The Arverni nobleman shuddered as he watched the burning, bubbling pitch sluice down, covering a wide area, immediately igniting the cast-down timbers and running in lava-like burning streams down the slope of the ramp. Three of the legionaries who had slashed through the rope had not fled fast enough and staggered around below, issuing unearthly wails as the sizzling liquid sloughed the flesh from their bones even as they ran, eating away at them.
It was not an honourable or even a pleasant way to pursue a war, but the Romans had begun this, and now every trick had to be utilised.
The slope was an inferno, the tricking burning pitch starting to make the siege towers smoulder. The first men of the two sallying forces reached the top of the ramp sides and emerged beneath the vineae further down, launching an attack on the fleeing Romans and heaving at the shelter legs, trying to tip them out away from the ramp.
It was horrible. It was thrilling in a soulless, dark way. It was their own blow against the besiegers, and it might just end this.
* * * * *
Fronto turned at the sound of his name to see Grattius, the primus pilus of the Ninth legion, pushing his way through the mess.
‘Nightmare,’ was all Fronto managed to shout above the din. Grattius nodded. ‘Yes, legate. I’ve got the lads from my First cohort starting to bring buckets of water to the ramp to douse the flames.’
‘Good man,’ shouted Fronto. ‘You concentrate on that, and on getting those two siege towers back out of danger. We’ll deal with the attackers!’
Grattius nodded, saluted, and began to bellow orders to the various centurions and optios under his command, who ran up the slope, water sloshing over the brims of the buckets they carried. Fronto, feeling a little relief that some of the pressure was now being taken by another good officer and that he could divert his attention away from the conflagration, caught sight of Pomponius and Carbo, standing at the ramp’s edge, looking up at the action further along.
‘Pomponius?’
The pair turned to him and the engineer, soot-stained and damp, saluted.
‘Gather up four centuries of the Tenth. Split them in two. You take one and assign the other to a man you trust. Secure the vineae as best you can. Try to preserve them and repair them if you can. And see if you can get those two towers back out of danger, too. I want as much of this debacle salvaged as possible.’
Pomponius saluted and immediately ran off, pointing at a nearby optio and shouting for him.
‘Carbo? Have you sent word back to the camp?’
It was a somewhat redundant gesture. The attack on the ramp would have drawn the attention of a deaf and blind man, and Caesar — a man who rarely slept at the best of times — would have been watching anyway, but still, some formalities had to be observed regardless of the situation.
‘All done, sir. And messengers to the Tenth. The other cohorts are on their way, now. Your singulares too.’
‘Good stuff. Leave a man at the bottom to direct them as they arrive. We’re going to deal with those bastards.’ He pointed at the Gauls scrambling up the side slope into the lines of vineae.
Carbo nodded with a malicious grin and began shouting the orders. In moments, the call had been taken up by the musicians and standard bearers, and units of tired, grubby and soaked men from the Tenth began to fall into units.
Taking a position alongside a heavy-set optio he did not know — and who must therefore be a recent draft or promotion during his absence — Fronto drew his elegant, decorative blade and ran up the sheltered line of vineae to where he could now see the Gallic sally party launching into a group of beleaguered legionaries beneath a vinea that was leaning out over the side. The Romans were armed with swords, but devoid of armour, helms or shields, due to having been hauling around baskets of rocks.
‘Come on, lads. Get ‘em.’
A few moments of deep rasping breaths as he ran, and Fronto launched himself at the nearest of the Gauls, slamming his sword point first into the man’s side, angled slightly downwards under the arm and as high up as he could strike, feeling only minimal resistance as it grated along the bone and plunged deep into lung and heart. The Gaul gurgled as he turned wide eyes upon his killer and a black-red gobbet choked from his open mouth. Fronto hauled him away and the body tumbled out over the open ramp side as he ran at the next man, who had turned to meet this new threat. He felt a man move at his left and saw a heavy shield smash forward and down to shatter the bones of a Gaul’s foot, then back up, pushing the man over the edge and down the steep incline. At the same time, a man with the feathered and crested helmet of an optio appeared at his right, stabbing and slashing like a madman. Fronto felt a faint tinge of annoyance as the man jabbed out at Fronto’s own opponent. But how could he blame the optio, really? Fronto didn’t know him, but as far as the man was concerned he was just trying to help his legate. After all, few legates ever involved themselves in the action.
Pommel-bashing the reeling man in the face, Fronto pushed forward. The press of the Gauls was quite heavy and a moment later he was in the mass of men, hacking, stabbing and slashing at any unprotected flesh, knowing his own soldiers were now behind him. He felt a slash across his upper arm, and another one across his knuckles, though neither would be deep enough to need more than a light binding afterwards.
The press opened up a little under his onslaught, his men behind him also causing havoc among the Gallic raiders. Fronto stabbed hard and his latest opponent screamed and fell back and to one side, the sword fast in his chest. Fronto struggled to keep his grip and suddenly, as he was pulled forward by the falling body, trying not to let go of the hilt, a big shape loomed in front of him. His eyes widened as he took in the heavy-set warrior with a chieftain’s gold and bronze accoutrements, a thick beard and a silver serpentine arm-ring. He had only a moment of recognition as the big Gaul snarled at him and raised his sword to bring it down and split Fronto’s skull in half.
He’d seen this noble so many weeks ago, up at Vellaunoduno, when the astute Arvernian who had negotiated the surrender had left southwards with the survivors. The brothers. How stupid was he to have let them go, when now…
He closed his eyes. His sword was still stuck in the limp form. His other hand was empty and trapped by his side in the press. The renewed crush of Gauls prevented him from ducking back or to the side out of the way. Nothing he could do to avoid that Damoclean sword poised above his head, ready to fall and end his life.
Nothing happened. It had been two heartbeats. Long enough for that sword to have fallen and split his brain in half. His eyes shot open and he stared at the big chieftain before him, whose own eyes had widened. The raised sword fell from the man’s hands and the big Arvernian toppled to the side, tumbling down the steep ramp. Behind him another Gaul stood, braced, a bloodied spear in his hands.
It was only when Samognatos winked at him that Fronto recognised the Condrusi scout he had sent back with the fleeing Gauls that day in Vellaunoduno. He stared, but Samognatos was already gone from sight, ducking back into the press, getting himself out of immediate danger.
‘Was that who I think it was?’ asked Palmatus, suddenly arriving at his side and bending to help free Fronto’s sword.
‘It was.’
Fronto felt himself turned by his singulares officer.
‘Kindly stop pissing off into danger without letting your guard know first, you knob-head, sir. You get stuck with a spear and we don’t get paid!’
Fronto stared into Palmatus’ grinning face.
‘We’ve got them on the run,’ the former legionary said. ‘And the flames are dying down in most places.’
Fronto heaved a sigh of relief and looked up into the damp, dark sky. Faint lighter streaks were visible in the clouds above, despite the billowing smoke rising from the ramp where the flames were being doused with endless buckets of water. The silhouettes of the two siege towers were gradually moving back down the ramp, one faster than the other, which was having to be extricated from the sunken gravel as it moved.