‘Fire arrows!’ he bellowed, and turned to look back down at the men inside the fortifications. ‘Barrels and buckets ready. Form details now.’
Leaving them to their business, he turned back in time to see fires leaping to life every few dozen paces along the length of the defences, from Mons Rea to the foothills below Caesar’s camp. Two men by each of the blazes began to dip their wadded arrows into the dancing fire until they caught fully, then turned, drew and released in fluid moves that sent dazzling golden arcs across the inky night.
They were good. Priscus had to give them that. The first few shafts thudded into the wicker fence and into the timber posts of the watchtowers.
‘They’re serious this time, sir,’ shouted the optio as he used his gladius to cut through the shaft of a burning missile lodged in a tower post and then stamped out the flame on the rampart walk.
Priscus nodded. ‘They were serious enough last time, but now they’ve got the measure of the defences.’ Across the ground-works, the Gauls were bringing forward wicker shields on stands, much like small portable versions of the Roman fence, and propping them in front of the fire archers, protecting them from counter attack.
‘When did the Gauls get so bloody cunning, sir?’
Priscus cast a weary smile at the optio. ‘Over six years of us teaching them by example, I’d guess. Watch out!’
A flaming shaft clanged off the optio’s bronze-clad brow and ricocheted into the camp’s interior. The junior officer reached up, stunned, and felt the dent in his helmet. ‘For the love of Juno…’
‘Keep your head down,’ advised Priscus, his gaze slipping to the crowd beyond the wall again. The twin ditches were now almost full of bundles of kindling and brush, simple enough for a man to cross. ‘Here they come. Get ready, lads. Shields to the fore, braced. Save your strikes for when they’re open.’
With a wicked grin, Priscus turned to look back down the slope. ‘Have we pitch?’ he yelled to the nearest supply officer. The centurion frowned. ‘There might be some here somewhere, sir. What with all the timber in the defences, we’re not putting it on display.’
Priscus nodded. ‘Understood. Find it. Have the jars distributed to each of the officers commanding on the wall.’
The centurion saluted, grabbed three of his men and ran off in search of the pitch. The optio was looking at him in bewilderment.
‘They think they’re clever,’ Priscus explained, ‘but they haven’t thought about how they’ve filled the ditches with kindling to climb over. The stuff they’ve used would go up a treat, especially with a little help.’
The optio’s eyes bulged. ‘Sir, that’s incredibly dangerous so close to the wicker walls.’
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, optio. Let’s make their approach hotter than a whore’s crotch on a summer night!’
The junior officer grinned, a hint of madness entering his eyes.
A clunk drew Priscus’ attention, and he looked back to see the top of a ladder hit the fence. Taking a deep breath, the prefect crouched and grabbed one of the spare shields, hauling it up from the turf and sweeping it round to the front as he advanced on the fence again. The first Gallic head appeared at the top, a gleaming iron helmet with twin black feathers jutting from the crown as he climbed into view. Priscus waited patiently, sword arm drawn back, elbow bent, until the man’s face appeared, and then jabbed forward, shield turned aside to allow the blow, the slender, tapering tip of his gladius smashing into the man’s face and through the nasal cavity, into the space within.
With the instinct born of so many years of service, he quickly jerked his arm back before the man fell away bubbling, in order to make sure his blade did not become lodged. To either side, more ladders hit the wall top, and the legionaries were suddenly embroiled in a fight for survival all along the rampart. Priscus noted with satisfaction the legionary bracing his shield as he’d been instructed, despite the several bloody lines the bronze rim had cut in his shin.
A second man appeared over the fence top, this one bare-headed.
Priscus leaned back, pulled up his shield and held it horizontal, waiting for the man’s eyes, and then slammed forward, smashing the rim into the Gaul’s face at brow level. There was an audible crack and the man disappeared backwards into the press, howling in agony.
Readying himself for the next attack, Priscus felt something amiss and looked down.
The shaft of an arrow protruded a mere hand’s-width from his gut, barely the flights on show. The cloth and leather and mail around the shaft were sizzling and blackened from the fire they’d extinguished on entry. He blinked and winced as he moved, confirming that the shaft had passed right through, the tip resting against his spine.
‘Ah, bollocks.’
The young legionary, his attention drawn by the curse, stared in horror. Priscus gave him a savage grin, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and running down to his chin.
‘And that, soldier, is why you keep the shield in front of you and braced.’
‘Sir!’ the man shouted and had to duck a sharp jab from the wall.
‘Capsarius?’ Priscus managed before his knees buckled and he found himself on the wall walk. As he let the sword and shield fall away forgotten, the slope claimed him and he was suddenly rolling down the bank into the busy supply zone. As every thump and rotation drove the shaft inside him into new nooks and crannies, shredding his innards, he recognised that he was now beyond the help of any capsarius. He rolled to a halt on the mud-churned flat ground.
His wild eyes, filled now with a painful blurring, noted two things: a medicus rushing his way, and two men carrying an earthenware jar very carefully. He held up a shaking, bloodied hand to the medicus.
‘No time. Leave me a coin and go find someone you can help.’ The medicus narrowed his eyes, briefly assessing the prefect’s condition, and then nodded, folded a silver sestertius into Priscus’ hand and then ran off. Priscus lay still, feeling his life ebbing with increasing pace like a horse desperate to reach the finish line. All he could do without spasming was to turn his head and so that was what he did, but he couldn’t see much more than the sky, dancing with glowing sparks and embers, and the night-stained turf bank. He concentrated, gritting his teeth against the pain. He could hear grunting that wasn’t him and which he ascribed to the two legionaries with the jar. Then there was a clunk and a thud. A pause gave way to a blattering noise and then, after another long moment: a roar that sounded like the most monstrous lion in the world as the ditch went up.
Priscus closed his eyes and coughed up more blood, listening to the sounds of Gauls dying in his blaze. He grinned, lips blood-slick and dark against a bleached face. ‘Ah, Fronto,’ he murmured to the empty night air. ‘Told you. In the armour just like I said. Always knew I would.’
His arms were almost too weak to lift, but he managed to push the flat disc of the coin under his tongue and then let his arm fall.
‘Come on, then boatman. You’re arseing late!’
* * * * *
Fronto staggered back, a thrown spear ripping two of the hanging leather pteruges from his shoulder and scoring an angry line across his bicep. Cursing, he almost lost his footing and toppled from the rampart top, struggling to keep his feet. The beleaguered Romans had been hard pressed at the inner defences throughout the last couple of hours, the Gauls from the oppidum launching a concerted attack on the entire length of the fence. But in the past quarter hour the entire struggle had become considerably more difficult. In the usual bright moonlight that was the norm of the season, it had been almost like fighting in daylight but then, as the musician called the last watch of the night, the sky had clouded over in a matter of heartbeats and the moon had been submerged beneath a thick blanket of cloud. In moments the battlefield had plunged into unfathomable darkness and now it was exceedingly difficult to see anything beyond a few paces. The Gauls were still launching fire arrows at the fence and towers, and the streaks of gold hurtling towards the rampart effectively night-blinded the Romans and Gauls alike, leaving them flailing.