A Gallic arrow thudded into the wooden tower post a few feet from Fronto’s head, and the whole structure shook as the ballista atop it launched another rock over into the Gaulish army that seethed on the flat ground below the oppidum. Even back beyond the twin ditches the ground was so strewn with native bodies that little grass or mud could be seen — men who had been crippled or killed by the stake-filled lilia pits or the sharpened branches, embedded iron spikes or the armfuls of caltrops that had been hurled down from the rampart to spike running feet, and others who had fallen to accurate strikes from pila, arrow, sling or scorpion.
‘Legate!’
Fronto turned at the call to see a courier racing across the grass towards him, saluting as he ran.
‘What?’
‘Compliments of commander Antonius, sir. He asks that you move a third of your men across to the outer rampart to aid in a concerted push.’
Fronto blinked. ‘Is he mad? I can’t spare a third of my men.’
The courier looked distinctly uncomfortable, and closed his eyes as if trying to repeat something from memory. ‘The commander said you’d argue, sir. He told me to tell you “I can end this in half an hour, now give me the troops”, sir.’
Fronto frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like Antonius.’
‘Respectfully, I cut out some of the worst language, sir, and he called you something I cannot bring myself to repeat to an officer.’
Fronto laughed. ‘Now that sounds like Antonius. Alright, tell him to make room. They’ll be across shortly.’
As the courier saluted and ran off, Fronto prepared himself for trouble and marched along the rampart, ducking stray arrows and dodging lucky blows, until he reached Atenos, two towers south. As he moved, Masgava and Quietus fell in to protect him, the latter running to his left, holding up his big shield to protect them both from stray missiles.
‘Centurion?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have your officers mark every third man and then pull them off the walls and send them over to Antonius. He needs them for something.’
Atenos frowned, ignoring the Gaul he had by the throat dangling over the drop beyond the fence. ‘We need them for something too, sir.’ Half turning, he head-butted the struggling Gaul and dropped the broken form back among the enemy.
‘I know that. Do it anyway.’
As Atenos, still with an expression of disapproval, snapped out the orders to his optio and the two men began marching along the rampart in opposite directions tapping men on the shoulder, Fronto staggered, a stray arrow passing close enough to take a nick out of his earlobe and draw a hot, bloody line across his neck. Masgava fixed Quietus with the most malevolent of glares and the bodyguard hoisted his shield higher, being sure to cover his legate from further strikes. Grabbing his scarf and wiping away the blood, Fronto looked down at the legionaries from the Tenth stepping away from the wall and then across at the outer rampart where a similar fight continued.
Whatever Antonius had in mind, he’d better make it work, and do it quickly. Night would descend all too soon. This was starting to look a little too much like a repeat of Gergovia for comfort.
* * * * *
Lucterius was exultant. As his horse shouldered its way through the press and he brought his heavy blade down on one of the Roman auxiliaries — a Remi perhaps? — he almost laughed. The Romans were beaten. Oh they fought on like lions, as one was always to expect with the legions, but their cavalry were fighting for their very existence now. Hours of combat had passed, with the Roman commanders repeatedly sallying forth in waves and breaking the Gallic morale, only to find that Lucterius and his companions could all-too-easily pull things back together, and turn the tables on their enemy, often accompanied by attacks from those bands of archers still present on the field. And so it had been all day, the Romans charging and the tribes pulling back accordingly under the onslaught, and then the rebel horse making their own brutal attack, only to see the Romans fall back under the pressure and regroup elsewhere. From the point of view of Toutatis, looking down upon the war, the cavalry battle must had looked like the waves of the sea, repeatedly crashing upon the shore and then ebbing back as the sand dried, only to see the next wave coming to soak it.
But the important fact was that the rebels would win. Although the attrition of this unpleasant engagement was wearing down both forces at a surprisingly equal rate, Lucterius and his people outnumbered the Roman cavalry by a high enough margin that the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
As he fought his way to the edge of the latest clash, he allowed himself a moment to gaze upon the other battle upon which today hinged. The Roman defences were still holding, but they were almost submerged beneath a sea of good tribal warriors and their future was already written in thick, oozing blood. The fact that, from what he’d heard, the Romans weren’t even sending support from their other camps to aid the beleaguered defenders could only speed their demise.
It would be over tonight, then. That sector of defences would break, the two forces would join up, and then the Romans would die, for the men of the tribes would not relent with the sinking of the sun. The Romans might not like to fight at night, but now the tribes had victory in their grasp and they would not pause, even for a moment.
A new noise entered the aural tapestry of the battle, and Lucterius frowned, peering at the Roman ramparts as he tried to discern what it was. Even at this distance it was evident that the Roman defenders atop the walls had suddenly increased in both number and voracity. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. At this stage, many hours after the first blow, they should be tiring, unable to rally like this. Unless something had given them heart?
There it was again: that strange insistent chord somewhere in the din. What was it?’
He felt a sense of rage begin deep in his belly and spread out to fill him entire as he recognised finally the booing horn calls of the damned German cavalry. He was distracted for a moment as a Roman auxiliary suddenly appeared in the press and made a lunge for him. Only half paying attention, Lucterius blocked the blow high and then swept down, his sharpened blade carving across the enemy’s face and almost separating the top half of his head.
Ignoring the gurgling, dying man, he turned back to the distant walls. His heart lurched as he realised that a section of the mass attack on the rampart had been pushed back through concentrated assault by missiles and artillery and then the increased manpower at the walls. Even as he realised why, the first ranks of the savage head-hunting riders appeared in the opening, racing out into the open ground beyond the fight.
No!
The infantry at the walls attempted to close the gap and prevent the sally of the Germans, but they were simply unable to stop the flood of horsemen at a charge, their blood up, having been frustrated by a day’s inactivity and finally given the opportunity to deal death. Lucterius could imagine what was happening at the gate.
And then the Germans were hurtling across the open ground. For a moment, Lucterius was forced to pay attention to another auxiliary intent on taking his life and as he swiftly dispatched the man, he turned back to see the thousand-strong German unit halted, forming into a tight unit. This was new. The few times he had seen — to his detriment — the Germanic cavalry in action, they had been a loose mob of screaming lunatics. Cohesion seemed unlikely. And yet there they were, forming up.
His heart began to pound as he watched the Germans start to move, picking up speed at an almost unbelievable rate and racing towards the fray like the avenging fury of Gods. Wicked gods!
He had only heartbeats. What could the enemy do? They might be savage individually, but the field was currently a swamped mix of Roman and rebel, thrashing around in a disorganised mass. If the Germans hit them — which seemed to be their intention — they would as likely kill as many Romans as rebels. He almost laughed. Releasing the Germans was no guarantee of aid to the Roman force. It was like letting a fox loose in a pen with two chicken coops. Only the Gods knew which army would take the brunt of this attack.