“Of course, if they don’t speak Latin at all, I may require a little translation.”
The centurion saluted again and Sabinus nodded with satisfaction. The man was clearly Gallic, from his stature and colouring and, while his flaxen hair had been trimmed down to fit well with a Roman helm, the bushy, drooping moustache clearly marked his origins.
Sabinus made a gesture to the approaching scouts and they rode off to one side to join the small cavalry detachment on the flank of the army.
The officers sat at the crest of the hill, tribunes from three legions forming up behind them, as they looked down the long slope toward the distant, messy sprawl of Crociatonum and the small party of almost a dozen riders approaching from that direction.
The general gave a last look round to his legions and the officers gathered behind him in their burnished glory. If anything spoke of the sheer power of Rome, it was this. Good. There was little else he could do until they knew what they were up against. He watched, alongside his silent officers, as the riders slowed to a halt and gathered in a small knot opposite them.
Sabinus had seen enough of these tribes over the last few years to immediately pick out the important characters. Rather than this being a deputation of chieftains from the various tribes, this was a strange and different gathering.
The man who took the centre and was clearly the leader of the party was a warrior of, at most, middling status. He bore the torcs and armour of a wealthy warrior, but not the jewels and decoration they had come to expect in chieftains and kings. The men around him were equally warriors rather than purely nobles, armed for brutality and not for parlay. The grey, brooding presence of a black-haired and bearded druid at the rear of the group gave further weight to this being anything but a peaceful party. Where were the chieftains and leaders?
Sabinus hid his bafflement, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
“I am speaking to the king of the Unelli, perhaps?”
The man on the lead horse folded his muscular, etched arms and his moustache twitched.
“You are Roman general, Caesar?”
Sabinus smiled mirthlessly.
“I am a Roman general, yes. Quintus Titurius Sabinus, commander of the Ninth, Twelfth and Fourteenth Legions. And you are?”
“I Viridovix. Leader of free Gaul.”
Sabinus drew a deep breath.
“A bold statement. The Unelli and their neighbours have been allies of Rome this past year. Yet now we are led to understand that you gather an army?”
Muttering in low voices among the Gauls increased at the question and, as Sabinus shot a sidelong glance to the centurion from the fourteenth to make sure he was paying attention, Viridovix turned his glare on the chattering men behind him, silencing them with a look. Sabinus nodded to himself. Whoever this man was, he had absolute authority here.
“Unelli chieftains weak… they grovel to southern apes. Warriors of Gaul not grovel, so we execute weak chieftains and form alliance as free Gaul.”
Sabinus nodded again.
“I see. You have pulled off a coup among your tribe. I hope for your sake that you can satisfy your people better than those who preceded you. A rise to power in such a fashion often acts as a spur for others to try the same. Your position could be more delicate than you imagine.”
Viridovix put his head on one side and the druid pushed forward through the crowd, leaning close enough to interpret for his leader. Sabinus was impressed at the deference the druid seemed to pay to this warrior. In two years of campaigning he had never seen a druid pay that sort of respect to any man.
Viridovix laughed.
“I not have time to mess words with general. I give this chance: go now. Run to Rome and hide behind big walls. You stay here, free Gauls will tear off heads and use as beer mug.”
Sabinus nodded.
“And I offer you one last ultimatum: disband this army, send the warriors back to their tribes, and this can end peacefully. I give my word that, should you offer no arms against us, we will continue to treat you as the allies you were.”
The Gaul sneered.
“One day. You gone when sun next up and you live.”
Without waiting for an answer, the powerful warrior wheeled his horse, followed by his companions, and rode back toward the city.
As soon as the figures were out of sight, Sabinus sagged.
“Looks like we’re in for a fair old fight, my friends.”
Galba nodded.
“Looks like my winter at Octodurus all over again. If they’ve overthrown their own leaders, they’re unlikely to stop just because of threats and cajoling.”
“Indeed. But the problem is that, for all my ultimatum, the outcome of any action here is hardly a foredrawn conclusion. At best we’re one man against three, but it could be a lot higher than that.”
Plancus cleared his throat.
“I despise even suggesting this, general, but might it not be a better idea to actually take him up on his offer and withdraw until we can field a larger, stronger army?”
Sabinus shook his head.
“The longer we leave this, the worse it could get. Remember the Belgae? We left them too long and they managed to gather half the northern world against us. We need to stop them now before their numbers double.”
Galba nodded with feeling.
“If word gets out that this ‘free Gaul’ has run off an army of three legions, we could see an uprising of the whole Gaulish people. The general’s right: we need to deal with it now.”
Sabinus realised that the centurion was standing at attention and almost vibrating with the need to interrupt.
“What did you hear?”
“Sir… they have no intention of giving us until tomorrow morning. They will come at night, once the sun has fallen.”
Sabinus sagged again.
“Oh hell. Anything else?”
“Yes sir. The army massed in Crociatonum is not just Unelli and Lexovii. There are many of Curiosolitae and also others. Refugees, bandits, rebels and many warriors of allied tribes unhappy at Rome.”
“Six to one?” hazarded Galba as he addressed his commander. Sabinus shrugged.
“Probably. It gets worse.”
“Much worse, general.”
Sabinus raised an eyebrow at the centurion. “Go on?”
“I heard mention of the Durotriges.”
“Durotriges?” Sabinus frowned. “Not heard of them.”
The centurion nodded.
“They are from across the water in Britannia, sir. Not sure what was said about them, because Viridovix silenced the man at that point.”
Sabinus nodded unhappily.
“I hope, for the sake of Mars, that we’re not facing an invasion of British Celts in addition. This could be a disaster.”
He turned back to the centurion.
“Thank you for your help, centurion. I am most grateful. You had best return to your unit.”
As the centurion saluted and strode off, Sabinus sighed and looked around at the three legates.
“We cannot run, but besieging an oppidum that holds such vast numbers could be considered tantamount to throwing ourselves on our swords. Anyone have any better idea than simply fortifying and praying very hard?”
The three men sat silent and glum until Rufus spread his hands and shrugged.
“There’s no better plan, general. We might be able to come up with something but, given the fact that in five or six hours we could be under attack by half a million Gauls, we should get fortifying as fast as we can.”
Sabinus nodded.
“At least we have good high ground here, with a nasty approach to all sides. If we’re going to be trapped rats, we couldn’t pick a better trap.”
He took a deep breath.
“Alright… break out the trenching tools. Let’s get ourselves dug in.”
Volusenus, senior tribune of the Twelfth, leaned across and muttered something to his legate, who nodded sagely and turned his serious, dark feat
ures on Sabinus.
“We are in very grave danger of repeating the disaster with which our year began in Octodurus.”
He tried to ignore the noise going on outside, but it was difficult. The three legions had constructed a large camp with all the standard defences during the afternoon following Viridovix’s ultimatum, but had barely had time even for that, let alone any extra measures, before the first attack came.
Since then the Gaulish assaults had come at regular intervals, three pushes a day for the last three days, each different from the last, as the enemy tested the Roman defences and capabilities. Each attack was carefully planned and slowly executed, a necessity given the long and steep slope atop which the Roman fort stood, between which they would retreat to the comfort and safety of the oppidum. While Sabinus had been unwilling to make any foray outside the defences, the Gauls were equally disinclined to commit a large force to the wholesale slaughter of a charge up the steep hill, across the ditches, and against the defended walls of the fort.
However, they never tired of finding inventive new ways to put the legions to the test, wearing them down and picking off as many as they could without fully committing.
Even now, the morning attack had been under way for half an hour, enemy archers lurking among the trees at the bottom of the northern slope keeping up a steady volley that forced the defenders to remain low behind the parapet. Lacking strong auxiliary missile support, Sabinus’ force was unable to return fire, and tried to keep themselves as safe as possible from the deadly shafts, only appearing above the wall when the occasional small forays of brave Gaulish warriors made their way up the slope to the defences to attempt to pull the palisade down.
It was, in short, a war of attrition.
Galba raised his voice to be heard more clearly above the commotion outside.
“We’ve got to do something. The Gauls are trying to provoke us into making a mass sortie, and these nit-picking scuffles are hardly huge and noteworthy, but we can’t go on this way forever. Baculus estimates that we’re taking down three of them for each man of ours that falls, but there are perhaps seven or eight times as many of them to begin with. You don’t have to be a mathematician to work that problem out to its unpleasant conclusion.”
Sabinus nodded.
“I’m just grateful that we happened upon such a damn good position for the camp when we first arrived. If we were on low ground, they’d probably have wiped us out by now. It’s at least bought us the time to work out our next move.”
Volusenus cleared his throat.
“This may not be a very popular idea, general, but I think we need to give serious consideration to the possibility of using one of the lulls to withdraw. It was irritating having to do that at Octodurus, but if we hadn’t there would no longer be a Twelfth legion.”
Sabinus shook his head.
“We can’t run, tribune, no matter how sensible it might be. Caesar gave us specific orders: we’re to stop the tribes here from joining up with the Veneti. Even if the only way we have to keep them occupied is to let them chop bits off us, we have to stay and do that. No, we need a better solution, I’m afraid.”
Standing in the doorway, arms folded and a grim expression on his face, Plancus, legate of the Fourteenth, grunted.
“We should be launching the attack the barbarians keep asking for; meet them on the field like a real Roman army. Seven to one is nothing when a shield wall is involved.”
Sabinus glared at the man.
“Not a stroke of genius, man. We have little support of auxiliaries, artillery or cavalry, a lot of half-trained soldiers and a serious deficit in numbers. I think you underestimate the enemy.” He sighed. “But there is some validity to the fact that we need to change our approach and make our strengths work for us. While the enemy’s provision status is unknown, ours is somewhat limited.”
The officers in the room fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment.
“What we really need to do” Rufus said, scratching his chin, “is to somehow goad the enemy into making a full scale assault on this place. Do to them what they’re trying to do to us.”
Sabinus frowned.
“It’s a nice idea, but the question is: how would we get them to commit to such a ridiculously suicidal act? They’ve been unwilling to commit to a large scale attack for three days because they know how costly it would be. That’s why they’re trying to get us to come out and meet them.”
Again, the officers fell into a silence that only served to emphasise the need for a solution, as the sounds of combat ringing on the distant west rampart intruded upon the meeting.
Slowly, Sabinus began to smile.
“You have an idea?”
The commander turned his smile on the speaker and it widened.
“What could provoke the enemy into launching such a dangerously reckless attack?”
Galba shrugged.
“Either desperation in the face of likely defeat, or the certainty of victory. Sadly, neither is true of Viridovix’s Gauls.”
“At the moment, yes. But what if we could plant the seed of one of those notions among them?”
Galba tapped his lip.
“How are you proposing to do that, general?”
“Plancus?”
“Sir?”
“Do me a favour and send for that centurion of yours that helped us with their leaders.”
The Fourteenth’s legate, frowning with a lack of understanding, saluted and ducked out of the tent door, issuing quick orders to one of the guards outside before returning.
Galba was shaking his head as the legate dipped back in.
“It would give us the edge, but however you go about tricking them into attacking us, as soon as they realise they’ve made a mistake, they’ll just retreat back to Crociatonum and this whole attritive nightmare will start up again. Without keeping them committed, matters won’t change much.”
Sabinus grinned at him and pointed at Plancus as the man returned.
“That’s where he was right. We can’t cower behind the walls, because they’ll run away again, yet equally we can’t go out and meet them in battle, since they’ll walk all over us with sheer numbers. But… if we can get them to charge us, they’ll be exhausted when they reach the top of this long slope, and trapped against our defences. Then we can send the best, freshest men out and carry out the good old-fashioned Roman battle that Plancus is angling for, all the time keeping wearing away at them from the top of the walls.”
Galba frowned and drummed his fingers on his knee.
“It has merit, sir. We’d need to give them more than just a reason to attack us, though. If you want a mad, exhausting charge, they have to believe that time is of the essence. Not an easy thing to achieve. If you can, though, we could use a day or so to perhaps set up some surprises for them. We picked up some very inventive ideas from the tribes in the Alpine passes last winter.”
Sabinus nodded, smiling.
“Anything that helps give us that little bit more edge. I have some ideas but, until Plancus’ man gets here, let’s concentrate on how we deal with them once they’re here.”
The commander, along with his legates and tribunes, fell into an involved discussion, bandying ideas back and forth and picking apart every angle, and the tent buzzed with animated conversation several minutes later when there was a polite knock on the tent frame by the door.
“Come!”
The figure of the centurion who had accompanied them at the parlay appeared in the doorway, standing respectfully to attention.
“Come on in, man, and stand at ease.”
“Yes general. How can I be of service?”
Sabinus smiled at the man.
“I would like you to perform a rather special duty; a sort of recruitment officer.”
The centurion frowned, but remained silent. Sabinus laughed.
“What’s your name, centurion?”
“Cantorix, general.”
“Well, Cantorix, I w
ould like you to go back to the Fourteenth and pick out as many soldiers of a certain nature as you can find.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to put together a vexillation of men for a special mission and I have three criteria for selection. Firstly, they need to look as Gallic as possible; no Roman-style haircuts or clean shaven faces. Secondly, they need to be the most bloodthirsty, powerful bastards the Fourteenth has to offer. And thirdly, I don’t want anyone too virtuous and fair. Select the sort of men you wouldn’t play dice against; the sort of men you wouldn’t leave alone in your tent or let follow you down a dark alley. You get my drift?”
Cantorix nodded, uncertainly.
“May I ask what will be required of them, general?”
Sabinus smiled.
“Indeed you may, though I would prefer this information were not disseminated among the men yet, so keep your peace until you’ve organised the men and spoken with us again.”
He leaned forward.
“We’re going to infiltrate Viridovix’s army with our own. You heard the other day that their army is accepting all the waifs and strays from all over Armorica, including rebels, bandits and any Roman haters? Well it’s time for you and your men to become rebels and bandits. You need to join them in the guise of Veneti refugees. You’ll tell them that Caesar has defeated the Veneti and is on his way north. In fact, you’ll tell him that we appear to be preparing to leave. It needs to sound desperate enough that they’ll want to deal with us as a matter of urgency.”
Galba smiled.
“They’ll assume the two armies are about to join up. Yes… that would frighten them as a possibility: the three legions they face now suddenly becoming seven.”
“Indeed,” Sabinus nodded, “and it should be enough impetus to make them launch an attack. They’ll believe that they have to obliterate us before we get a chance to move out and join up with Caesar.”
Cantorix wore a faintly uncertain look.
“Problem, centurion?”
“Not as such, general, but this is a lot to ask of men who have been treated like an inferior unit from the outset and continually assigned to menial tasks. Morale has never been high in the Fourteenth, because they know the other legions look down on them. I’m not saying they wouldn’t do it, sir. Of course not, but I feel duty bound to my men to report the situation as it stands.”
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