The advance force with the wicker shields was down to about twenty men now and they were rapidly diminishing. An enterprising centurion from the Fifth sent his men across to bolster the screen, which, along with the vineae being brought up, sheltered the arriving legionaries from the worst of the arrow storm.
There was a distant rumble of thunder and Atenos looked up in time to be struck in the eye by a fat droplet of water. A horn blast from a discordant carnyx atop the oppidum’s wall announced the general attack and what had been a fairly disorganised shower of missiles suddenly bloomed into a hail of death showering down from Uxellodunon onto the Roman attackers. Even with the tower, the mound, the vineae and the wicker shields, everywhere Atenos looked men were falling to the ground, screaming.
It had begun.
Taking a deep breath, the primus pilus turned to Decumius. ‘Shall we make their acquaintance?’
* * * * *
Atenos ducked into the tower and looked up the interior stairs. The various platforms were filled with men sheltering from the incessant arrow storm and he could not see, but could clearly hear, the Cretan archers at the top bellowing imprecations in both Greek and Latin and calling on the gods of both peoples as they released their deadly missiles at the wall. They were good. Atenos had to admit that they were among the best archers he’d seen. Yet still only one arrow in four struck home, between the difficult angle of attack and the height difference, the solid parapet behind which the enemy were well protected and the continual oncoming missiles.
As he watched with satisfaction, he spotted the men he’d detailed hoisting buckets of water up from the spring and using it to douse the seemingly endless fire arrows the enemy loosed into the tower. There were so many wet, half-charred arrows jutting from the timbers and hides now that an enterprising man could fairly easily climb the outside of the tower.
There was a sudden scream that cut through the general din and a blur flashed past, quickly followed by a wet crunch as the man who had fallen from the top struck the ground outside. Though the fire was doing little to dent the Roman’s position, the arrows were. A single glance at the piles of bodies pulled back from the action or the continual line of men being carried or dragged back out of arrow range for the capsarii to treat told a horrible tale of declining numbers.
Decumius appeared next to him.
‘It’s my heartfelt advice that you send for the reserves, sir.’
Atenos shook his head. ‘Not until things are desperate.’
Decumius blinked. ‘This isn’t desperate?’
‘You were at Alesia, right?’
‘Ah. Got you, sir. When I can’t move for bodies and Hades’ horse is nibbling on my gonads. That kind of desperate.’
Atenos laughed at the wild grin on his fellow centurion’s face. He’d ordered Decumius back down the slope three times now, the first when the centurion had been hit in the shoulder with a sling bullet that had put his left arm out of action, the second time when an arrow had carved a neat furrow in his hair – his helmet long gone, misshapen from a thrown rock – and the third time when another arrow had taken a chunk out of his calf. Still the man stayed, limping, bleeding, complaining, but waving his vine staff and bellowing his men into place.
‘I’m actually wishing for the rain now,’ Decumius grunted.
‘What? Why?’
‘Dampen their bow strings. Give us a bit of respite.’
Atenos shook his head. ‘No good. They’d still have slings and rocks, and if we didn’t have our archers in commission, this whole place would be flooded with enemy warriors in the time it would take you to fart.’
Decumius snorted as he left the tower and Atenos took a deep breath, making the most of a last moment of shelter before diving back out into the rain. One of the optios was scurrying towards him as stones and bullets clattered and zinged around him, one hand holding a dented helmet down on his head.
‘What is it?’
The man thrust a hand out. In it were a pile of purple flowers. Atenos frowned. ‘Explain.’
‘Dunno what their called, primus pilus, but one of my lads who’s a farmer says they’re about as poisonous as anything he’s found. Kills goats in hours, he says, and there’s blankets of the things in the woods just down the hill. We could poison the spring and then abandon this, sir.’
Atenos raised an eyebrow. ‘Poison a free-flowing spring?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Can you see any hole in your logic, man?’
The optio frowned in confusion. ‘Not really, sir.’
‘Then I suggest you head back down to the camps and pour a little dye into the river and see how long it sticks around.’
As the man scratched his temple in incomprehension an arrow came out of nowhere and pinned his foot to the floor with a meaty crunch. The optio looked down in surprise and the lack of a reaction suggested to Atenos that the man did truly have the brains of an ox. What was a man like that doing in a position of command? The big Gaul crouched and none-too-gently snapped the arrow just above the flesh, causing the man to whimper in pain. ‘Get to the capsarius and have that seen to.’
Gratefully, and still clutching his poisonous burden, the optio hobbled and hopped off down the slope. A shout of triumph drew his attention and he turned back to the walls as a sling bullet whipped through the air close enough to ruffle his eyelashes.
Atop the ramparts the defenders were raising what looked like small kegs. As Atenos watched, men lit the kegs, which must be filled with something incendiary, using tapers from the wall-top braziers. A lucky shot from one of the Cretan archers struck a man with a lit keg and he crumbled beneath it. There was a muffled bang behind the parapet and three men were suddenly aflame and screaming.
The scene was one bonus in a diorama of nightmare, though. Another half dozen kegs were ignited and cast from the walls, carefully aimed. Two of them hit badly and broke open upon impact, spreading out across the damp grass in a flaming mass. The others hit the slope well and bounced on, careening down the hill at the Romans. One struck the mound just below the tower, doing little but burn the turf black. Another was knocked askance and disappeared off down the hillside into the woods, and ultimately the river. The other two hit the line of men with wicker shields who helped protect the approach up the ramp. A double boom cracked the murky sky as a score of men exploded into blazing fire that ate up the wicker screens in moments and began to scorch the vineae that gave them shelter.
Tallow or pitch, or some such, it had to be. The fire clung like a lover to the wood of the vinea which had been regularly doused with water against fire arrows. The fire was too much even for damp wood, and the structure was quickly ablaze. The approach from below was no longer protected. The men could still come up through the woods but it would be hard going. Two small detachments of men arrived from somewhere with scorpion bolt throwers and cases of ammunition, hurrying to position themselves on the mound, but before they could even crank back the weapons, several of them had been taken out of the fight with arrows. A half century of men formed a mini-testudo and hurried over, providing shelter while the remaining artillerists began to load and release the weapons.
Atenos looked back and forth across the chaos. Despite what he’d said to Decumius, the situation was rapidly becoming untenable and he would need the reserves very soon. The vinea was now an inferno and the two resourceful men who’d come with buckets of water to try and douse it were even now jerking and dancing as arrows and stones thudded into them. The legionaries who had manned the wicker screen were almost gone, just a pile of charring bodies in a golden pyre, odd ones still thrashing around and croaking.
The general had better make this worth it.
He grabbed a running soldier. ‘Find some friends and move that second vinea out of line before the whole lot catch fire.’
The legionary, his face betraying fear bordering on panic, saluted desperately and turned back.
Another series of booms drew his startled gaz
e and he realised they were in real trouble now. A second wave of burning barrels had been cast down with better precision this time, all centred on the tower. While most simply exploded on the mound’s slope, one lucky barrel had rolled on with impressive momentum up the mound and burst against the base of the tower.
‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’
He turned to order men with water to the tower. Thank the gods for a handy spring, eh? He laughed bitterly. Legionaries were already at the task, throwing buckets of water on the flames. Another battle now raged against the fire itself, and it was a hard fought one, at that.
There was an ominous wooden thud and, already knowing what had made the noise, he rose to peer over the chaos. Sure enough, the oppidum’s nearest gate was open and warriors were flooding out of it like a swarm of locusts.
‘Here they come.’
Decumius was there again, suddenly. ‘We’ve got trouble. The burning kegs have made part of the mound unstable. A few more exploding there and the whole tower might go over.’
‘Shitting, shitting shit!’ Atenos barked with deep feeling. ‘If it goes it will be over towards the oppidum itself. Have four of the ropes completely drenched and then use them to anchor the tower from behind. Then find a contubernium of fearless lads and get them round the front of the tower with planks, wedging the bottom as best they can.’
Decumius saluted and ran off, and Atenos cleared his throat.
‘All unoccupied men of the Tenth and Fifth to position. Shield wall with second and third row testudo cover, marking off from the optio to the right. Prepare to receive the enemy.’
The various centurions and optios under his command gathered their men and moved into position, weathering the arrow storm as well as they could, men falling with every third step into place. Another set of barrels came down and burst against the mound and the base of the tower, igniting the boards used to shore it up as well as the men busy putting them into place. One misthrown barrel hurtled past the wreckage of the burning vinea and the pile of carbonised legionaries and bounced on intact down the ramp with unerring accuracy. Atenos watched it go in surprise and felt a slight burst of relief as he saw the reserves hurrying up the slope, running out wide to avoid the rolling fiery barrel, which hit a random rock two hundred paces down the hill and coated the slope in sticky fire.
‘Reserves are coming, lads. Hold the enemy.’
They couldn’t hold. No strategist in the world would find a way to hold this. Caesar had been warned by them all, he knew, but had gone ahead anyway. If there is a trick in your pouch, general, now is the time, he grumbled under his breath.
The hastily assembled shield wall, with a sloping roof of shields on the second and third rank protecting as best they could from arrows, quavered for just a moment as the howling, screaming horde of Cadurci and their allies crested the ramp’s edge and charged the line.
Atenos had a horribly clear view from his position. The shield wall almost folded under the pressure of the attack, buckling in several places. And wherever the shields parted, arrows and stones and bullets penetrated, killing and wounding men by the dozen. It was little more than a slaughter.
A quick glance over his shoulder. A cohort or more of men were running up to join the fray. They would buy half an hour extra at most in this meat grinder. And the tower was ablaze now with no real chance of its being extinguished. At what point did he call the situation untenable and back off?
With a preparatory breath he rushed over to the embattled legionaries and attracted the attention of an optio at the rear as he crouched and grasped a discarded shield. ‘I’m going in. If the enemy break through to the rear, the tower goes, or you can readily count the number of men left by sight alone, sound the rally and get back down the hill.’
‘But sir…’
Atenos ignored the man’s imploring tone and shoved through the press of men, making for a small gap where missiles and battle-maddened warriors had caused a breach. Howling Cadurci were smashing down with swords and axes and jabbing with spears, and no sooner had Atenos plugged the gap than a gleaming spearhead glanced off his cheek plate and tore through the leather strap at his shoulder that held his medal harness. There was a snap and the whole thing slumped to one side, one of his hard-won phalerae falling away to the ground below. Atenos bellowed in fury and his first blow entered the spear-man responsible at the cheek, almost cutting his head in half horizontally.
‘Bastard. Those medals are mine!’
Fury, tempered with experience and discipline, took over. His second blow all-but severed the sword arm of the man to his right. His third took an axe man in the throat. Stab, hack, slice, stab. Shield up. Shield locked. Smash with the boss and back into position. Stab and thrust. Stab and thrust.
The press was too much. He knew it. The shield wall was doomed even as those reserves arrived and began to fall into position. A stray axe blow took the corner off his shield and carried on into the sword arm of the legionary to his left who shrieked and fell back to be replaced a heartbeat later by a man from the second line, his teeth gritted.
‘Juno’s tits!’ someone shouted away to the left. Atenos was too experienced to allow himself to be distracted by conversation. He concentrated on the axe man before him as he asked what was going on without turning his head to look. His sword caught the man’s axe arm in the pit, sinking in with satisfying ease – one of the killing blows any sword trainer in the army will teach early on. Along the line, that same voice called out.
‘More cohorts. It’s a general advance. They’re storming the place from all sides!’
No. Atenos felt the anger rising. After all this mess buying time, the general cannot have been so unprepared and stupid as to throw away six legions in such a foolish manner. But the centurion could hear the buccinae of the other legions in their advance up the slope. What was Caesar doing? He must not have wasted this opportunity!
Above, the heavens opened with a boom, and torrents of water battered the fighters on both sides. Bowstrings would be unusable in a few heartbeats’ time, when they had been stretched beyond drawing. The fires might even be extinguished. It was a small blessing now in the grand scheme, but a truly unpleasant one for the men locked in mortal combat with the enemy.
A sword came out of nowhere and slammed into his forehead. He heard the projecting brow of his helmet give and split with a metallic crack, felt the lip of the helm bite into the flesh of his forehead, felt the sharp, hot pain as the blade’s edge struck skin.
* * * * *
Marcus Antonius turned to Caesar, his expression pained and impatient. ‘The spring is about to fall back into their hands, and we’ll have lost four cohorts of men there alone, forgetting the rest of this insane assault. It’s perhaps half an hour past the point where we should have sounded the general order to fall back. We’ve lost.’
Caesar turned a sly smile on his friend.
‘Have you so little faith in me?’
Antonius narrowed his eyes angrily. ‘If you have some ridiculous plan then put it into action while we still have an army.’
‘It is all a matter of timing, Marcus.’
‘Don’t be so bloody infuriating, Gaius. One day you’ll keep your plans too close to your chest and one of your fits will take you off to Elysium without the rest of us knowing what to do!’ The general’s sharp glance did nothing to shut him up. ‘Yes I know about your episodes. Atia told me all about it. She worries about you. But that’s not the issue now. Fuck the timing, Gaius. Legionaries are dying by the century out there.’
‘Then I think you will be pleased by that sound.’
Antonius frowned and cocked an ear. Over the hiss of the falling rain – warm rain, even the downpour wouldn’t make the sticky heat any more bearable – he could hear rumbling. Not the first peal of thunder he’d heard while he watched the legions falling like reaped wheat on the slopes of Uxellodunon. They should have ridden out the siege, even if it took a year.
‘Thunder. Very h
elpful. Their archers will be less trouble. And I can see some of the fires going out. It’s not going to help. You’ve committed the legions to their death for what? To buy time?’
‘Precisely,’ Caesar smiled. ‘And the moment is upon us.
‘Thunder is…’
‘Not thunder, Marcus.’
Antonius blinked and his gaze rose to the spring along with Caesar’s pointing finger.
‘Sacred Venus, mother of man, what in Hades is that?’
* * * * *
Atenos blinked. His world was a red blanket. Reaching up in automatic panic, he balled his fists and rubbed his eyes, squeezing the sheet of blood from them. Again and again he blinked. His hand went up to his forehead. His helmet was gone and someone had thoughtfully tied a wrapping around his wounded head, but the blood was free-flowing and that wrapping was now crimson and saturated. Beneath the wrapping he could feel a lump the size of a hen’s egg.
He deflated. In the press of men, he’d been certain that that was his death blow. He’d been waiting for one for over a year now. The centurionate had a ridiculously high mortality rate and though he continually claimed invulnerability on account of his Gallic bones, there was a saying among Caesar’s legions since Alesia. Lead the Tenth to glory, but put a coin in your mouth first. Priscus, former primus pilus of the Tenth, had fallen at Alesia. Carbo, latest in that role, had fallen in the disastrous retreat at Gergovia. How long until the latest incumbent fell? He was sure the other centurions in the Tenth were running a lottery on when it would happen, though he’d never caught them at it yet. But it seemed that the spring at Uxellodunon would not be his time. He had a thundering headache and had seemingly lost quite a lot of blood, but he was able to think and move. He was, to all intents and purposes, intact.
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 41
