Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Thank you Adcantuannus.”

  Turning his back and sauntering away in a deliberate show of trust, the Remi officer collected the fallen sword and shield and returned to his men, passing the shield to its owner.

  “Thank you sir. Thought you was a goner for a minute.”

  Galronus smiled.

  “Me too, soldier. Me too. I must find the man who located that gate outside and buy him a shipload of wine!”

  The centurion close by smiled at him.

  “I suppose that’s it for now then, sir. We’ll be making camp and securing the land for a few days before we move on?”

  Galronus shook his head and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, causing the harness full of phalerae to jingle and clink against the mail beneath.

  “Hardly, centurion. We are now in a race against possibly the entire population of Hispania. I suspect the preparations to march are already underway.”

  He glanced past the disarming rebels in the street, on past the low town wall and to the distant, hazy, blue-grey peaks of the mountains that separated the Celts of Gaul from their brothers in Spain.

  “Mountains full of howling defiance await us yet.”

  Chapter 17

  (Quintilis: The foothills of the Pyrenees.)

  Crassus strode through the tent’s doorway, brushing the leather flap aside without taking his eyes from the fortification ahead.

  “Well, commander? What have the scouts found?”

  The army had arrived at the foothills of the mighty mountain range that separated the tribes of Spain and Gaul two days ago, following rumours and reports of the massing of tribes gathered from scattered farmers by the scouts. Then, yesterday afternoon, as the Seventh and their support entered the lowest channels of the passes into the peaks, they had made a disquieting discovery.

  The confederation of tribes, or at least a part of it, had constructed a camp on a high ridge that stood above a fork in the valleys and commanded a powerful position. This in itself was hardly a surprise, but the form of the camp and its defenders was startlingly familiar.

  Now, as Galronus stood before the legate, his eyes turned to follow the man’s gaze, falling on the fortifications opposite. The tribes had constructed a camp of a perfectly Roman form, with ramparts, ditches, gatehouses and towers and even from this distance the two men could see the rows of ordered tents within, gathered around a central headquarters area. They might as well have been looking at their own camp.

  Galronus drew a deep breath.

  “It’s very much as you feared, legate. Their fort is well constructed on a perfect Roman model and sizeable enough to hold at least twice our number. As yet it seems to be half empty, so presumably they’re still expecting many more reinforcements from across the mountains, but my scouts have spotted nothing so far. I’ve set them keeping watch on every pass and valley for eight miles, so we’ll have plenty of warning before they arrive.”

  “And what of the fort’s defences? Anything I can use?”

  The Remi commander shrugged.

  “The rampart and palisade are perfectly Roman, so you know exactly what to expect. I would guess that any leader who has adopted your ways that far probably doesn’t stop at the walls. The camp seems to be laid out in Roman fashion and I heard calls being issued by a great horn. The only slight advantage we can identify is the southern side. The camp is surrounded by a triple ditch on all the other approaches, but only by one half-cut ditch on the south, due to the nature of the rocky ground there. Problem is that the approach to the south is a narrow spur with a frightening drop at either side; what Fronto calls a ‘killing ground’.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “They have very much adopted our ways. I have heard of this before in the northern reaches of Spain. The tribes there fought in the great war under Sertorius almost twenty years ago. They hailed him the ‘new Hannibal’ if you can believe it. Sertorius spent years in Spain teaching their tribes and leaders how to be more Roman. Now look how it turned out.”

  Galronus took another deep breath. Being the bearer of bad tidings was never a good thing, and Crassus hardly held him in high regard as it was.

  “There’s worse news.”

  The legate squared his shoulders and spoke without taking his eyes from the fortified position on the opposite spur.

  “Go on.”

  “They are sending forays out down into the valley. The supplies we brought with us up here are all we’re likely to get. Groups of enemies are scattered all over the countryside below, effectively sealing off the passes. No new supplies will reach us unless we send a sizeable escort for them.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “Which, of course, we cannot do without weakening ourselves too much here. We should have brought months’ worth of supplies, but haste was of the essence, sadly.”

  He turned to the tribunes, standing silent nearby.

  “What is the situation with our supplies?”

  “We have food supplies for a week. More if we stretch and ration it, but we risk weakening the men. Water is not an issue as there are streams and springs in the area.”

  Crassus shook his head.

  “Unless those springs are in sight of our current position, disregard them. If the enemy are setting small ambush groups up in the valleys below, be sure they are also sealing off any free supplies. If they haven’t found a way to poison the water against us, they will be watching it, ready to take us on. No. We rely on what we brought or what we can see from here.”

  Galronus nodded thoughtfully. Tertullus had told him that Crassus, for all his faults, was no fool tactically, and the ageing tribune appeared to be absolutely right. Galronus would be willing to bet that any source of food or drink within reach had already been dealt with.

  “Scouts have given a clear report of several passes a few miles to the east. Perhaps we can reroute the supply wagons to come to our position by a circuitous route? We could besiege them then and slowly force them to capitulate.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “It’s worth a try… the supplies, I mean. Have riders dispatched with the appropriate orders and have small units posted to keep a clear view on the route. But the supplies will be seriously delayed and may have trouble with the terrain, so we cannot rely on them.”

  He clapped his hands together in the misty mountain air.

  “No. No sieges. We have to move quickly and decisively. You may be able to give us half a day’s warning of approaching reinforcements, but we cannot be sure that the enemy do not have other, more secret, ways across the mountains. They know this land far better than any of us and I can’t risk waking one morning to find they outnumber us ten to one.”

  He turned to the tribunes.

  “What say you?”

  The men glanced at one another nervously until Tertullus shrugged.

  “We didn’t come this far to sit on our hands and watch the whole of Spain arrive across the mountains. Let’s go over there and give them a lesson in how a real Roman army works.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the others and Crassus nodded again.

  “Seems like there’s only one clear course of action. Have the senior centurions gather for a briefing. We move at dawn tomorrow.”

  Galronus walked his horse slowly forward at the head of a detachment of auxiliary cavalry on the army’s left wing and glanced across the lines of advancing troops appreciatively. The organisation of the army seemed nonsensical unless one had listened to the legate explain it.

  Shunning the traditional formations, Crassus had placed his auxiliary spearmen and archers at the very centre of his force, the position usually reserved for the heavy infantry, with three cohorts of the Seventh flanking them on each side, the cavalry split into four groups at the two edges and following on behind and the remaining four cohorts guarding the Roman camp on the spur opposite.

  Presenting such a weak centre had stirred discontent among the veteran centurions, who considered it their job to ho
ld the prime position, but the subtlety of the plan soon quietened them.

  The auxiliaries were a lure. Since the enemy knew Roman tactics well, they would expect a standard Roman advance and would be prepared to deal with it. This would perhaps throw them a little off guard, but would hopefully also lead them to believe their opposition to be tactically incompetent. After all, what general in his right mind fields his weakest troops in the centre?

  The Remi officer clenched his teeth. They were getting too close. The speed of the Roman march perhaps hadn’t given the enemy enough time to draw the appropriate conclusions.

  Surely such a formation would be too tempting for the enemy to pass up?

  And as soon as they poured forth from the gate, even should they do so as a Roman-style shield wall, and engaged the auxiliary spearmen, the centre would begin an orderly fall back, keeping a line of spears to their pursuers, as the two wings of legionaries would swing round and turn inward, flanking the enemy, effectively boxing them in until they were trapped and slaughtered. The cavalry, at this point, could create a cordon around the periphery to prevent any escapes and try to gain and hold the fort’s gate.

  It was an ingenious move; a manoeuvre subtle and cunning in its formation.

  But something was wrong. The lure had not worked.

  By now the enemy should be rushing from the gate, or at least forming up. No horn blasts sounded and no warriors appeared. The Roman forces were now no more than a quarter of a mile from the enemy fortifications, which stood proud on the crest of the long slope. They weren’t coming.

  Grinding his teeth, Galronus wheeled his horse and raced off past his men to the rear of the advancing Seventh legion and toward the commanders who rode behind, shining silver and crimson in the early morning sun.

  His thoughts must have been shared by the legate and his tribunes since, just as he rounded the rear and made for the officers, the cornicen blew the call for the legion to halt. As the entire advancing force stopped in perfect unison, Galronus trotted up to the command group.

  “Clever fellow” the legate was saying to the tribunes.

  “Clever, sir?”

  “He’s not been fooled by the weak formation. This leader we face knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to sit inside his fortifications and wait until he has enough men to squash us like a fly.”

  Rusca frowned.

  “Then what do we do, sir?”

  “Quite simple. We attack. What other choice do we have?”

  The legate turned to the cornicen, noting Galronus’ presence for the first time with a flick of his eyes.

  “Send out the calls” he addressed the man. “I want the auxiliaries withdrawn to the rear and the Seventh to form up in standard battle formation.”

  Dismissing the musician, he turned to Galronus.

  “Can’t see much use for the cavalry in a direct assault. I suggest that you just keep your men back and send them anywhere you think they might be useful as the opportunity arises.”

  Galronus shifted in his saddle. For his entire force to be so summarily dismissed was irritating, but there really was no way he could think of to fault the legate’s reasoning. He would just have to make sure that a situation that he could use arose.

  As he waved to his own standard bearers with their dragon-headed banners and Celtic horns, ready to give them their orders, Crassus watched the auxilia pull back and reassemble to the rear, the legion shifting to present a solid shield wall.

  Horns were blown across the hillside and the cavalry pulled back in their four groups to a distance from which to observe events. Galronus watched them and then frowned in surprise as Crassus rode forward, approaching the rear lines of the legion, an enterprising optio giving hasty commands and having a passageway opened for the legate.

  Crassus nodded at the man and rode between the ranks of the Seventh until he reached the front, where he turned his horse and looked down at the men.

  “Our Aquitanian and Spanish friends appear to be a little nervous?”

  A ripple of laughter spread out across the crowd.

  “How do we reward their resistance?”

  A deep, raspy voice from somewhere amid the ranks called out “death?”

  Crassus pointed in the man’s direction.

  “Death is a start, but even heroes die. You and I will die some day. How do we reward these cowards trembling behind their fake Roman walls for closing their gates to the Seventh?”

  A lighter voice muttered something and one of the centurions on the front rank raised his vine staff over his head.

  “Obliteration, gutting, burning, dismantling and salting the land, sir!”

  Crassus laughed.

  “I fear you missed the looting from your list, but good man nonetheless!”

  This time the laughter raced around the army in a roar.

  “So do we go back and prepare for a siege, men?”

  The negative murmur was clear indication of the feeling of the troops. Galronus smiled to himself. This was a Caesarean speech if ever he’d heard one. Fronto rarely made speeches of this kind; his men were so tightly bound to him they’d follow him into Tarterus if he asked. Caesar, however, relied on his oratory to goad his men and stiffen their resolve, like the public speakers Galronus had heard urging the crowds in Rome. Remarkably, it seemed to work and, more remarkably yet, the young legate seemed to be turning into a shadow of the general himself. The mood was suddenly tingling and electric, like the air between a crash of thunder and the flash of the lightning.

  “Or do we march on and flatten that camp and every last living thing in it?” the legate bellowed.

  A roar arose from the crowd and Crassus allowed his horse to rear up and paw at the air a couple of times heroically before settling back down as silence returned.

  “Good men. Let’s go and show them a taste of true Roman power!”

  As he turned and rode his horse back through the narrow passageway to the rear, the Seventh legion cheered and men reached up to try and touch the passing legate’s boot or harness for luck. Galronus had had to force himself not to cheer along.

  Really there was so little to cheer about, he thought as he set his gaze on the strong defences awaiting them at the top of the slope.

  Crassus hauled on his reins and turned his horse to get a better view of what was happening along the left flank.

  The approach was brutal and he knew it. The men knew it as well, but they were professionals and had marched forward with the pride of Rome glowing in their eyes to take the fortress. A particularly astute soldier at the front had called a warning as they approached the causeway leading to the gate, noticing the tell tale depressions that spoke of lilia pits waiting to cripple anyone who dared take the easy approach.

  The first task was to cross the ditches, three of them in all, cut to the perfect angle to inconvenience infantry. The first cohort of the legion had managed, with some difficulty and no small number of casualties, to cross the first ditch and had formed a solid shield wall between the first and second, under the constant barrage of defensive fire. As soon as they were in position, however, the auxiliary archers had rushed across and dropped down behind them before rising to send their own repeated volleys of fire at the walls, pinning down the defenders.

  It irked Crassus immensely to watch his glorious Seventh reduced to the status of a gigantic shield, while the auxilia did the bulk of the work right now, the archers crippling the enemy defences and the spearmen bringing forth bundles of foliage and sods of earth to infill the ditch, enabling the remaining five cohorts to cross.

  But then, the auxilia were there to use and he was sure his veterans would be happier playing shield wall than carrying the turf.

  As he watched, tensely, a new wave of defenders appeared all along the fort wall, armed with heavy darts, rocks, slings and bows. The resulting sudden intense enemy fire punctured holes all along the shield wall, forcing reinforcement legionaries to run across the partially filled ditch to
take their place, less than half of whom made it across alive.

  The plan was solid, though. In a few hours the ditches would be no obstacle. Of course, there were bound to be lilia below the walls too if they were following the Sertorian model, and the defences themselves would be difficult enough to take, but the whole thing could be over by nightfall, depending on what these clever little barbarians had prepared within the camp itself. He’d be prepared to bet there were a few nasty surprised in store when they got that close.

  He ground his teeth as the fresh wave of defenders was pushed back down behind their defences again by concentrated fire from the auxiliary archers. The problem was that in the time it took to get his men into that fortification, he may only have half his army left.

  The alternative, of course, was to march the legion blindly across the ditch with no further delay and try to take them in a straight assault, since there was no chance of getting siege engines up that slope in a hurry. That would be a greater gamble still, though. This way, the battle was drawn out over a longer period, extending the time to which his men were subject to enemy fire, but at least they were in a good defensive position. If he charged them and opened them up to the full strength of enemy fire as they tried to cross the ditches…

  It didn’t even bear thinking about.

  He couldn’t lose this battle and he couldn’t lose the whole action. His father had spoken at length in his last letter of the likelihood of attaining a gubernatorial posting next year, which would mean that he himself would likely be recalled to Rome at the end of this season and, if that was the case, he needed victory beneath his belt to assure him of a good position in the city when his father left.

  In all, this meant that not only did he have to destroy the benighted Aquitanian alliance, but he would have to do it with such force, pomp and show and with enough of a surviving force to drive the idea of resistance and rebellion from the minds of all. The Gaulish cavalryman had been right to counsel mercy down on the plains, but this was different. This had to be a statement.