Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (56 page)

‘Ready… throw!’

With a fluid grace that had come from years of Atenos’ hard training, more than fifty arms jerked back a foot and then came forward, casting the javelins. Barely had the missiles left their grip before they dropped behind their large body shields and the second rank repeated the manoeuvre.

A hundred pila fell in two close waves, the descending gradient aiding their distance and power, and almost all the visible front ranks of Gallic attackers fell, torsos, heads, legs and arms pierced by the javelins. Here and there a man had managed to get his shield up and the pila had ripped through them, bending and becoming fast, their weight dragging the shields down and away until the Gauls gave up and dropped them.

More were coming, though. The Gauls were bellowing their defiance and hatred as they emerged still from the scrub in a ragged band. This time, as he had planned, Atenos waited, allowing the enemy to close on them, heaving in breaths as they climbed. As the first few men passed the centurion’s next marker, he glanced quickly to his left. Swiftly, efficiently, the rear ranks had passed their pila forward.

‘Mark and throw.’

The third and fourth volley followed in quick succession, every bit as effective as the earlier ones, more deadly, given the closer range.

By the time the living had extricated themselves from the dying and cast away damaged and useless shields, the legionaries were formed up in a solid wall, the three centuries closing up into one unit. Ten paces away, the lead Gauls snarled and shouted, clambering closer, sweating with the effort. The Romans stood calm and collected, each man a perfect mirror of his companions.

The first Gaul arrived and leapt at the wall. The legionary behind the shield he hit turned his arm slightly, allowing the man to roll off the curved surface and, as the Gaul simply changed target, launching a savage attack on the man next to him, that first legionary took the opportunity to jab the tip of his gladius into the Gaul’s armpit, recovering his position in the shield line before the next man arrived, the first victim falling away gurgling.

The Gallic force began to arrive in greater numbers, attempting to push the shield-wall back and buckle the defensive line. Atenos had no doubt that his men could hold. One of the many innovations he had brought to the Tenth since his arrival was the addition of a bronze or wood lip just inside the top right corner of their shields, allowing the man next to a legionary to slot his shield in, giving the wall tremendous extra stability, and yet allowing a man to pull his shield free and stab out, which the men were doing with mechanical speed and accuracy.

Leaving his men to their work, Atenos concentrated on doing his part. A centurion had to lead by example, and he had never yet led men into a fight without drawing as much blood as any other man. Indeed, he and Carbo had had something of a private competition going. Carbo had been ahead by an estimated ten bodies, though it seemed Atenos would likely pass that total before the week was out.

Five men were coming in his direction, veering off from the bulk of the enemy and heading for the extreme right flank, aiming for the man in the transverse crest, recognised as an officer. The first of them threw an overhand attack which was easily blocked with the centurion’s shield, but Atenos felt a moment of irritation as the legionary to his left took the opportunity to help his commander and jabbed out unseen, ripping his gladius into the Gaul’s side.

One down
. Atenos tried not to feel angry at his man for the blow - he should really be praised for it. Concentrating on the fight, he swung his shield down and right, slamming the bottom rim into the next man’s shin and thrusting down over it with his gladius, ripping a hole in the Gaul’s mail with the tapering point and piercing his heart with simple accuracy. The man cried out briefly and the centurion brought the shield back up, pushing as he did, so that the Gaul fell away into the path of one of the other attackers while the Roman’s blade came free.

A sharp jerk out with his left arm and the shield cracked into another man, knocking him back and buying Atenos time to stab out and then slash with his gladius, taking the fifth man in the neck and then cutting across his midriff. The Gaul who’d been felled by his own dead friend had apparently decided that the centurion was too tough a prospect and had staggered to his feet and run off to attack one of the clearly-less-dangerous legionaries. The remaining man, unarmoured and his face bloody from the shield blow, blinked the crimson flow from his eyes and threw himself at the centurion.

Casually, contemptuously, Atenos simply stepped back a pace and allowed the Gaul to overextend with his strike. As the man almost fell forward into the blow, the big centurion brought his own sword down and hacked off the man’s hand just above the wrist, where the bones were delicate and the muscle thinnest.

As the staggering, agonized Gaul yelped, Atenos grabbed his tunic and drew him face to face, speaking in a low, menacing rumble and in his own native Gallic tongue.

‘Go back and tell your friends that the Tenth are waiting to chain them to the lord of corpses for their journey to the next world.’

The Gaul stared at Atenos in horror and bewilderment and, unable to tear his eyes from this demonic Roman with the Gallic tongue and the knowledge of Ogmios, he turned and fled. Atenos looked down in satisfaction at the array of bodies before them and ran a small calculation in his mind. Looking along the line of legionaries, finishing off the last few enemies already, he grinned.

‘Three hundred little fights like that and we’ll have ‘em beat, lads.’

As perhaps twenty Gauls fled back down the slope, Atenos freed the shield-wall, and the better throwers among the front rows stooped, pulling the few intact pila from earth or flesh and then casting them after the retreating Gauls, taking another half dozen before they were fully out of range.

It would be nice to think that this little show meant the rebels were getting desperate already, but Atenos knew the Gallic mind. These were small test forays and nothing more. Someone up on that hill was watching the result.

* * * * *

Lucterius fell silent, his last words - a plea from the heart to commit everything they could to the cause - ringing around the council hall of Bibracte. His heart sank. He had expected a raucous reaction, whatever the result. He’d
hoped
the various tribal leaders and ambassadors would leap to their feet enthusiastically, seeing this as their great chance to do away with Caesar, shouting and bellowing their bloodlust as they committed every man old enough to carry a spear. More realistically, he’d expected an explosion of argument as some tribes threw in their wholehearted support while others dithered. Then there’d be a period of negotiation in which his rhetoric would be put to the test, attempting to get all the men the army needed.

What he had not expected was the complete absence of reaction. No noise, no movement, nothing. After a long pause, two of the assembled leaders shared some sort of unspoken conversation and concluded it with a nod, the pair rising to their feet on opposite sides of the chamber.

As the spokesman for the Carnutes took a step forward, the ambassador for their neighbouring tribe, the Senones, rose beside him. But these two remained silent, nodding to the other standing figure.

Convictolitanis of the Aedui folded his arms as though unassailable and breathed deep.

‘The Arvernian king demands too much. He believes we can supply a constant stream of men for him to cast into Caesar’s ditches. He does not seem to understand that while the men of the tribes are at war the fields lie untilled and all the necessary trades that keep our societies moving grind to a halt. And meanwhile the German tribes are causing trouble enough that the Treveri cannot afford to join us, so hard pressed are they. What happens if the Treveri fail and the Germans push deep into our lands to find all our warriors away under grave markers beside Roman camps? And what if the pushes against the south fail and draw Roman retaliation? What if all our men are fighting Caesar and Pompey or one of his generals marches north from Narbo with another ten legions?’

The man shook his head and fixed a sympathetic look on the Cadurci chieftain.

‘It is not that we do not appreciate the situation or the sheer bravery and skill of your army. It is not that we underestimate your achievements, Lucterius. We voted to support you, after all. It is simply that we cannot commit every man of every tribe.’

Lucterius opened his mouth to speak, but the Aeduan magistrate chattered on regardless. ‘You see, Lucterius, while you were all charging around the countryside, wasting the cavalry of the tribes, we have carefully accounted for all the manpower available across our states. It is simply out of the question to send every able bodied warrior to help Vercingetorix, I am afraid. But while we all recognise the importance of keeping a defensive force for our own protection and to keep our societies functioning, we can also accept the value of supporting the Arverni’s war effort. It seems viable to me, with the consent of my peers of course, to divide the forces we have counted up roughly evenly between the war against Caesar and the needs of our own tribes.

The Cadurci chieftain felt the ire rising within him.

‘This is ridiculous. You’re all being so short-sighted! Vercingetorix asks for every man.
Every
man! And you know why? Because he is a brilliant leader and he knows what it takes to beat Caesar. You need to supply every man who can carry a sword. Because if we lose this battle, then we lose the war, and with the manpower we’ve thrown into it that means we lose for good. If we lose, every man who can carry a sword - whether they rode with us or stood on their farmstead watching for Germans - is going to end up as a Roman slave. But if we win? If we win, we will be free. Every man, everywhere, will be free. Don’t you see? There is no sense in a partial commitment to this cause. It’s all or nothing. Send every man to ensure success, or give up now and sell your children to Caesar.’

‘You do not understand the realities, Lucterius. You Cadurci are surrounded by allied tribes and safe in the west. You are not threatened by Rome or the tribes across the Rhenus. You ride with blind devotion because you have had no cause to see problems elsewhere. No. We
can
grant you a strong force. A force that will match the army the Arvernian already leads.’ He dredged his memory and counted off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘Half the overall warriors of the tribes. That’s thirty thousand from the Aedui and our allies. Twelve thousand from the tribes along the Elaver and the upper Liger. Ten thousand from the Belgae and the Lemovices. Eight from the Parisii and their neighbours. Five from the eastern tribes near the Germanic threat and from the northern sea tribes. Thirty thousand from the tribes of the old Helvetii mountains and below. Six thousand from the western sea tribes. That, if I have my math correct, gives you just over one hundred thousand men.’

Lucterius frowned. It
would
be a large force. But then, if that was half the men available, think what force they
could
field. And a sensible commander who knew the efficiency and power of the legions would never commit happily to battle without at least four-to-one odds in their favour.

‘We need more. It sounds a lot to you, but you’ve not watched those legions at work this summer. We will only crush them with sound strategy, bravery, and overwhelming numbers.’

‘Then look to yourselves,’ the Carnute leader snapped. ‘We are aware that not all the Cadurci are committed. Nor can the same be said for the Arverni and their lesser tribes. Throw in more numbers of your own. Our figures suggest you can field another thirty thousand between you.’

Lucterius nodded, remembering the trusted nobles of Arverni and Cadurci blood he’d sent south this morning under the command of his loyal nephew Molacos, just before they’d arrived at Bibracte. One hundred and thirty thousand in all, then. It was a powerful force, for sure. But still not the force they
could
produce.

‘All our people are already being summoned, Aeduan. We commit every man we have now, just as the king requires. Once more, I ask you, for the good of all the tribes and generations of free men to come, forget your ephemeral other dangers and your potteries and farms for this one season, forget that you are a hundred tribes, and be
one nation
with
one army
. Every man is needed. Every sword can make the difference.’

‘
I
will make your difference.’

Lucterius turned in surprise at the voice from the doorway - a tone heavily inflected with the Belgic accent. The speaker was well-attired in Gallic trousers and gold and bronze torcs and rings, but with a very Roman-looking cloak and crimson tunic.

‘Commius?’ murmured Convictolitanis in surprise, and Lucterius frowned. He knew of only one Commius. The chieftain of the Atrebates, who had been Caesar’s staunchest ally in the north for many years. A man Caesar himself had put in charge of conquered tribes such as the Morini. A man more Roman than Gaul. A man… could this really be him?

‘Lucterius of the Cadurci? Take the men the council offers. I have thirty thousand mixed cavalry and infantry arriving from the north this day, mere hours behind me. I come to join your struggle and take war to Rome.’

Lucterius frowned. Another thirty thousand. One hundred and sixty in total. Not the number he’d hoped. It would give them perhaps three-to-one odds. But it was clearly the best he was going to manage. And time was now of the essence. The longer Vercingetorix had to hold, the hungrier, weaker and more despondent the trapped tribes would get. He would have to march the men being offered as soon as they could be assembled.

‘Very well. I will take your forces and relieve Alesia.’

‘Not quite,’ Convictolitanis said, eyes narrowing. ‘The Arvernian king sends you
away
from the fight.’ He raised his voice, addressing not Lucterius, but the rest of the ambassadors and leaders in the room. ‘He does this because he is unconvinced of the Cadurci chief’s value as a commander. Remember, we have all heard the stories. Sent to ravage Narbo, and this man ran north instead, with his tail between his legs, having met Caesar.’