‘Capsarius?’ Priscus managed before his knees buckled and he found himself on the wall walk. As he let the sword and shield fall away forgotten, the slope claimed him and he was suddenly rolling down the bank into the busy supply zone. As every thump and rotation drove the shaft inside him into new nooks and crannies, shredding his innards, he recognised that he was now beyond the help of any capsarius. He rolled to a halt on the mud-churned flat ground.
His wild eyes, filled now with a painful blurring, noted two things: a medicus rushing his way, and two men carrying an earthenware jar very carefully. He held up a shaking, bloodied hand to the medicus.
‘No time. Leave me a coin and go find someone you can help.’ The medicus narrowed his eyes, briefly assessing the prefect’s condition, and then nodded, folded a silver sestertius into Priscus’ hand and then ran off. Priscus lay still, feeling his life ebbing with increasing pace like a horse desperate to reach the finish line. All he could do without spasming was to turn his head and so that was what he did, but he couldn’t see much more than the sky, dancing with glowing sparks and embers, and the night-stained turf bank. He concentrated, gritting his teeth against the pain. He could hear grunting that wasn’t him and which he ascribed to the two legionaries with the jar. Then there was a clunk and a thud. A pause gave way to a blattering noise and then, after another long moment: a roar that sounded like the most monstrous lion in the world as the ditch went up.
Priscus closed his eyes and coughed up more blood, listening to the sounds of Gauls dying in his blaze. He grinned, lips blood-slick and dark against a bleached face. ‘Ah, Fronto,’ he murmured to the empty night air. ‘Told you. In the armour just like I said. Always knew I would.’
His arms were almost too weak to lift, but he managed to push the flat disc of the coin under his tongue and then let his arm fall.
‘Come on, then boatman. You’re arseing late!’
* * * * *
Fronto staggered back, a thrown spear ripping two of the hanging leather pteruges from his shoulder and scoring an angry line across his bicep. Cursing, he almost lost his footing and toppled from the rampart top, struggling to keep his feet. The beleaguered Romans had been hard pressed at the inner defences throughout the last couple of hours, the Gauls from the oppidum launching a concerted attack on the entire length of the fence. But in the past quarter hour the entire struggle had become considerably more difficult. In the usual bright moonlight that was the norm of the season, it had been almost like fighting in daylight but then, as the musician called the last watch of the night, the sky had clouded over in a matter of heartbeats and the moon had been submerged beneath a thick blanket of cloud. In moments the battlefield had plunged into unfathomable darkness and now it was exceedingly difficult to see anything beyond a few paces. The Gauls were still launching fire arrows at the fence and towers, and the streaks of gold hurtling towards the rampart effectively night-blinded the Romans and Gauls alike, leaving them flailing.
Recovering with a hiss at the sharp pain, Fronto rushed back to the fence in time to catch a short, wiry Gaul hauling himself over the top. Pulling his arm back, the legate stabbed forward, jamming his blade into the man’s shoulder, close to the neck, driving deep into his chest and yanking sharply back out to retrieve his sword before the man fell away, screaming, into the ditch below. Another figure rose next to him and flicked out with a blade, but Masgava was there, hacking off the man’s hand at the wrist so that both it and the sword it held fell to the walkway and rolled off down the ramp. The screaming man stared at the stump until the big Numidian casually pushed him back over the fence into the mass of flesh below.
Fronto glanced right to see his singulares fighting like demons, and then left to spy the same, along with a tall, spindly legionary who took a heavy axe blow to the chest so hard that it simply carved a trench in the man’s torso, shredding the mail shirt and driving the links in through the flesh.
Another Gaul appeared at the wall and Masgava stepped in before Fronto could deal with him, slamming one of the twin razor-sharp blades he held into the man’s chest and then cleanly severing the head with the other, kicking the falling bloody orb away from the walkway. Palmatus took three steps, crossing the rampart top to join Fronto, lifting his battered and misshapen legionary shield in response to some sixth sense in time to catch an arrow meant for the legate.
‘This is getting bloody ridiculous,’ he shouted at his employer. ‘We need more men.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I know.’
‘An entire stretch of the wall between towers is held by you and your own singulares, you know that?’ Palmatus pointed at the body of the lanky legionary, whose killer was now locked in mortal combat with Aurelius. ‘He was the last regular on this stretch.’
‘I’ll go see Antonius.’
Palmatus nodded and made to follow.
‘No. You stay here and keep the wall safe. I’ll be fine down there.’
His bodyguard commander gave him a hard look, but finally nodded and turned to take on the next of the interminable tide of yelling warriors clambering over the fence.
Fronto took a deep breath and carefully picked his way down the turf bank, his knee threatening to give, the bank slick with blood and boot-churned mud. As he slid the last few feet and righted himself, he looked around in the near darkness until he spotted the standards glittering in the light of the torches. Antonius’ command post, three towers down. Gritting his teeth, Fronto jogged across the churned grass, past scurrying legionaries carrying piles of equipment and capsarii lugging stretchers - some filled, some empty - back and forth. There seemed to be considerably fewer centurions and optios now shouting and directing things in the open space. The outer wall seemed to be in just as much trouble as the inner one, and Fronto noted as he ran that there were at least three places in plain sight where a determined Gaul could force access if they’d known.
Antonius’ command post was little more than two trestle tables, one covered with wax tablets and a platter of half-eaten meat and bread, the other with a rough model of this sector’s defences dotted with wooden markers representing cohorts and supply stations. The tables were surrounded by torches on posts jammed into the ground in a ring, providing light and warmth. Six tall poles stood ready to take a small leather pavilion if the weather suddenly turned wet, which seemed unlikely, the gleaming standards of two legions within their bounds. Antonius himself stood with three tribunes in deep discussion, a number of couriers on hand to carry messages and run errands as required.
Fronto marched past the outer ring of Antonius’ own singulares unit, who gave him only a cursory glance as he approached and nodded their recognition. Antonius looked up at his approach and agreed something with an officer, who hurried off about some business. Another of the tribunes started to ask something of the army’s second in command but Antonius silenced him with a raised hand.
‘Fronto? How goes it?’
‘How do you think?’ Fronto said in low tones. ‘We’re a wet fart from losing the inner wall. We need more men, Antonius.’
The senior officer nodded his understanding. ‘I know. It’s not just you. The whole plain sector is in the same situation. I sent Trebonius off half an hour ago with orders bearing my seal to draft in every man that could be spared from Mons Rea and Labienus’ headquarters and every redoubt and camp in between.’
‘And Caesar’s orders?’
‘Can go hang,’ Antonius said with feeling. ‘I told Trebonius not to take no for an answer, and he’s no fool.’ The officer paused and grasped a wine jar that sat by his half-consumed meal, tipping a healthy dose into his open mouth without bothering to decant it into a cup. ‘Want some?’
Fronto shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks. Maybe later.’
Antonius shrugged and took another large gulp, wiping his mouth and replacing the jar. ‘I hear your singulares are doing good work, Fronto. You must thank them for me.’
Fronto pointed at the jar. ‘Give them a few o
f those when it’s over and they’ll be happy.’
The senior officer nodded. ‘Same for all of us, I’d say. If we make it safe to morning, find my tent and we’ll share a few. Bring your lads with you. Varus too. He’s been stomping around the place like a petulant teenager since he can’t field his cavalry tonight.’
Fronto smiled wearily. ‘I’ll do that. Priscus will appreciate it as well.’
Antonius paused in the act of closing up half a dozen wax tablet cases and looked across at Fronto, his face dark. ‘You’ve not heard?’
A cold chill shot through Fronto and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as a sense of dreadful foreboding flooded through him. ‘What?’
‘Happened early on in the fight. Hours ago, now. Sorry, Marcus.’
Fronto felt his legs tremble, threatening to drop him to the turf and he reached out to the table to steady himself. ‘Priscus?’
‘Yes. He was a good man. You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’
Fronto closed his eyes. Priscus? It seemed unthinkable. He couldn’t actually picture his friend among the ranks of the fallen. The indomitable prefect had even survived that nightmare at Aduatuca five years ago, when the medicus had doubted he’d ever walk again. A picture of Priscus lying silent and unmoving just wouldn’t form. The man was invincible…
Antonius placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘I gather it was fairly quick. He took a stray arrow. An incredibly lucky enemy shot that managed to penetrate the fence. His last act was to fire the enemy crossings. He took dozens of the enemy with him, in effect.’
Fronto could do nothing but stare. Words wouldn’t form in his mouth any more than a picture of a deceased Priscus.
‘Hear that, Fronto?’ Antonius tried. ‘Cornu from Mons Rea. Sounds like Trebonius succeeded.’ He looked into the legate’s hollow eyes with a worried expression. ‘That’s the Ninth’s call to advance,’ he said encouragingly, ‘so we’ll have the walls strengthened in no time. And I think that’s the First’s call, too.’
Fronto turned away, Antonius’ hand falling from his shoulder, unheeded. The senior officer watched him walk off, back the way he came, and gestured for one of the couriers to attend him. As Fronto walked away, he drew his gladius with deliberate, slow menace, and Antonius tapped the courier on the shoulder and pointed at the retreating form of the legate.
‘Find a couple of contubernia of men and look after legate Fronto. I have a feeling he’s heading into trouble.’
The courier saluted and turned to follow in the wake of the retreating officer.
* * * * *
Cavarinos wiped his blade on his own trousers, ignoring the wet, warm, metallic-smelling smears amid the other spatters of blood, and then slid the sword back into the sheath at his side, his fingers dancing across the leather pouch at his belt that held the curse tablet, as had become habit. Staggering, he clutched his left shoulder where his second flesh wound of the night burned still with hot pain, the blood from the sword cut running down his arm in small rivulets. The other wound was less impressive - though it hurt just as much - where an arrow had hit him in the chest, miraculously lodging itself in the rings of his mail shirt such that the tip only dug into his flesh by a finger’s breadth, bringing forth blood and pain but doing no permanent damage.
He was lucky, really. Very few men who’d made it to the fence had lived. A few had even got over the fence, but had been dealt with immediately by the defenders. Cavarinos had been there in the thick of it just as the Roman reinforcements had arrived from the north, bearing the banners of four different legions and filling the walls, pushing back the few incursions the rebel army had achieved.
From what he’d seen, Cavarinos had to admire the courage of his countrymen, who had managed to actually reach and cross the Roman defences despite being starved and weary and hard-pressed, while it appeared that the reserve forces outside had barely managed to touch the fence, making much less of an impression. And now he could hear the calls going up in the distance from the carnyxes of the relief army. The reserve force was pulling back.
Cavarinos looked up. The first streaks of lighter colour were staining the clouds, announcing the coming dawn. Aurora, the Romans called it: a goddess whose rosy fingers wove their light across the heavens. The Romans would be praising her shortly as they watched the relief army run back to their camp on the hill, allowing them respite again. And with their retreat, Vercingetorix would have no choice but to echo that call, drawing his own army back up into the oppidum. A second attack on both fronts against a trapped army with comparatively fewer men, and yet a second failure. Cavarinos reached up and found the figure of Fortuna hanging at his neck, open now and outside his tunic, for he had touched her in thanks after both wounds had failed to kill him. He wondered what had got into him. He’d happily managed almost three decades of conscious life without resorting to heartfelt prayer, and yet one of the enemy donates him a foreign idol and suddenly he becomes all pious?
He made a conscious decision not to be such a credulous fool, and yet his fingers still played across the cold metal of her form. The dark was retreating rapidly now, the lightening of the sky helping him pick out details. With the easing of identification, the artillerists in the Roman towers began to loose their shots once more, picking standing targets out among the multitude inside the besieged area. Cavarinos stood some thirty five paces from the rampart, back across the ditches filled with faggots and bodies, the men of the tribes still seething this way and that, some retreating for a breather after attempting to breach the walls, others fresh and pushing for the Roman fortifications. The call for the retreat would come any time, but had not yet done so.
Perhaps he should try and seek cover from the deadly scorpion shots? But then the press of men was so solid, the chances of one of the artillery pieces selecting him among thousands was so slight, he would trust instead to luck.
His hand clutched the goddess at his neck involuntarily and he cursed himself briefly, and then again, when the man standing next to him lost his face to a scorpion bolt in a shower of blood and bone which coated him and yet somehow miraculously missed the bronze goddess entirely.
His attention was drawn by an upsurge in the roar of battle, somehow discernible even over the endless din of death and destruction, and his wandering gaze picked out a section of the Roman fence, where a great deal of activity seemed to be taking place. Ignoring the wound on his arm, he began moving back towards the rampart. Figures were crossing the fence. Had they managed a proper breach? If they had then perhaps there was still a chance for tonight.
As he leapt through the mess, making for the scene along with a number of other men who seemed to have cottoned on to the fact that something was happening, Cavarinos was given cause to frown. The figures crossing the fence were not his countrymen. They were Romans! Romans were sortieing from the defences?
In moments, he was picking his way between the few sharpened points that had not been covered with bodies or torn up by the advancing rebels, just outside the twin ditches. A brutal melee was underway just outside the Roman rampart, atop ditches that were no longer visible beneath a flat carpet of corpses. Warriors from a dozen tribes, mixed in the chaos, fought tooth and nail with a small party of Romans that were somehow cutting a bloody swathe.
Behind him, the carnyxes began blowing the call to fall back.
Cavarinos stood transfixed as the world began to part around him, a few die-hards who had succumbed to the battle craze still piling into the Roman sortie, while the vast bulk of the survivors turned tail and fled back toward the slope that led up to the open gates of the oppidum and safety. His feet told him to run, and all sense agreed. Yet for some reason he stood as the ground cleared about him, watching the fight at the ditches only a few paces away.
A scorpion bolt slapped into the churned earth close enough that he felt the breeze of its passage.
His hand went down to the hilt of his sword. Perhaps he would be the last man to leav
e? Though he’d known he shouldn’t let it get to him, his brother’s ridiculous accusation of cowardice had rankled for the past two days. Since that fight at the end of the last attack, Cavarinos and Critognatos had not crossed paths, the former deliberately staying out of the way. Vercingetorix had tried to heal what now seemed an uncrossable rift between the brothers, but even Cavarinos had been uncharacteristically adamant, while Critognatos had explained in short, spat curses that the next time they met he would tear out his brother’s spine if it turned out that he actually had one.
To be the last man on the field and kill the last Roman of the day would disprove his brother’s accusations.
His heart leapt as the scene opened up. There were perhaps twenty Romans in this foray - no more. They faced a slightly larger force of tribesmen - perhaps forty or so, the rest of the force retreating for the oppidum. But what had caused his heart to skip was the sight of his brother amid the warriors, fighting like a furious bear, ripping Romans apart.
His questions about why the Romans should endanger themselves crossing the fence were swatted away by the irritated realisation that even the possibility of being the last man to retreat had been spoiled by his pig of a brother, who clearly had the same idea.
Anger coursing through him, Cavarinos stamped across the ground towards the fray.
And stopped.
His blood ran cold.
The torn and bloodied plume of a Roman officer came into view - the man busy fighting Critognatos at the heart of the struggle.
Fronto?
Critognatos pulled back his sword and lunged, Fronto twisting to one side out of the way of the blow and stabbing down with his own, shorter, sword, only to have it turned by the big Arvernian’s shield. The Romans were in trouble. Even as Cavarinos watched, his eyes disbelieving and his blood like ice, three more of the regular legionaries were cut down, and one of the men in the different uniform that seemed to be huddling protectively around Fronto. Another of the better-dressed Romans leaned across to try and save the legate from Critognatos, and Fronto batted him out of the way, lunging again.
The Great Revolt Page 49
