Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (36 page)

Vergasillaunus stood atop the hastily thrown-up rampart on the high peak close to the oppidum, the forces of the Arverni arrayed behind him. The king had taken a leaf from the enemy’s book, encamping the various tribes in his army separately, as though they were each a legion, giving them the pride, manoeuvrability and fighting spirit of their individual tribes while maintaining the close-knit strength of an army.

The Arverni themselves held these heights, which protected the main accessible - western - gateway to the oppidum. The sizeable Lemovices contingent, under the competent and warlike Sedullos held the slightly higher bare peak to the southwest. The bulk of the tribes occupied the high ground below the oppidum’s south rampart, a hastily walled-in camp three hundred paces wide and a mile long, each tribe in its own position along its length.

And Lucterius and his Cadurci held the lowest peak, closest to the enemy - a small plateau to the south that went by the name of ‘white rocks’ for the slopes that surrounded its southern approach. Given the Cadurci chieftain’s recent run of ill luck, it had perhaps been foolish to allow him control of the outpost camp, but the man had been desperate to prove his worth after the various failures early in the campaign and, after all, he was a competent officer. None of it had been his own failings, but rather the will of the gods.

‘When will they move?’ Vergasillaunus asked.

Vercingetorix, standing beside him, the morning sun gleaming from his helm and bronzing his chiselled features, smiled. ‘Not for a day or two at least. It will take this day for their legions to entrench themselves over by the river. Then they will want to thoroughly scout out the area - be sure of what they face. And even then I do not think they will make a move until their supplies are safely with them. They believe they have all the time in the world and that we are trapped, for they are labouring in the belief that the Aedui are sending them men and protecting their supplies. That they are doing much the opposite will not have occurred to the Romans. No,’ he said with certainty. ‘We have a few days.’

‘Then do we sit tight, or do we harry them?’

‘Oh I think it is our duty as sons of Arvernus to make their life difficult. But only in small, irritating ways. I want regular forays, but never more than half a thousand men. Mix the cavalry and the archers where you can, so that we can cause the maximum damage. Let’s needle them continually, make their work harder. But never commit too many, and make sure the commanders know to pull back at the first sign of Roman aggression. If we push too hard, we might force them to a main assault, and I would like to see them weakened a little first.

The two men watched as a small party of Romans - officers judging by their horses and red cloaks and the surrounding bodyguard - turned and rode slowly away from the valley below, back towards their camp.

‘Start now. Let’s send word to Lucterius and see if we can make those officers ride a little faster.’

* * * * *

‘Enemy horse,’ cried one of the praetorian troopers.

The officers turned to look over their shoulders at the warning as the praetorians sprang to life, forming up at the rear of the group. A force of cavalry perhaps four or five hundred strong was racing down a snaking track from the lower enemy camp.

Fronto nodded to himself. As they had turned to leave, he’d heard the distinctive and unpleasant sound of the carnyx call from the hilltops, echoing around the valley, and had known beyond doubt that it had portended some such action. His brain made a brief calculation. At least four hundred of the enemy, and only a hundred or so Romans, including all the bodyguard units. Not good odds, especially given the Gauls’ natural ability as horsemen.

‘We need to outrun them,’ he shouted.

‘If we can,’ Antonius replied darkly. The Roman camp lay to the northwest, a mile distant, and the command party had, by necessity, taken a circuitous route to skirt the enemy-controlled areas. Thus, to return to camp, they would have to curve around the valley, while this enemy horse could race in a straight line and, if they were fast enough, cut the officers off from the army. Caesar’s expression said it all: almost the entire command structure of the Roman army in Gaul was here. Too bold. Too dangerous.

Ingenuus seemed to have formed the same conclusion. ‘Ride for the camp,’ he bellowed to the officers, turning without waiting for a reply and distributing orders to his praetorians. Sixty-four men. Two turmae of regular cavalry. How long they might hold back hundreds of expert Gallic cavalry was a matter of guesswork, but Fronto was impressed to note the professionalism and steadiness of the riders as they levelled their spears and adjusted their shields, ready for a fight they knew they couldn’t possibly win. It was all about protecting the officers; specifically, the general.

The young praetorian commander himself turned to accompany the fleeing officers. Not through fear, Fronto knew, but through a bone-deep commitment to stay by the general’s side at all times.

He didn’t look back. The remaining officers raced on, accompanied now only by Fronto’s nine singulares and the sixteen men of Antonius’ personal guard - thirty eight men running for the safety of the Roman camp. He didn’t look back, but he heard the demise of the praetorians - they all did. The crash of horse meeting horse at speed. The screams and cries, the clanging and grating of metal on metal, the snorts and whinnies of the beasts, the war cries in two distinct languages. Most notably, though, the brevity of it.

The rough ground raced along beneath the hooves of the horses as they made for the low rise that marked the camp of the legions, still under construction. Indeed, the Thirteenth legion were yet to arrive, bringing up the rear of the column, with the baggage train following on, and the Eleventh were even now pulling in from the north and into position.

Fronto could hear the enemy closing on them, their horses fresh and rested, and larger and faster than the smaller Roman animals, too. Even without looking, he was sure that they would overtake the Romans. They had, after all, been barely delayed by two turmae of veteran cavalry.

His eyes rose to the objective - the relative safety of the Roman camp. The mounds and ditches were already in evidence to the south and west, facing Gergovia, though the woven wicker fences and timber towers would be some time yet. Surely a few hundred Gauls would be put off by the proximity of four and a half legions?

He frowned at a curious noise, not unlike the booing and honking of the Gallic carnyx, though this issued from the camp ahead. As Bucephalus sweated beneath him, muscles bunching and extending in the speedy rhythm of the run, Fronto was startled suddenly to see three horseback figures suddenly leap the low mound and ditch from the interior of the camp, their heavy-set horses making the jump easily and barely slowing as they hit the mud-churned ground outside. Even as they raced towards the officers, more and more jumped out over the camp’s defences following on.

A slow, sly grin crossed Fronto’s face as he recognised the brutal, unforgiving forms of the German cavalry who had caused so much havoc back at Novioduno. In typical undisciplined fashion, the borderline-barbarian horsemen barely acknowledged their commanders as they raced past them, hungry for blood. Turning his grin on the passing Germans, he watched with satisfaction as the Germanic warriors ploughed into the rebel Gauls, yelling their guttural battle cries.

Secure now in the knowledge that they were safe from the pursuing horsemen, the officers reined in, watching the fierce battle unfold. It took mere moments for the Gauls to decide that they were in too much danger and begin to pull back. Heartbeats later, the remaining couple of hundred rebels were racing for the heights of Gergovia once more, some of the less-disciplined and more berserk of the Germans chasing them on.

Fronto watched with faint disgust as one of the well-equipped and blood-soaked barbarians trotted back past them towards the camp, again failing to acknowledge the general or his officers, busy as he was tying a severed head to his saddle horn by the hair.

Quadratus, one of the three cavalry wing commanders, came trotting over from the camp with a satisfied smile.

‘Saw you were in a spot of bother, general. And these lunatics were about to start eating each other if we didn’t let them hit someone soon.’

Fronto laughed and winced at the pain it caused in his jaw and cheek. If only they could release those Germans on the hill-top camps of the rebels, they might not have such a daunting task ahead.

* * * * *

Fabius and Furius peered up in the darkness, their eyes adjusting still to the night environment. The sprinkling of stars across the inky canopy did little to light the landscape, the moon having vanished behind the bulk of Gergovia almost an hour earlier and the only part of the enemy outpost that showed up well in the gloom was the chalky cave-pocked cliff to the south, which would be of little use to the assembled forces.

The Tenth legion lurked in the scrub behind a low ridge facing the lower camp, distant enough that the enemy had not spotted them yet, or at least had not yet raised the alarm. The Eighth were in a similar position some distance to the far side of the camp, forming the opposing pincer in this attack. If all went well, they would secure the heights before the bulk of the rebels forces could descend from the heights and aid the defenders. It would be a close thing. At least, from what they’d seen during the day the Gauls had not constructed heavy defences atop the low plateau. Hopefully, added to that, the confusion of a surprise attack in the dark would do the trick. The number of men atop that hill must roughly match the number of legionaries below, so they could not rely on numbers, clearly.

‘No corona available this time.’

‘What?’ Fabius frowned.

‘No corona muralis. No walls to storm means no decorations to win.’

‘Don’t you think you’re beginning to obsess over this a little?’

‘Just concentrate on your footing, keep that eye of yours open and don’t get in my way when the time comes to run up that hill and take the oppidum.’

Fabius sighed and looked away into the darkness. ‘Is that the signal?’ he hissed.

The pair squinted into the distance. What could quite possibly be a signifer waving the standard could just as easily have been a long, thin piece of local flora wavering in the breeze, just about visible in the gloom.

Carbo seemed to have decided it was the signal, for he was indicating for movement and the Tenth’s signifers were now also waving their standards for the advance. As the legion broke into a half-jog - the speedy march set by the signal - the two tribunes peered across at the barely-discernible figure of Fronto standing a hundred paces away next to a small coppice along with his singulares. Unusually, the legate had not raised an objection when Carbo had urged him to stay out of this fight, and the oddly-inactive behaviour raised questions in Fabius’ mind, but they would have to be questions for another time.

For now, the two tribunes fell into the quick march along with the rest, keeping pace alongside as befitted their rank, rather than amid the press of men. To some extent, Fabius was grateful that the attack was taking place under the cover of darkness. For the past few days, the heat had grown to unseasonable levels, and had become sweaty and skin-burning. A quick march up even this lower slope, fully-armoured and in the day’s heat, would be exhausting. At least the night afforded them some ease from the temperature. Damn this ridiculous land and its weather. Freezing and soaked one moment, searing and dry the next.

And the assault could not have come fast enough for them. Caesar had held tight for two days to ensure the safety of the main camp upon its completion and the security of the wagon train within. And throughout those two long days the enemy had sent small units of horse and archers against them. Never enough to cause real trouble, but enough to kill off forage parties or those units sent to gather timber or stone from nearby. The death toll had reached almost a hundred before Caesar had issued the order for the night attack.

Dragging his attention back to his surroundings, Fabius shuffled toward his blind side slightly to avoid a rabbit hole, gesturing for Furius behind him to watch for it too. The gradient suddenly steepened as they passed the point where the south cliff of the plateau marched off to their left, ploughing on up the tough slope, sweating and grunting.

Somewhere above them the sounds of alarm had been triggered, the clearly lax Gallic scouts having finally noted that something was amiss. What began as a few desperate shouts quickly bloomed into a tumult as the defenders rushed to the upper edge of the slopes and hefted shields, spears and sword in preparation. Archers appeared in their midst and began to loose shots down too early against the advancing legionaries.

Despite the standard procedure for dealing with missiles while assaulting a higher position, Carbo gave no order for the testudo. Given the angle of the terrain and the dangerous ground, full of rabbit warrens and bare patches of chalky rock, trying to keep each century in such a formation, reliant upon one another’s stability for their own, would be begging disaster. Instead, as they approached the enemy, closing on the upper slope, the front ranks raised their shields slightly and hunched behind them, presenting to the enemy only their moving feet and ankles and a narrow strip for eyesight between shield rim and helmet brow.

As they climbed, the arrows began to find their marks, most of them thudding into the shields and either bouncing off or breaking, a few penetrating enough to catch an arm behind, a few more managing to strike the flesh of a foot or ankle. One, only a few paces from Fabius, managed against all odds to hit that narrow band for a legionary’s sight, scraping over the shield rim and slamming into his left eye.

The man was dead before he hit the ground, the century forced to scatter and avoid the body as it rolled back down the slope, limbs snapping as it went. Other men were crying out at the leg wounds, but few were truly debilitating and most either limped on at speed or threw themselves out of formation to the side to prevent inhibiting their comrades.