The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  This was the last line. The desperate one. Manned by the sick and the injured and making use of whatever could be found, for the wounded had seen the rampart give four times now and had decided they had to do something.

  The north wall itself was no longer visible. Even the towers had suffered, every third or fourth one having been brought down somehow. Fronto had expected to see beleaguered legionaries atop the parapet, fighting off an external sea of Gauls, as at the southeast. But the defensive line here was now an arbitrary thing, much of the fighting going on inside the camp. Every now and then a Gaul would break free of the struggle, already inside the camp’s confines, and run for the tent lines. When that happened, the wounded let fly with whatever they had, putting the incursions down. But the number of Gauls inside the camp was growing even as Fronto watched, and the ever-changing line of defence was gradually moving back towards the ‘wounded wall’. The camp was a dozen heartbeats from lost.

  Selecting a spot where the low barricade was scarcely manned, Fronto and his singulares jumped across, into the open ground before the seething fight that covered the rampart all across the north of the camp. His searching eyes picked out a small knot of men, amid which a flowing crimson horsehair crest protruded from a gleaming decorative helmet, and he thundered off towards what was plainly a senior officer, his men at his back.

  As they neared the small group, which was composed largely of runners, centurions, tribunes and signifers, Fronto spotted the familiar face of Caninius, the legate of the Twelfth and commander of the Mons Rea camp. The legate was soaked in blood and spattered with gore, as were many of his officers and Fronto was impressed to see how the man had clearly become involved at the basest level of the action along with his troops. He reined in nearby and slid from the horse’s back, grunting at the pain in his arm as he did so.

  ‘Fronto,’ Caninius breathed. ‘What news of the south?’

  ‘The other gates still hold. Looks like you’re in the shit up here, though.’

  The conversation was briefly interrupted as a small force of Gauls managed to break away from the main fight and run for the knot of officers, hungry to kill Roman commanders. A few free legionaries managed to pull out of the combat and chase them down, and the wounded artillerists put a few shots into the band as they ran, but still there were five of them when they reached the small group. Fronto watched in surprise as Caninius’ aquilifer swung the glorious, irreplaceable eagle of the Twelfth and stoved in the head of one of the men, righting the pole again to display an eagle drenched in blood and spattered with brain matter. Two tribunes attempted to halt the rest, and one of the Gauls had almost reached Fronto even before he’d managed to draw his sword.

  Caninius, whose blade was already out and bloodied, stepped in and neatly sank his gladius into the Gaul’s side as Fronto braced himself, twisting and withdrawing with such casualness that Fronto wondered just how long the legate had been fighting here to become so calm in the face of that kind of brutality. He almost smiled. That was probably how everyone else saw the legate of the Tenth, in fact.

  As the attack was put down and one of the tribunes went about the fallen Gauls making sure they were dead while the other clutched what looked distinctly like a fatal belly-wound to Fronto, the legate shook his head and focused on his opposite number from the Twelfth.

  ‘Where’s Labienus?’

  ‘Somewhere in that,’ Caninius replied, thumbing over his shoulder towards the seething fight at the rampart. ‘Reginus is there somewhere too, as well as Brutus. It’s a damn mess, Fronto. There are just too many. The walls won’t hold them.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  As Fronto watched the fight in consternation, wondering how best to proceed, his eyes picked out three figures emerging from the press. At the centre, Labienus was staggering, blood-spattered and shieldless, his sword still in his hand. To either side of him came a legionary in a similar state and Fronto jogged across to meet him as he made his way into the open space. Behind them, at the rampart, another breakout of Gauls made for the retreating officer, but was quickly swamped by legionaries. It was only a matter of time now before the whole camp was overrun.

  ‘Labienus!’

  He came to a halt in front of the staff officer, his singulares at his shoulders.

  ‘Hmm?’ Labienus’ eyes came up to meet Fronto’s but there seemed to be no mind behind that vacant gaze. It was then Fronto noted the huge dent in the officer’s helmet and as the two legionaries carefully undid the strap and lifted the bronze headpiece from him, blood trickled from Labienus’ ear. He was clearly stunned from the blow. Hopefully not in mortal danger, but certainly not much use right now.

  ‘Labienus. The walls are breached. Do you order the sally?’

  The staff officer attempted to focus on Fronto’s face and the legate saw a brief flash of recognition as Labienus attempted to pull his thoughts together.

  ‘Sally. Breach. Mmmm.’

  ‘Titus! Concentrate. Do we sally north?’

  ‘N… no. No. I… no.’

  Fronto frowned. The officer was clearly incapable of making the decision right now. But shaking his head in confusion, Labienus raised his hand and pointed back into the camp. Fronto turned at the gesture and felt his heart leap.

  Several new cohorts of men, apparently drawn from at least five legions and mixed in together, from the standards, were moving up from the tents, passing the rough second rampart of wounded artillerists and archers. Amid the line, he could see Caesar in his gleaming armour with his crimson cloak whipping about. The general, always one to know how to motivate his men, had slipped from his horse among the tents and now marched as part of the line, clearly visible for who he was by that recognisable cloak and yet clearly showing his willingness to be a part of the desperate defence. Fronto felt once again that swell of pride in his general. The man might be a politician to the core and even willing to make unacceptable sacrifices at times, but in a battle there was no better general in all the republic to fight for.

  And on the flanks of that force came cavalry. To the left, a wing of auxiliaries and regulars led by the familiar shapes of Antonius and Silanus. To the right another wing, bolstered by Caesar’s own Praetorian horse and apparently commanded by Ingenuus.

  Relief! It would not be enough to win the day, mind, a nagging voice in Fronto’s mind noted. Perhaps four more cohorts and two wings of cavalry. But they would hold a lot longer now. Until their arrival it seemed unlikely another quarter hour would pass before the camp fell.

  ‘Fronto!’ the general shouted as the cohorts moved forward. ‘Move aside, man, there’s work to be done.’

  With a grin, Fronto beckoned to one of the tribunes and handed over Bucephalus’ reins. Despite the look of surprise on the man’s face, the tribune grasped the other reins as Aurelius and Masgava handed over theirs too.

  ‘Get them out of the combat,’ Fronto commanded and ripped his sword from his sheath, falling in with Caninius and his group and waiting for the advancing line of cohorts to reach them and absorb them into the front line, where two of the army’s legates and several of the most senior staff took their place ready to fight among the foremost men. This was, after all, the last battle they would have to fight, one way or another.

  * * * * *

  ‘Don’t it get strange, sir?’

  Atenos, Primus Pilus of the Tenth legion, smashed his sword point into the inner thigh of a rebel attempting to clamber over one of the few sections of rampart that had not yet given way. He felt the jet of warm, tinny liquid from the opened artery as the howling warrior fell back into the throng, and glanced at the young optio at his side. He was getting sick of field promotions. On this one afternoon, he had confirmed the position of three replacement centurions and his own century had seen four new optios appointed in as many hours. They kept dying like flies no matter how big and muscular they were. His latest choice had been made in a free heartbeat in the press, and seemed in retrospect too young to be wearin
g a toga, let alone commanding men.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fightin’ your own, sir?’

  ‘My own?’ Atenos looked out across the sea of violent Gallic ire before him.

  ‘These aren’t my people, Optio.’

  ‘But they are Gauls, sir.’

  ‘I’m a Roman, lad. Note the uniform. And before that I was Leuci. This lot in front of us are Pictones I’d say, from the tattoos.’ He paused in the conversation to scythe the jaw from a warrior with swirling blue-grey patterns on his bare chest, while the optio fought off a young warrior in a green tunic. ‘I’m about as related to these bastards as you are to a Sicilian olive farmer.’

  The optio slashed out at another man and carved a slice from a lunging arm, his screaming victim disappearing back into the press. The lad was apparently good with a sword, Atenos noted. Perhaps that was why he’d subconsciously selected him?

  ‘Didn’t mean to offend sir, sorry.’

  ‘No offence, lad. Just remember: whether I came from Gaul or Rome or your sister’s arse, what I am above all else is a centurion!’

  He returned a strike from a hopeful Gaul and used his shield to push the man back down, then turned back to talk to the optio, but the young man was gone, shaking and moaning on the floor, his face almost entirely missing. Atenos sighed with regret as he realised that this section of rampart was almost untenable now. The fighting was about to move back into the camp here too. Even with the new cohorts Caesar and Fronto had brought, Mons Rea was about to fall. The Roman cavalry that had arrived with the officers had helped prevent the enemy from penetrating deep into the camp, but soon they too would be swamped, difficult as it was for horse to manoeuvre in such confines.

  ‘Sir!’ called a voice from three men down the struggle, and Atenos focussed on the beleaguered legionary, busy slamming his shield rim into the face of a Gaul.

  ‘Yes, optio?’

  The legionary stared for a moment at the sudden promotion, and then broke into a grin.

  ‘Look, sir!’

  Atenos followed the soldier’s gesture and his gaze fell on the sea of Gauls before them, roiling like the great Atlantic Ocean in a winter storm, waves crashing against the ramparts and soaking the defenders in warm, metallic spray. Then his eyes crept across the seething mass and up to the peak of Mons Rea beyond. And to what had crested the hill to the northeast.

  A broad grin broke out across Atenos’ face.

  ‘Fight on, lads. It’s almost over.’

  * * * * *

  Varus felt the oddest mix of exultation and fear.

  The moment he and the reserve cavalry had crested the northern heights of Mons Rea it was instantly apparent that they were in time. Just in time, but in time, nonetheless. The enemy force swarmed across the northern ramparts of the camp and against the circumvallation ramparts to either side, but they had been held back there and had not flooded into the centre of the Roman system.

  The huge wing of horse had moved at a slow, quiet pace south from their original position to the foot of the Gods’ Gate mountain and then disappeared east, staying close to the Osana River and moving in groups to prevent them being seen as a strong force mounting the hillside. As soon as he’d judged that they were far from the sight of the enemy on the plains, he’d gathered them all together again, racing as fast as they could realistically hold together as a formation, and then rounding the eastern promontory of Alesia. Then, far from the action, they had climbed to Labienus’ camp atop the ‘Warm Hill’ as it was known. There a single century held the camp, looking bored so far from the fighting, and they had exhibited a great deal of surprise to find thousands of cavalry passing through the camp and out onto the hillside beyond.

  Their speedy ride had taken them west, then, from the Warm Hill camp, down across a valley, where the fort of the Ninth and Fourteenth also languished under a skeleton guard, watching the huge cavalry contingent pass with interest, and then up to the rear of Mons Rea, an echo of the manoeuvre in which the Gauls had launched their own assault half a day earlier.

  It had been blinding as the horsemen had risen up the slope and finally crested it into the golden orb of the dying sun which dazzled them as they rode towards it and then down to the beleaguered Roman camp.

  Exultation, because they were in time.

  Fear. Not because of the sea of Gauls that awaited them. After all, Varus had fought such armies many times now, and the Gauls held no fear for him, even this apparent new-breed who liked tricks and traps and Roman-style tactics. Especially since their horse were all down on the plains threatening the circumvallation there, and all his cavalry faced here were infantry, who were already tired and hard-pressed.

  No. The fear he felt was an entirely different beast.

  In numerous engagements now, as Caesar had pointed out, the thousand-strong German cavalry had turned the tide and saved the day. They had been trained by Varus’ best and wore Roman equipment - the best available. And yes, they were the more brutal of the peoples from beyond the Rhenus, but still what made them so effective? Varus had decided the time had come to find out, and so he had devolved overall command of the cavalry force to young Volcatius Tullus, commander of the Third Wing, while he had taken position with the Germans.

  They had looked not unlike the usual auxiliary cavalry - the native levies often drawn from Belgic tribes who were not all that far removed from their Germanic neighbours. Apart from the slightly better equipment and often having a good half-foot of height on the rest of the force, and a good three hands extra on their horses, they appeared surprisingly similar. And yet they were in truth an entirely different matter.

  Their senior officer - apparently a chieftain in their own lands - went by the name of Sigeric, and his grasp of Latin was limited to little more than commands and a few basic verbs and nouns. Yet the monstrous commander with a crease across the centre of his face, reputedly from an axe blow that had failed to penetrate his fabulously thick skull, welcomed Varus into his force with a laugh that rumbled like the collapse of quarries. The unit all bore familiar Roman cavalry helms, many with the featureless, dread-inspiring steel face-plates, but not Sigeric. He wore no helm nor mask, for his head, he said, was thicker than any helm, and his countenance more fearsome than any mask. Varus found the sentiment hard to deny. The man’s hair was beginning to turn grey, confirming his advancing age, but curiously, the left side of his head had remained a copper-blond, while the right had almost entirely silvered. He cut an odd and slightly horrifying figure even without his sword, which had been forged by his own blacksmith and was more than a foot longer than any similar blade Varus had seen. The man also wore a necklace of pierced teeth around his neck which did little to add culture and comfort to his appearance.

  As they had crested the hill, the man had pulled something from his belt with his left hand. Shieldless and with his sword in his right, the big German steered his beast purely with his knees. Varus had frowned at the odd thing the German chief brought forth. It looked like a long knife, but with twin parallel blades, each bent at the end into a razor-edged hook.

  And then, before he could query the man, Sigeric had roared some Germanic, guttural noise and his horsemen had kicked their steeds into a charge before even Volcatius Tullus had the chance to have his signaller blow the call. Varus found himself almost lost amid the big men on their bigger horses, feeling curiously short and odd as he raced into battle.

  The effect of their surprise attack was both instant and horrific.

  The panic that swept through the Gallic reserve army was palpable and, Varus noted, seemed to be almost entirely aimed at the German cavalry, rather than the much more numerous auxilia and regulars under Volcatius Tullus.

  And as the riders ploughed into the rear ranks of the Gaulish army, Varus began to understand. As the old saying went - well, paraphrased anyway - you could take the warrior out of Germania, but you couldn’t take Germania out of the warrior. This force may be kitted out in the best Roman equip
ment available, and trained by Roman cavalrymen, but they were no more Roman at heart than Varus was German.

  And in much the same way as the more brutal of the Germanic tribes, this bunch apparently felt no fear whatsoever. They would cheerfully charge into the mouth of Hades itself, determined to rip the balls from Cerberus with their teeth. Their bloodthirsty enthusiasm was tangible, and if Varus could feel it riding with them - in fact, almost succumbing to it by sheer proximity - then he could only imagine what it felt like to the Gauls they were riding down.

  The Germans ploughed into the infantry like a sword through butter, barely slowing as they chopped, slashed, speared, jabbed, sliced and kicked their way. The horses - Germanic steeds of their own selection - trampled the unwitting and more than once Varus saw the animals lunge down and bite the enemy, something he’d never seen a horse do in his life.

  As he watched, Sigeric turned from a German officer into a howling, lustful battle demon. That strange, twin hooked knife rose and came down, slamming into a panicked Gaul’s throat and the big chieftain roared and hauled it up. The hooks caught on the unfortunate Gaul’s chin, shredding his neck like an old, weatherworn curtain and, accompanied by a roar and a yank of arms with muscles like anvils, Sigeric ripped the half-severed head from the body, shattered vertebrae falling away and bouncing from his horse’s flank. In shock, Varus turned away only in time to see one of the other Germans gripping a poor Gaul’s wrist in his teeth, gnawing the arteries as he sawed through the elbow with his sword.

  Varus felt sick. And faint. Everywhere he looked, acts of the most appalling barbarism were being perpetrated. These were not cavalry. These were animals!

  No wonder the Gauls ran when they saw the Germans. After facing this lot once or twice, no man in his right mind would want to stand and take them on a third time.