“Damn it!”
“Mmm?” enquired the dark skinned archer next to him.
“Oh, nothing! It’s not like you understand a damn word I say anyway. If it weren’t for your centurions, I might as well not even be here.”
He looked back at the line of men slowly advancing on his position.
Very well. If he couldn’t find some clever way of gaining an edge he could do what he’d always tried to do. To fight a decent and solid action in the best traditions of the legions, even saddled as he was with a load of illiterate Numidians.
He carefully scanned the crowd below. Couldn’t be more than a couple of thousand there. This place was the furthest from the main force of Belgae and one of the most easily defensible positions with a good field of fire. The odds would be about six or seven to one. Really, there wasn’t much chance to show off but, on the other hand, he should be able to safely hold his position. Each of his men would have time to let off over a dozen shots before the Belgae got anywhere near closing with them.
He smiled.
They may be strange and have precious little Latin among them, but the one thing he did know was that his centurions were confident, and they’d had the archers practicing on a daily basis, even over winter. In theory, even if his men missed with every other shot, they should be able to deal with the situation before there was hope of close combat. He turned to the centurion nearby, a Romanised Numidian with reasonable Latin.
“Get ready. Every man marks his target and makes each shot count. I want every single one of them dead before they get anywhere near this wall. Caesar wants the Remi, so we’ll save ‘em eh?”
Above the slope, looking down at the river below, prefect Pansa smiled at the Belgae. There would be perhaps four thousand or so down there. They could so easily overwhelm his position, should they get within reach… but Pansa had plans. He’d almost laughed when he explained to the legate what he wanted to do. In fact, Fronto had chuckled a little himself, which must be unusual, given the legate’s dour reputation.
Four thousand, or possibly five, against his less-than four hundred men, including the Remi natives with their Celtic blades. Something like ten to one odds. Frightening, he supposed, but there was just something comic about watching these heavily armed barbarians floundering on the slope as they tried to climb the steep ascent while keeping their eyes on the defenders above. More than once he saw a figure slip and slide, toppling backwards and taking a few of his fellows.
Pansa had served in Caesar’s legions since the early days in Spain and he’d seen some of the most horrifying sights a man could ever hope to on a battlefield. He was aware of how little regard Caesar held for human life. Pansa was different and had been relieved to discover that legate Fronto was, too.
To Pansa, it was far more important to save his men than to win some kind of glory. He’d seen the look in Galeo’s eye at the briefing. Hopefully the fool would stick to his defence and not go trying to win points.
He smiled. The leaders of the Belgae were now two thirds of the way up the slope and almost in missile range for the slingers and the few archers he had with him.
“Right lads…”
He gestured with an over-arm swing down to the advancing barbarians below.
As he shaded his eyes and peered down at the eagerly-advancing defenders, he chuckled. Behind him were several dull thuds. He stepped back from the edge of the wall for the sake of his own safety and watched as two dozen large barrels, much of the stored drinking water of the Remi, were tipped over the wall and the liquid began to pour down the slope in rivulets.
There was no tide that threatened to wash away the attackers; that was not what Pansa wanted. His objective was to make the ascent here so difficult and unpleasant that the Belgae would give up in disgust. Gallon after gallon of water tipped over the wall and flowed down relentlessly, softening up the earth and making the grass slick and slippery. The effect as the rivulets finally reached the advancing warriors was almost too funny for words.
Pansa looked back at his men and cleared his throat. He couldn’t be seen laughing at this. People would think he was an idiot… but it really was quite funny.
He turned once more to gaze down the hill. The barbarians were slipping and sliding around like something out of a Plautus play. Where the water had made the lower slope wet, the longer Pansa watched, the more hilarious the comedy ascent became. Men trying desperately to keep their feet and climb were making the ground worse, churning the mud and creating slides. Some of the mid section, as they slipped, took a dozen or so warriors with them and the whole group collapsed in a flurry of arms and legs as they slid gracelessly into the river.
Off to the right, one of the men laughed. He opened his mouth to discipline the man, but changed his mind. Let them laugh. It was funny and, after all, being laughed at might demoralise the enemy. Turning, he addressed the centurions.
“Save ammunition. I don’t want anyone to waste a shot until they get up to the level of that pile of rocks.”
He smiled. If they get that far, he thought to himself, and found that he was laughing along with his men.
To the north, Decius peered down into the woods. Though he couldn’t speak a word of this local language, he could make an educated guess as to what was being shouted by the Belgae as they climbed through the woods. That was swearing and cursing if he’d ever heard it. They were having fun with all the trip-wires, ankle-breaking covered pits and hidden sharpened stake points that his men had been placing in the woods for the last hour. Their advance had initially been at a good pace and presented a reasonable front, or so Decius’ scouts had reported as they returned from their observation points in the woods. But now they had slowed to little more than a crawl as the first few men fell foul to the Romans’ hidden defences and the attackers began to carefully scour the forest floor for traps as they moved.
He smiled at the thought of so many eager warriors milling about in the trees, getting sore feet, tripped up, broken bones, lacerations and general irritations. In all likelihood the rest of the siege would be over for the day before these Belgae reached the top.
He kicked an errant pebble from the wall down into the trees and eyed, once again, the piles of heavy boulders lining the walls. This was his second surprise for when the Belgae finally reached the higher slope. These piles of stones, each boulder almost a foot across and weighing the same as a small cart, would bounce several times on the forest floor and would rip through even the toughest of undergrowth. He certainly wouldn’t like to be climbing that hill when the piles were levered off the walls.
He sighed and sat down to take a long swig of water from his flask.
Somewhere down below there was a shriek and a great deal more swearing.
Time drifted slowly on for Decius, listening to the sounds of slowly advancing soldiers.
“Need a hand?”
He looked around in surprise to see Fronto.
“Legate? Not seen a sign of them yet. I think they’re getting a bit pissed off with my woods, to be honest.”
Fronto laughed.
“You must have led them a merry dance, man. The main frontal assault dispersed in agony about five minutes ago. I’m just on my way to see what’s happening at the other sectors, but I’ve left a skeleton crew watching the main gate area. I’ll leave you a couple of hundred more men.”
“Why thank you, sir. And it’s not even my birthday!”