The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  He had entertained himself throughout his four hour vigil by conversing with Decius and had been surprised to learn that the man had served in many of the same places in Spain as Fronto had during that campaign. Given the risk of what they were about to try, he found himself exceedingly grateful to have an experienced veteran of that calibre with him.

  He crouched and made his way across to Decius and his archers. The Cretans looked so underdressed for war, in Fronto’s opinion. Plain linen tunics and sandals, with a helm, shield and bow. But he had to admit, they moved fast, light and quiet. In retrospect, given what they would have to do, he couldn’t have chosen better units for the job, though he’d have preferred a colour that stood out less than plain linen. At least they weren’t bright white. One of the prefects had come up with an idea that the men roll around in the dirt to darken their clothes and it had worked to some extent. Black tunics would still have been better, though.

  His jaw clamped tight, he gestured to his men and the various prefects began moving their units down the slope as slowly and quietly as they could. As always, Fronto led the column, Decius directly behind him, and the large, mismatched force slipped down the grass and into the reeds at the water’s edge like ghosts.

  Fronto stepped carefully amid the treacherous plant life and sucking mud as he slowly made his way along the bank, watching for the occasional tree root that snaked out of the soil to his right and threatened to catch or trip him. Insects whined around his ears and repeatedly bit him on the arms and scalp while his feet slowly numbed in the cold water.

  He smiled as he imagined what this would look like from the far side. Ghosts is what they’d seem, pale and silent in the darkness. It was going to be a long trek. They would have to travel the better part of a mile at this slow and difficult pace before they could even think of climbing the bank unnoticed. Somewhere behind him he heard a splash and he glanced irritably over his shoulder before stepping on.

  The last purple shimmer of evening lay ahead and to the right on the skyline, outlining the bulk of the oppidum on its plateau and the shallow v of the river in its dip. Fronto kept glancing nervously ahead and to the left, trying to make out the details of the Belgic guards on the far bank.

  He could see the flicker of camp fires, but couldn’t tell whether they were singing and drinking due to the increasing noise from close by on this bank. They were approaching the host of Belgae now. Fortunately, the enemy had had the sense to encamp some distance from the river to avoid the midges and other winged nuisances that continued to bother Fronto and his men. Still, an insect bite was less worrisome than a sword blow, as he kept telling himself.

  As least, even with plain linen tunics, they would be unlikely to be spotted from the far side. The temperature was dropping rapidly, as it seemed to do in Gaul during the late spring and early summer, and that had resulted in the Belgae huddling around their campfires. And the beautiful thing about fires was how thoroughly they destroyed a man’s natural night vision.

  Fronto grinned at the twinkling lights slowly drawing opposite.

  They must be half way there now. Not as bad as he thought.

  Suddenly the sound of splashing stopped him in his tracks. For a moment he couldn’t discern from which direction the noise had come, and glanced back angrily, but the sound was coming from somewhere ahead.

  Squinting into the ever deepening darkness, he finally spotted the man standing on the ground above them and ahead, noisily urinating down into the river while whistling some native tune. As Fronto watched with the growing relief that they were still upstream, he noticed that the man had a sack of wine in one hand. As he watched, the man let go of himself in mid stream in order to tilt his head back and use both hands to squeeze the last of the wine out of the skin. With a guttural laugh, he began to shake his hips left and right, spraying a wide arc out onto the water.

  Were it not for his situation, Fronto would have laughed, it was so comical.

  As he watched, he crouched silently in the shallows and waited tensely as the man finished, slung the bag over his shoulder, tucked himself away, spat down into the water, and finally strode away to rejoin his fellow revellers.

  With a frown of distaste, Fronto waited a while, partially to give the man time to get out of earshot, and partially so that the water ahead would have cleared. A minute passed and then the column began to move again.

  With interminable slowness they made their way along the shore, the sounds of the Belgae revels rolling down on them from above. Regularly on the unpleasant journey, Fronto found himself offering up fervent prayers to Bacchus that they wouldn’t suddenly find themselves under the aim of ten thousand emptying Belgic bladders.

  It was with an immense sigh of relief that he noted the sounds of the drunken warriors next to them beginning to fade. Though it was now very dark down here in the river valley, shaded by trees and tall plants, the looming bulk of Bibrax was quite close and quite clear. That, combined with the decreasing volume, put them in the no-man’s land of the slope between the Belgae and the oppidum.

  A quick glance across the rippling surface of the water placed the camp fires of the waiting Belgae almost opposite now. Fronto stopped and, turning, made a motion to Decius. The command went down the line into the distance. It was ridiculous, really. Much like a marching column of multiple legions, this line of almost a thousand men must stretch almost half way back to where they’d started. There could be Spaniards back there being urinated on by drunken Belgae and he’d never know until it turned into a brawl.

  He clicked his tongue, irritated at his own distraction, and made further gestures to be passed on as he climbed slowly and as quietly as possible out of the water and began to clamber up the steep slope at a crouch toward the walls of Bibrax.

  He was finding his breathing more ragged and laboured the higher he climbed and set his gaze resolutely on the nearest area of the walls. Bibrax was clearly packed tightly within its perimeter and limited by the geography. A sizeable building of typical stone and timber construction rose up amid the occasional trunks of oak and beech trees.

  He examined the surrounding wall as he climbed closer. Strangely, despite having spent time around the walls of Bibracte, Vesontio and Durocorteron, he’d never examined their defences. Of course, he’d always been off duty with no likelihood of having to utilise those walls. These ones might mean the difference between life and death for him and his army.

  He tutted with irritation. The defences of Bibrax were clearly, even at first glance, nowhere near as strong as those of the larger oppida he’d visited. Vesontio had had defensive towers, for a start. This wall had no towers, though at least, he noted with relief as moonlight put in a brief appearance, they were faced with stone. They had been constructed by creating a strong wooden framework and then packing the intervening space with tamped earth. Very good against men and they’d be superb against rams or onagers, but flimsy when it came to undermining the structure. Fronto frowned. His plan might still work, but now it carried more danger.

  With a sigh, he finally reached the base of the wall and gestured to the men following him to form up on the riverward side. As the auxiliaries began to join him at the summit, Fronto gazed down the slope at the myriad fires twinkling out across the ground below like a mirrored image of the stars. With a deep breath, he called on Nemesis, his favourite deity, to protect them all tonight and tomorrow. That was a lot of Belgae. He’d have to play it clever, as a straight fight would be suicide.

  Another few gestures and his men began to climb the side of the wall. Stretching, Fronto turned his gaze back the way they’d come. The last hundred or so of his men were just reaching the slope and climbing out of the water now.

  Simultaneously, the world around him exploded into activity. Behind and above him, one of the Remi guards above the rampart had finally spotted the men climbing and had thrust out with his spear, catching a Cretan auxiliary with a nasty stab in the shoulder and hurling him from the wall. The shou
t went up on the rampart and Bibrax burst into noisy life. Men appeared above them with spears and the Cretans climbing the wall paused in their ascent, afraid to climb further.

  Fronto didn’t have time to worry whether he could call out to the Remi and claim friendship without drawing attention from the rest of the Belgae below and endangering the last of the troops in his column. Something had happened at the back; perhaps another urinating warrior had seen them? He couldn’t tell from this distance, but clearly something had gone wrong.

  Trying to block out the noises above him for a second, he concentrated and could finally hear the faint sounds of combat down by the water.

  “Shit!”

  He turned and looked up.

  “We’re Romans!” he yelled. “Roman relief force, get it?”

  There was no reply, so he bellowed out again.

  “Roman!”

  Somewhere on the wall, a guttural voice said “Romani?”

  “Yes, bloody Roman! Roman!” he shouted again, as the call was taken up by the prefects and other Roman officers.

  Moments later, ropes were fetched and lowered down the wall for the Romans to climb. Fronto shook his head. Why the hell, now that it was clear who they were, didn’t they just direct them to a gate and open it? Grumbling, he turned to look back down the hill. There was now quite a clash going on in the narrow difficult triangle where the hill rose by the waterside. A small party of Belgae had risked the advance in the darkness and were engaging the rear of Fronto’s army. He barked his annoyance at nemesis for her lack of care. The poor bastards at the back were a unit of Spanish slingers, whose grand concessions to armour and weaponry were a linen tunic, a sling and a dagger. Caught up with fierce armoured Belgae wielding large blades, they would be cut to pieces in short order and there was not much Fronto could do about it from up here.

  “Decius! Galeo! Get your archers gathered together here and start firing down into that crowd.”

  As Decius relayed the commands, Galeo stared at Fronto.

  “You’ll hit your own men!”

  Fronto shook his head irritably.

  “Those men are already dead. The Belgae are cutting through them like a grain harvest. At least if we fire down we might drive the Belgae back and save some of our men! Now get to work!”

  As the two units of archers rained their arrows down over the small group of warriors laying waste to the slingers, the remaining troops, now running up the hill to get out of the line of fire, climbed the ropes and made their way to the relative safety of Bibrax. Fronto waited a moment, watching the carnage below, before turning back to the two officers overseeing the covering fire.

  “Keep going until the Belgae leave and the last survivors are on their way up, and then get yourselves up and over the walls. I’m going ahead to find the chief.”

  Decius nodded and turned back to his work as Fronto grasped one of the ropes and began to climb.

  * * * * *

  Inside the walls was a state of chaos. Many of the dirty and bedraggled archers and slingers who had arrived were in position on the walls, ready to give cover to their compatriots still clambering up closer. Warriors of the Remi were in position with heavy swords and long spears. Fronto gazed around the town itself. It looked surprisingly peaceful, with torches burning here and there, lighting the house fronts.

  A figure strode forward out of the press of Remi warriors. He was only of average height, and armed like the rest, but wearing a heavy gold and bronze torc and expensive wristbands. He looked vaguely familiar for some reason.

  “You Roman… Durocorteron.”

  Fronto frowned.

  “Yes, I was there… I… Wait a minute? You’re the other chieftain who was there with Antebrogius. Iccus or something?”

  “I Iccius. Bad Roman.”

  Fronto stared.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bad Roman” repeated Iccius, and tapped himself repeatedly on the chest. Fronto laughed.

  “Ah, you can’t speak Latin! Of course.” He frowned. “Then this is going to get very difficult. I’m assuming none of your people can, and I sure as shit can’t speak yours!”

  “Eh?”

  Iccius’ face was a mask of incomprehension.

  “Oh for Gods’ sake, this is ridiculous. Thank you, Nemesis... I must remember to piss on an altar some time!”

  “What was that?” asked Decius as he arrived.

  “Oh, nothing. Communication issues. Our men are all Spanish, Greek or Numidian apart from the Roman officers. His are all Belgae. No one speaks anyone else’s language here. If it weren’t so bloody frustrating and inconvenient, it’d be comical!”

  Decius frowned.

  “We should have brought a few Gaulish auxiliaries, I suppose. Still, afterthought is no better than no thought, eh?”

  Fronto glared at him.

  “Very helpful.”

  He sighed and turned back to the blank and confused face of the Remi chieftain.

  “This is going to involve a lot of sign language.”

  “Eh?”

  “Oh, Nemesis!”

  He turned back to Decius.

  “If I were someone like Crassus or Caesar, I’d be delegating this shit to you.”

  Decius grinned.

  “If you were someone like Crassus or Caesar, sir, you wouldn’t be here without seven legions!”

  Fronto laughed and squared his shoulders.

  “Right. Let’s try and explain to these Remi what needs to be done.”

  “You’ve not told us yet, sir…”

  Fronto nodded.

  “I’m not sure how feasible my ideas are yet. Wish I’d brought a good engineer with me.”

  Decius opened his mouth, but Fronto cut him off.

  “Yes, I know: afterthought is no better than no thought!”

  He gestured to the growing crowd of damp and uncomfortable auxiliaries.

  “First thing’s first: get them in position right the way round the walls, two archers and a slinger every so many yards apart. I’m guessing the Remi defenders didn’t have many missile weapons before. That’s how the Belgae got in close enough to undermine. They could only throw rocks down. Well when they come back in the morning, I want to be able to pick off every other man who sets foot on this hill. Let’s thin ‘em out before they get anywhere near the walls. We can’t fight them off, but with enough attrition from missiles we might be able to make them give up and move on.”

  He frowned as he rubbed the slimy wet linen of his red tunic between his fingers.

  “And once they’re in position, gather a small group. Get them to collect any loose or dead wood. I want fires at regular intervals. The men can rotate positions every thirty minutes so that everyone gets a chance to dry off and keep warm.”

  “And rest, sir?”

  “Sorry?”

  Decius smiled wearily.

  “The men need some sleep. I would suggest every group of three organises one to stay on watch in shifts.”

  Fronto nodded.

  “Sounds good. Get to it. I’ll be somewhere around with ‘Eh?’, teaching him about siege warfare.”

  He turned to Iccius.

  “Isn’t that right.”

  “Eh?”

  With a sigh, Fronto grasped Decius’ shoulder and then turned away to the chieftain.

  “Come with me.”

  To illustrate his point to Iccius, he beckoned. The chief nodded and followed him, three warriors at his back. Fronto took a deep breath as he approached a clear section of wall and pointed at it.

  “Romans.” He held up three fingers.

  Iccius nodded so Fronto mimed two archers and a slinger to him. Another nod. With a relieved sigh, the legate pointed behind him and held up three fingers again.

  “More Romans.”

  Another nod, so he turned and pointed ahead, repeating the process. As comprehension sank into Iccius, Fronto mapped out regular positions with his fingers.

  “Here comes the fir
st tough one.”

  With another deep breath, he mimed two lots of three Romans again and indicated the space between them.

  “Remi” he announced, miming spears and swords.

  “Eh?”

  “You have to be joking! I’m doing my best, man.”

  Waving his arms frantically and interspersing three fingers here and there, he walked back and forth along the wall, announcing:

  “Roman, Roman, Roman…. Remi… Roman, Roman, Roman…. Remi…”

  A slow smile crept around Iccius’ face. He turned and talked to his companions and they all made affirmative noises.

  “Alright,” Fronto said with relief. “I’m going to assume that means you understand. Let’s move on.”

  He beckoned and climbed onto the wide wall. His plan might work, or might end in disaster. It was all a gamble but, as Caesar had said back at Durocorteron, Fronto was a gambling man. Of course, this gamble was made more perilous when translated from Latin by hand gestures and carried out by a motley force drawn from all over the world. As Iccius joined him, he pointed down at the Belgae.

  Iccius nodded.

  “So far, so good.”

  Reaching down, he mimed digging.

  Another nod.

  He repeated the gesture and pointed up and down the walls, shrugging.

  “Eh?”

  “Nemesis, give me some bloody help here!”

  He repeated the process and added wandering along the wall, looking down. There was a long pause and finally Iccius laughed. Beckoning, he strode fast along the wall. Fronto followed him until he reached a spot that looked like any other and stopped with a smile, pointing at the floor beneath him. Fronto glanced over the parapet and squinted. Sure enough, just below him and to one side was a pile of earth.

  “Thank you. Finally we have some understanding. Alright, there’s three of them.”