‘What are they doing?’ Lucterius snorted.
‘They are transferring a sizeable part of their camp, building a new one,’ Vergasillaunus replied. ‘Perhaps they mean to seal off that northern approach after all. See how there are engineers among them. They have those strange stick things Roman engineers carry.’
‘Groma,’ Cavarinos noted.
‘Whatever they’re called, if those men have them, they’re engineers. Baggage, engineers and cavalry. They’re heading to a spot for a new camp.’
‘If they meant to seal off the northern approach they would have gone straight there, not skirted the whole place in a circuit. No, these men are heading to the western end, beyond the hills. What could they hope to achieve to the west?’
Vercingetorix took a deep breath. ‘They are not heading west. They are just moving into position. See also the gleam of steel down there?’ The king pointed at the lower slope, toward the Roman lines. As the others followed his gesture, they spotted the legion through the trees and scrubland, moving into position at the foot of the slope.
‘They hope to distract us with the carts to the west, while their supposedly-hidden legion assails the hill and takes our position. They can then hold it while those engineers come up with the carts and fortify, all with cavalry support. They are moving to take the hill, and they are attempting to be cunning about it, distracting us from their real target. But their legion is not as well hidden as they think.’ He glanced across at Cavarinos. ‘Well, this hill will not fall as easily as the white rocks.’
The Arverni king turned to the men of his personal entourage who had followed on and now waited behind at a respectable distance. ‘No signals or calls. Just have the word sent out. Bring every man we can spare across to the western hills. They will not take this position.’
* * * * *
‘A few horsemen at the crest,’ Brutus muttered. ‘Have to be nobles. The rebel king, you think?’
Aristius pursed his lips. ‘I don’t really know these Gauls yet, but it seems likely. Do you think he’s seen us?’ He glanced around at the glinting forms of the newly-assigned Fifth legion moving through the trees. What an order they’d been given: move as noisily as you can, but try to make it look like you’re sneaking!
How the hell were they supposed to do that?
As they’d moved through the woods, the clank and shush of mail and other kit vying with the call of the multitudinous larks in a dawn chorus of war, Aristius had not known whether to tell his men to quieten down or to move louder.
Still, they seemed to have done the job, if they’d drawn the attention of the leaders. Moreover, as he watched he saw one of the high, distant figures gesture out to the west, to where part of the camp’s supply train had been sent out as a distraction, the mule-handlers and teamsters kitted out in military gear and resembling cavalry to the untrained eye. The activity had to be causing the Gauls concern.
Above, the riders started to wave to someone unseen, and then turned and left the edge of the slope.
‘They’ve definitely seen us,’ Brutus smiled. ‘Job complete. Have the Fifth draw up and wait in formation in the woodland. Let’s keep their focus on us.’
* * * * *
Fronto stood between his fellow legates, feeling older than usual, given the company, despite his current level of vigour and the warm weather giving him relief from knee trouble. Seven years ago, he had come to Gaul in the company of his future father-in-law, and Balbus had been the old man of the army. Strange that these days he had become the elderly officer, Sextius to his left and Fabius to the right both more than ten years his junior.
The three legates straightened as Caesar and Antonius stepped out of the tent at the centre of the white rocks camp. Things had been crowded here last night with the arrival under the cover of darkness of the Thirteenth, and despite what was about to happen, every man was looking forward to moving out of their sweaty, tight, cramped quarters.
‘My scouts tell me that the Gauls have been flooding across to the twin hills for the past half an hour, gentlemen. It appears that they have fallen for our ruse. Brutus and Aristius have their attention riveted on the Fifth. Now is our time to ravage their camp. Are the men supplied?’
The three legates nodded. Every century had been given a dozen pitch-soaked torches and a slow-burning horseshoe fungus, barring three cohorts of the Thirteenth, who were to remain behind and guard the camp.
‘Remember that this is a raid, not an assault. Their camp is seriously undermanned now and with surprise we can deal the enemy a dreadful blow, but we are not attempting to take and secure that camp. Lying just below the oppidum’s walls, we cannot hold the camp and to do so would lead to disaster. We storm to stone wall….’
Fabius coughed, surprise overriding his good sense and leading him to interrupt the general.
‘We, sir?’
‘Yes. We. I shall be accompanying the raid, among the ranks of the Tenth.’
‘Is that wise, general?’
Caesar gave his legate a hard look. ‘Fabius, I am no stranger to battle. But this should not be a hard fight anyway. This is a swift raid only. I wish to have a closer look at the enemy positions and their defences, and this will give me the perfect chance for that.’ He paused and rubbed his chin. ‘As I was saying, we storm the stone wall and, as soon as we are in their camp, I want every remaining occupant killed. We do not have the time or resources for prisoners. Kill anyone you find. Take anything that stands out as valuable, useful, or informative, and then burn the rest. Every tent. Every cart. Every crate or sack. I want that camp a mile-long field of ash when we leave. The Aedui riders will be coming up the slope from the main camp to our right. They will hold back and not engage, but are there to provide support should it be needed.’
The general rubbed his hands together in a business-like fashion. ‘Are we all clear?’
‘Yes, general.’
* * * * *
Teutomarus, king of the Nitiobriges, was not a young man. Indeed, his sons had urged him time and again not to lead their tribe’s contingent in the war against Rome. But he had refused. It was his duty and right as king, and when they destroyed Caesar and his legions and pushed Rome back to its home peninsula, it would be his name that was sung in the halls of the mighty alongside Vercingetorix and his generals, and not that of a son or nephew whose only real concern for him was not for his health, but that he not hog all the glory.
He stretched out languidly. His joints had stopped aching with the change in the weather, at least, but the weariness refused to leave, and the protracted periods in the saddle were playing havoc with his back, which had plagued him since a hunting accident over a decade ago.
His bed was comfortable, transported for him by cart and stuffed with the finest down to soothe his ageing bones. And his tent was larger than the rest of the Nitiobrige nobles’, well-appointed with Gallic and stolen Roman goods. Outside, he could hear his horse whickering, but all else was the sound of nature at work. Comforting.
The bulk of the tribes had rushed across to the twin hills at the Arverni king’s call to hold the heights against a legion or two that were said to be moving on them. Teutomarus had been perfectly willing to take part, but when Vercingetorix had asked that the Nitiobriges remain at the oppidum to continue the fortifications, he had been secretly grateful. The men of his tribe toiled up at the oppidum’s west gate and inside, strengthening the walls and digging ditches as best they could until they hit white rock. But their king, who would hardly be expected to endure such manual labour, had taken the well-deserved and much-needed opportunity for forty winks.