A slow, sly grin crossed Fronto’s face as he recognised the brutal, unforgiving forms of the German cavalry who had caused so much havoc back at Novioduno. In typical undisciplined fashion, the borderline-barbarian horsemen barely acknowledged their commanders as they raced past them, hungry for blood. Turning his grin on the passing Germans, he watched with satisfaction as the Germanic warriors ploughed into the rebel Gauls, yelling their guttural battle cries.
Secure now in the knowledge that they were safe from the pursuing horsemen, the officers reined in, watching the fierce battle unfold. It took mere moments for the Gauls to decide that they were in too much danger and begin to pull back. Heartbeats later, the remaining couple of hundred rebels were racing for the heights of Gergovia once more, some of the less-disciplined and more berserk of the Germans chasing them on.
Fronto watched with faint disgust as one of the well-equipped and blood-soaked barbarians trotted back past them towards the camp, again failing to acknowledge the general or his officers, busy as he was tying a severed head to his saddle horn by the hair.
Quadratus, one of the three cavalry wing commanders, came trotting over from the camp with a satisfied smile.
‘Saw you were in a spot of bother, general. And these lunatics were about to start eating each other if we didn’t let them hit someone soon.’
Fronto laughed and winced at the pain it caused in his jaw and cheek. If only they could release those Germans on the hill-top camps of the rebels, they might not have such a daunting task ahead.
* * * * *
Fabius and Furius peered up in the darkness, their eyes adjusting still to the night environment. The sprinkling of stars across the inky canopy did little to light the landscape, the moon having vanished behind the bulk of Gergovia almost an hour earlier and the only part of the enemy outpost that showed up well in the gloom was the chalky cave-pocked cliff to the south, which would be of little use to the assembled forces.
The Tenth legion lurked in the scrub behind a low ridge facing the lower camp, distant enough that the enemy had not spotted them yet, or at least had not yet raised the alarm. The Eighth were in a similar position some distance to the far side of the camp, forming the opposing pincer in this attack. If all went well, they would secure the heights before the bulk of the rebels forces could descend from the heights and aid the defenders. It would be a close thing. At least, from what they’d seen during the day the Gauls had not constructed heavy defences atop the low plateau. Hopefully, added to that, the confusion of a surprise attack in the dark would do the trick. The number of men atop that hill must roughly match the number of legionaries below, so they could not rely on numbers, clearly.
‘No corona available this time.’
‘What?’ Fabius frowned.
‘No corona muralis. No walls to storm means no decorations to win.’
‘Don’t you think you’re beginning to obsess over this a little?’
‘Just concentrate on your footing, keep that eye of yours open and don’t get in my way when the time comes to run up that hill and take the oppidum.’
Fabius sighed and looked away into the darkness. ‘Is that the signal?’ he hissed.
The pair squinted into the distance. What could quite possibly be a signifer waving the standard could just as easily have been a long, thin piece of local flora wavering in the breeze, just about visible in the gloom.
Carbo seemed to have decided it was the signal, for he was indicating for movement and the Tenth’s signifers were now also waving their standards for the advance. As the legion broke into a half-jog — the speedy march set by the signal — the two tribunes peered across at the barely-discernible figure of Fronto standing a hundred paces away next to a small coppice along with his singulares. Unusually, the legate had not raised an objection when Carbo had urged him to stay out of this fight, and the oddly-inactive behaviour raised questions in Fabius’ mind, but they would have to be questions for another time.
For now, the two tribunes fell into the quick march along with the rest, keeping pace alongside as befitted their rank, rather than amid the press of men. To some extent, Fabius was grateful that the attack was taking place under the cover of darkness. For the past few days, the heat had grown to unseasonable levels, and had become sweaty and skin-burning. A quick march up even this lower slope, fully-armoured and in the day’s heat, would be exhausting. At least the night afforded them some ease from the temperature. Damn this ridiculous land and its weather. Freezing and soaked one moment, searing and dry the next.
And the assault could not have come fast enough for them. Caesar had held tight for two days to ensure the safety of the main camp upon its completion and the security of the wagon train within. And throughout those two long days the enemy had sent small units of horse and archers against them. Never enough to cause real trouble, but enough to kill off forage parties or those units sent to gather timber or stone from nearby. The death toll had reached almost a hundred before Caesar had issued the order for the night attack.
Dragging his attention back to his surroundings, Fabius shuffled toward his blind side slightly to avoid a rabbit hole, gesturing for Furius behind him to watch for it too. The gradient suddenly steepened as they passed the point where the south cliff of the plateau marched off to their left, ploughing on up the tough slope, sweating and grunting.
Somewhere above them the sounds of alarm had been triggered, the clearly lax Gallic scouts having finally noted that something was amiss. What began as a few desperate shouts quickly bloomed into a tumult as the defenders rushed to the upper edge of the slopes and hefted shields, spears and sword in preparation. Archers appeared in their midst and began to loose shots down too early against the advancing legionaries.
Despite the standard procedure for dealing with missiles while assaulting a higher position, Carbo gave no order for the testudo. Given the angle of the terrain and the dangerous ground, full of rabbit warrens and bare patches of chalky rock, trying to keep each century in such a formation, reliant upon one another’s stability for their own, would be begging disaster. Instead, as they approached the enemy, closing on the upper slope, the front ranks raised their shields slightly and hunched behind them, presenting to the enemy only their moving feet and ankles and a narrow strip for eyesight between shield rim and helmet brow.
As they climbed, the arrows began to find their marks, most of them thudding into the shields and either bouncing off or breaking, a few penetrating enough to catch an arm behind, a few more managing to strike the flesh of a foot or ankle. One, only a few paces from Fabius, managed against all odds to hit that narrow band for a legionary’s sight, scraping over the shield rim and slamming into his left eye.
The man was dead before he hit the ground, the century forced to scatter and avoid the body as it rolled back down the slope, limbs snapping as it went. Other men were crying out at the leg wounds, but few were truly debilitating and most either limped on at speed or threw themselves out of formation to the side to prevent inhibiting their comrades.
They were almost cresting the hill now, the enemy mere paces away, their spears and swords already lancing and swiping out opportunistically.
Now, thought Fabius, throwing an urgent look at Carbo, who led as always from the front. The first spear point clanged off a bronze shield boss and finally the primus pilus blew his whistle, issuing the order to charge. The men tried to pick up the pace as the slope eased. They were too close to the enemy for an effective charge, but then, Fabius reflected, if the centurion had given the order much earlier, their momentum would have drained with the strain of the incline before they attacked.