As the general watched the legion forming up on the far side, Varus and Brutus shared a look and the cavalry commander flicked his gaze across the white sea to the assembling legion on the far side, then up the high, steep slope to the watching hordes of the Bellovaci and their fortifications beyond. The fact that Caesar could only suggest they ‘look at ways of dislodging them’ was telling. The general always had ideas, was always one step ahead of reality in his strategy. If he had nothing at this stage, then there would be no stroke of genius. The only option would be a direct assault uphill into the enemy. It would be costly, and it would be brutal, but the enemy were done for and they had to know that. Why didn’t they run?
Because, of course, they knew that the moment they turned their backs, the Roman cavalry would cut them down. They had learned the value of Caesar’s horse the hard way. Rather than breaking their morale, Varus’ victory had hardened their resolve and left them knowing they couldn’t run.
He sighed. There would be little use for his cavalry on such a slope anyway. This assault was a job for the infantry, gods protect them.
* * * * *
Late that evening, Varus and Brutus leaned on the wattle fence of the hastily thrown-up rampart. The new camp on the Bellovaci hill’s lower slopes was little more than a standard ditchless marching camp. The swampy land of the valley and limestone that lay beneath the soil of the hill made any attempt at a defensive ditch impossible, and the rampart was correspondingly unimpressive. Rather than spend half a day ferrying heavy timbers across the bridge, the fences had been stripped from the strong camp across the valley and re-erected here on the low mounds as a cursory defence. If the enemy descended that hill, it would be down to the weight of numbers and the discipline and bravery of the men, and any victory would owe nothing to the fortifications.
But no one believed the enemy would rush them. Even those men on guard at the rampart stood easy watching the smoke rise from the camp atop the hill, the light of the torches bobbing around here and there. The enemy had retired to their camp as the sunset faded, lighting their fires and torches, and all the Romans could now see were the figures of the guards walking back and forth on the enemy rampart.
It was depressing to say the least, watching the secure enemy and knowing the fight that had to come. Varus had wracked his brains throughout the evening for a way to instil panic among the Belgae and cause them to flee. But they were locked in a countdown to an inevitable conflict. Caesar could come up with nothing better than a direct assault and, while the enemy knew that this would mean the end of their rebellion and death for every man on the hill, they could hardly flee, for turning their backs on the legions and Varus’ cavalry would mean too many deaths for no gain.
‘Maybe we could find the hidden passages through the swamp at the far side that they used to move out their wagons?’ Brutus mused.
‘Nice thought,’ Varus replied, ‘but even if we could find them it would take forever to get even a cohort through them and into position behind the enemy. It would take half a day to get our force on that side of the river, and they would see us coming long before we had enough men behind them to make any kind of assault. It would take hours to get the men through the swamp, which we could never manage unobserved. If they are anything other than utterly dim, they will be watching those routes carefully.’
Brutus slumped over the fence. ‘We’ve fallen on our own sword here, then. We’ve forced them into a corner from which they can’t escape, but which is going to cost us the world to take. At least, gods-willing, there’s no reserve army coming to help them this time. Last thing we need is another Alesia. The people may praise Caesar for that victory, but we all saw how damn close that was.’
Varus nodded his agreement. If Alesia had turned the way Gergovia had, Caesar and his army would have been back in Cisalpine Gaul now, hanging their heads in defeat. But there was still time for a failure to cripple the general’s reputation, so close to his consulate. He could hardly afford a defeat, or even a desperate pyrrhic win, here and now.
‘Looks like they’re lighting more fires. Must be colder up there than it is down here, I guess.’
Varus nodded, peering up at the defences atop the slope. A golden tongue of flame was rising into the night, sparks flying to the heavens to warm the gods. Even as he watched, another large bonfire burst into life.
‘That’s odd.’
Brutus frowned. ‘What?’
‘Those fires are outside the enemy ramparts. They’re not camping out front, so why…’ He straightened. ‘You don’t think…?’
Even as they considered the meaning of the new fires, four more began to roar into life across the hillside. Again and again conflagrations exploded into golden light all along the top of the hill, before the enemy defences. By the time a general cry of alert had gone up in the camp, there was a solid line of fire all across the hill.
‘They’re going to send them down to the camp,’ Brutus coughed, staring at the conflagrations. ‘These wicker fences won’t stop them. Damn it.’
Varus nodded distractedly, but his eyes were narrowed suspiciously. More fires were rising, extending the line of flames down the slope to either side, to meet the morass below.
‘I’m not so sure.’
Behind them, the camp burst into life. Men moved back away from the ramparts at the watch centurion’s command in case the burning mass rolled down the hill against the Roman defences.
‘Come on,’ Brutus said, grabbing at Varus’ shoulder.
‘I don’t think that’s what’s happening,’ the cavalry commander breathed as the last few enemy fires ignited, forming a solid line that divided the hill into two sections, uncrossable without passing the furnace between.
‘You want to risk it?’
Varus shook his head. ‘If they were going to send burning matter down at us, they’d have done it differently. They would have lit all the fires at once in order to give us no warning. And there would be no point to the ones on the low slopes to either side. And the fires would have taken time to grow. They wouldn’t have been so instant to bloom from nothing to inferno. They were lit slowly and sporadically, as though by only a few…’
Varus pursed his lips. ‘Go tell the general the enemy have abandoned their position.’
‘What?’
‘Just do it, Brutus.’
Without pause, the cavalry commander ran across to where the small corral stood, two dozen horses restless within at the commotion. A pair of troopers stood on guard there.
‘You two. Mount up bareback and follow me.’
Varus slid into the corral, located his steed and threw a blanket over the back before slipping up onto the beast’s back. There was no time for saddling. By the time he walked his horse from the corral the other two were similarly mounted, the last trooper leaning down to fasten the gate behind them.
‘Come on.’
The fortification was long and narrow, nestled at the base of the slope between the steep rise and the swamp, with only two gates. One entrance led onto the bridge back to the far hill, where part of the large force remained in garrison awaiting the arrival of Trebonius’ legions. The other sat facing the enemy at a break in the wicker fence, and was now manned by a single nervous legionary, the rest having pulled back from the defences at the centurion’s command. As Varus and his troopers approached, the legionary looked frightened and a little confused.
‘Open the gate, soldier.’
The man looked as though he might argue for a moment, but then stepped forth and unbarred the wicker gate, swinging the leaf in to allow the three riders access. Varus nodded his appreciation and led the two troopers out at a trot and then broke into a run, veering left and racing along before the Roman walls, parallel to both lines of defence and the fiery wall.