As they had practised many times this past week, the lead centuries reached the walls and came to a halt still in solid testudo formation, with their shield-roof up and interlocked, and the rear men in the units dropped to a kneeling position, their raised shields forming a lower step. At that same command, the second centuries following on behind broke into a run, their own testudos unfolding as they charged, using the lower shields as the step they formed and leaping up onto the precarious roof of shields.
Here and there a man slipped, his hob-nailed boots raking the painted surfaces of the shields, and plummeted off to the grassy slope at the side. But the majority of the men, now well-practised, ran up the roof of the testudo and at the Gallic walls, with which they were now more or less of a height.
The defenders panicked, suddenly faced with the presence of Romans right under their noses instead of at the base of a high wall. A few of the braver or smarter ones fought off the attackers for a few moments before succumbing, but many simply stepped back in consternation, uncertain of what to do now that their defences apparently counted for nothing.
What happened next was a matter of conjecture for Varus, as the cavalry officer and his riders at the rear of the legion reached the defensive ditch and had to carefully manoeuvre their beasts down the slope and then back up the far side, losing track completely of the struggle at the front. By the time the riders were back up onto the gentle slope and making for the oppidum’s defences, the ramparts were already swarming with legionaries and a mix of alarmed Gallic cries and victorious Latin shouts announced that the southern gate had fallen.
The legion surged forward up the slope with renewed energy, the missiles now falling only occasionally, and even then loosed wild and in panic. Varus held his men back as the centuries swarmed over the walls and through the gate into the city, and as soon as the gatehouse stood open, he pushed his way in behind them, leading his riders.
It seemed that the rebels still had some fight in them since the battle continued to rage in the streets as the doomed enemy fell back through the narrow streets of the oppidum, trying to hold back the Roman tide while seeking somewhere to either hide or make a stand. Varus looked this way and that, painfully aware of the fact that once an army got its blood up and was in the mood to pillage and burn it would take more than an officer with a loud voice to pull them back into line.
Fortunately, it seemed that most of the centurions had their men under tight control, and those units who had lost a centurion in the advance were continuing under the able command of their optios. Here and there a man would run into a clearly empty house with the intent to pillage, and Varus would send two of his men to bring the man back out.
Things were becoming more complicated as the local loyalists, who had been languishing in a town under the control of violent rebels, came rushing out into the streets, waving their arms and trying to explain desperately to the attacking force that they were not the enemy. Fortunately, after so many days of such actions the legionaries were experienced in this type of fight and avoided combat with women and children and anyone before them who was clearly unarmed.
To aid the swift return to control, Varus was pleased to see a few of the more enterprising loyal townsfolk pushing the fleeing rebels back out into the street before the Romans where they could be cut down without a chance to hide, and more than once he spotted locals busily kicking a captured rebel to death. After all, these men had brought a legion to their doorstep, and the loyalists blamed their revolting kinsmen for this much more than they did the Roman officers.
As the horsemen reached the central square of the oppidum with some sort of temple facing them, Varus sent his decurions and their units off in various directions with a remit to keep the peace and make sure the legion was behaving itself. Oddly, as the legionaries continued to push the few remaining rebels back through the streets and the loyal inhabitants largely stayed safely out of the way, Varus watched his horsemen melt away into the oppidum and found himself more or less alone in the packed earth square, just his standard bearer and tuba-player and a small honour guard of regular cavalrymen in attendance. The sounds of battle now seemed strangely distant and muted, though no birdlife yet filled the cold, damp, grey air. He leaned his head to one side, listening carefully to see if he could pick out any area of trouble where he might have to take a more personal command to ensure Caesar’s orders were complied with.
The sound had almost been a scream, but had then dropped to what sounded like a muffled whimper. Varus’ eyes narrowed as he peered around the square, still listening intently. A scraping noise could have been entirely innocent, though something was troubling the cavalry officer and he dropped from his horse, handing his reins to a trooper as he strode towards the temple from where he was sure the noises were coming.
A two-storey building perhaps twenty feet square and constructed of timber and daub with thatched roof, the temple was dusty, unsophisticated and wet. The door facing the square was closed and its iron hinges were rusty. Varus approached and slowed as he neared the door. His hand went to the pommel of his sword and he momentarily wished he wore a shield, but he had not been part of the attack and had not bothered arming properly for combat. There was no noise issuing from the temple, but he was now absolutely sure something was amiss. The air had that leaden silence that tells of people deliberately holding their breath. His fingers slid down to the carved bone grip of his sword and closed into a fist. Slowly, carefully, he drew the blade. Perhaps he should shout for his men?
No.
Knowing that despite the grey dullness of the January weather, the interior of the temple would be extremely dim, he closed his eyes for a count of twenty, allowing them to acclimatise to the darkness, and then reached up with his free hand and unlatched the door, pushing it open even as he stepped forward.
He opened his eyes as he entered, cutting down the exposure to the outside light to a minimum. His nostrils were assaulted with a smell of mixed ordure, sweat and old blood. The temple consisted of a single room, the second storey more of a small tower with roof lights that illuminated the ground floor. A fire pit occupied the very centre, full of blackened wood, soot and ash, and the walls were daubed with crude designs and figures. At the far side, two tall stones, each higher than Varus, stood close to the wall, each carved with lumpen, misshapen figures, and a statue of a moustachioed man, highly stylised, with bulbous limbs and bulging eyes, stood between the stones.
On the floor, beneath the statue, a legionary knelt, his tunic hoisted up and his pale buttocks exposed in the light. His shield lay off to one side with his helmet and sheathed sword. As Varus’ eyes picked out every last detail, he registered the girl’s legs beneath the legionary, the heels thumping the packed earth of the floor desperately. At the sudden intrusion, the legionary looked around and Varus caught sight of the soldier’s terrified victim, struggling to fight off her attacker even with the legionary’s knife at her throat.
‘Get off her.’
‘Piss off.’
Varus blinked. Common soldiers did not speak to senior officers in that sort of manner, and it took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t wearing a helmet or cloak, and that silhouetted in a doorway he could be anyone.
‘Get off that woman, soldier. Now!’
He was rewarded with a response this time as the soldier rose, leaving the half-naked girl on the ground, pinned down with a nailed boot as he turned to look at the new arrival.
‘I don’t answer to donkey boys. Piss off and find your own girl.’