The great hulking barbarian stepped toward him, grinning and raising his long blade in two hands, ready to bring it down in an overhand blow that would drive it clean through the tribune and at least a foot of the earth beneath him.
Already sickened at the fact that he was on his hands and knees in his own vomit and the blood of several men, Rusca took a deep breath and threw himself flat on his front in the mess, swinging his sword arm out with all his strength as he did so.
The gladius was traditionally used for stabbing, its point vicious and its blade well made for repeated thrusts and withdrawals. The legions were trained to use them this way for efficiency and the high probability of mortal wounding with each blow, but it was not unknown, according to his father, for the blade to be used to slice, as in the horrible Macedonian conflicts a hundred years ago where tales of severed limbs had abounded.
The blow was powerful, driven by fear, desperation and a curious cold determination that had formed like ice from the tears of his panic. As the Gaul’s sword reached its apex, prepared for its deadly descent into the tribune’s back, Rusca’s gladius swept out and bit into his leg just above the ankle, the force carrying the blow deep enough to snap the bone.
The warrior gave a blood-curdling cry as his leg slipped sideways, separating from the foot above the ankle, the severed shin dropping to the turf.
The man collapsed, screaming in agony, his attack entirely forgotten.
Rusca blinked in frightened amazement as the man’s sword, relinquished in mid air, plunged point first into the earth less than a foot from the tribune’s grimy hand. Shuddering, he pushed himself back into a kneeling position and stared at his slick, crimson sword.
Suddenly an arm was beneath his shoulder, helping him to stand. His legs seemed to have regained some of their strength and he pushed himself upright without too much difficulty, turning to stare in confusion at the capsarius who had helped him. The man was saying something.
“What?”
“I said thanks for that, sir.”
The man laughed.
“Actually, what I really said, sir, was ‘bloody hell!’”
Rusca continued to stare at him blankly. The man shrugged.
“Never seen an officer fight like that, sir. Hell, I’ve rarely seen anyone fight like that!”
Rusca gave a croaky laugh.
“Better to be a living thug than a dead hero, eh?”
The capsarius nodded, grinning, as he stepped past the tribune and sank his blade into the writhing form of the one-footed Gaul, dispatching him with ease.
The tribune wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes and frowned into the fray.
“Can’t see what’s happening. Can you? I appear to have all manner of shit in my eyes.”
The capsarius laughed and squinted as he turned and took in the scene around him.
“I think we’re down to about half numbers, but a lot of those will be walking wounded; salvageable, if we can get out of here.”
Rusca raised an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t really seeking a medical opinion, man, more a tactical one.”
“’Course, sir. Think they’re thinning out. Looks like we’ve got the edge.”
The pair turned and stared as the scene up and down the valley became apparent. Ahead, the Sotiates were retreating, running as fast as they could down the valley, while Crassus and the First cohort reorganised to follow them. The enemy horse had fled already, and Galronus’ cavalry had turned and were harrying the fleeing Gauls. Further back along the line, among the other cohorts, the Gauls were already beginning to disengage.
“Why are they running?” Rusca wondered aloud.
“’Cause of the auxilia, sir. Look!”
The tribune raised his eyes and scanned the top of the valley side, where his companion was pointing. Units of auxiliary archers were pouring arrows down into the rear ranks of the enemy, while others, probably the spear men, were heaving at the loose rocks, setting them rolling down the steep incline and into the mass of Sotiates.
“Ha. Their ambush has been ambushed.”
The capsarius wore a look of concern as he turned back.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re very pale, sir. It’s hard to see beneath all the blood, but you’re white as a Vestal’s dress. Are you wounded?”
Rusca grinned.
“Far from it.”
He turned and scanned the men until he spotted the senior centurion.
“Looks like they’re breaking, centurion. Soon as they do, get formed up and follow, joining up with the First cohort.”
The centurion saluted and Rusca turned back to the capsarius.
“You and I, however, are going to wait until the enemy are cleared back and then head to the supply carts where I can get water for a wash, and some clean clothes.”
The capsarius grinned.
“Up to you sir, but if I were you I’d stay just like that. The very sight of you would loosen their bowels!”
The chief oppidum of the Sotiates had been a surprise to all. After an initial chase, it had become clear that, with its accompanying auxilia and baggage train, there was little hope of catching the fleeing Gauls before they reached their settlement and so Crassus had called an immediate halt to the fruitless chase and had changed tactics entirely.
Scouts sent ahead confirmed that over the next ten miles the land gradually lowered and flattened until it became a huge plain that extended all the way to the distant shore. The oppidum was constructed on only a very low hill, that being all that was available, and surrounded by low walls that, in quality and size, fell short of the impressive defences they had seen in other parts of Gaul.
Clearly the Sotiates had placed all their faith in the ambush in the valley, knowing that once the Roman forces reached the plain their defensive capabilities were drastically reduced.
Crassus had greeted the news from the scouts with a smile, reforming the Seventh legion and its auxilia and taking two days in the last of the forested hills before descending to the plain. While this delay would have given the Sotiates the time to recover from their heavy losses and panicked retreat, it would not be long enough for them to effect heavier defences or gather great reinforcements, yet would allow the Roman force the time to perform the onerous post-battle tasks: the tending of the wounded and the funerals of the dead and raising of a mound.
More importantly it had given the engineers of the legion plenty of time to strip areas of woodland and use the timber to construct a number of siege machines in preparation for the coming assault. From his position outside the army’s current command chain, Galronus had watched the engineers with interest. His duties with the cavalry had rarely allowed him time to observe the feats of the engineers in progress and the work was fascinating to watch. Clearly these men had worked together so many times that there was hardly any need for commands or directions, the soldiers going about their tasks with ordered precision, as though performing some sort of complicated dance.
By the time they had set off on the march again yesterday morning, the huge train of carts that followed the army had acquired mobile shelters that the engineers called vineae, two tall towers and a number of great screens that could protect troops.
The additional heavy engines had slowed the pace of the army a little and consequently the unnamed oppidum had only finally come into view this morning as the army continued along the line of the river down across the plains.
Tribune Tertullus had been lauded for their actions in the valley, with no mention being made of Galronus’ part. The lack of recognition had hardly bothered the Remi horseman, but the absence of the friendly tribune, as the man had been called to ride with the van once more, left a hole that had filled with tedium.
Even now, while the legions stood in shining ranks on the plain below the walls of the oppidum, awaiting the order to advance, the siege engines in place and ready to be launched forth, Galronus sat apart from the action, lounging on a fl
at, warm rock in the sunshine as he watched the glorious Roman parade before him.
Somewhere among the mass musicians issued calls and the army split and began to carry out carefully prepared manoeuvres, some trundling the siege towers forward, others sheltering in the vineae as they rolled toward the walls, the artillery details manning the onager and ballistae, firing off their initial aiming shots to find the range. The huge screens moved forward, protection for the auxiliary archers. It was so ordered it could have been a latrunculi board with two players shifting their markers.
Galronus shook his head and smiled. Fronto’s fault, that. A year ago he’d been Remi to the core, unaware of the very existence of the game. Now here he was after a winter in the great city under the dour legate’s influence and the first metaphor that came to mind was a Roman game. Briefly he wondered how his friend was doing, far away to the north, dealing with the rebellious Veneti, and found with surprise that he was suffering feelings that he would be hard put to call anything other than homesickness for Rome. That was a surprise.
And yet, as he watched the first volleys of fire issue from the attackers and from the walls of the settlement, he could see the future of the world mapped out among the cohorts and centuries before him.
Before Caesar came to the lands of the Belgae, the Remi tribe had weighed their options and made the decision to support the forces of the general. Had they not, they may now be like the Aduatuci: nothing more than a name on a map, gradually fading into obscurity. Rome was coming to the whole world and embracing its arrival was the only sensible option. Aquitania would fall soon enough.
Distant cries of dismay drew his attention and he used his hand to shade his eyes and passed his gaze across the forces below the walls. Something was happening by one of the two huge siege towers. The structure was leaning at a precarious angle and it was with a smile that Galronus realised that two of the huge wheels had sunk into the ground. As he watched the legionaries desperately trying to right the huge construction, he almost laughed aloud when the tower swayed dangerously and then finally, ponderously, toppled forward and disappeared from view.
He frowned as he tried to focus on the distant spot, trying to work out what had happened and let out another bark of laughter as he realised that the structure had sunk into a tunnel, then tipped forward and vanished into the subterranean passage in its entirety.
The advance faltered for a moment as decisions were made. Galronus grinned and reached down for his sack of watered wine, purloined from the baggage train last night, and yet another indication of the influence Fronto had had on him this past year.
On the plain below, the bright silver and crimson figures of the tribunes marched around between the other officers, relaying Crassus’ commands. Galronus tried for a moment to identify them: the ageing Tertullus who had become a friend and ally so easily, and Rusca, who had arrived at the baggage train two days ago covered in gore, smelling of unearthly filth, and had spoken to him for the first time, lightly and with a gentle humour. The distance was too great, though, and one shining officer looked very much like another from this position.
It was curious. From here, with no command of his own and no direct influence on events, watching the army of Crassus at their work felt like those lazy days in early spring when he’d risen blearily from his bed in Fronto’s house and gone to watch the morning races in the circus. Momentarily he considered whether it would be in bad taste to find one of the medics or support staff that remained back from the battle and lay a few wagers.
Almost certainly they would think him callous, or an idiot. But then the betting of coin on games was a habit to which Rome had introduced him and not a natural pastime for the Belgae.
Taking another swig from the wine, he lay back on the rock and dozed, half listening to the battle going on below and before him. Some decision had clearly been made about how to avoid a repeat of the tower incident and the legions were marching again, accompanied by the groan and clonk of the huge timber constructions and the constant distant whisper of arrows and other projectiles flying back and forth.
In a way, he was glad to be so far out of it that the battle appeared little more than a game, unable to hear the cries of the wounded and dying and smell the sick odours of war.
A series of shouts and a crash announced another setback and Galronus pushed himself upright once again and opened his eyes. Another tunnel had been discovered, this time by one of the heavy, trundling vineae that had sagged to one side, its wheels sinking into the ground. With a great deal of effort, the legionaries managed to heave it back up to the flat and push it off to one side, avoiding the likely line of the passage.
By now the screens were in place and the units of auxiliary archers close enough to strafe the parapet of the low walls, quickly clearing them of defenders.
The Remi officer was about to close his eyes and sink back down to the rock when there was a tremendous roar. Pushing himself fully upright, he shaded his eyes once more and watched as a postern gate opened off to the far left and a mass of screaming Sotiate warriors issued forth, pouring toward the archers and their screen. Galronus nodded to himself as he watched events unfold.
The archers were apparently undefended, simply auxiliaries hiding behind screens; easy pickings for the enemy and too far from the nearest legionary cohort for the regular troops to intervene in time. The Sotiates had seen their only opportunity to try and even the field a little, but Crassus had planned ahead, likely for this very event, else why would he not have concentrated on the postern gate.
As half a thousand warriors poured forth, the nearest cohort of the Seventh changed its tack instantly, picking up speed and moving at triple time across the front of the archers, beneath the walls.
The bellowing, desperate Sotiate warriors threw themselves at the undefended archers, only to discover that the screen had concealed more than just the auxiliary bowmen. The spearmen who had filtered among them suddenly raised and braced their spears, using the weapons to create a barrier of deadly points protecting the archers, who continued to rain death on the oppidum’s walls.
The enemy realised their error too late, pulling back from lunging at the deadly spear wall and turning to flee to their gate, only to find that the speedy cohort had cut them off from their own walls. Suddenly trapped between the Narbonese spear men and the soldiers of the Seventh, busy settling into a shield wall, the despondent warriors threw down their weapons.
The Sotiates in the oppidum cut their losses and shut the gate on their friends.
“You are a Gaul. What do you think they will do?”
Galronus spun round in surprise to find Crassus standing behind him, burnished cuirass dazzling in the sunlight, crimson cloak waving in the light breeze.
“I am Remi, from half a world away, not one of them.”
Crassus shrugged, dismissing the comment as irrelevant.
“Well” Galronus mused, frowning at this unwarranted and unusual attention from the legate. “There is nothing they can do. They must surrender.”
Crassus nodded.
“I believe so. The question is whether we accept the surrender. We must continue on after this, deeper into Aquitania, to the very foothills of the Pyrenees, and it is never wise to leave a live enemy behind one. Even if I were inclined to mercy, the option of extermination is not a ridiculous one.”
Galronus narrowed his eyes and looked the man up and down. There was something in Crassus’ voice that he’d not noticed before. The legate appeared to be trying to talk himself into something.
“And are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you inclined to mercy?”
Crassus gestured to the landscape around them with a sweep of his hand.
“I am considering it, certainly. I brought down the Roman heel on the throat of Armorica last year and it seems to have had the opposite effect to that for which I had hoped. Instead of squeezing the resistance from them, I seem to have squeezed a mass of Gauls i
nto a hardened resistance. We can scarce afford a similar situation developing in Aquitania. Whatever we do here must be a permanent end if we are to label Gaul conquered.”
Galronus nodded.
“One way or the other, you mean. Pax Romana with the peoples of Aquitania, or a region totally empty save the graves of uncounted tribes.”
The legate gave a curious smile.
“You dislike and distrust me, Gaul. I can see it in your eyes.”
Galronus opened his mouth, but Crassus waved his unspoken words aside.
“Do not deny it, and rest assured that I dislike you also, though I find, curiously, that I do not distrust you. So tell me truthfully what you believe I should do with the Sotiates?”
Galronus pondered again, scratching his neck. He reached for his wine sack and offered it up to Crassus, who made a face.
“Hardly.”
Shrugging, the Remi officer took a deep swig and leaned back.
“You should accept their surrender in good faith. Offer acceptable terms; even terms favourable to them if you wish to have them watch your back as you move on. But remember too that the sort of leader who will lure you into an ambush is the sort of man to watch even when there is peace.”
Crassus nodded.
“Your thoughts are sensible, Gaul, and I tend to agree.”
Galronus took a deep breath.
“Forgive me, legate, but you didn’t come and find me just to ask my opinion on something you had already thought through yourself.”
Crassus nodded.
“I find myself in the uncomfortable position of requesting that you retake command of the cavalry.”
Galronus smiled knowingly.
“They react somewhat ‘inefficiently’ to your tribunes’ orders?”
Gallia Invicta mm-3 Page 36
