‘He doesn’t do things like that without you or his cousin telling him to. That’s why he keeps you around.’ Critognatos brandished his still-naked blade angrily. ‘I’m beginning to regret his investiture as leader of this army. He’s almost as big a coward as you!’
Cavarinos snorted. ‘Piss off and find someone else to insult. I don’t have the patience. It’s time to lick our wounds and rally. There’ll be another day.’
His brother simply sneered. ‘We should rally now and charge back. They won’t be expecting us again so soon, and the sun is setting. We could pull victory from the jaws of defeat.’
‘Just stop talking,’ Cavarinos snapped. ‘I get sick of the sound of your belligerent yapping. You’re like an overgrown kitten who thinks he’s a lion.’
‘And you are a pointless, womanish coward.’
‘Piss off.’
Cavarinos’ world exploded into a cloud of white hot pain as his brother suddenly grabbed him by the bad arm and yanked, pulling the shoulder partially out again. Despite of the agony, acting entirely on impulse, Cavarinos swung round, his good arm connecting with his brother’s cheek in a powerful right hook. Critognatos staggered back and his feet slipped from under him, leaving him rolling several paces back down the slope.
Cavarinos clutched his ruined arm and hobbled over to a nearby tree, setting himself against it. That he’d fixed himself once without breaking his arm or collar bone had been a surprise, and his entire body ached from the pain, his eyes dry from the seemingly endless tears he’d already cried. Preparing himself, he pushed the joint carefully, slowly, against the bark, slowly turning and extending his arm to provide the best angle.
With a flood of pain that eclipsed any wound he’d ever received, the joint clicked back, though an extra, new, pain suggested that he might have chipped a bone doing it. His eyes almost blinded with tears of pain, he turned to march on, only to see Critognatos bearing down on him angrily, his nose awash with blood, crimson-tinted sword in hand.
Through the flood of pain, Cavarinos tried in vain to draw his sword as his brother broke into a run, blade raised for a strike. Cavarinos was fairly sure he’d have died there and then had not half a dozen other Arverni rushed over and restrained the furious noble. Cavarinos watched through tears and half-interest as the big man was held back, spluttering curses, his face purple with rage.
‘This is not over!’ Critognatos snarled as he stopped struggling.
Cavarinos sighed as he turned and hobbled on up the slope. That was for certain…
Chapter 21
Fronto stood atop the outer rampart, feeling the cool night breeze rippling across his features, the slight chill cleansing and cathartic after a day filled with searing heat and the sick-sweet smell of death and charring meat, clearing the defences of the Gallic dead and burning the Roman bodies. A night and a day had passed since the attack with no sign of movement from the enemy reserve camp, nor from the oppidum. The Gaulish bodies had been cleared from the ditches by repeated Roman sorties and piled in the open land beyond the furthest hazards, where they were distant enough that their stink was muted and they would cause an extra obstacle to attackers, at maximum effective missile range. Indeed, the ditches had been cleared of all refuse — barring the water channel that had been filled in with cartloads of earth — and replanted with deadly points.
Priscus passed across the flask of watered wine, ready-mixed back in the prefect’s tent, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I was surprised to see you at the wall yesterday.’
‘All hands needed,’ Fronto replied. ‘It’s was hectic, to say the least.’
‘You’re going to give your singulares a heart attack, you know?’
Fronto turned a curious look on his friend and Priscus chuckled. ‘You were busy fighting, so you never noticed. I was a sensible creaky old bugger and stayed down in the clear overseeing the resupply. And every time I looked up at your section I saw one of your men leaping around madly trying to keep the enemy from getting near you.’
‘They failed, then.’
‘Hardly. You’d have been swamped two or three times if your lads hadn’t had your back. I’d say you owe them a bonus after this.’
Fronto sighed. ‘You know me, Gnaeus. I give it everything I’ve got. No competent soldier could do less.’ He leaned on the fence top and his voice lowered conspiratorially so that it wouldn’t carry to the nearest sentries along the wall. ‘In confidence, Gnaeus, I think I’m starting to lose the heart for this, though. Do you realise there are men fighting us now who were still playing with stick games and starting to think about girls when we followed the Helvetii into this gods-forsaken land.’
Priscus gave him an odd look, and Fronto shrugged. ‘I used to think this place would be a nice place to settle when things are over, but I’m starting to think that I’ll never be able to walk Gallic soil without thinking of all the children I’ve put under it.’
‘Gods but you can be a morbid bastard at times, Fronto.’
‘I’m done after this one, Gnaeus. Time to raise the kids and maybe make a few denarii importing wine or something.’
‘You? The only place you’ll import wine is into your mouth. You’d be broke in a week!’
Fronto turned a faint smile on his friend. ‘Tell me you haven’t thought about it. We’re not young men anymore.’
‘Yes, but you’ve got Lucilia and the boys to drag you away. This is my family and has been for decades. I’ll die in a mail shirt, and I’m comfortable with that.’
‘And you call me morbid!’
‘You’d better not bloody retire,’ came a voice from back down the turf slope and the two men turned to see Palmatus, arms folded, behind them. ‘I’d have to look for another job, and there’s nothing else this interesting that pays half as well.’
Fronto rolled his eyes. Privacy was a thing of the past since his singulares had vowed never to leave him alone. Palmatus jogged up the slope, leaving Aurelius and Celer at the bottom, and joined Fronto at the other side, covering his left flank.
‘Shouldn’t you two be getting some shut-eye at your age,’ the former legionary grinned.
Priscus gave him a sour look. ‘There’s about half a decade between us, I reckon, you knob-end.’
Palmatus laughed easily and Fronto sighed. ‘This is the only thing I’ll really miss, though. Times like this with irritating knob-ends like you two.’
Priscus gave him a playful punch in the arm that he probably thought hurt less than it actually did and the three men folded their arms and leaned on the fence top, looking out over the defences, towards the hill upon which the Gallic reserve were camped.
‘Do you two notice anything different?’ Palmatus said quietly and evenly.
The two men frowned into the darkness. ‘No. All peaceful.’
‘Yes. Too peaceful. Where’s all the life on that hill? And it’s dark. Where are their camp fires?’
Fronto straightened. ‘Ah shite!’ he muttered with feeling.
Priscus turned and looked around the space between the walls until he spotted the duty signaller, lounging around on a barrel and looking bored.
‘Cornicen? Call the alarm. Stand to. All units.’
The man paused only a moment, aware of the exalted rank of the man giving the order, and then stood, taking a deep breath and blowing the calls through his cornu with all his might. Barely had the first refrain echoed around the ramparts before Fronto saw them.
No lining up on the plain this time. No cavalry manoeuvres. The enemy reserve force was coming with its eyes set solely on the walls, on foot and carrying ladders, grapples and all manner of bulky goods to fill in the ditches and allow easy crossing. Among them came large units of archers and slingers. The enemy flooded from the trees and across the mile of flat, open land like a plague.