His cousin nodded with a smile. Lucterius would relish the chance. Having been forced by expediency to abandon his attack on Narbo, he had been champing at the bit to take red war to the Romans.
‘And you two?’ the king said, gesturing at Cavarinos and Critognatos. ‘Take a couple of thousand of the best warriors you have and make at all speed for Avaricon. Help the weak Bituriges shore up their defences and prepare for Caesar. You will have plenty of time, since the Romans will be delayed by Novioduno. Hold Avaricon, whatever you do, and when we have the Aedui we will come for Caesar. If the gods are with us, we will grind the Romans to dust before its walls.’
Cavarinos looked across at his brother, whose eyes had begun to twinkle with that lust for combat that seemed to drive him above all. He sighed. After the fall of Vellaunoduno he had felt lucky to have got away without taking part in a brutal siege alongside his idiot brother. And now here he was being given a second chance. Wonderful.
‘What of the curse?’ he said quietly. ‘The army should know of it.’
‘They will soon enough. But let us finish building that army first.’
Cavarinos’ fingers crept unbidden to the leather bag at his belt which contained the tablet of Ogmios, and he chided himself for it as he realised.
Men and steel… that was what won wars.
Avaricon, then, would be the first true test of Caesar’s strength and, if things went right, his last, too.
Chapter 7
Northern lands of the Bituriges.
The oppidum of Novioduno was perhaps the oddest Fronto had seen in his time in Gaul. Less than four hundred paces across - little more than an overgrown village, really - Novioduno nestled defensively in a fork in the river, the landward approach obstructed by a canal linking the two waterways and effectively turning the place into an island, reachable only via its northern or southern bridges. Within this artificial island, the narrower, shallower channel to the north was further bolstered by a semi-circular earthwork, which contained the inhabited area and whose ends butted up against the bank of the southern channel.
Had there been a high wall of the usual form, with towers and a strong garrison atop it, the place might have posed something of a problem for the Roman forces. However, instead of the heavy timber-and-stone rampart system endemic of Gallic oppida, this place had apparently been considered so protected by nature that, barring the canal and the earthwork, the Bituriges’ only further concession to protection was a palisade fence of ageing timber.
Likely in their centuries-long disputes with their neighbouring tribes, the water and the fence had been more than adequate to keep them safe until other Bituriges could come to their aid. But then their ancient tribal enemies had not been armed with scorpions, ballistae, onagers and all the paraphernalia of the Roman army.
As the Roman column had appeared over the horizon, the inhabitants had made a spirited attempt to seal themselves off, succeeding in bringing down the bridge over the narrow northern river and turning the only method of access there into a pile of kindling - a move that had clarified the tribe’s true allegiance as far as the Roman command were concerned. Their attempts on the southern bridge, however, had been less successful, being interrupted by the cavalry vanguard of Caesar’s army before the bridge fell and being forced to retreat within the walls.
There had been a brief confab between the officers and the consensus had been that full siege works would be a waste of time and resources, given the meagre defences of the place. And so the Romans had crossed the twin rivers with ease some half mile upstream where they had become narrow and easily fordable, leaving three legions on the northern bank and one between the two channels, taking four more to the south where the remaining bridge stood. It had been argued that a single cohort could rush the gate across the bridge and crack open Novioduno like a nut, but the risk of significant losses had decided the matter. As the army set up its cordon around the town, not even bothering to raise a mound or dig a ditch, the four southern legions brought their siege engines across the fords, positioned them on appropriate flat areas of ground and, without pause, began to loose their missiles across the river and over the low palisade into the narrow streets of Novioduno. It took less than half an hour for the array of engines to find their aim and begin the systematic destruction of the place from a safe distance.
It had taken a further quarter hour for the dreadful honking - like a skein of geese trapped in a copper pipe and being slowly squeezed to death - to wail out from the city and announce the desire for parlay. Fronto had stood with his teeth gritted, listening to the horrible racket and contemplating that if ever there was a true and just cause for the invasion of Gaul, if had been to rid humanity of the inhuman sound of the carnyx. In answer to the defenders, Caesar had ordered a temporary ceasefire from the artillery barrage.
Now, as Fronto stood with the other staff and senior officers at the southern end of the bridge, Caesar looking as imperious as ever on his white horse, the gate in that palisade opened, wobbling a little from where its left-hand jamb had caught a stray rock during range-finding. A party of half a dozen well-dressed men emerged and strode manfully across the bridge in an impressive show of fearlessness, given the number of scorpions that followed their every move, training foot-long iron-tipped bolts on them as they approached.
The lead figure paused on the bridge and gave a curt bow from the waist, quickly straightening and rattling out a stream of words in his native tongue. Caesar glanced at one of the auxiliary cavalry officers - a noble of the Ambarri - sitting ahorse nearby, and nodded. The man cleared his throat and gave a brief summary of the local’s words.
‘The magistrate of this oppidum asks that Caesar remembers the Bituriges’ oath and their longstanding alliance and would ask that he spare his people, who have made no war upon Rome.’
Fronto snorted derisively, but held his tongue as Caesar responded in a clear, commanding tone.
’We are on a somewhat pressing schedule and cannot spare the time to adequately impress upon the Bituriges of Novioduno how disappointed we are that they have chosen to ignore the oath of which the magistrate speaks and instead send aid and warriors to the renegade Vercingetorix.’ He paused for the cavalry officer to translate his words, and then continued. ‘Consider yourselves fortunate indeed that we are so pressed for time and that I am a generous, merciful man, lest I decide to tarry long enough to leave your oppidum a pile of smoking rubble and corpses.’
Another pause, and Fronto was not surprised to note the look of worry that slid onto the magistrate’s face, and the uncomfortable shuffling of his companions.
‘Here are my terms. Due to your recent tendencies towards rebellion, my men will enter your town and impound every weapon they find, denying you the ability to supply further warriors to the enemy. All horses will be confiscated to prevent you sending riders to his aid. And finally, thirty hostages of your highest noble families will accompany a century of my veterans back to Agedincum, where they will remain until this rebellion is put down and I am satisfied. If there is further trouble from the Bituriges of this town, those thirty will be clapped in irons and transported to Rome for sale in the slave market. Do you understand?’
There was a pause for translation, and then a brief heated discussion between the locals before the magistrate nodded his unhappy acceptance of the terms. Fronto watched the man with a frown. He had almost been ready to refuse, despite the blatant mortal danger in which they stood.
Caesar nodded at him, and Fronto gestured to his primus pilus, who stood at the front of the Tenth nearby.
‘Carbo? Take two centuries of men and empty that place of weapons and horses.’
* * * * *
Lucterius of the Cadurci felt his heart sink as the three scouts who rode ahead of his cavalry force - which had kept up an almost dangerous breakneck pace all the way from Gorgobina - reined in by a stand of three elm trees and waved the signal for the column to halt. A sense of foreboding settling on him
, the relief force’s commander picked up speed and raced up the gentle slope to the trees.
His spirits hit subterranean levels as his eyes took in the legions spread out on the plain before Novioduno.
‘We are too late,’ said one of the scouts, somewhat redundantly, given the fact that Lucterius could quite clearly see over a hundred legionaries marching across the southern bridge and into the open gates while the oppidum’s nobles stood in a useless knot, watching their own downfall coming to pass around them.
‘What now?’ another scout asked quietly.
Lucterius fumed. Twice now he had raced to deal a damaging blow to Roman hopes, and twice he had found himself thwarted by the speed and efficiency of their general. His eyes picked out the red-cloaked figure on the white horse, surrounded by officers and Lucterius cursed the man to every god that leapt to mind.
‘We are lucky not to have encountered outriding scouts,’ the first scout reminded him. ‘We will not stay lucky for long. Soon they will discover we are here, so if we are turning back to Gorgobina, we should do so immediately.’
Lucterius ran his tongue along the edge of his top teeth, his mind whirling. He had three and a half thousand horsemen, all strong, determined and experienced warriors. Each was worth at least two Romans in individual combat. The odds were appalling, but more appalling than failing and being forced to retreat again?
‘They have only four legions here, on the southern plain. The others are across the river and will take time to bring into the fray. I can see little sign of their auxiliaries, and only a small force of cavalry - mostly Belgae by the looks of it. Perhaps fifteen thousand infantry, not more than a thousand cavalry - fifteen hundred at most. Seventeen thousand against three and a half. It is far from acceptable odds.’
‘Plus many others who can be brought across the river within an hour or so,’ muttered the scout.
‘The estimated strength in warriors of Novioduno is around a thousand. If we show ourselves, there is a good chance that they will fight with us.’
The scout shook his head in exasperation. ‘That is still four and a half thousand against seventeen. More than four of them to one of us.’
‘But,’ Lucterius smiled slowly, ‘there is something else to consider. Their legions are standing at ease, not prepared for a fight. As far as they are aware they have won the day and are in no danger. And they are formed up facing the town, as are their artillery. We could hit them before they are even aware of who we are. If we hit them fast enough, even a veteran legion will have trouble turning their lines to face us and stopping our charge. And their officers are exposed. There is a chance - a small one, I’ll grant you - but a chance at least, that we could kill Caesar himself. Imagine what that would do to them.’
The scouts were nodding, their faces betraying their uncertainty over the plan’s wisdom, but each picturing their sword biting into the Roman general’s neck.
‘Get back to the column. No tactics. We hit them hard and fast and try to take the commanders. If all goes badly, I will have the horn sounded and we will retreat at speed. Now go.’
* * * * *
Atenos, centurion of the First Cohort’s Second Century in the Tenth legion, former Gallic mercenary and chief training officer of the legion, gestured to the small knot of Biturige nobles who were doing a superb job of impeding his work, standing in the centre of the street just within the gate. They seemed to be arguing over which families would provide hostages for Caesar.
‘Hold your arguments in one of the buildings,’ he barked in his native tongue, not far from that of these despondent nobles, though more refined and inflected with the accent of the Greek and Latin-influenced southern tribes.
The nobles looked up in surprise at this Roman centurion who spoke their tongue like a native, and slowly moved across to the side of the road, still somewhat in the way. Atenos was about to shout at them when his senior centurion, Carbo, shouted down from the second floor of a building close to the gate. He looked up to see the shiny pink face of the centurion within his crested helmet leaning out over a balcony on the second storey.
‘Sir?’
‘This house is a veritable armoury, Atenos. Get some lads in here with a cart. Looks to me like they’ve been preparing for action. Weapons destined for the rebel army.’
Atenos nodded and gestured at a contubernium of his men who were dragging a stubborn, reluctant horse from a stable door nearby. ‘Two of you should be able to manage a horse. The others get in there and help the primus pilus…’
As he turned back to the senior officer on the balcony the air was suddenly rent by a horrendous honking and squawking, and a voice rang out urgently in the local dialect.
‘What the hell was that?’ called Carbo from the balcony, but Atenos was listening to the other, native, voice, his hand cupping his ear and his eyes widening.
‘Enemy cavalry spotted. That’s the call to arms!’
‘Shit!’
As Carbo’s face disappeared from the upper storey, Bituriges appeared from nowhere, stirred by the call and running for the gate. Others were coming up to the palisade, carrying spears or bows. A small group emerged from a side street, running for the house of weapons in which the primus pilus was at work. Atenos felt his head spin. Vercingetorix was here?
‘You!’ he bellowed at a party of legionaries bringing a string of horses down the street. ‘Get inside that building and hold it. Help the primus pilus.’ He gestured to an optio he vaguely recognised, who had emerged from a doorway to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Optio: gather your men and hold that gate!’
Already locals had reached the gate and were busily trying to close it. Atenos drew his blade and ran for the nearest, who was more concerned with pushing the timber structure shut than defending himself. His gladius slammed into the man’s back, sliding between ribs and piercing the organs inside. The man screamed and fell, but the gate continued to swing shut, his comrades still hard at work, trying to keep the legions out.
Again and again, Atenos struck out, stabbing them and pulling them away from the closing portal. Then suddenly there was a deafening ding as something hit his helmet hard and rang it like a bell, shaking his brain and almost causing him to fall. He staggered, his sword momentarily forgotten, and he was spun around as an arrow thudded into his shoulder, hard enough to break bones and only saved from penetration by the double thickness of the mail there.
One of the natives had taken long enough away from the gate to turn on him, and the man raised a sword to bring down in an overhead killing blow, but was sharply knocked aside by a legionary, whose shield boss smashed into him, hard. Then the optio was there with a growing number of men, engaging the Bituriges.
Atenos staggered, bile rising and thick spittle in his mouth at the combination of the pain in his shoulder and the ringing in his ears, which would not stop and which drowned out all other noise. He fell against the wall and was vaguely aware of legionaries fighting to hold the doorway of the house in which Carbo and his men worked. Desperately, Atenos turned to see the gates beginning to pry open once more under the fresh onslaught of the optio and his men.
‘Sound the cornu,’ someone yelled. ‘Rally at the gate.’
Finally overcome by the waves of concussion-induced nausea, Atenos jerked forward and vomited for a long moment before his legs lost all strength and he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he remembered hearing was a desperate call across the river for the legions to form up.
* * * * *
Quintus Atius Varus, Caesar’s commander of cavalry, cursed as he rallied the small force at his command. Had they been expecting trouble, he would have brought the entire cavalry force to the south, instead of a mere thousand, but horsemen were of little use in sieges, so he had been lax.
It seemed the enemy horse numbered perhaps four times their own, without the many thousands of infantry that would be close behind, on the assumption this was Vercingetorix’s van. The enemy had descended the slope wi
th clear purpose, making straight for the commanders where they stood at the end of the southern bridge.
By the time the legions had managed to put out blasts on the instruments and wave the standards, centurions’ whistles piercing the air, the enemy horsemen were already half way to the command party. The ranks of the Tenth - the closest legion - managed with impressive speed and efficiency to turn and form up into the contra equitas, the front rank kneeling and pressing into their wall of interlocking shields, their pila poking out through the gaps to form a hedge that horses would be reluctant to approach, the second rank angling their shields at a slope above the first, adding their own pila to the mass.
Thank Minerva and Mars someone in the Tenth’s rear ranks had their head screwed on and had avoided the urge to panic and scatter the formation. His quickly-called and even quicker-executed command not only saved the Tenth from a brutal cavalry charge, but was likely the only thing that had prevented the enemy from reaching the staff officers beyond them.
But now the enemy horse were turning away from the dreadful wall of javelins and shields and bringing their attention to bear on Varus and his men, who were racing to engage them. Four to one, unless the legions were committed, which Varus thought to be unlikely. Caesar would not give that order, for it would effectively free Novioduno from danger. Indeed, even now, at least a cohort of the Tenth and Twelfth was moving across the bridge to take and hold the town gates, which seemed to be half closed.
Besides, the enemy were all cavalry and could outpace the legions if they so wished.
A fresh horn blast rang across the plain and Varus frowned. It was a Roman cavalry call for a charge and had come from the far side of the field. He craned his neck to see over the advancing Gauls, but could not identify the source of the Roman command.
The Great Revolt Page 16
