Conspiracy of Eagles mm-4

by S. J. A. Turney

  The first assault came less than an hour later. The pickets had withdrawn to the fortified boundary and the defenders had watched the barbarians moving around just inside the shadow of the woods, their numbers uncertain.

  It began as a roar somewhere inside the treeline, followed by a crash as the Germanic warriors slammed their weapons against shields, other weapons, or just tree trunks, raising a noise that shook the world. Then, half a dozen heartbeats later, the enemy poured out of the forest, yelling their guttural battle cries, mostly unarmoured, often unclothed, but with every weapon honed to a killing edge.

  Fronto, standing on the low embankment, was pleased to note the lack of enemy archers. Not a surprise, really, given the utter devastation their wedge-formation charge had wrought on the lightly armed missile troops. Very few bowmen had escaped alive into the woods, and those that did would be in no hurry to return. These men were very likely the remaining warriors of that first ambush at the farm. If that were the case, then it suggested to Fronto that perhaps the rest of the tribes were staying safely back in their own territory, watching the Roman advance carefully. If that was the case then Decius could be right. If they broke this attack, they might survive until the bridge was complete.

  “It all sounds a bit unlikely to me” he muttered to Decius. “Are you really sure they’re that good? They look a bit shaky to me.”

  The prefect grinned. “They’re just still recovering from that rope trip. But remember Bibrax? And we’ve been training on small target shooting since then, so watch and learn.”

  Fronto cast a distinctly uncertain look at the archers, but nodded. They all looked worried and shaky. Not that he blamed them. If he’d had to cross that wet rope above the churning currents of the Rhenus, he’d probably have lost control of his bowels by now.

  “Legionaries prepare! Front rank ready! Rear rank ready!”

  As he glanced along the rampart, the sixty-five men forming the front rank stood with their shields forming a defensive ‘U’ within the defences of the tiny fort. Swords were held poised, ready to flash out each time the shields parted a couple of inches. The rear rank of twenty five men stood five yards back, each holding a pilum ready, five more jammed into the ground, ready to throw.

  Decius waited until Fronto’s voice had echoed away and straightened. The forty archers who had crossed knelt on the embankment, arrows jammed into the earth.

  “Remember the range. Only fire when you’re certain of a hit. Mark your targets carefully. Section one, you’re looking for the largest, least armoured men. Section two fire at will, but be selective and mean!”

  Fronto looked along the line of archers and then glanced back and watched with regret as the two ropes splashed down into the water and were withdrawn to the bridge, a precaution against giving the enemy any advantage should the bridgehead fall.

  It quickly became clear as the barbarians swarmed across the open grass that their numbers had been somewhat bolstered since the ambush at the farm. Even as the lead warriors — bloodlust filling their eyes and minds, swords raised for a first blow — closed on the small, hopelessly inadequate fortlet, more were still pouring from the woods in a seemingly endless supply.

  “Steady” called Decius in a calm voice. Fronto glanced nervously across. Surely they were close enough now. He could almost smell them. In return, the tanned prefect grinned at him and, producing one of the wineskins, took a quick pull from it and winked.

  “Fire!” he bellowed.

  Fronto felt his eyes drawn back to the enemy by the arcing of the missiles. The initial volley seemed to have failed in its intended effect for a moment and Fronto was about to order the archers back, when he watched the results unfold with interest.

  The nine archers of ‘section one’ were Decius’ best shots. The most accurate and consistent archers to be found in the whole unit of Cretans, most of whom were still trapped on the far side of the Rhenus.

  Now Fronto could see how they’d earned the blue scarf that marked them out as double-pay men. Each of the nine arrows sailed straight and true and only one missed the intended mark, by a tiny enough margin that the effect was the same.

  The result was impressive. Each missile had been aimed for the knee of one of the largest and most powerful barbarians and had struck home with impressive accuracy. The bulky warriors had floundered with the crippling blows and fallen sideways in the direction of the damaged joint, bringing down several of the other charging barbarians in the mess.

  The rest of the archers were firing and nocking, firing and nocking, firing and nocking at a rate that Fronto simply couldn’t believe, their victims collapsing to the wet ground with cries of agony. Precious few arrows went astray, and even those that did caused some damage due to the press of the enemy.

  The effect of the targeted knee shots was remarkable. Where a moment earlier a solid row of howling barbarians had been running, trying to out-sprint one another, now few pockets of men were still running, while most of the front five or six ranks’ worth of warriors were down, floundering in the churning mud while the mass behind them tried to leap over or clamber across them in their lust to get to the enemy.

  Fronto had a momentary image of that hillside at Bibrax two years ago, the slope wet and muddy, churning and becoming more slippery and treacherous with every fallen struggling man. The same was now happening on the field before him. The floundering ranks of attackers were churning the mud and creating a mire that made it increasingly difficult to gain a footing and stand again.

  As the entire attack ground to a comical, messy halt, the chosen men of the unit joined their compatriots in the simple nock-release-nock-release that was having a devastating effect on them.

  Finally the warriors from the bulk of the enemy force managed to make headway, clambering across their fallen countrymen, using the wounded or dead as a walkway to cross the roiling mud.

  “Your turn!” Decius shouted with a grin, even as his men continued their impressive rate of fire.

  Fronto nodded and raised his voice. “Second rank, throw at will!”

  As the barbarians continued to fall to the fletched hell that Decius had unleashed, the men of Fronto’s legionary force began to cast their javelins. They could not see their targets with the men of the first rank, the mound and the archers in front, but they cast their missiles high and hard, the pila falling somewhere deep in the mass of barbarians where they were almost guaranteed a kill.

  And for more than a minute the battle seemed frozen in time; a constant repeat of actions. Arrows flew from the rampart, plunging with astounding precision into the nearest barbarians, holding back the surge, while pilum after pilum arced up and over, falling into the press of flesh.

  Fronto stood on the mound watching the tableau with a professional eye, noting the slowing of the enemy force — not due purely to the damage being done them by the constant barrage of missiles, but also showing a growing uncertainty about their attack. Their enthusiasm was waning, their sureness of victory drained with every death and wound.

  It would be a close thing.

  There were still enough warriors in that field to completely swamp the hundred and thirty or so men defending the bank. If they could be pushed a little harder, the resolve that weakened with every minute might break completely and, if that happened, his small force had won. The barbarians would rout and leave the field and the bridgehead would hold, while fresh supplies and more men could be brought across.

  But even as Fronto felt his breath come and his tension ease, his gaze took in the arrows jammed into the turf along the defensive line. Few archers had more than two or three shots remaining. In the moment he registered the change in the situation, the last few pila arced up and over, signalling the end of that particular advantage.

  Decius was grinning as he turned to Fronto.

  “That’s us. Your turn now!”

  The last few arrows whirred into the enemy, picking off the closest and biggest of them. As the final missile fle
w, Fronto took a deep breath. “Ranks part!” he bellowed.

  All along the defence, the line of legionaries shuffled to create gaps through which the archers could move to the relative safety of the camp. Decius ran along the mound to Fronto and gestured. “We’ll do what we can from behind. Good luck!”

  Fronto nodded, casting a last glance at the enemy. Perhaps two or three hundred men had fallen in that brutal assault — more than a third of the enemy force. The rest came on slower, a little more carefully, watching the defenders suspiciously, with the blood lust gone from their eyes. With a deep breath and a murmured prayer to Fortuna, he dropped down the slope and moved between the parted ranks where he collected a shield and fell in with the second rank.

  “Front line, close ranks to shieldwall!”

  As the shields slammed together, the legate closed his eyes for a moment, willing the enemy to break fast. The second rank, himself included, would be ready to plug any holes in the shieldwall, but until a gap opened, all he could see of the enemy was a general mass of howling flesh in the tiny openings between legionaries.

  “Ready?” came a voice from behind and Fronto turned to see Decius and his archers gathered in small groups, hefting hammers, mattocks and stakes that had been brought over to help with the work — even a few empty and discarded wine jars. Even as he frowned at the prefect, the first man swung hard and released a heavy-headed mallet, which arced up over the defenders, falling somewhere among the enemy.

  Decius caught his glance and grinned.

  “Anything that might help, eh?”

  A mattock, heavy and sharp, thrummed overhead, plunging into the mass of the enemy, barely making it over the heads of the legionaries and causing a brief bladder release in the soldier who’d almost lost his head to a flying spade.

  “Careful!” Decius snapped. “High and far… high and far.”

  He turned his grin back on Fronto, who shook his head but could not help but join in with a disbelieving smile.

  The crash of close combat drew his attention back. The enemy had finally reached the shieldwall, though from the screaming and gurgling more were still falling foul of the sharpened branches jutting up from the ditch.

  From his position in the rear rank, Fronto watched the men of the Tenth and Fourteenth going to work, their shields changing angle every few seconds in a single movement that opened up a foot-wide gap through which every gladius in the line lanced out, biting into flesh before twisting and withdrawing behind shields that closed once again.

  It was an almost mechanical process and the enemy began to pile up on the far side of the rampart, several of them falling foul once again of the slippery conditions underfoot, the combat ripping the turf and earth beneath and churning it into a soup of treacherous mud. Here and there a legionary slipped, but managed to maintain his footing due to the heavy hob-nailed sandals they wore. The barbarians, largely unshod or clad in flat-soled boots, were less lucky, every slip bringing them down into the sucking mire, where they floundered as their own tribesmen clambered across them desperately.

  Fronto counted almost a minute before the first legionary went down, an overhead blow cutting him almost in two. The gruesome corpse slopped backwards and splattered into the pool of watery grass behind, staining it with a spreading pink tint. The legate opened his mouth to give the order, but a man was already moving forward to fill the gap.

  That was the moment in every battle, though.

  The legions fought their mechanical fight with a feeling of invincibility until that breaking point. The first death seemed to trigger it, and Fronto prepared himself as first one and then two, then three men fell, some slumping forwards onto the earth bank, their heads smashed and slashed, their bodies opened and spilling their vitals to the wet ground, others tumbling backwards.

  Each time, one of the second rank ran forward, stepping into the gap and slamming his shield into place, continuing the butchery.

  The legate watched with held breath as his small force of reserves dwindled more and more, twenty five men now down to fourteen. Now thirteen. Now twelve.

  Even as he realised he was about to run out of reserves, Fronto blinked in surprise. Three of the auxiliary archers had joined the line of men, armoured in their light mail shirts, less than half as protective as a legionary version, but gripping spare legionary shields and hefting their backup blades ready to join the fight. Decius fell in beside him, grinning, as more Cretan archers armed up and joined in.

  “Ran out of things to throw” he shrugged, hefting his sword.

  Only seven legionaries were left and now eight auxiliary reserves. Fronto took another deep breath. “Think we might be in the shit, Decius.”

  “Seems that’s the only place I ever meet you!”

  Fronto laughed a hollow laugh and turned back as a man howled in front of him, falling back with a spear impaling his chest, snapped off near the solar plexus. “My turn!” he shouted and shuffled forwards, limping over the fallen, groaning man with difficulty. He barely got his shield into position before the next blow carved a small sliver off the curved corner of it.

  “Bollocks, that was close!”

  The legionary next to him grinned and thrust his sword into a man whose hands had risen for an overhead chop with a heavy axe. Even as the man fell away and Fronto stabbed at the nearest open flesh, his eyes strayed up and over the press of men.

  “Mars be praised.” The field was largely empty of enemy warriors, more than two thirds of the Germanic attack now lying in heaps around the field or piled up like cordwood before the shieldwall.

  “Nearly done ‘em, sir!” the legionary grinned.

  “Why haven’t they broken? We must not have frightened them enough.”

  “They know we can’t hold forever, sir. They’ll still win in the end.”

  The legate turned a vicious smile on his men. “Not today.”

  Withdrawing his sword and closing the shield gap again, he rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Soldiers of Rome: advance!”

  Despite the gasps of surprise around him, Fronto smashed forwards with his shield and then turned it slightly, lancing a speedy blow that cut through a man’s neck cord. The warrior fell away, shrieking in pain, his head lolling obscenely to one side, and Fronto took a step forward and then another, almost collapsing as his bad knee negotiated the slope.

  Next to him, the other legionaries had reacted with professional discipline, despite the unexpectedness of the command, smashing the nearest enemies out of the way with their shields and stepping forward, reforming the line. Suddenly, Decius was there, pushing his way into the line, half a dozen men along.

  “You’re not winning this one without me, Fronto!”

  And the auxiliaries were there too, no longer plugging gaps, but forcing their way into the line, expanding it and extending it, following the lead of the legionaries on either side of them, learning the new tactics of legion fighting in the melting pot of battle itself. The men of the Tenth and Fourteenth reacted momentarily with the traditional distaste of legion men regarding the ‘inferior’ auxilia, but these men had proved themselves once and were doing it again, and within moments, the legionaries were giving their new compatriots enough space to work and yelling encouragement.

  The barbarians, until a moment ago throwing themselves against an ever-diminishing line of defenders, suddenly quailed in the face of the unexpectedly violent and enthusiastic advance. Across the field, shouts of consternation were raised in the guttural Germanic tongue and, through the periodic flashes of vision Fronto caught every time the shields parted for a sword blow, it was clear that the rear ranks of the remaining barbarians were now turning on their heels and plummeting into the forest in an effort to escape the scene.

  The sudden change in the fortunes of the enemy caused a moan of dismay to ripple across their massed ranks and, as they began to pull back en masse, a cheer went up among the men of the Tenth, the Fourteenth and the Cretan auxiliaries
, accompanied by a fresh push of energy.

  The Roman line surged forward, each step accompanied by the smash of the shield boss, no longer a teeth-gritting, muscle-rippling heave against a wall of sweating flesh, the pressure easing as the enemy ranks thinned.

  A legionary a few men down from Fronto roared and stepped out of the line, desperate to deliver a killing blow to the man with whom he’d been struggling and who had now pulled away and opened a gap between them.

  Before Fronto could shout a warning or an order to return to the line, the man fell foul of three of the enemy who paused in their flight to dispatch the careless Roman. The legionary went down under the blows of two axes and a sword, hacking chunks from his upper body. The line surged a little faster again as the legionary’s compatriots made an attempt to reach his killers without making the same suicidal mistake themselves. The barbarians, though, were now intent on self-preservation, the attack having fallen apart around them, and were already out of reach and accelerating.

  “What are your orders, legate?” Decius bellowed along the line as the Roman force moved across the soaking, body-strewn grass at a steady pace, the barbarians fleeing ahead of them.

  Fronto peered off through the rain, which looked as though it might be finally lightening. “Hold ranks until we reach the woods. Then we’re going to split: I’m going to take half the men a few hundred yards inside the treeline just to be sure they’re not thinking of forming up for another performance. You’ll take the rest and return to the camp. Get the ropes going again and get the men resupplied and some more support brought across.”

  Decius grinned as he stepped over the twisted body of a wiry barbarian, pinned to the wet, sludgy grass with the sharp blade of an entrenching tool where his head should have been.

  Fronto took a deep breath and very carefully negotiated every grotesque obstacle with his swollen knee screaming at him. It was almost over. He couldn’t believe they’d done it with the few men and supplies they had, but Decius was almost certainly right: the barbarians wouldn’t be back. Everything that had happened on this side of the river had been the work of one tribe, while the rest seemed happy to sit back in their own lands and watch. The horrible defeat that had just been inflicted upon them by a tremendously inferior force would ensure that no further danger came Caesar’s way.