A disaster.
Fronto paced along the crest as his missile units began to fall into formation, the rear ranks still arriving. Something had to be done, and fast. Damn it!
A familiar voice called out from nearby.
“Looks like shit, sir, eh?”
Fronto turned to see prefect Pansa shading his eyes and taking in the scene.
“This makes shit look good, Pansa. Got any ideas?”
The prefect shook his head.
“We can start picking them off from here with arrows, slingshot and spears, but it’s going to be like being bothered by insects for that lot. No way can we make a difference in time to save anyone.”
Decius came to a halt nearby.
“Going to have to widen the crossing so our legions can get over.”
Fronto turned in surprise.
“How the hell do you propose that?”
Decius shrugged. “I really don’t know, but that’s what we’ve got to do. If we can get more men over there, we can create a proper bridgehead. If that happened, they could then force the Belgae back between the bridge and the fort and start setting up a proper line while everyone else crossed. After that, it’s battle as usual.”
Fronto shook his head.
“Makes sense, I suppose, but it doesn’t solve how we get more men across.” He frowned as he looked down at the chaos. “Rafts? Boats?”
Decius shook his head.
“Too slow. We’d have to build the rafts and then only a few could cross at a time. Sabinus would be dead long before we could get there.”
Somebody noisily cleared their throat so close behind Fronto that he jumped slightly. He turned to see prefect Galeo staring off toward the huge camp above them, a thoughtful frown on his face.
“Would you kindly not sneak up on me like that!” he snapped at the prefect.
“Hmm? Oh, sorry sir. Think I’ve an idea.”
The other three officers turned to him.
“You want to get the men across? Well you either have to go over, which means a bridge or boats… or you just move the river.”
“What?”
“A dam” the prefect replied, still staring up at the camp.
Decius smiled.
“Go on, Galeo.”
“Well… I reckon that bridge we built down there is good and strong. It was built to support the weight of several loaded supply carts. The piers of the bridge are quite close together.” He pointed up at the stockade atop the camp’s rampart. “And we’ve got a massive ready supply of great big logs.”
Fronto frowned.
“That’s bloody dangerous. What happens if we break the bridge? Then we’ve done their job for them.”
Decius nodded. “That’s not the only danger. What if you succeed and the water level rises enough to reach the bridge and flows over the bank?”
Galeo smiled.
“Then a hundred thousand Belgae drown. Doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”
Fronto’s face slowly split into a smile.
“Galeo, you clever bugger, you! You’re in charge of the dismantling. Get the Gaesati up there and start work tearing down the stakes… they can’t hit the Belgae from here anyway.” He turned to the others.
“Get all the archers and slingers concentrating on that mass of Belgae near the bridge. Send any spearmen up to Galeo. I’m going to find some men from the Thirteenth or Fourteenth to help.”
As the prefect started shouting out commands, Fronto descended the slope toward the bridge. The journey was short but perilous, with rabbit holes pock-marking the steep turf incline to trip the unwary, and his ankle occasionally giving a little ‘twang’ of pain. As he slid and ran he took note of the disposition of the legions.
Balbus had led the Thirteenth into the front. In fact, as he carefully scanned the other end of the bridge, he could occasionally spot the legate’s plume bobbing around amid the violence. He shook his head. Balbus used to be careful and command from a position of safety. The longer he spent with Fronto and Crispus and the others, the more reckless he was becoming. Still marshalled on this side of the bank, hanging back from the action, were the Fourteenth. As he watched, occasional pila arced out from the reserve legion toward the Belgae on the far bank, falling harmlessly into the swift current.
“Men of the Fourteenth!” he called forcefully as he finally reached the shore level.
The legionaries turned and the nearest men saluted.
“The next soldier who throws a pilum into that river will have one jammed up his arse. Don’t waste weaponry. And I know some of you don’t understand me, so if you do, make sure you pass that on!”
A plume wobbled around at the far side and then a gap opened in the lines as Plancus, red-faced and angry, strode back towards him.
“What do you think you’re doing, Fronto? These are my men, and I ordered them to harass the enemy with javelins.”
Fronto growled.
“Most of them can’t even get half way across, Plancus. No one stands a chance of hitting a barbarian. Save your weapons. We’re going to pull off a little trick in a few minutes and give you men a chance to get across and into the action. When we do, get over there and help solidify that bridgehead and drive a connecting line to the fort.”
The legate stared at him.
“Look, Plancus. This is your first command and your first action. I know they’re your men, but I’ve been commanding legions for twenty years. Take my advice and use it.”
The young officer glared for a moment and then nodded.
“Where do want me and what signal will you give?”
Fronto pointed.
“Form up on the downriver side of the bridge, about twenty men abreast. You’ll know when to go, if this works.”
Plancus saluted stiffly, and Fronto gave him a half-hearted response.
As the young officer began to manoeuvre his legion, Fronto pushed further through to the rear of the Thirteenth Legion, massed around the bridge and waiting to cross.
“Any of you lot engineers?”
The men of the Thirteenth looked around in surprise and saluted the senior officer.
“Come on, come on…” he shouted.
A stocky legionary at the rear with an extremely unfashionable but plainly Gallic beard shrugged, the braids at the side of his head scraping along the edge of his helmet. In a fairly thick Gallic accent, he spoke up.
“Had some training sir. A few of us have, but we’ve not really had the chance to put it to use.”
Fronto grinned at him. “That’s about to change, soldier. Get a dozen or so good men together and come with me.”
As soon as the Gaulish legionary and a few of his compatriots reached him and saluted, Fronto pointed up to the camp, where several sections of palisade had already visibly gone.
“Up there, come on.”
Half a minute later, he reached the top of the slope with his party. The new recruits of the Thirteenth looked on with interest as an officer and a number of ebony-skinned auxiliaries worked on dismantling the legions’ camp. The engineer frowned as he saw two of the palisade stakes dropped to the ground and let roll down the hill where they disappeared into the river with a splash.
“What are they doing, sir?”
Fronto pointed at the stockade.
“We’re going to roll the timber down into the river to dam it at the bridge.”
“That won’t work, sir.”
Fronto turned on him. “Why not?”
“Well, the timbers are big enough, sir, but they’ll just bounce around on the surface and some will just float under the bridge end-on. It just won’t work, sir… take it from me.”
The legate fumed, rubbing his temples. “Well we’ve got to do it somehow.”