“Very well. Then if we’re going to stay and do this the old-fashioned way, let’s do it properly.”
He turned to the watch centurion, at the gate below, waiting for further orders.
“Have the call to arms delivered from the buccinas, get the cavalry in with the men, have all the spare pila brought out to the walls and get the artillery crews to their weapons. Time to let them know we’re aware of them.”
Tribune Volusenus leaned past him, a grin on his face.
“And when you’ve delivered the order, centurion, take these dozen men of yours across the river and fire the town. Get the whole place blazing as fast as you can and then get back here.”
He turned to the quizzical looks of his peers.
“Less cover for them to hide behind and it effectively prevents them from attacking on one side until the fire dies down.”
Galba nodded.
“Fortuna and Mars smile on us tonight!”
* * * * *
Baculus stood on the platform above the east gate of Roman Octodurus, surrounded by a centurion, an optio and a number of legionaries, while the ramparts stretched off to left and right, manned by the diminished cohorts of the Twelfth. Galba had taken the south wall and Volusenus the west, leaving the watch centurion to command the bridge entrance, should the enemy try to navigate the blazing streets.
The cavalry had dismounted and were now bolstering the numbers on the ramparts but at this moment, defending the walls of a fort against overwhelming numbers, Baculus wished once more that Pansa and his auxiliary archers were here and not still quartered up in Belgae territory with Labienus.
The walls of the fortification were punctuated with squat towers, each home to one or more of the precious few scorpion bolt throwers left with the Twelfth, while the remaining two ballistae and the single onager, of little use in this situation, were positioned together in the fort’s central square.
They were as prepared as the numbers permitted, and Baculus clenched his teeth as he looked back up at the vast swathe of men on the hillside above.
Only seconds later, a call bleated out from on high: a horrendous honking, followed by a messy metallic crash as the Gauls rapped their weapons on shields, helmets, or anything they could find to make noise.
“Here they come, lads. Hold fast and pray! Pila first, but make them count.”
The Veragri and their allies, the blaring and crashing done with, began to roll down the hillsides from their dizzy heights like a wave crashing toward the beleaguered Roman defenders. Baculus heard a soldier close to him mutter a prayer to Fortuna and nodded approvingly. They could all do with a little luck right now.
Closer they came, racing down the slopes and the defenders of Octodurus watched, patiently and professionally but, as Baculus glanced here and there, he noted that where the men changed their grip on the javelins ready to cast, there were a number of shaky arms.
“Ready…”
He concentrated on the enemy force that had reached the valley floor and picked up speed now they had to pay less attention to their footing. Most of them were unarmoured, much like any other Celtic force he had seen. The majority of those few with breastplates, mail shirts or helmets were in the front row; nobles and powerful warriors among the tribe, displaying their wealth through attire and their valour through the position at the front.
Unfortunately for them, like so many other Celtic charges Baculus had faced, the veterans knew how to break the morale of a force like that.
“Artillery: aim for anyone wearing bronze. Same goes for every pilum you throw.”
A little bit closer…
“Artillery: loose!”
A chorus of sharp cracks from the five towers along the wall mingled with those of the others around the far sides of the defences as the outnumbered Romans faced the attack on all sides. The initial volley of eight shots peppered the front line of charging Celts, each blow picking out one of the armoured nobles, punching through the protective bronze and killing or mortally wounding the man, throwing him back among the charge.
Such, however, was the blood lust of the Veragri that the loss of a few nobles failed to even slow the charge. Baculus watched them come on, judging the distance from the wall and counting under his breath. Briefly he glanced up at the towers, just in time to catch the second volley as it began, hammering into the bronze-clad nobles. He nodded as he counted; the third volley would coincide nicely.
The primus pilus waited patiently, counting down and, as the line of charging barbarians finally reached a good range, he raised and dropped his arm, shouting a command to release. The order went unheard over the roar of charging Celts, but the men had been waiting for the gesture and, as the scorpions released their third volley, two hundred javelins soared out over the wooden palisade and swooped down like a deadly hail into the front lines of the Veragri.
The effect was impressive. Eight bolts at a time, no matter how well-placed, hardly drew the attention of the frothing, frenzied barbarians. Two hundred javelins punching through the line was, however, an entirely different matter.
The bodies of the initial targets collapsed to the ground, causing a number of their comrades to trip and fall across them. The front ranks of the Veragri slowed in uncertainty as a fresh line of iron tips appeared over the parapet, awaiting the order.
“Release!”
The second volley of javelins flew forth from the battlements and plunged into the seething ranks of the Veragri. Chaos ensued as many of the ordinary warriors on the front lines attempted to push their way back through the crowd to flee the deadly hail of pila.
“Arm and release spares at will and then prepare for melee!”
The reserves and support staff below the turf and timber defences passed the few remaining cached javelins up to their compatriots on the walls. Baculus watched as roughly every other man received an extra shot and cast it as soon as he could before settling into a defensive position with gladius and shield.
There was an eerie pause as the front line of the Veragri shuffled around, punctuated occasionally by the shot of one of the scorpions as the engineers fired down into the mass. Baculus tensed. Something would happen any moment now. He had known this to be the breaking point of some weaker assaults, but the Veragri had been planning this for a while, knew they outnumbered the Twelfth tremendously, and were slowly becoming aware that the rain of missiles had all but stopped.
“Steady, lads…”
The strange silence, somehow made all the more oppressive by the distant sounds of battle on other fronts, was broken by a stone, flung with amazing accuracy and power by some hidden arm among the barbarian crowd. The missile crested the wooden parapet, catching one of the legionaries square in the forehead with enough force to knock him from the walkway and send him tumbling down the earth slope within. Instantly one of the reserves stepped up and took his place while a capsarius rushed to help the fallen man. All along the wall, helmets sunk a little to meet shields coming up, closing the gap through which a stone could strike.
And then suddenly the Celtic army answered the Roman artillery with a volley of their own. Hundreds of iron darts and sharp rocks began to arc up from the crowd, aimed at the defenders on the wall. Baculus ducked back behind his shield as he watched the projectiles strike home in increasing numbers. Here and there one would manage a lucky blow between the shields, helmets and wooden palisade and the location would be marked with a shriek and a crack of bone. Baculus leaned back in time to see two men topple from the parapet and down the interior slope of the rampart, either unconscious or dead.
A quick glance upward showed that the towers were out of effective enemy missile range, the few shots aimed at them bouncing off the timber or falling short. Over the enemy onslaught, the engineers kept up their steady pace with the scorpions. Another glance at the mass of Veragri confirmed that the artillery were picking off more targets every minute than the Celts could manage with their darts and rocks, but the Twelfth would be un
able to withstand the attrition rate for long.
He realised with irritation that even the support staff and reserves were in danger, as missiles that crossed the parapet without striking home were falling among those inside the fort. Something would have to be done soon, or the reserves would end up buried in a pile of rocks.
“Reserves and support staff…” he shouted down inside, attracting the attention of everyone he could. “Gather all the fallen missiles you can and get up into those towers where you can throw them back!”
There was a pause for only a moment, while the more nervous of the men within weighed up the chances of being struck by one of these projectiles while gathering them if he left the safety of his shield. Then the interior of the camp burst into life, men grabbing baskets and sacks and beginning to fill them with darts and stones.
Baculus turned back to the enemy, trying to ignore the occasional cry of pain from behind where one of the support staff was caught in the open by a falling stone. The men on the wall had given up hope, if that was an appropriate word, of being able to take on the enemy with swords and had closed up in small pockets with their shields raised, forming mini testudos that effectively protected them from almost any angle.
Baculus was impressed. He knew there were still a few veterans among the men, but that kind of quick thinking was what saved armies. Keeping himself covered as best he could, he watched tensely as bags and baskets were hauled up the towers on ropes that were used for rearming the artillery from the ground. The hail of projectiles was beginning to slow. Soon the enemy would run out of missiles, both purpose-made and hastily-gathered, and the assault would begin in earnest. At that point it would come down to pure numbers. The Roman army was the most effective force the world had known. Gods would tremble before the legions, but the simple fact was that no army, no matter how good, could fight odds like this for long.
Men were now hurrying up the ladders and to the towers. As the primus pilus watched, two were caught mid-climb by stray weapons and thrown clear into the fort’s interior, but more arrived on the raised platforms every moment and, without waiting for the order from a superior, they began to cast the waste projectiles back among the enemy.
Once again, the Celtic lines faltered under this fresh barrage and slowly the missile fire from both sides diminished and tailed off to the occasional lob, while the ‘thunk’ of scorpion fire continued unabated.
“This is it, lads. Break your testudos now and get ready. I don’t want to see any of you fighting cleanly or being fair. If you see Gallic flesh, stab it, hack it, kick it or bite it. I don’t care what you do, just keep them off the ramparts.”
There was a trickle of nervous laughter along the palisade as men resumed the traditional stance of the legionary line, shields presented and blades hefted at the ready.
“Remember, we’re eagles, not sparrows! If the Twelfth are destined for Elysium today, we’re going to swim there in a river of barbarian blood!”
A roar ran down the line, triggering a similar response from the enemy thirty yards away and the whole mass suddenly broke into a screaming run, bearing down on the walls with their handful of Roman defenders.
“Here we go!”
* * * * *
“Sun’s coming up!”
“Thank you for stating the bloody obvious, Sep!”
Baculus took the opportunity between exhausted sword thrusts to glance down the line at the source of the banter. Once again it reminded him of a truly veteran unit, where even hard pressed and in constant bloody danger, the troops could find something to laugh at. Off down the wide valley, past the pillars of smoke and the smouldering remains of the native settlement, the first glimmers of morning were showing between the mountainous spurs. A welcome sight, even in the circumstances.
His attention was drawn back to the present situation as one of the barbarians still seething below the parapet threw himself up to the top, hooking an arm over the palisade while trying to swing wildly with the sword in the other. The situation, grave at the onset, was becoming more and more perilous all the time. The centuries defending this wall had suffered almost a fifty per cent casualty rate and, though they had only ever lost control of small sections of rampart very briefly before regaining them, the incursions were becoming more frequent and harder to repel. The end was close.
Unable to step back far enough to stab effectively at this latest interloper, Baculus swept his sword out to the side and head-butted the man with every ounce of his remaining strength. The helmet’s iron ridge smashed into the barbarian’s face, shattering bone and loosing him from the wall to fall back among his companions. The primus pilus blinked away the spattered blood that had sprayed across the helmet’s front and raised his blade to strike as something grabbed at his arm.
His arm swept wild as he realised the hand grasping him was a Roman, and the blow fell into empty air.
“You bloody idiot. I nearly cut your arm off!”
The soldier, his eyes wide, shrank back.
“Sorry sir. I couldn’t get your attention. Legate Galba sent for you. Wants you to meet him at the headquarters, sir.”
Baculus growled at the man and then nodded.
“Well since you’re nice and clean and fresh, step up here and take my place. Don’t let one of those shit-eating dogs across my wall.”
The legionary nodded meekly and stepped up to the rampart, drawing his sword and settling his shield in front of him. Paying the lad no further attention, Baculus dropped from the parapet and slid down the grassy bank of the rampart to the ground. A quick glance back told him that, despite his fears, the Twelfth were still miraculously holding the walls, though for how much longer remained to be seen. Squaring his shoulders he set off at a quick march toward the squat stone building that served as Galba’s headquarters. No matter how dire the situation, a centurion should not move at an unseemly run.
A minute later, he rounded a corner to face the building, its usual guard stripped to help man the walls. No man was being excused today, even the legate’s bodyguard, as Baculus was pleased to note. The door stood open and the primus pilus entered, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim glow within, darker than the pre-dawn light outside despite the guttering candles. As he strode into the room, the legate and tribune Volusenus looked up from the table and a hastily prepared model of their immediate surroundings formed from the various small pieces of clutter they had gathered.
“Ah, Baculus. Come and join us, quickly.”
“Sir.”
The primus pilus, aware that this was a gathering of desperate minds rather than a situation for high etiquette, strode over, dropped his shield and helmet and sank into one of the two spare seats around the table.
“We were just trying to find a way out of this mess, Publius.”
“Unsuccessfully, I might add” agreed Volusenus quietly.
Baculus nodded as he examined the makeshift model.
“We’re certainly in the shit, legate. The enemy have all but filled in the ditches, the piles of bodies are giving them a ramp to reach the palisade top, and we’re out of missiles. My lads are down to about half strength and the wall will go within the hour. I can’t imagine either of you are managing to fare any better?”
He was greeted with silent nods.
“Then frankly, we’re bollocksed. We’re trapped here. We must number maybe four hundred by now and, though we’re killing them in droves, there are still quite a few thousand out there. Once they get inside the walls, we’re done for.”
Galba shrugged.
“Then we either fight on like this and fall, however heroically, to the barbarians, or we have to find a means to get away.”
The tribune rubbed his eyes wearily.
“The only thing for it is to try and buy ourselves a little time somehow and then make a break through the south gate, out up the valley and back towards Cisalpine Gaul. I don’t like running, but it’s better than extermination and losing the eagle.”
Galba shook his head.
“No chance from the south. The Veragri pushed a cart up against it twenty minutes ago and lit it. My men are trying to stop the spreading fire, but the chances are that gate will be ablaze any time now and will fall soon.”
Baculus shrugged.
“Then we have an obvious choice. Our walls are all heavily under attack, but the bridge across to the town still stands.”
Galba raised an eyebrow.
“You are aware, I suppose, that that bridge leads to the north, deeper into enemy territory.”
“Indeed, sir, but beyond that lies Geneva and friendly tribes like the Allobroges. We might be able to make it, so long as we can get out of here.”
Volusenus frowned as he examined the makeshift model.
“We might be able to take them by surprise… if we timed it right?”
“Explain?”
“Well,” the tribune said, furrowing his brow as his gaze swept back and forth across the model, “we don’t care about holding the walls, just about getting the men out as fast as possible, yes?”
He was greeted by nods from his fellow officers.
“We don’t want to stay here now, so everything is disposable. Also, we’ll need to travel as light as possible to outrun them until we’re a long way from here. So…”
He gestured around the model walls and then pointed to the centre.
“We’ve still got the siege weapons and we’ve got pitch. What would the barbarians do if we set fire to our own walls?”
Galba blinked.
Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) Page 3
