Sons of Taranis (15 page)

Varus rubbed his forehead. ‘It’s a workable plan, general. Better than I could come up with.’

‘Best get your boys in and rested then, commander. Tomorrow might be a busy day.’

The general straightened and felt a familiar throb in the temple. ‘And now I must retire to my tent.’ He turned to the ever-present praetorians of Aulus Ingenuus, and gestured to the nearest. ‘Be a good chap and send for my body slave. I find I might have need of him.’

* * * * *

The vanguard of the main force followed the scouts, who waved them on from the trees ahead. Caesar’s army had moved at its maximum maintainable speed since leaving the camp that morning, but for the last hour the pace had been by necessity considerably slower. The terrain had become more rolling with occasional higher domes of greenery, though it was hard to tell from the soldiers’ point of view, since the entire area was so thickly wooded. The rain, which seemed endemic of the darkness at this time of year, had at least held off during the day, improving morale noticeably.

The scouts, who had accompanied Varus the previous day and had carried out a very tentative reconnaissance excursion to this location, roved ahead, finding the best avenues through the trees where the legions could march relatively uninhibited. In the process, they also kept a close watch on the forests through which the legions moved, wary of the potential for ambushes. None had come. It seemed that the approach of the Roman army had remained blessedly unnoticed by the enemy. Perhaps those scouts they’d captured had been the only ones in this area and had not yet been missed? Whatever the reason, the enemy’s ignorance was a blessing.

Then, as they’d closed on the location, the scouts had started coming across the enemy pickets. Prepared as they were from the previous visit, they began to move stealthily forward, very quiet and effective, removing the enemy sentries with brutal speed before any warning could be given. Varus wished the Suessione scouts would stop bringing their heads to show him, but he’d not the heart to argue. Their victims were, after all, an army mustered ostensibly to invade Suessione lands.

‘Seems we’ll have the advantage of surprise,’ Brutus muttered as he pulled alongside.

‘Indeed. Not that we’ll be rushing them,’ Varus reminded him. ‘After all, we want them to come out and meet us. We just want it to be enough of a surprise that they will react quickly without too much thought.’

‘This terrain is going to be dreadful for the legions.’

‘And render my cavalry more or less ineffective. But the scouts say the trees thin out as we near the enemy camp. I never got that close yesterday for fear of alerting sentries too soon, but it seems reasonable. You couldn’t encamp a force of thousands of Gauls in the middle of a forest. They’re on a hill that’s more or less surrounded by marsh, so trees shouldn’t be an issue. Sinking into a
mire
might be, of course.’

‘Fewer negative comments made in front of the men might be preferable, gentlemen,’ Caesar muttered quietly as he appeared on Varus’ other side, the rest of the staff officers in a knot close behind. ‘We’re not entirely sure what we’re up against, but the men are in high spirits and, since such minutiae can make or break an engagement, I’d like to keep it that way.’

Varus nodded his understanding and the van rode on in silence until Grattius, the primus pilus of the Ninth, cleared his throat and opened up in a song that was off-key and distinctly off-colour.

‘The Ninth knew a girl from Palmyra…’

By the time he had sung out the name of that great, mysterious, exotic eastern city most of the First century of the Ninth had joined in, and as the volume rose throughout the refrain, the rest of the legion began to participate.

‘Whose owner would not let us near her…’

Varus turned a questioning look on the general as the song went on, rising in volume.

‘She liked to demean us, when we whipped out our…’

‘Let them sing,’ Caesar smiled. ‘We’re close enough now to have all the advantage we need, and after all, we want them to come to us. Besides, I’m intrigued by the song. You see,
I
once knew a girl from Palmyra too…’

Brutus snorted with laughter as the general grinned.

Ahead, three of the scouts reappeared from the wide avenue, a severed head swinging from one of their hands by the hair like some sort of gruesome censer. ‘Look alive, gentlemen,’ Caesar said, pointing at them.

‘Enemy sighted, sir,’ the Suessione scout announced, and Varus narrowed his eyes at the man’s tone. He sounded unsure. Nervous?

The army continued on along the avenue, the scouts now riding close to the vanguard, no longer concerned about ambushes or pickets. Varus watched as the trees thinned around them, and suddenly they emerged onto a wide grassy hillside with a magnificent view of the enemy.

‘
Minerva
,’ Varus breathed in astonishment. Behind him the marching song, which had reached a colourful moment of genitalic description, stopped suddenly as Grattius issued his own exclamation.

‘Hercules’ bollocks!’

The general silently held up his hand, signalling the army to halt. The cavalry ala, which had been moving in two narrow columns alongside the Ninth, began to pull ahead to form up in the open. Varus stared.

The hillside upon which they stood was wide and gentle, grassy and clear. It sloped down to a valley perhaps half a mile wide and clogged with swampy murk, through which ran what might be considered a river, if only because it was slightly more liquid than the terrain through which it flowed. On the far side of the morass, which curved off to north and south and effectively enclosed the enemy, a similar slope arose to a hill almost half as high again as this one and with a steeper gradient. It was a natural fortress that even without walls was twice as defensive as any oppidum they had faced this winter.

But that unforgiving position was not what had stilled the breath in the Roman officers.

‘How can there be so
many
?’

Caesar turned to Brutus in answer. ‘
Many thousands
was a very vague description, Brutus. We thought them to be a match for us based on information from those captured scouts. And they are certainly a match for us. And I cannot deny that there are many thousands of them.’

Varus coughed in the cold air. ‘General, with all the good will in the world, it doesn’t matter how enthusiastic our men are, if they come for us, there is a very good chance that we will all be under a turf mound by tomorrow morning.’

Caesar simply nodded. The enemy force was enormous. The throng filled the crest of the hill opposite, and was beginning to move, emerging from their camp and pressing forward towards the nearest edge of the slope.

‘I reckon they have us at two to one,’ Varus said quietly.

‘And they’re ready for battle,’ Brutus added.

‘Why have they stopped?’ the cavalry commander murmured. ‘Because they can’t be sure of our numbers yet?’ The legions were still emerging from the trees onto the grassy slope behind them, filtering into position and falling into centuries efficiently.

Caesar sighed. ‘Partially. Also because they have no need to come for us, after all. Regard their situation. They are well-provisioned, in a strong position, and numerically superior. They are in no hurry to meet us. After all, they are waiting for Commius and a potential influx of Germanic tribesmen.’

‘So what do we do?’

The general scratched his chin. ‘We dig in while we consider our next move.’ He turned to the small number of staff officers who sat slightly apart in conversation and gestured to the older of them, his armour less decorative and considerably more practical than his fellows. The man rode over, saluting as he approached.

Varus smiled. Appius Coruncanius Mamurra was one of the veteran officers of the campaign now. Not a field officer – the man had not commanded a legion or vexillation at any point since his arrival in Gaul six years ago – but his expertise as an engineer had been the backbone of some of the army’s greatest feats in that time, and his knowledge and practical sense had made him as popular with the veteran soldiers as his lineage and rank did with the staff officers.

‘General?’

‘Your thoughts on terrain and fortification, if you will, Appius?’

The old engineer swept his helmet from his head, shaking out the limp crest, and rubbed the sweaty curls that surrounded the gleaming crown of his cranium. He frowned into the cold damp air, thumped a foot down half a dozen times in various places, then turned and examined the trees behind them.

‘Good ground for digging. Hard-wearing, but giving turf, with deep earth below. Not too rocky, but with some local bluffs if we need to quarry. Plenty of timber and willow to hand for palisades and fences. We could hardly be in a better position for fortifying, if you ask me. As long as the enemy make no attempt to rush us while we work, we could have a solid fort up by dusk, large enough to shelter all four legions and with room for stabling. It will take another day to add the embellishments, of course, but we’d at least be protected by dark. I would propose a higher rampart than usual, with tall towers. They will give archers and our meagre artillery a great range and allow them to drop missiles on any enemy trying to cross that marsh. With high enough defences you could litter that valley with dead before they managed to cross to dry ground.’

Caesar nodded. ‘And willow, you say?’

‘Yes. For extra defences close up.’

‘With high enough towers, could we perhaps land a missile on the hill opposite?’

Mamurra shook his head. ‘If we had the heavy artillery, yes. Perhaps an onager at maximum strain could do it. But we came at speed and only brought scorpions and the like with us. Still, give me a day and I’ll make this hill impregnable for you.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Do it, Appius. Consult with the unit engineers and the centurions and get the basics up quick enough for us to settle in.’

The engineer nodded and wheeled his horse to locate the engineers in the column. Varus watched the enemy, who were now all gathered on the brow watching the Romans, then turned to view their own army, the rear of which was now arriving, the few wagons rolling out onto the turf and the Eleventh appearing behind them.

* * * * *

The cavalry commander patted his steed on the neck and stroked her forelock gently, holding a small apple in his flattened palm until she took it gently and began to crunch. With a smile, Varus turned and strode from the horse pens. He had asked that the engineers erect some sort of roof over the pens, as the horses needed dry stabling as much as the men tonight. The pens were roofed now with a variety of leather, wool and woven covers all held up by rough-hewn posts. He was not sure whether this was supposed to be a temporary measure or the end product, but at least it kept the worst of the winter weather from the beasts. They might be required for battle in the morning, and would be far more active and manoeuvrable if their joints were not frozen stiff from the cold rains that seemed to fall every night at the moment. The equisio who controlled the pens wandered past, nodding a respectful greeting to Varus, the man’s arms too full of animal feed to salute.

Bidding his horse good night, the cavalry commander wandered out into the gloomy dusk, marvelling at the sight of the camp around them. Already a rampart some ten to twelve feet high in places enclosed a vast camp, that embankment itself surrounded by twin ditches each fifteen feet wide and ten deep. Even as the light failed, sections of the army were still at work, hacking the small projecting branches from timbers that would tomorrow be used to construct a covered gallery atop the mound throughout the entire circuit to protect the men from stray missile fire. And the entire system would be punctuated with intermittent three-storey towers. Mamurra had launched into his task with the enthusiasm typical of an engineer. The covered timber walkway would be protected by a willow fence formed such that the sharpened points projected defensively outwards, and the natural flexibility of the material turned blades without taking damage far more thoroughly than solid timber. The ditches’ outer edges were vertical, threatening to break the limbs of the first men to fall in and hamper any attack, while the inner faces were angled perfectly so as to provide no shelter from missiles cast from the rampart top. The gates were equally powerful and would be defended by high towers of their own.

When Varus had queried the necessity for such a powerful fortification, Caesar had smiled. His twin purpose made sense. Firstly, to intimidate the Gauls; and it must have done that for, though the enemy had initially hovered at the crest of their hill, constantly surging back and forth as if eager to tackle the Romans and only held back by the will of their commanders, once the rising rampart had become evident from a distance, the enemy had retreated within their own camp once more.

And with the distinct possibility that the army might be here for a while, there would be the need to forage for supplies. It provided a little security to note that such a defence protected the camp at any time when up to a quarter of the force might be absent securing food.

A raucous laugh drew his attention as he strode through the camp back towards his own lines, and his eyes were drawn to a tent on the
via decumana
. At the edge of the Eleventh’s section, the centurions’ and the signifers’ tents sat slightly apart, marked by the presence of the century’s standards and flags and two soldiers on miserable, cold guard duty.