‘What is it?’ he demanded of the tribune — a man whose name he couldn’t even remember. Gods, how he already missed Fabius and Furius.
‘Another assault, sir.’
The irritating, testing attacks had continued in Caesar’s absence, with nine such forays over the previous day, each of which had thinned out the men on the walls slightly, not noticeably to the untrained eye, but Fronto had the numbers on the tablets on his desk. He knew the cost better than anyone, barring the medicus, hard at work in the hospital tent.
‘Rally the men to the nearest rampart and have the ammunition and equipment brought to them by the walking wounded. Which way is this force weighted?’ The forays had tended to focus more on either cavalry elements or the archers, constantly changing and leaving the Roman defenders uncertain as to what to expect next.
‘I think you need to see this, sir.’
Fronto, perturbed by his junior officer’s tone and words alike, hurried across the bare, empty camp until he passed from the area of officers’ and supply tents and reached the main decumanus — the road crossing the camp from east to west — and was afforded a view of the enemy fortress between the lines of empty legionary tents.
‘Shit.’
‘My sentiments precisely, sir. What are your orders?’
Fronto looked up at the oppidum of Gergovia. Even over a mile away it was a daunting and impressive sight. All the more so when it towered above a veritable flood of men streaming down the hillside. From this distance it resembled a swarm of ants on a sunken log.
‘Grab a shield, pray to your gods and make sure you’ve had a shit before they get here, ‘cause you’ll sure as hell have one when they do!’
The tribune’s steady look faltered for a moment.
‘How many do you think there are, sir?’
‘All of them. Get to the rampart. Sound the alert, in case anyone’s asleep or in the latrines.’
As the tribune ran off, Fronto ripped his beautiful blade from its scabbard and stooped to pick up a legionary’s shield where he had helpfully left it standing in the doorway of his tent. Without pause, he ran on for the western rampart. He should have expected this, really. A day of probing and testing, and then the Arverni king would make a full play to remove them, taking advantage of the absence of Caesar and the other legions.
By the time he was clambering up onto the earth bank and taking his place close to both Carbo and Atenos on the parapet, the enemy were closing, the swarm having reached the ground, moving like a plague across the fields, a flood of dark colours amid the gold and green of the rich lands.
‘Steady lads. There’s a lot of them, but they’ve run a mile or more, they’re poorly-equipped and undisciplined, and we have the ramparts.’
Affirmative noises spread along the parapet and Fronto noted with pride a number of the wounded with one good arm or dragging a bad leg making their way to the walls, grappling with their kit. Another thought occurred to him. The gates were weak points — the only points on the perimeter not protected by the double ditch. Things would be easier if they did not have to concentrate on four such positions.
‘Carbo? Get some men to the north and south gates and have them blocked up tight. Then double the men at the east and west ones. But before you do, get someone on a horse and riding for Caesar to tell him what’s happening. I don’t know where they’ll be, but if a rider follows the Bibracte route from here, he’ll find the general somewhere in the first fifteen miles, I reckon. Tell him to get his men back here sharpish if he still wants a camp to sleep in.’
Carbo nodded and began relaying orders as Fronto watched the mass of Arverni and their allies racing for the walls. They were closing rapidly, the cavalry out front, peeling off to move around the camp. That rider would have to get going post-haste, else he would be trapped in the camp. He would have to trust to the ever-competent Carbo for that. Fronto had his own troubles to attend to.
‘Here we go,’ he shouted, watching the mass of men racing towards the ditches. Here and there an archer would pause to release an arrow, though they were too distant yet to present a danger.
And then something unexpected happened. The running warriors, charging at walls, heedless of the ditches, lilia pits and artillery aimed at them, pulled up suddenly in a line and dropped to a knee behind their shields in a very Roman-looking formation as a wave of archers, bows already nocked and half-drawn, arrived behind them and lifted and loosed their missiles in a swift, very haphazard moment before dropping back, the warriors rising once more and running again.
Fronto ducked the arrows that sheeted across the open ground at the ramparts. The manoeuvre had been too hurried and careless to aim well, but the man behind this attack had sacrificed accuracy for speed and volume, as well as surprise — and he’d made the right choice. Of the thousand or so arrows loosed, less than a hundred were on target, but that was enough. Men all along the parapet shrieked and vanished backwards or grunted at a glancing blow, an impaled foot or a punctured shield pinned to their arm. The damage was intense.
Of course the legionaries were prepared now, and subsequent missile attacks would have much less effect, but the damage was already done. As always, while Fronto watched the huge force of Gauls crossing the ditches, falling foul of the lilia with broken, impaled and shredded legs, thrown back by the punch of scorpion bolts and occasional arrows and slingshots, he cast up a brief but heartfelt prayer to Fortuna that his young wife and two sons would see him again. That Lucilia would not one day have cause to travel to Gergovia to gaze down at a rough battlefield memorial marker… a sword or personal effect hanging on a simple stake marked with his name.
Next to him, Atenos gave the order to release pila, and a thousand javelins rose slightly and fell into the mass of bodies struggling across the ditches. The effect was slaughter, and yet the kills made barely a dent on the force attacking the camp.
This is going to be evil to hold, Fronto thought to himself, willing Caesar to hurry. We can do it, but not for too long.
The first man reached the rampart, scrambling up the earth bank and trying to bring a spear up to jab at Fronto, but the legate simply batted the shaft aside and drove down with his blade, slamming it into the man’s neck and wrenching it back out to the side in a welter of blood.
Next to him, Fronto saw Atenos, shieldless, rip a spear from his assailant’s hand and turn it back on him, jabbing him in the face while bellowing something incomprehensible in his native Gallic tongue. Funny how he was standing beside the freest of Gauls fighting off other Gauls who believed that driving out Rome made them free.
Sunset, he reckoned. We can hold ‘til sunset. After that…
* * * * *
Cavarinos regarded the oppidum, a little over a mile to the south, its bulk looming oppressively in the half-light. The sun had vanished below the horizon, but still played on the very crest of Gergovia, illuminating roofs and towers. His eyes roved east and played across the scene nearby. No Roman or Gaul was paying the slightest attention to him or the three Aedui who rode with him, for a struggle was underway for a large Roman camp that lay halfway between the mountain and the river. The Romans were in trouble, but they were clearly holding their own, despite the horribly uneven numbers on the opposing sides.
All that would change, of course. The four fleeing riders had seen Caesar’s force several times over the last few hours. They must have received urgent word of trouble to be so quick on their return, for they were almost keeping pace with the desperate riders. Of course, the Romans could just march in a straight line, while Cavarinos, despite having fled with haste, had been forced to widely circle the Roman legions before heading back south to the oppidum.