The Belgae

by S. J. A. Turney

  A disaster.

  Fronto paced along the crest as his missile units began to fall into formation, the rear ranks still arriving. Something had to be done, and fast. Damn it!

  A familiar voice called out from nearby.

  “Looks like shit, sir, eh?”

  Fronto turned to see prefect Pansa shading his eyes and taking in the scene.

  “This makes shit look good, Pansa. Got any ideas?”

  The prefect shook his head.

  “We can start picking them off from here with arrows, slingshot and spears, but it’s going to be like being bothered by insects for that lot. No way can we make a difference in time to save anyone.”

  Decius came to a halt nearby.

  “Going to have to widen the crossing so our legions can get over.”

  Fronto turned in surprise.

  “How the hell do you propose that?”

  Decius shrugged. “I really don’t know, but that’s what we’ve got to do. If we can get more men over there, we can create a proper bridgehead. If that happened, they could then force the Belgae back between the bridge and the fort and start setting up a proper line while everyone else crossed. After that, it’s battle as usual.”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “Makes sense, I suppose, but it doesn’t solve how we get more men across.” He frowned as he looked down at the chaos. “Rafts? Boats?”

  Decius shook his head.

  “Too slow. We’d have to build the rafts and then only a few could cross at a time. Sabinus would be dead long before we could get there.”

  Somebody noisily cleared their throat so close behind Fronto that he jumped slightly. He turned to see prefect Galeo staring off toward the huge camp above them, a thoughtful frown on his face.

  “Would you kindly not sneak up on me like that!” he snapped at the prefect.

  “Hmm? Oh, sorry sir. Think I’ve an idea.”

  The other three officers turned to him.

  “You want to get the men across? Well you either have to go over, which means a bridge or boats… or you just move the river.”

  “What?”

  “A dam” the prefect replied, still staring up at the camp.

  Decius smiled.

  “Go on, Galeo.”

  “Well… I reckon that bridge we built down there is good and strong. It was built to support the weight of several loaded supply carts. The piers of the bridge are quite close together.” He pointed up at the stockade atop the camp’s rampart. “And we’ve got a massive ready supply of great big logs.”

  Fronto frowned.

  “That’s bloody dangerous. What happens if we break the bridge? Then we’ve done their job for them.”

  Decius nodded. “That’s not the only danger. What if you succeed and the water level rises enough to reach the bridge and flows over the bank?”

  Galeo smiled.

  “Then a hundred thousand Belgae drown. Doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

  Fronto’s face slowly split into a smile.

  “Galeo, you clever bugger, you! You’re in charge of the dismantling. Get the Gaesati up there and start work tearing down the stakes... they can’t hit the Belgae from here anyway.” He turned to the others.

  “Get all the archers and slingers concentrating on that mass of Belgae near the bridge. Send any spearmen up to Galeo. I’m going to find some men from the Thirteenth or Fourteenth to help.”

  As the prefect started shouting out commands, Fronto descended the slope toward the bridge. The journey was short but perilous, with rabbit holes pock-marking the steep turf incline to trip the unwary, and his ankle occasionally giving a little ‘twang’ of pain. As he slid and ran he took note of the disposition of the legions.

  Balbus had led the Thirteenth into the front. In fact, as he carefully scanned the other end of the bridge, he could occasionally spot the legate’s plume bobbing around amid the violence. He shook his head. Balbus used to be careful and command from a position of safety. The longer he spent with Fronto and Crispus and the others, the more reckless he was becoming. Still marshalled on this side of the bank, hanging back from the action, were the Fourteenth. As he watched, occasional pila arced out from the reserve legion toward the Belgae on the far bank, falling harmlessly into the swift current.

  “Men of the Fourteenth!” he called forcefully as he finally reached the shore level.

  The legionaries turned and the nearest men saluted.

  “The next soldier who throws a pilum into that river will have one jammed up his arse. Don’t waste weaponry. And I know some of you don’t understand me, so if you do, make sure you pass that on!”

  A plume wobbled around at the far side and then a gap opened in the lines as Plancus, red-faced and angry, strode back towards him.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Fronto? These are my men, and I ordered them to harass the enemy with javelins.”

  Fronto growled.

  “Most of them can’t even get half way across, Plancus. No one stands a chance of hitting a barbarian. Save your weapons. We’re going to pull off a little trick in a few minutes and give you men a chance to get across and into the action. When we do, get over there and help solidify that bridgehead and drive a connecting line to the fort.”

  The legate stared at him.

  “Look, Plancus. This is your first command and your first action. I know they’re your men, but I’ve been commanding legions for twenty years. Take my advice and use it.”

  The young officer glared for a moment and then nodded.

  “Where do want me and what signal will you give?”

  Fronto pointed.

  “Form up on the downriver side of the bridge, about twenty men abreast. You’ll know when to go, if this works.”

  Plancus saluted stiffly, and Fronto gave him a half-hearted response.

  As the young officer began to manoeuvre his legion, Fronto pushed further through to the rear of the Thirteenth Legion, massed around the bridge and waiting to cross.

  “Any of you lot engineers?”

  The men of the Thirteenth looked around in surprise and saluted the senior officer.

  “Come on, come on…” he shouted.

  A stocky legionary at the rear with an extremely unfashionable but plainly Gallic beard shrugged, the braids at the side of his head scraping along the edge of his helmet. In a fairly thick Gallic accent, he spoke up.

  “Had some training sir. A few of us have, but we’ve not really had the chance to put it to use.”

  Fronto grinned at him. “That’s about to change, soldier. Get a dozen or so good men together and come with me.”

  As soon as the Gaulish legionary and a few of his compatriots reached him and saluted, Fronto pointed up to the camp, where several sections of palisade had already visibly gone.

  “Up there, come on.”

  Half a minute later, he reached the top of the slope with his party. The new recruits of the Thirteenth looked on with interest as an officer and a number of ebony-skinned auxiliaries worked on dismantling the legions’ camp. The engineer frowned as he saw two of the palisade stakes dropped to the ground and let roll down the hill where they disappeared into the river with a splash.

  “What are they doing, sir?”

  Fronto pointed at the stockade.

  “We’re going to roll the timber down into the river to dam it at the bridge.”

  “That won’t work, sir.”

  Fronto turned on him. “Why not?”

  “Well, the timbers are big enough, sir, but they’ll just bounce around on the surface and some will just float under the bridge end-on. It just won’t work, sir… take it from me.”

  The legate fumed, rubbing his temples. “Well we’ve got to do it somehow.”

  The legionary shrugged.

  “It’s vaguely possible we could drop a section of the palisade as it is down from the bridge? That would dam the river pretty well.” He frowned. “But can I ask what you’re wanting to dam the riv
er for, sir?”

  Fronto pointed at the Fourteenth Legion, lining up on the bank downstream of the bridge.

  “Need to lower the water level so the legions can cross in bulk, rather than jammed tightly onto that bridge.”

  Again, the legionary shook his head.

  “But if you dam the river at the bridge, sir, with that current, you’ll only have a couple of minutes, and then the river will flood the flat land above the bank before flowing back round the dam. Basically you’ll be putting the entire battlefield ankle-deep in water and mud, and there’ll still only be time to run a few men across. And think of how dangerous the river bed might be, sir? Could be deep mud.”

  Fronto rounded angrily on him with a growl.

  “Then what do you suggest? I’m running out of time very quickly, and you’re just tearing down any idea we have.”

  The legionary frowned. “We’ll just have to go over the river, sir. Safer, dryer, and probably quicker.”

  “What? How?”

  The man gestured at the palisade.

  “If we stop tearing them apart, you can see the stockade is already solidly bound. The whole thing is tightly-roped together. Standing upright, it’s a stockade. Lay it flat, sir, and it becomes a bridge.”

  Fronto blinked. “That’s genius! Can you do it?”

  The legionary tapped his chin.

  “I’d say we want ninety feet of stockade to be sure we reach across. We want to check the rope binding and maybe strengthen or repair it where needed. Then several men are going to have to cross, dragging one end by ropes. Then they have to secure it to the bank. They can do that using some of these stakes that have already been dismantled. Then men at this end haul it tight and secure the near end. It wouldn’t take the weight of a cart, and you’ll have to limit the number of men that cross at a time. I’d say not more than thirty or forty. But a lot safer than a dam.”

  Fronto grinned. “And can you do it quickly?”

  The man nodded.

  “With enough men. Give me a century and it’ll take about five minutes to take a section down and check the bindings; then another five to get it down the hill and into the water. Five more to get it across and then five or ten to secure it at both ends. I’d say, twenty or twenty-five minutes at the quickest. Is that fast enough, sir?”

  Fronto shook his head. “Maybe… maybe not. It’ll certainly be tight.”

  The legionary shrugged again. “Can’t think of a better way, sir. The dam won’t work, though. I do know that.”

  Fronto’s brow furrowed. “If we’re cutting it that fine, I need to get as many men across as possible. Can you string more than one of these across?”

  “Given enough men, I don’t see why not, sir, but the men swimming across and securing the bridge will need to be protected from the enemy while they work.”

  Fronto smiled.

  “Alright. Go up and explain it quickly to Galeo. Him and his men will get started. Get three sections of palisade down. We’ll string them across between here and Sabinus’ fort. The walls of the fort will protect you from the enemy when you get across and you can secure the ropes to it. Might make it quicker. We’ll give you covering fire as you work. Once you get across, shout to the defenders and they can take down sections of the rear wall so we can get the legions across and straight into the fort. I’ll go back down and send you up a cohort.”

  The legionary saluted and ran off up toward the auxiliary prefect where he worked at the stockade. Fronto watched him go, impressed. Caesar had underestimated these non-citizen legionaries. Glancing down at the scene below, he realised that Sabinus had pulled much of his force away from the rear wall by the river to bolster the beleaguered men at the other three walls. As he scanned the shoreline, frowning, he turned to the auxiliary archers and their commander nearby.

  “Decius!”

  The prefect looked back up from where he was pointing out targets to his men.

  “Sir?”

  “Sabinus’ rear wall is unprotected and there are a few Belgae trying to get round on the river bank. Discourage them, will you? And shortly we’ll be trying something there, so have your men concentrate on keeping that rear wall completely clear of barbarians.”

  Decius nodded and smiled, turning back to his men. There were small groups of Belgae making their way along the bank toward the badly-defended riverside ramparts. Moments later, as Fronto watched, arrows began to find their targets and barbarians toppled into the water with a splash. The current down by the bridge began to take on a pinkish hue.

  Without waiting any longer, he ran once more down to the men of the legions below.

  “Plancus!” he bellowed. The young legate turned from his position by the bank.

  “Change of plan. Get your men to the river opposite the fort.”

  Without waiting for acknowledgement or reply, he ran across to the soldiers at the near end of the bridge.

  “Whichever cohort’s near me, get up that hill and join in. They’ll tell you what to do. Now go!”

  The signifers and centurions pushed their way through the mass and started to run up the hill, the legionaries following their standards. Fronto took a deep breath and ran across to the ground opposite the fort. Briefly, and nervously, he looked back up the hill at the archers firing their arrows overhead, but the missiles were coming down with deadly accuracy on the opposite bank and picking off the last barbarians brave enough to try the difficult approach.

  He watched with unease for several minutes, tapping his fingers nervously on his scabbard and then, turning, squinted past the ranks of archers to check the activity at the top of the slope. Once again, he was impressed with the quality of these men. Already the three sections of palisade were unearthed and being gently moved down the slope. Even as he watched, the archers parted to allow the engineers and legionaries through with their makeshift bridges. Gods, they were fast.

  “Hold on, Sabinus. We’re coming…”

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later, Fronto was still standing on the north bank, twitching at the urgency of their mission. He watched with growing tension as the legionary engineer, whose name he had discovered was Biorix, tied off the last rope securing the far end. Now all three bridges were attached to the opposite bank. Tapping his foot impatiently, he watched the engineers carefully hauling the bridge ropes as tight as possible and then tying them to the stakes that had been hammered into the ground here. Opposite, three large holes had been broken in the fort’s riverside rampart.

  He clucked his tongue irritably and was about to shout something when he saw Biorix waving at him. With a sigh of relief, he turned to the legion assembled behind him.

  “Get across. Twenty men to each crossing at a time for now!”

  The legionaries stormed onto the makeshift bridges and Fronto watched with sudden alarm as the wooden walkway dipped and disappeared below the water. However, it took but a moment for him to realise they had only sunk a little under the weight of the men. The soldiers, nervous though they were, crossed in water only ankle deep. As the first men reached the far side and ran into the fort, a familiar figure in burnished armour and with a red plume appeared in one of the gateways. Sabinus was directing the new arrivals to plug the worst gaps in his defences.

  With a sigh of relief, Fronto turned to Plancus.

  “Looks good. I’m going across. I think we can just settle now into getting one century across at a time.”

  The young legate nodded, staring with clear nerves at the submerged and shuddering bridge. Ignoring him, Fronto joined the next group of men to cross. Splashing along the thirty yards, he grinned as he climbed up the embankment and Sabinus slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Thought you’d never get here, Marcus!”

  Fronto breathed deeply.

  “We nearly didn’t. Clever engineers, eh?” He gestured back across the river.

  “Indeed. What’s your plan?”

  Fronto blinked. He hadn’t got as far as a plan. Jus
t getting here had been his plan.

  “Well Caesar’s on his way with the other legions. We need to drive a wedge between the Belgae and the river, so that the Thirteenth can form a bridgehead and secure the bank. Once that’s done, we can marshal the men and begin to actually do the job. You need to get runners out around the Belgae somehow to pass instructions to Varus, and others back across to the missile troops. If Varus can start trying to help thin them out towards the bridge and the prefects above can concentrate their fire on the area where the Belgae are thickest, we can divide the men between maintaining the defences here and joining up along the bank with the Thirteenth at the bridge.”

  Sabinus laughed.

  “Oh… nothing simple, then?”

  Fronto shook his head.

  “We’re still up against enormous odds, but now we can actually start to bring tactics into play.

  Sabinus nodded. “I’ll get the messengers out and get back to the walls. You concentrate on things by the river, yes?”

  Fronto nodded. As the next group of men crossed the bridge, he called them over. Their centurion stepped to the front.

  “I need you to head along there between the wall and the river and when you get to the end start to push out into the Belgae. Don’t try and engage properly. I just want a shield wall that moves slowly outwards. Reserves will be coming up to support you. We’re going to keep pushing them back until we control the whole bank and meet up with the Thirteenth at the bridge, alright?”

  The centurion saluted and nodded. Without a word, he and his men picked their way along the difficult terrain towards the open ground on the river bank. Fronto watched them go and then turned his attention back to the bridge. The next century had just arrived. The legate pointed into the fort.

  “To the walls!”

  The men saluted and ran off into the fort. Fronto turned back to the bridge and smiled. Plancus was coming across with the next group, stepping lightly as a dancer, as though there were sea monsters beneath the surface. As the young man, visibly relieved, arrived on the bank, Fronto clasped hands with him.