Something nearby made a groaning noise.
‘What was that?’ the commander of the Tenth frowned.
‘Don’t know, sir. Sounded like an old building settling.’
The two men looked about in confusion. The soldiers who were carrying the last few baskets back from the walls, as well as the heavy stakes they had used to tamp down the ramp’s surface, had paused, their faces equally concerned.
Another deep rumble echoed around them and their attention was drawn to the ramp’s centre where, turning, they watched in horror as the nearer of the siege towers sank into the ground up to the top of its wheels.
‘What in shitting Juno’s name…?’
Suddenly Pomponius, the senior engineer of the legion, was pushing his way back along the line of legionaries under the shelters, shouting.
‘What is it?’ Fronto barked.
Pomponius spotted the two officers. ‘Run, sirs!’
Around them the soldiers had begun to move, heeding the shouts of the engineer, rushing back down the slope. There was a low groan and a thud beneath their feet and the twin wooden legs supporting the vinea above them sank a few feet into the ramp, tilting the whole structure dangerously.
‘Oh, shit.’
He and Carbo began to run with the others as all around them more groans arose, vinea struts sinking, the timber-and-hide tunnels tilting and coming slightly askew. The whole ramp appeared to be sinking, and Fronto almost lost his footing as a ripple or wave shuddered across the gravelled surface, which dropped perceptibly.
‘What have they done?’ Fronto shouted breathlessly as he caught up with Pomponius, the ground bucking under his feet.
‘Undermining, the clever bastards, sir.’
As he ran, Fronto risked looking back and was dismayed to see that the top end of the ramp had sunk perhaps ten feet, leaving a wet scar of mud where it had previously butted up against Avaricon’s ramparts. There was no hope now of the towers reaching the top of the walls. The ramp would have to be rebuilt, rising at least as high again, if that were even possible with its foundations crippled as they must now be.
‘They’ve tunnelled underneath while we worked, supporting the mine with wooden struts,’ the engineer added, unable to refrain from an explanation. ‘And as soon as we were almost there, they’ll have stuffed their mine with straw, wattle and kindling and set fire to it.’
‘Will the ramp be salvageable?’
Pomponius’ expression suggested that he doubted it, but he made a non-committal gesture.
‘That’s the least of our damned problems,’ snapped Carbo, suddenly sliding to a halt and arresting the other two men’s momentum with an extended hand as he turned and pointed. Fronto and Pomponius heard the discordant honking and booing of the carnyxes just as they saw the gates to either side of the ramp swing open, warriors pouring from them. Other figures appeared atop the walls, dancing flames of torches all along the line.
‘They’re attacking!’ Pomponius said in disbelief.
‘No. that would be suicide. They’re after the vineae and the towers,’ Carbo replied, and Fronto blinked. If the Bituriges gained control of the ramp for even quarter of an hour they would be able to utterly destroy the towers and shelters. Added to the sinking of the ramp, that would set back the Roman assault by weeks and, with the level of hunger the army was suffering, would effectively put an end to the siege.
‘Stop running!’ he shouted.
* * * * *
Cavarinos smiled down at the chaos on the ramp. The two forces that were spilling from the gates were already clambering up the steeply-sloping sides of the ramp, having a great deal of difficulty negotiating the precipitous escarpment, but managing slowly.
Some of the more alert Romans who had been near the top of the ramp and who had apparently realised what was happening had begun to hack at the ropes that held the two siege towers tethered in position, while others had run back to try and heave the wedges out from behind the wheels, allowing them to roll the intact tower back down the slope and out of danger. The other tower had sunk enough that it would not move without a lot of help, but they were doing their best there too, anyway.
‘Archers and torches,’ Cavarinos shouted above the jubilant din on the wall, ‘aim for the shelters. Burn them. Flask bearers, you know what to do.’
The air was still filled with a damp mizzle, and the Roman vineae would be difficult to ignite, soaked as they were, but rain would not save them tonight. All the Bituriges had to do was get a single fire started and it would eventually spread on its own, down the line of shelters and all the way to the bottom.
As the archers dipped the tips of their arrows into the flaring, sizzling torches, waiting until they burst into golden life and then loosing them at the hide-coated roofs, other men flung spitting torches over the parapet and down onto the shelters. At two places on the walls, twin groups of a half dozen men, chosen for their accuracy with a throw, hurled pottery flasks, which smashed upon impact with the timber structures, spreading oil, which immediately caught with the fiery missiles, blossoming into an orange inferno and racing across the first few vineae.
Cavarinos smiled in satisfaction and waved a hand in signal.
Behind him, two more groups of men rose to the rampart top. The first were carrying baskets of splintered kindling, armfuls of broken timber and other combustible materials - a line of men stringing out behind them down to the town from whence they came. The second group hauled a huge cauldron suspended from two stout oak staves, taking care not to spill the spitting, steaming contents. The first group reached the parapet and cast down their kindling, scurrying away to go and fetch more. As the second timber-carrying party arrived and followed suit, the cauldron bearers turned, struggling with the horrible weight, and strained with gritted teeth, lifting it to the parapet and, at the nod from Cavarinos, tipping it over the side.
The Arverni nobleman shuddered as he watched the burning, bubbling pitch sluice down, covering a wide area, immediately igniting the cast-down timbers and running in lava-like burning streams down the slope of the ramp. Three of the legionaries who had slashed through the rope had not fled fast enough and staggered around below, issuing unearthly wails as the sizzling liquid sloughed the flesh from their bones even as they ran, eating away at them.
It was not an honourable or even a pleasant way to pursue a war, but the Romans had begun this, and now every trick had to be utilised.
The slope was an inferno, the tricking burning pitch starting to make the siege towers smoulder. The first men of the two sallying forces reached the top of the ramp sides and emerged beneath the vineae further down, launching an attack on the fleeing Romans and heaving at the shelter legs, trying to tip them out away from the ramp.
It was horrible. It was thrilling in a soulless, dark way. It was their own blow against the besiegers, and it might just end this.
* * * * *
Fronto turned at the sound of his name to see Grattius, the primus pilus of the Ninth legion, pushing his way through the mess.
‘Nightmare,’ was all Fronto managed to shout above the din. Grattius nodded. ‘Yes, legate. I’ve got the lads from my First cohort starting to bring buckets of water to the ramp to douse the flames.’
‘Good man,’ shouted Fronto. ‘You concentrate on that, and on getting those two siege towers back out of danger. We’ll deal with the attackers!’
Grattius nodded, saluted, and began to bellow orders to the various centurions and optios under his command, who ran up the slope, water sloshing over the brims of the buckets they carried. Fronto, feeling a little relief that some of the pressure was now being taken by another good officer and that he could divert his attention away from the conflagration, caught sight of Pomponius and Carbo, standing at the ramp’s edge, looking up at the action further along.
‘Pomponius?’
The pair turned to him and the engineer, soot-stained and damp, saluted.
‘Gather up four centuries of the
Tenth. Split them in two. You take one and assign the other to a man you trust. Secure the vineae as best you can. Try to preserve them and repair them if you can. And see if you can get those two towers back out of danger, too. I want as much of this debacle salvaged as possible.’
Pomponius saluted and immediately ran off, pointing at a nearby optio and shouting for him.
‘Carbo? Have you sent word back to the camp?’
It was a somewhat redundant gesture. The attack on the ramp would have drawn the attention of a deaf and blind man, and Caesar - a man who rarely slept at the best of times - would have been watching anyway, but still, some formalities had to be observed regardless of the situation.
‘All done, sir. And messengers to the Tenth. The other cohorts are on their way, now. Your singulares too.’
‘Good stuff. Leave a man at the bottom to direct them as they arrive. We’re going to deal with those bastards.’ He pointed at the Gauls scrambling up the side slope into the lines of vineae.
Carbo nodded with a malicious grin and began shouting the orders. In moments, the call had been taken up by the musicians and standard bearers, and units of tired, grubby and soaked men from the Tenth began to fall into units.
Taking a position alongside a heavy-set optio he did not know - and who must therefore be a recent draft or promotion during his absence - Fronto drew his elegant, decorative blade and ran up the sheltered line of vineae to where he could now see the Gallic sally party launching into a group of beleaguered legionaries beneath a vinea that was leaning out over the side. The Romans were armed with swords, but devoid of armour, helms or shields, due to having been hauling around baskets of rocks.
‘Come on, lads. Get ‘em.’
A few moments of deep rasping breaths as he ran, and Fronto launched himself at the nearest of the Gauls, slamming his sword point first into the man’s side, angled slightly downwards under the arm and as high up as he could strike, feeling only minimal resistance as it grated along the bone and plunged deep into lung and heart. The Gaul gurgled as he turned wide eyes upon his killer and a black-red gobbet choked from his open mouth. Fronto hauled him away and the body tumbled out over the open ramp side as he ran at the next man, who had turned to meet this new threat. He felt a man move at his left and saw a heavy shield smash forward and down to shatter the bones of a Gaul’s foot, then back up, pushing the man over the edge and down the steep incline. At the same time, a man with the feathered and crested helmet of an optio appeared at his right, stabbing and slashing like a madman. Fronto felt a faint tinge of annoyance as the man jabbed out at Fronto’s own opponent. But how could he blame the optio, really? Fronto didn’t know him, but as far as the man was concerned he was just trying to help his legate. After all, few legates ever involved themselves in the action.
Pommel-bashing the reeling man in the face, Fronto pushed forward. The press of the Gauls was quite heavy and a moment later he was in the mass of men, hacking, stabbing and slashing at any unprotected flesh, knowing his own soldiers were now behind him. He felt a slash across his upper arm, and another one across his knuckles, though neither would be deep enough to need more than a light binding afterwards.
The press opened up a little under his onslaught, his men behind him also causing havoc among the Gallic raiders. Fronto stabbed hard and his latest opponent screamed and fell back and to one side, the sword fast in his chest. Fronto struggled to keep his grip and suddenly, as he was pulled forward by the falling body, trying not to let go of the hilt, a big shape loomed in front of him. His eyes widened as he took in the heavy-set warrior with a chieftain’s gold and bronze accoutrements, a thick beard and a silver serpentine arm-ring. He had only a moment of recognition as the big Gaul snarled at him and raised his sword to bring it down and split Fronto’s skull in half.
He’d seen this noble so many weeks ago, up at Vellaunoduno, when the astute Arvernian who had negotiated the surrender had left southwards with the survivors. The brothers. How stupid was he to have let them go, when now…
He closed his eyes. His sword was still stuck in the limp form. His other hand was empty and trapped by his side in the press. The renewed crush of Gauls prevented him from ducking back or to the side out of the way. Nothing he could do to avoid that Damoclean sword poised above his head, ready to fall and end his life.
Nothing happened. It had been two heartbeats. Long enough for that sword to have fallen and split his brain in half. His eyes shot open and he stared at the big chieftain before him, whose own eyes had widened. The raised sword fell from the man’s hands and the big Arvernian toppled to the side, tumbling down the steep ramp. Behind him another Gaul stood, braced, a bloodied spear in his hands.
It was only when Samognatos winked at him that Fronto recognised the Condrusi scout he had sent back with the fleeing Gauls that day in Vellaunoduno. He stared, but Samognatos was already gone from sight, ducking back into the press, getting himself out of immediate danger.
‘Was that who I think it was?’ asked Palmatus, suddenly arriving at his side and bending to help free Fronto’s sword.
‘It was.’
Fronto felt himself turned by his singulares officer.
‘Kindly stop pissing off into danger without letting your guard know first, you knob-head, sir. You get stuck with a spear and we don’t get paid!’
Fronto stared into Palmatus’ grinning face.
‘We’ve got them on the run,’ the former legionary said. ‘And the flames are dying down in most places.’
Fronto heaved a sigh of relief and looked up into the damp, dark sky. Faint lighter streaks were visible in the clouds above, despite the billowing smoke rising from the ramp where the flames were being doused with endless buckets of water. The silhouettes of the two siege towers were gradually moving back down the ramp, one faster than the other, which was having to be extricated from the sunken gravel as it moved.
‘It’ll be getting light soon. Things are coming under control here. But this was damned close, Palmatus. They almost stopped us completely tonight.’
‘Almost, but not quite.’ The press of Gauls had been driven back, now that more and more men from the Tenth were arriving on the scene. Effectively, the two men were in the clear as that optio who’d been at his side took to pushing the last few enemies back. Most were now scrambling desperately back down the ramp to the gates that were being closed even as they ran. Fronto spotted one man fleeing and was not surprised somehow to see that it was the big bearded chieftain, clutching his wounded shoulder as he made for the safety of the gate. He hoped Samognatos had made it back safely and not been noticed jabbing another Gaul.
‘Wonder what they’ll try next?’
Palmatus crouched, picking up a broken spear, the glinting Gallic point narrow and tapering, only a foot of ash below it. The ex-legionary licked his lips and raised it in the manner of a throwing knife. Fronto followed the man’s glance. On the wall above the gate stood an unarmoured Gaul, hurling pots of combustible liquid into the mess of the ramp, trying to reignite the place. One of the pots hit a legionary and what might have been tallow spattered across him. The soldier, his eyes wide in panic, stepped quickly away from the fire he had been putting out and ducked under the cover of the nearest vinea, stripping to the skin to be rid of the mess before a stray flame caught him.
Palmatus exhaled slowly and remained perfectly still. Then, with the sharpness of an attacking cobra, the man hurled the spear point. It slowly revolved in the air as it passed the twenty-some paces to the wall-top nearby. Fronto nodded in appreciation as the spear hit the pot-throwing man, haft-first, admittedly, but hard enough to send him flying from the wall.
‘Nice throw.’
‘Masgava’s been teaching me a few things.’
‘Ah… he has a new apprentice, then.’
Another Gaul appeared in the same position and Fronto grinned at Palmatus. ’Bet you can’t do it twice.’
‘Watch and learn, sir.’
Crouching, the
bodyguard retrieved a dropped spear and snapped the head from it over his knee, leaving another foot-long shaft of elm.’
He hefted it and took aim. The throw was wild and a gust of air took it off course. Palmatus clicked his tongue as he watched his missile fall away into the dip, but blinked in surprise as the man on the wall, standing and holding aloft a new flask to throw, was suddenly struck so hard he was hurled back over the wall. The two Romans looked around for the source of the missile and laughed as they saw a pair of artillerists reloading a scorpion a few paces away, dragging back the string with the ratchet ready for a second shot. They were fast… truly efficient at their job, and they were almost ready to fire again even as a third Gaul clambered into position, a friend passing him a pot to throw.
‘Don’t fancy his chances,’ Palmatus grinned. Fronto nodded.
‘Come on. I need a drink.’
They turned their back on the walls to make their way back down the slope but heard the tell-tale twang, thud and whish of the scorpion firing and a cry of pain from above.
‘Told you.’
Chapter 9
Avaricon
‘You know they won’t hold out much longer,’ complained Gannascos of the Bituriges, earning a round of agreement from his fellow tribesmen and a few other sympathisers. Vercingetorix fought down his irritation, his features made menacing by the flickering light of the fire and the braziers in the tent. Sleep was beginning to appeal.
‘Avaricon is still well-provisioned and its defences hold. Moreover, the defenders have set back the Roman attack by weeks, and Caesar does not have weeks before his army mutinies through hunger. They are close to starvation. Avaricon can hold long enough.’
‘The Romans nearly had them yesterday.’
The Great Revolt Page 20
