Gallia Invicta mm-3

by S. J. A. Turney

  Noting with satisfaction that the first ditch was now fully traversable with little difficulty and that the cornicen was sending out the orders to advance the shield wall and archers to the next intervallum, he turned and frowned.

  He hadn’t spared a thought for the cavalry for the past half hour and had seen little of them, skirting the edge of the field as they were. And yet, as he scanned the periphery, past the lines of legionaries waiting for the order to advance, there was Galronus, cresting the hill from the west with a small party of riders at his back. The man was in a hurry.

  Patting his restless, prancing steed calmingly on the neck, Crassus watched as the cavalry officer bore down on him, and hauled on the reins as he closed.

  “I assume you’ve kept yourself busy patrolling the periphery?”

  Galronus grinned.

  “Something like that. I think I have some good news for you.”

  Crassus nodded soberly. Good news would be welcome about now.

  “The southern approach?” Galronus smiled, pointing at the fort. “I told you about the pitiful ditch there? Well it would appear that they’ve stripped the bulk of the defence from that wall to bolster this one. Clearly they’re aware that the legion is concentrating here.”

  Crassus nodded again, his eyes narrowing.

  “Stripped by how much?”

  Galronus grinned.

  “Give me a drunken circus crowd and I could probably get in there.”

  The legate bit his lip.

  “I cannot withdraw from here or they will become wise to the situation and even up their defences again. But then you cannot take that approach with purely cavalry.”

  Galronus nodded, pointing across the valley.

  “But…”

  “Yes, the four cohorts in reserve.”

  Crassus squared his shoulders and turned to spy the small group of tribunes gathered nearby with the signifers and cornicen.

  “Rusca? Ride back to the camp with this man.”

  As the tribune rode over to join them, his head cocked to one side quizzically, Crassus gestured to the pair of them.

  “A joint force of cavalry detachment and four cohorts, led by the two of you.” He pointed at Galronus. “Your men know the area now. Lead them round by a distant route; the most hidden you can find. I don’t care how you do it, but get those men to the southern approach without being seen. We will continue to prosecute the main fight here and draw their attention as much as possible.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Be as fast as you can, but do not sacrifice secrecy for speed, or all is for naught. You know what to do when you get there?”

  Rusca looked vaguely uncomfortable, but Galronus nodded.

  “Get inside the walls and cause mayhem!”

  “Mayhem, indeed. Good. Juno watch over you both. Now go.”

  He watched the two men ride off, the small group of riders at their heels, and took a deep breath.

  “Juno watch over us all!”

  Rusca peered around the bole of the tree and squinted into the distance.

  “So how are we going to do this?”

  Galronus shrugged.

  “I’m a cavalry man, tribune. Siege is not my forte.”

  Rusca nodded and, turning, waved the senior centurion forward.

  “Sir?”

  “I want your thoughts on how we assail that place.”

  The centurion frowned.

  “Direct and fast, sir. Not much in the way of a ditch to stop us, so we can be at the walls at a run in a few moments. There’s not many defenders so we need to get control before they can draw reinforcements to the wall.”

  Galronus pursed his lips.

  “Will you go over the wall or through it?”

  “Both have merits” the man shrugged. “To bring sections of the palisade down is a slower job and would delay the assault, but we’d be inside en masse a lot quicker. Scaling the walls would give us speed and surprise, but it would be a while before we had any kind of force inside.”

  He smiled and spread his hands.

  “What I’d do, sir, is both at once.”

  “Both?”

  “Yessir. There’s a lot of powerful horses here that can’t do anything until they can get inside. The First cohort attacks, climbs the walls, cuts the palisade binding and secures ropes, then passes them to the cavalry. The horses can probably pull that palisade clean out of the ground one stake at a time. As soon as there are a few small holes, the other three cohorts come in, take the rest apart quickly and then get inside. Soon as we’re in and there’s a sizeable hole, the cavalry can do their bit too, sir.”

  Rusca frowned.

  “Where do you think we might find ropes at such short notice?”

  “Brought them with us, sir, along with a lot of other trenching tools, caltrops and more. Never know what you might need, sir.”

  Galronus grinned at the tribune.

  “The plan has merit. Shall we?”

  The tribune swallowed nervously.

  “I suppose. Whatever we do, we need to do it fast.”

  The Remi commander nodded at the centurion.

  “Get the men moving. I’ll marshal a group of cavalry to haul the ropes for you.”

  As the two men ran off toward their respective units, Gaius Pinarius Rusca sighed and ran his eyes once more across the wall top. He was acutely aware that he was entirely unsuited to this job. A few weeks ago, Crassus would have pondered deeply before assigning him to anything more deadly than stock-taking in the supply wagons, but then his reputation seemed to have blossomed after that incident with the ambush. For some reason just because he’d fought with the desperation of a cornered beast and ended the day covered head to foot in gore, the men had cheered him and the officers assumed that he was some sort of crazed killer contained in a small bureaucratic frame.

  He was not.

  Yet now he was nominally in charge of the most important assault in the battle and the responsibility was immense. Oh, clearly Galronus and the centurion knew what they were doing, but his was the accountability.

  He shrank back behind the tree trunk, peering at the defences a few hundred yards away. Already, he felt that worrying loosening in his bladder area again.

  “You alright, sir? You’ve gone really pale.”

  Rusca almost shouted out in shock and turned, his heart racing, to discover that a legionary had taken position by the tree next to him, others moving up all through the woodland, the cavalry gathering in a clear area not far back where they were hidden from the fort by the woodland.

  He felt like a child, out of his depth and on the verge of panic. Before he could stop himself, he found his mouth was busy, working independently of his brain and blabbing his worst fears to this ordinary soldier. In horror, he clamped his mouth shut and tried to think of a way to downplay what he had just admitted, but the legionary shrugged.

  “It’s natural to be scared a bit, sir. Only a complete nutcase would feel no fear. Trick is to go piss your heart out in the woods first. Start every battle with an empty bladder and an empty bowel, sir. Me? I’d piss myself soon as I got within arrow reach otherwise!”

  Rusca stared at the man.

  “Sorry sir. Didn’t meant to speak out of turn.”

  Slowly, a smile spread across the tribune’s face.

  “Which bit of the palisade are we aiming for then, soldier?”

  The legionary pointed at a stretch where a slight hump in the ground caused the palisade to rise and fall.

  “Good” Rusca smiled. “Should be easier to get to the stakes. Think I’ll pop off and relieve myself before we go.”

  The legionary grinned.

  As Rusca trotted off through the advancing ranks of men until he found a convenient spot, he chewed on his cheek. It was right to be nervous. Of course it was… so long as the fear didn’t stop you, it didn’t control you, and the only answer was to tackle it face on.

  Sighing with relief, he fastened his bree
ches again and made his way back through the ranks of men to the front, where it took a minute to locate his original position and the man who had spoken to him. The lump in the palisade, however, guided him true.

  As he fell into place behind the tree, he became aware that the centurion off to his right was waving an arm. Rusca was still waiting for the cornu to blare out the call in response when the men sprang from their hiding places and ran out into the open. Of course! The element of surprise was paramount. Why would they use musicians?

  Biting his lip, he ducked out from the bole of the tree and drew his sword. Stretching out his legs ready to run, he became aware that the centurion was shaking his head. Yes, an officer should be dignified. No running.

  Close to the centurion, Rusca strode out into the open ground with a purposeful gait. Ahead, the legionaries of the First cohort were running for the wall, eerily quiet, roughly one man in every twenty carrying a rope.

  The whole situation was so strange. The minimal number of defenders on this side had been so unprepared to witness any action and had spent the past hour or more staring at nothing, becoming bored beyond endurance, that they took far too long to react to the sudden rush of silent men. Moreover, the whole assault was so quiet that the overriding sound was that of Crassus’ assault on the far side of the large camp.

  The running legionaries were almost at the contemptible excuse for a ditch by the time the cry went up from the scant defenders on the wall. Rusca ground his teeth as he marched along behind the assault, next to the centurion. Time was now very much of the essence. Once that cry had gone up it was a race to see whether the four cohorts could break in and consolidate their position before the defenders sent reinforcements to the wall.

  The tribune strode forward, his heart racing, as the men of the First cohort ahead reached the earth embankment below the palisade and threw themselves against the timbers, scrambling for holds and pushing one another up, climbing precariously with one hand and a sword in the other, or with both hands and a pugio clamped between their teeth.

  By the time Rusca reached the ditch, fighting was already occurring at the wall top, men falling with pained cries back down to the turf outside. The number of men on the walls appeared to have grown, but only a little; presumably a number of warriors had been standing by to support them in case of just such an event: enough to make the assault harder, but not enough to change the course of the battle, certainly.

  He altered his stride to jump across the pitiful little ditch. Around the other three sides of the fort, the ground on the slope was turf with deep earth beneath, or grit that could easily be carved and dug. Here, the rocky bones of the spur neared the surface and had made the digging of the ditch near impossible, resulting in a channel hacked through the rock with great difficulty, a mere two feet wide and two feet deep. Barely enough to slow a running man.

  A cry ahead drew his attention. One of the men had managed to achieve the wall walk and was busy fighting off warriors on both sides while his companions climbed up behind him. His task was hopeless, fighting on two sides and with no shield, and he disappeared with a shriek as a barbarian raised a huge spear in two hands and then brought it down behind the palisade, ending the legionary’s life out of view of the tribune.

  The man’s achievement had been enough, though. His valiant fight had allowed time for two more men to reach the top, and the spear man was quickly dealt with, the legionaries pushing the defenders back along the wall as more and more of the cohort arrived. Slowly and painstakingly, the wall was coming under Roman control and, as he watched, the men at the base of the palisade threw ropes up to the top where they were caught and secured.

  Rusca hadn’t even been aware that the cavalry had joined them until four horsemen raced past him, leaping the ditch with ridiculous ease and slowing at the wall. The tribune, now approaching the rampart, watched as the ropes were secured to the horses and the cavalrymen slowly walked their horses forward, each line threaded round the saddles and straps of two beasts.

  A cry from above announced that something had happened on the wall, but Rusca was now too close to see clearly and his first warning that the defenders had gained the upper hand was when half a legionary plummeted to the ground next to him, his spine severed above the pelvis and the lower portion remaining somewhere above. He stared in horror as another man fell, screaming, a rent so deep through his shoulder and into his chest that his arm flapped about unpleasantly as he landed.

  He stepped back, fighting the bile back down in his throat and tore his gaze away from the men and to the horses, who had reached the strain limit of the ropes and were pulling with all their might, their riders urging them on, ropes groaning and creaking with the tremendous force. Rusca took a deep breath and offered up a quick prayer to Minerva, hastily promising to raise a new altar as soon as he was somewhere he could do it reasonably.

  Whether it was Minerva listening or pure chance, the tribune almost lost control of his bowels as the palisade suddenly gave way a few feet from him. The whole defence had been constructed Roman fashion, with the palisade backed by a huge earth embankment that formed the walk at the top and which would give great support to the timber when pounded by siege weapons but was of precious little use when the walls were pulled outwards.

  The sudden force as they gave way, the bindings at the top having been cut by the legionaries in their initial attack, was so powerful that four of the great timbers were literally torn from the ground. The one directly attached to the horses hurtled into the air like some gargantuan pilum, crashing to the earth with tremendous force some twenty yards away. The other three, still initially bound near the base, but wrenched from the earth with the fourth, exploded and smashed to the ground all around, one whooshing dangerously close to the ear of the devoutly praying tribune.

  Rusca stared as the great log that had almost taken off his head rolled slowly into the ditch where it came to rest at an odd angle, pointing accusingly at him.

  He was still watching, stunned, when the cornu sounded and the remaining three cohorts ran screaming from the eaves of the wood toward the ramparts. The earthen embankment behind the shattered wall had crumbled, being only a recent construction, and was now a mere mound that stood between the tribune’s forces and the interior of the enemy camp.

  The centurion, about whom he had almost entirely forgotten, but who remained close by, nodded in his direction.

  “Would you like the honour, sir?”

  Rusca wondered what the man meant for a moment, then realised and, swallowing nervously, nodded and strode forward toward the breech.

  As he reached the shattered section of wall, he heard the explosive sound of the timber being wrenched free in two other locations along the defences, the distant thunder of hooves that announced the cavalry were on the way, and the roar of the three other cohorts rapidly closing the distance behind him.

  Readying his sword arm, the tribune stepped up onto the slippery, smashed earth bank and clambered up into the gap. His heart almost failed him as he crested the top. A virtual sea of enemy warriors swarmed toward the attackers between him and the fort’s interior buildings. His knuckles whitened as his tightened his grip on the sword.

  So many men. How could they ever hope…

  Beside him, the centurion clambered onto the bank and grinned.

  “Now we’ve got the whore dogs on the run, eh sir?”

  Rusca turned to stare at the centurion but, as he did so, two barbarians that had been running along the interior of the earth bank bellowed and ran at them.

  The tribune raised his blade as the first man launched at him and managed to turn the initial blow aside, more by luck then skill. He prepared himself for the lethal blow as the second man lunged, but the centurion was already there, smashing the sword aside and leaping at him, shouting curses.

  Rusca drew back. The barbarian lunged again, a blow that the tribune narrowly dodged. Panic began to set in as he took two more steps back. Any moment he’d
be at the loose soil where the palisade had been and then he was in trouble… unless he could make it work for him. Fight dirty. Always fight dirty.

  Watching nervously as the barbarian ducked left and right, his eyes darting around, Rusca felt back with a foot and encountered only empty air. He’d been that close already.

  Preparing himself, he watched the man. It was all about which way he went. He’d been on his right foot for both attacks so far, so Rusca needed to go left.

  The man attacked with lightning speed, the long, leaf-bladed Spanish sword, so similar to a gladius in many ways, lashing out toward him. The tribune was prepared, however. As soon as the man put the weight on that foot and pushed, Rusca was already dodging to his left. Grasping the warrior by the shoulder, he used the man’s weight to throw him forward and past. The Celt cried out in surprise, his balance suddenly upset, as he plunged on and down the shattered bank. Rusca regained his own footing and shot his gaze around him. What had looked so hopeless mere moments before now held a strong grain of hope.

  Galronus’ cavalry were pouring in through a hole in the rampart further along, and the four cohorts of legionaries were now almost all at the defences and beginning to push inside, the First forcing a bridgehead in the very heart of the enemy camp. One of the advancing legionaries paused as he climbed the bank to thrust his blade through the back of Rusca’s fallen adversary and curiously the tribune felt cheated and a little disappointed.

  The wall was theirs and, given the calls that he recognised from a cornicen far away, Crassus’ force knew it and were pushing with renewed vigour.

  It would all be over soon.

  Gritting his teeth and silently thanking both Minerva for her assistance and the unnamed legionary for his advice, Rusca stepped down the embankment and put every ounce of his strength into the kick that he delivered with feeling into the dead Gaul’s bared crotch.

  Rusca and his senior centurion straightened, their helmets beneath their arms, as they strode across the centre of the enemy camp toward the legate. The battle had ended less than twenty minutes after the south wall fell, the situation becoming increasingly hopeless for the enemy with every passing minute.