‘I have no idea how we’re going to take this place,’ Fronto said finally.
‘Ramp?’ suggested Plancus.
‘Too high,’ Antonius countered. ‘For a slope shallow enough to get anything useful up, it would have to be miles long. It would take months to complete. A year, perhaps. My advice would be to secure ourselves a closer position — a sort of bridgehead.’
‘The campsite we selected is the closest unoccupied hill large enough to support a force our size,’ Caesar mused wearily.
‘Then we’ll have to use an occupied one; a smaller one.’ Antonius pointed at the lowest enemy camp, far below its counterparts, yet still some three hundred feet above where they sat astride their horses. ‘Let’s drive them away and take that. There’s room up there for… what, two legions?’
Fronto started to smile, but stopped himself quickly. Smiling was still an excruciating pain.
‘And it guards access to the stream. He’s right. That’s the first step.’
* * * * *
Vergasillaunus stood atop the hastily thrown-up rampart on the high peak close to the oppidum, the forces of the Arverni arrayed behind him. The king had taken a leaf from the enemy’s book, encamping the various tribes in his army separately, as though they were each a legion, giving them the pride, manoeuvrability and fighting spirit of their individual tribes while maintaining the close-knit strength of an army.
The Arverni themselves held these heights, which protected the main accessible — western — gateway to the oppidum. The sizeable Lemovices contingent, under the competent and warlike Sedullos held the slightly higher bare peak to the southwest. The bulk of the tribes occupied the high ground below the oppidum’s south rampart, a hastily walled-in camp three hundred paces wide and a mile long, each tribe in its own position along its length.
And Lucterius and his Cadurci held the lowest peak, closest to the enemy — a small plateau to the south that went by the name of ‘white rocks’ for the slopes that surrounded its southern approach. Given the Cadurci chieftain’s recent run of ill luck, it had perhaps been foolish to allow him control of the outpost camp, but the man had been desperate to prove his worth after the various failures early in the campaign and, after all, he was a competent officer. None of it had been his own failings, but rather the will of the gods.
‘When will they move?’ Vergasillaunus asked.
Vercingetorix, standing beside him, the morning sun gleaming from his helm and bronzing his chiselled features, smiled. ‘Not for a day or two at least. It will take this day for their legions to entrench themselves over by the river. Then they will want to thoroughly scout out the area — be sure of what they face. And even then I do not think they will make a move until their supplies are safely with them. They believe they have all the time in the world and that we are trapped, for they are labouring in the belief that the Aedui are sending them men and protecting their supplies. That they are doing much the opposite will not have occurred to the Romans. No,’ he said with certainty. ‘We have a few days.’
‘Then do we sit tight, or do we harry them?’
‘Oh I think it is our duty as sons of Arvernus to make their life difficult. But only in small, irritating ways. I want regular forays, but never more than half a thousand men. Mix the cavalry and the archers where you can, so that we can cause the maximum damage. Let’s needle them continually, make their work harder. But never commit too many, and make sure the commanders know to pull back at the first sign of Roman aggression. If we push too hard, we might force them to a main assault, and I would like to see them weakened a little first.
The two men watched as a small party of Romans — officers judging by their horses and red cloaks and the surrounding bodyguard — turned and rode slowly away from the valley below, back towards their camp.
‘Start now. Let’s send word to Lucterius and see if we can make those officers ride a little faster.’
* * * * *
‘Enemy horse,’ cried one of the praetorian troopers.
The officers turned to look over their shoulders at the warning as the praetorians sprang to life, forming up at the rear of the group. A force of cavalry perhaps four or five hundred strong was racing down a snaking track from the lower enemy camp.
Fronto nodded to himself. As they had turned to leave, he’d heard the distinctive and unpleasant sound of the carnyx call from the hilltops, echoing around the valley, and had known beyond doubt that it had portended some such action. His brain made a brief calculation. At least four hundred of the enemy, and only a hundred or so Romans, including all the bodyguard units. Not good odds, especially given the Gauls’ natural ability as horsemen.
‘We need to outrun them,’ he shouted.
‘If we can,’ Antonius replied darkly. The Roman camp lay to the northwest, a mile distant, and the command party had, by necessity, taken a circuitous route to skirt the enemy-controlled areas. Thus, to return to camp, they would have to curve around the valley, while this enemy horse could race in a straight line and, if they were fast enough, cut the officers off from the army. Caesar’s expression said it alclass="underline" almost the entire command structure of the Roman army in Gaul was here. Too bold. Too dangerous.
Ingenuus seemed to have formed the same conclusion. ‘Ride for the camp,’ he bellowed to the officers, turning without waiting for a reply and distributing orders to his praetorians. Sixty-four men. Two turmae of regular cavalry. How long they might hold back hundreds of expert Gallic cavalry was a matter of guesswork, but Fronto was impressed to note the professionalism and steadiness of the riders as they levelled their spears and adjusted their shields, ready for a fight they knew they couldn’t possibly win. It was all about protecting the officers; specifically, the general.
The young praetorian commander himself turned to accompany the fleeing officers. Not through fear, Fronto knew, but through a bone-deep commitment to stay by the general’s side at all times.
He didn’t look back. The remaining officers raced on, accompanied now only by Fronto’s nine singulares and the sixteen men of Antonius’ personal guard — thirty eight men running for the safety of the Roman camp. He didn’t look back, but he heard the demise of the praetorians — they all did. The crash of horse meeting horse at speed. The screams and cries, the clanging and grating of metal on metal, the snorts and whinnies of the beasts, the war cries in two distinct languages. Most notably, though, the brevity of it.
The rough ground raced along beneath the hooves of the horses as they made for the low rise that marked the camp of the legions, still under construction. Indeed, the Thirteenth legion were yet to arrive, bringing up the rear of the column, with the baggage train following on, and the Eleventh were even now pulling in from the north and into position.
Fronto could hear the enemy closing on them, their horses fresh and rested, and larger and faster than the smaller Roman animals, too. Even without looking, he was sure that they would overtake the Romans. They had, after all, been barely delayed by two turmae of veteran cavalry.
His eyes rose to the objective — the relative safety of the Roman camp. The mounds and ditches were already in evidence to the south and west, facing Gergovia, though the woven wicker fences and timber towers would be some time yet. Surely a few hundred Gauls would be put off by the proximity of four and a half legions?
He frowned at a curious noise, not unlike the booing and honking of the Gallic carnyx, though this issued from the camp ahead. As Bucephalus sweated beneath him, muscles bunching and extending in the speedy rhythm of the run, Fronto was startled suddenly to see three horseback figures suddenly leap the low mound and ditch from the interior of the camp, their heavy-set horses making the jump easily and barely slowing as they hit the mud-churned ground outside. Even as they raced towards the officers, more and more jumped out over the camp’s defences following on.