wrapping round the haft. The grip on the shield fell away instantly, and Nasica yanked the weapon free as the ruined German fell back into the mass, righting his shield arm again, all while moving forward with the same momentum. With no little difficulty and a few curses from the legionaries to his right, he pushed the eagle proudly aloft once more.
The walls were so close now… so tantalisingly close. And yet the advance had slowed to a heavy tread at last, the Germans pushing back as best they could. Nasica wondered how many men they’d lost during the push. It didn’t bear thinking about, but they’d have lost a lot more any other way.
A barbarian swung at him, lashing out with a blade, and he ducked, the tip swiping the crest holder from the helm of the man behind. And then that warrior was also lost in the chaos. Heartbeats passed with flashing gory blades, screams, the constant, pushing tread of the wedge and the occasional Latin curses of a man falling by the wayside.
And suddenly the world was clear and open. The one-armed centurion leading the wedge almost fell flat on his face as the press against him disappeared, his arm stump leaving a trail of blood behind him. Ahead - a blessed sight across the causeway - the decumana gate of the camp was opening, legionaries swarming around it and cheering them on.
Grinning like a lunatic, Nasica and the one-armed centurion led the reinforcements through and into the fort, the aquilifer coming to a halt next to the centurion, and saluting the optio commanding the gate, almost concussing himself with his small shield.
‘Damnedest thing I’ve seen in a while, sir,’ the optio grinned as three cohorts of men threw themselves with relief into the fort’s interior.
Nasica sighed. ‘Sadly it’s not all of us.’ Frowning, the optio followed Nasica and the wounded centurion as they climbed the bank to the rampart walk. As the Germans surged forward once again in the wake of the cohorts, the gate guards hurriedly pushed the timber leaves closed and dropped the heavy locking bar into place, piling the sacks and crates next to them.
The three men reached the wall top and crossed to the parapet, where Nasica peered out, surveying the landscape until he spotted the high, bald hill top and the mass of men gathered on it in a shield wall. As he frowned into the eye-watering, pre-dawn murk, a capsarius appeared from somewhere and began to work on the centurion, staunching the blood flow and examining the stump to see whether it could be sealed and patch-clipped or would require a more simple yet brutal cauterisation.
The duty optio followed Nasica’s gaze and blinked as he saw a huge mass of Germans surging up the hill towards the small Roman defensive formation.
‘Who’s the poor bugger, sir?’
Nasica sighed and slumped a little. ‘That is the Primus Pilus being bloody-minded, short-sighted, and suicidal. Idiot.’
‘He’ll not last long up there.’
‘No.’ Nasica straightened. ‘But at least now we have in excess of eight cohorts we stand a chance of surviving the night, eh?’
* * * * *
Cicero stood, tired, his hands flat on the table before him, duty lists and sick lists and supply lists. Everything was lists! The senior officers of the legion, along with the Aquilifer of the Fourteenth, who apparently was being hero-worshipped by the men in the wake of his recent action, stood around the headquarters office sagging slightly.
‘I need suggestions about the supplies, gentlemen. What are we going to do about food?’
‘We’ve got sacks of bucellatum still on one of the carts. Found them during the night while looking for the scorpion bolts.’
The officers shared a look of distaste at the thought of the hard-tack biscuits used by legions on the march. They were emergency rations, no more. But they would do to keep the men alive for a while. About as nourishing as a horse turd, but filling in the short term.
‘Well if that’s what we have, then that’s what they can eat.’
‘Wish we could eat like the damn Germans, sir,’ grumbled a centurion, earning himself a hard look. They had all stood at the walls at some point during the darkness and the first rays of the morning light and watched the barbarians outside the camp feasting on the goods they had taken from both the sutlers’ stalls and the abandoned legionary forage carts.
Worse still had been watching them parade a grisly line of Roman heads on spear tops as they bounced around the camp. It had taken, as predicted, less than quarter of an hour for the barbarians to overcome the small force. Surrender at the end had gained them nothing, as the bargaining officers and men were beheaded and added to the Roman dead.
‘We can last a matter of days, anyway. After that, we will have to look into the problem again. At least we seem to have the measure of them at the walls now.’
The men nodded. With the arrival of the three cohorts to bolster the defences, the enemy had settled into a siege, making only occasional forays to the gates or walls. It seemed the fort was no longer the easy prospect they had expected and sought, and their voracity had quickly faded. The discovery of the forage carts, however, had explained quite clearly the food situation, and now the Germans simply waited for them to starve.
‘All the martial supplies are distributed around the walls. We…’
The centurion paused in his report at a hammering on the door. Cicero frowned. Interruptions were not acceptable during briefings, but in the circumstances, it might be important.
‘Come!’
The door opened and a legionary scurried in and came to attention with a smart salute.
‘Sir!’
‘What is it, soldier?’
The legionary broke into a wide grin. ‘Relief, sir.’
‘The legions?’ Cicero frowned.
‘Dunno, sir, but there’s thousands of Roman and allied Gaulish cavalry at the end of the valley coming this way, and it’s put the shi… it’s unsettled the Germans, sir. Looks like they’re packing to leave in a hurry.’
The tension in the room broke and the officers breathed deep with relief.
‘Thank Mars and Minerva,’ said the most senior centurion, currently filling in as Primus Pilus. ‘I will never be so glad to see the other legions muscling in on our glory!’ he grinned.
Cicero nodded, though the sense of relief he felt was tempered with worry. If the army was coming, the Fourteenth were saved. But Cicero knew the general well and shuddered at the thought of the interview that loomed in his near future.
Chapter Nineteen
The forest of Arduenna.
The singulares moved down the narrow track, keeping close together. They were not the well-equipped, sizeable unit who had left Caesar’s camp what felt like years before. Gone was the pack train, almost all the supplies used up and what was left cartable by the men. Gone were the mounts. The area of forest they were in now was not conducive to easy riding, and the trail only Ullio and Samognatos seemed able to follow led often through terrain that no horse could negotiate. That hardly mattered now, since it seemed that Ambiorix and his men were also on foot. How else could they manage such terrain themselves. Gone also, however, were more than half the men.
Fronto ground his teeth as he did every time he made the calculation. Nine remaining of an original twenty. Arcadios, Quietus, Magurix, Iuvenalis and Celer alone remained of the sixteen chosen men, along with Palmatus, Masgava, Samognatos and Fronto. Ullio, of course, could hardly be counted among their number for all his presence.
And that meant that they had lost too m
any good men along the way:
Galatos, missing in the druidic town of Divonanto, presumably murdered by the traitor. Myron and Pontius, felled in the woods by Segni warriors. Damionis murdered in his sleep. Brannogenos - not such a good man, of course, fled into the woods to plan further harm. Numisius and Biorix alive - presumably - but sent back to Caesar’s army as messengers. Luxinio dead on watch when the animal-headed bandits had attacked, and Valgus also missing since that fight. And finally, Drusus, murdered on watch last night, though no cause of death could be determined without the medical expertise of Damionis. Damn it!
Nine men. Plus Ullio. And rumour suggested that Ambiorix’s small party of warriors would be a rough match for them.
It was a touch of a concern, given that they could not be more than half a day behind Ambiorix as the fugitive king made for the great river and likely to freedom across its waters among the enemies of Rome. What if they caught up and Ambiorix managed to best his pursuers? It was a real possibility, given how weary and travel worn they all were, the evenness of numbers, the unfamiliarity of Fronto’s men with the terrain and the desperation Ambiorix would be labouring with. Desperation lent strength, as Fronto knew from personal experience.
And yet when he thought deeply on it, Fronto managed each time to convince himself that he would win. Ambiorix may have the strength of a desperate man, but Fronto and his men had determination on a level undreamed of. And the sanction of Arduenna, apparently, added to his own personal deities Fortuna and Nemesis.
If only it weren’t for the uncertainty of what Brannogenos, the sigil-draped superstitious traitor, was up to somewhere in the forest.
One way or another it would be settled soon, and Fronto would invoke the name of Nemesis as he took that bastard by the scruff of the neck and bled him for every secret he had, before sending Caesar the head to put a final halt on the destruction, albeit somewhat late in the day.
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 44
