Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (19 page)

The pair stood glumly watching as the ranks of marching soldiers reached the bottom of the slope and began to trudge their way through the marshy ground toward the well-defended Veneti fortress ahead.

“This is going to be a massacre. I can’t believe the general ordered it.” Tetricus turned back to Fronto. “And I can’t believe that you agreed to put the Tenth in the front line of the attack. Wouldn’t it have been fairer to march the legions in columns, so that the front line is evenly distributed?”

“When it all goes to shit and the legions are stopped, someone is going to have to call for the army to fall back. The order won’t come from command, since Caesar’s adamant, but there are a dozen or more veteran centurions down there who’ll decide it’s too much of a waste and will put their own head on the block to save the men.”

Tetricus nodded slowly.

“And you want that to be the Tenth?”

“Carbo knows what he’s doing, and I can argue Caesar into letting it slide, given the absurdity of the whole thing. I’d rather that came down to me than some other poor sod who’s not expecting it.”

Tetricus nodded as he watched the legions sloshing along the approach.

Down below, Servius Fabricius Carbo glanced left and right at the advancing ranks of the Tenth. From perhaps fifty yards behind him he heard his optio yelling in a parade ground voice:

“Get your arse back into that line, Falco, or I will stick my foot so far up it you can taste the boot!”

Carbo smiled to himself. For the first month or so since he’d taken over as primus pilus, the optio had treated him with care, as though he had to protect this new commander from his own men. Time, however, had brought him the respect of the first century and the optio had fallen back into his accustomed role, making the life of his men troublesome wherever needed.

But the truth was entirely different, and Carbo knew it. The Veneti up there on the walls would have slings, spears, probably bows and maybe even fire arrows, since he was sure he’d seen smoke being suppressed by the incessant rain. The next minute was going to be a march into sheer hell and their only hope was to keep themselves as covered as possible and pray fervently. At least, until
he’d
had enough, anyway.

As the soldier lifted his shield into the most protective position, covering most of his front, his eyes peering over the top, a sling shot rapped on the wood and leather and fell to the floor in front of him.

And then, suddenly, hell broke loose.

The Veneti launched everything they had as individuals rather than in ordered units, and sling stones, lead bullets, arrows, rocks and spears fell from the walls in a hail. Carbo gritted his teeth, listening to the shouts and shrieks of the men who were too slow, too unprotected, or just too plain unlucky, and were felled by the onslaught.

The ground began to slope upward as they battled on against the constant hail of missiles, men toppling out of the line, only to be replaced by the soldier from the rank behind. Despite the change of terrain and the difficulty of maintaining a solid line while marching up a slope, Carbo still welcomed the end of the wet, sloshy ground below as his boots finally found dry land.

There was a deep and loud groan from above and the primus pilus frowned for a moment, cocking his head to one side and listening intently. A clunk and another groan.

“First cohort: Form two columns on the flanks!”

Without comment or question, nearly a thousand men forming the advancing ranks of the legions split into two groups, angling away from each other, so that the single line of two hundred men became two columns, each with a front line of fifty, a wide gap opening in the centre. Carbo just had to hope that the other cohorts and legions had realised what was up.

Just as the trap was sprung, Carbo glanced back to note with satisfaction that the other senior centurions had followed suit and that the front ranks of the Eighth behind then were copying the manoeuvre.

A cry of angry disappointment rose from the walls above as a huge tree trunk rolled through the now-open gate in the walls and hurtled down the slope toward the attackers, neatly descending into the gap between the two advancing columns and rolling inoffensively to a halt in the marshy ground below without having touched a single man.

Carbo nodded in satisfaction. If they’d oiled the hinges on those gates, that could have been so much worse. In his early days with the military, he’d acquired the nickname ‘the augur’ due to his innate sense of self preservation and his uncanny knack of being prepared just ahead of any unexpected event. Carbo himself knew that it came entirely down to using the senses the gods had gifted him with, combined with experience and a sprinkling of common sense.

And common sense and acute hearing had just saved the first cohort. Above, the gates were shut once more, hurriedly, and the missile fire increased, accompanied by savage cries.

“Single line… lock shields!”

In a perfect reverse of their earlier manoeuvre, the Tenth legion closed ranks once more, though the formation would be no help in taking those walls in the circumstances. The time was almost upon them, now.

As the legion trudged slowly up the slope, men occasionally falling out of the line with a squawk, Carbo narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze across the ranks of men. There were very few places in the cohort where the line was five men thick, and as often as not it had thinned to three rather than four. He’d lost a fifth of his men already, and they were still two hundred yards from the walls up an ever increasing gradient. The first cohort would be gone before a Roman hand touched the wall.

“Pass the word back. Sound the retreat! Orderly, mind you…”

The signifer, Petrosidius, three men along from him, grinned and waved the standard as somewhere back by the optio the buccina called out the retreat order. Carbo could almost feel the relief, not just from the men around him, but also from the legions following them up, who took up and relayed the call with telling speed.

The first cohort slowed to a halt, their shields still up against the battering missiles falling on them from above, and began carefully to step back down the slope, maintaining the forward defensive wall.

Fronto, high on the promontory above, watched and nodded with satisfaction. Shame they’d had to waste so many damn men before retreating, but at least they could show Caesar how stupid the idea was. Tetricus laughed.

“You were right, Marcus.”

“I know. I’m going to see Caesar. You get that artillery up and running. As soon as I’ve talked some sense into the old man, I’ll get the other legions’ engineers up to join in.”

Tetricus nodded and jogged off towards the makeshift artillery platform while Fronto turned and set his sights on the hastily-erected headquarters tent that held a commanding view of the enemy stronghold. The general emerged from the tent as he watched, waving his arms angrily at three of the staff officers that lurked outside in the torrential rain.

The hawk-nosed general was still laying into the innocent officers several minutes later as Fronto approached, and one of the men meekly raised his finger and pointed at Fronto. Caesar turned to him, his face red and angry, his eye flickering dangerously.

“I want the man who ordered that call to be stripped naked and flung down onto the rocks, and the musician who made it will follow him.”

Fronto shook his head.

“No you don’t.”

“
What
?” The eye flickered faster.

“With respect, Caesar, those two men just saved you thousands of men. Remember last year? Plancus marching on the walls of Noviodunum? Throwing men away like mad until you relented and let us do it properly? Don’t turn into a Plancus, general.”

The legate frowned and stepped forward, grabbing the general’s arm, just as his legs started to give way. The officers stared at them.

“Don’t read anything into it, lads. He’s exhausted.”

Without sparing them another glance, he steered the general toward the command tent and entered without ceremony. The tent was empty other than a table and seat.

“You’re
ill
.”

“No. I’m fine... Get out. You deal with it how… however you feel.”

Fronto’s frown deepened as he watched Caesar slump slightly.

“Get
out
!”

With a shrug, Fronto turned his back on the general and strode from the tent. The old man had looked like death was closing in on him, and the expression on his face had only added to the impression. The legate had this nagging feeling that he’d deal with the retreat and go back in only to find the great Caesar dead on the floor in a pool of his own bile.

One of the officers opened his mouth to object to this clear command from a man who was, in theory, at
most
a peer, if not a lesser officer, but his throat dried up as he saw Fronto’s face.

“At once, legate.”

* * * * *

“Caesar?”

“Fronto? Come in.”

The legate shrugged, casting a quick look around at the view outside the tent. The rain had died down to an intermittent drizzle that was almost worse than the downpour, but the change had made the work of the engineers easier and visibility was greatly improved. Straightening his shoulders, he ducked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back behind him.

The general sat at his table in the cavernous, largely empty tent, a studious look on his face; no sign of his recent indisposition showing.

“I’d offer you a seat, Fronto, but I only have the one, for now. I’m rather hoping not to have to unpack. What is the news?”

The legate shook his head.

“Oh no. I’ll give you a full report in a minute, but first I want you to level with me. There’s something wrong, and I don’t want to come in to report one morning to find you draped over your table bleeding out. I wouldn’t know how to proceed.”

Caesar gave a knowing smile.

“I rather think you know
exactly
how you’d proceed. In fact, I’ll be most surprised if you haven’t already planned for the eventuality. But no… I’m in no danger of dropping dead.”

“With respect, Caesar, that’s a pile of crap. I’ve known you a long time and I’ve never seen you do that. You were in the middle of building up a real argument with me, and I know how much we both enjoy
that
… and then you petered out and almost collapsed. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that you’re trying to hide it, even from those closest to you.”

“Whatever it is, we’re in wet, boring, north west Gaul, a long way from the jackals in the senate that are always sniffing around you for a weakness. Out here it’s just you and your army. You need to be straight with me, ‘cause it worries me. I’ve not seen you…”

The legate paused and frowned thoughtfully.

“But that’s not true, is it? I
have
seen you like that before.”

The general still hadn’t spoken and Fronto nodded as his thoughts stretched back.

“Vesontio last year… before we moved against the Belgae. You virtually pushed me away and disappeared on your own, complaining about the smell or something. That was the same thing, wasn’t it?”