(Quintilis: The foothills of the Pyrenees.)
Crassus strode through the tent’s doorway, brushing the leather flap aside without taking his eyes from the fortification ahead.
“Well, commander? What have the scouts found?”
The army had arrived at the foothills of the mighty mountain range that separated the tribes of Spain and Gaul two days ago, following rumours and reports of the massing of tribes gathered from scattered farmers by the scouts. Then, yesterday afternoon, as the Seventh and their support entered the lowest channels of the passes into the peaks, they had made a disquieting discovery.
The confederation of tribes, or at least a part of it, had constructed a camp on a high ridge that stood above a fork in the valleys and commanded a powerful position. This in itself was hardly a surprise, but the form of the camp and its defenders was startlingly familiar.
Now, as Galronus stood before the legate, his eyes turned to follow the man’s gaze, falling on the fortifications opposite. The tribes had constructed a camp of a perfectly Roman form, with ramparts, ditches, gatehouses and towers and even from this distance the two men could see the rows of ordered tents within, gathered around a central headquarters area. They might as well have been looking at their own camp.
Galronus drew a deep breath.
“It’s very much as you feared, legate. Their fort is well constructed on a perfect Roman model and sizeable enough to hold at least twice our number. As yet it seems to be half empty, so presumably they’re still expecting many more reinforcements from across the mountains, but my scouts have spotted nothing so far. I’ve set them keeping watch on every pass and valley for eight miles, so we’ll have plenty of warning before they arrive.”
“And what of the fort’s defences? Anything I can use?”
The Remi commander shrugged.
“The rampart and palisade are perfectly Roman, so you know exactly what to expect. I would guess that any leader who has adopted your ways that far probably doesn’t stop at the walls. The camp seems to be laid out in Roman fashion and I heard calls being issued by a great horn. The only slight advantage we can identify is the southern side. The camp is surrounded by a triple ditch on all the other approaches, but only by one half-cut ditch on the south, due to the nature of the rocky ground there. Problem is that the approach to the south is a narrow spur with a frightening drop at either side; what Fronto calls a ‘killing ground’.”
Crassus nodded.
“They have very much adopted our ways. I have heard of this before in the northern reaches of Spain. The tribes there fought in the great war under Sertorius almost twenty years ago. They hailed him the ‘new Hannibal’ if you can believe it. Sertorius spent years in Spain teaching their tribes and leaders how to be more Roman. Now look how it turned out.”
Galronus took another deep breath. Being the bearer of bad tidings was never a good thing, and Crassus hardly held him in high regard as it was.
“There’s worse news.”
The legate squared his shoulders and spoke without taking his eyes from the fortified position on the opposite spur.
“Go on.”
“They are sending forays out down into the valley. The supplies we brought with us up here are all we’re likely to get. Groups of enemies are scattered all over the countryside below, effectively sealing off the passes. No new supplies will reach us unless we send a sizeable escort for them.”
Crassus nodded.
“Which, of course, we cannot do without weakening ourselves too much here. We should have brought months’ worth of supplies, but haste was of the essence, sadly.”
He turned to the tribunes, standing silent nearby.
“What is the situation with our supplies?”
“We have food supplies for a week. More if we stretch and ration it, but we risk weakening the men. Water is not an issue as there are streams and springs in the area.”
Crassus shook his head.
“Unless those springs are in sight of our current position, disregard them. If the enemy are setting small ambush groups up in the valleys below, be sure they are also sealing off any free supplies. If they haven’t found a way to poison the water against us, they will be watching it, ready to take us on. No. We rely on what we brought or what we can see from here.”
Galronus nodded thoughtfully. Tertullus had told him that Crassus, for all his faults, was no fool tactically, and the ageing tribune appeared to be absolutely right. Galronus would be willing to bet that any source of food or drink within reach had already been dealt with.
“Scouts have given a clear report of several passes a few miles to the east. Perhaps we can reroute the supply wagons to come to our position by a circuitous route? We could besiege them then and slowly force them to capitulate.”
Crassus nodded.
“It’s worth a try… the supplies, I mean. Have riders dispatched with the appropriate orders and have small units posted to keep a clear view on the route. But the supplies will be seriously delayed and may have trouble with the terrain, so we cannot rely on them.”
He clapped his hands together in the misty mountain air.
“No. No sieges. We have to move quickly and decisively. You may be able to give us half a day’s warning of approaching reinforcements, but we cannot be sure that the enemy do not have other, more secret, ways across the mountains. They know this land far better than any of us and I can’t risk waking one morning to find they outnumber us ten to one.”
He turned to the tribunes.
“What say you?”
The men glanced at one another nervously until Tertullus shrugged.
“We didn’t come this far to sit on our hands and watch the whole of Spain arrive across the mountains. Let’s go over there and give them a lesson in how a real Roman army works.”
There was a murmur of assent from the others and Crassus nodded again.
“Seems like there’s only one clear course of action. Have the senior centurions gather for a briefing. We move at dawn tomorrow.”
Galronus walked his horse slowly forward at the head of a detachment of auxiliary cavalry on the army’s left wing and glanced across the lines of advancing troops appreciatively. The organisation of the army seemed nonsensical unless one had listened to the legate explain it.
Shunning the traditional formations, Crassus had placed his auxiliary spearmen and archers at the very centre of his force, the position usually reserved for the heavy infantry, with three cohorts of the Seventh flanking them on each side, the cavalry split into four groups at the two edges and following on behind and the remaining four cohorts guarding the Roman camp on the spur opposite.
Presenting such a weak centre had stirred discontent among the veteran centurions, who considered it their job to hold the prime position, but the subtlety of the plan soon quietened them.
The auxiliaries were a lure. Since the enemy knew Roman tactics well, they would expect a standard Roman advance and would be prepared to deal with it. This would perhaps throw them a little off guard, but would hopefully also lead them to believe their opposition to be tactically incompetent. After all, what general in his right mind fields his weakest troops in the centre?
The Remi officer clenched his teeth. They were getting too close. The speed of the Roman march perhaps hadn’t given the enemy enough time to draw the appropriate conclusions.
Surely such a formation would be too tempting for the enemy to pass up?
And as soon as they poured forth from the gate, even should they do so as a Roman-style shield wall, and engaged the auxiliary spearmen, the centre would begin an orderly fall back, keeping a line of spears to their pursuers, as the two wings of legionaries would swing round and turn inward, flanking the enemy, effectively boxing them in until they were trapped and slaughtered. The cavalry, at this point, could create a cordon around the periphery to prevent any escapes and try to gain and hold the fort’s gate.
It was an ingenious move; a manoeuvre subtle and cunning in its formation.
But something was wrong. The lure had not worked.
By now the enemy should be rushing from the gate, or at least forming up. No horn blasts sounded and no warriors appeared. The Roman forces were now no more than a quarter of a mile from the enemy fortifications, which stood proud on the crest of the long slope. They weren’t coming.
Grinding his teeth, Galronus wheeled his horse and raced off past his men to the rear of the advancing Seventh legion and toward the commanders who rode behind, shining silver and crimson in the early morning sun.
His thoughts must have been shared by the legate and his tribunes since, just as he rounded the rear and made for the officers, the cornicen blew the call for the legion to halt. As the entire advancing force stopped in perfect unison, Galronus trotted up to the command group.
“Clever fellow” the legate was saying to the tribunes.
“Clever, sir?”
“He’s not been fooled by the weak formation. This leader we face knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to sit inside his fortifications and wait until he has enough men to squash us like a fly.”
Rusca frowned.
“Then what do we do, sir?”
“Quite simple. We attack. What other choice do we have?”
The legate turned to the cornicen, noting Galronus’ presence for the first time with a flick of his eyes.
“Send out the calls” he addressed the man. “I want the auxiliaries withdrawn to the rear and the Seventh to form up in standard battle formation.”
Dismissing the musician, he turned to Galronus.
“Can’t see much use for the cavalry in a direct assault. I suggest that you just keep your men back and send them anywhere you think they might be useful as the opportunity arises.”
Galronus shifted in his saddle. For his entire force to be so summarily dismissed was irritating, but there really was no way he could think of to fault the legate’s reasoning. He would just have to make sure that a situation that he could use arose.
As he waved to his own standard bearers with their dragon-headed banners and Celtic horns, ready to give them their orders, Crassus watched the auxilia pull back and reassemble to the rear, the legion shifting to present a solid shield wall.
Horns were blown across the hillside and the cavalry pulled back in their four groups to a distance from which to observe events. Galronus watched them and then frowned in surprise as Crassus rode forward, approaching the rear lines of the legion, an enterprising optio giving hasty commands and having a passageway opened for the legate.
Crassus nodded at the man and rode between the ranks of the Seventh until he reached the front, where he turned his horse and looked down at the men.
“Our Aquitanian and Spanish friends appear to be a little nervous?”
A ripple of laughter spread out across the crowd.
“How do we reward their resistance?”
A deep, raspy voice from somewhere amid the ranks called out “death?”
Crassus pointed in the man’s direction.
“Death is a start, but even heroes die. You and I will die some day. How do we reward these cowards trembling behind their fake Roman walls for closing their gates to the Seventh?”
A lighter voice muttered something and one of the centurions on the front rank raised his vine staff over his head.
“Obliteration, gutting, burning, dismantling and salting the land, sir!”
Crassus laughed.
“I fear you missed the looting from your list, but good man nonetheless!”
This time the laughter raced around the army in a roar.
“So do we go back and prepare for a siege, men?”
The negative murmur was clear indication of the feeling of the troops. Galronus smiled to himself. This was a Caesarean speech if ever he’d heard one. Fronto rarely made speeches of this kind; his men were so tightly bound to him they’d follow him into Tarterus if he asked. Caesar, however, relied on his oratory to goad his men and stiffen their resolve, like the public speakers Galronus had heard urging the crowds in Rome. Remarkably, it seemed to work and, more remarkably yet, the young legate seemed to be turning into a shadow of the general himself. The mood was suddenly tingling and electric, like the air between a crash of thunder and the flash of the lightning.
“Or do we march on and flatten that camp and every last living thing in it?” the legate bellowed.
A roar arose from the crowd and Crassus allowed his horse to rear up and paw at the air a couple of times heroically before settling back down as silence returned.
“Good men. Let’s go and show them a taste of true Roman power!”
As he turned and rode his horse back through the narrow passageway to the rear, the Seventh legion cheered and men reached up to try and touch the passing legate’s boot or harness for luck. Galronus had had to force himself not to cheer along.
Really there was so little to cheer about, he thought as he set his gaze on the strong defences awaiting them at the top of the slope.
Crassus hauled on his reins and turned his horse to get a better view of what was happening along the left flank.
The approach was brutal and he knew it. The men knew it as well, but they were professionals and had marched forward with the pride of Rome glowing in their eyes to take the fortress. A particularly astute soldier at the front had called a warning as they approached the causeway leading to the gate, noticing the tell tale depressions that spoke of lilia pits waiting to cripple anyone who dared take the easy approach.
The first task was to cross the ditches, three of them in all, cut to the perfect angle to inconvenience infantry. The first cohort of the legion had managed, with some difficulty and no small number of casualties, to cross the first ditch and had formed a solid shield wall between the first and second, under the constant barrage of defensive fire. As soon as they were in position, however, the auxiliary archers had rushed across and dropped down behind them before rising to send their own repeated volleys of fire at the walls, pinning down the defenders.
It irked Crassus immensely to watch his glorious Seventh reduced to the status of a gigantic shield, while the auxilia did the bulk of the work right now, the archers crippling the enemy defences and the spearmen bringing forth bundles of foliage and sods of earth to infill the ditch, enabling the remaining five cohorts to cross.
But then, the auxilia were there to use and he was sure his veterans would be happier playing shield wall than carrying the turf.
As he watched, tensely, a new wave of defenders appeared all along the fort wall, armed with heavy darts, rocks, slings and bows. The resulting sudden intense enemy fire punctured holes all along the shield wall, forcing reinforcement legionaries to run across the partially filled ditch to take their place, less than half of whom made it across alive.
The plan was solid, though. In a few hours the ditches would be no obstacle. Of course, there were bound to be lilia below the walls too if they were following the Sertorian model, and the defences themselves would be difficult enough to take, but the whole thing could be over by nightfall, depending on what these clever little barbarians had prepared within the camp itself. He’d be prepared to bet there were a few nasty surprised in store when they got that close.
He ground his teeth as the fresh wave of defenders was pushed back down behind their defences again by concentrated fire from the auxiliary archers. The problem was that in the time it took to get his men into that fortification, he may only have half his army left.
The alternative, of course, was to march the legion blindly across the ditch with no further delay and try to take them in a straight assault, since there was no chance of getting siege engines up that slope in a hurry. That would be a greater gamble still, though. This way, the battle was drawn out over a longer period, extending the time to which his men were subject to enemy fire, but at least they were in a good defensive position. If he charged them and opened them up to the full strength of enemy fire as they tried to cross the ditches…
It didn’t even bear thinking about.
He couldn’t lose this battle and he couldn’t lose the whole action. His father had spoken at length in his last letter of the likelihood of attaining a gubernatorial posting next year, which would mean that he himself would likely be recalled to Rome at the end of this season and, if that was the case, he needed victory beneath his belt to assure him of a good position in the city when his father left.
In all, this meant that not only did he have to destroy the benighted Aquitanian alliance, but he would have to do it with such force, pomp and show and with enough of a surviving force to drive the idea of resistance and rebellion from the minds of all. The Gaulish cavalryman had been right to counsel mercy down on the plains, but this was different. This had to be a statement.
Noting with satisfaction that the first ditch was now fully traversable with little difficulty and that the cornicen was sending out the orders to advance the shield wall and archers to the next intervallum, he turned and frowned.
He hadn’t spared a thought for the cavalry for the past half hour and had seen little of them, skirting the edge of the field as they were. And yet, as he scanned the periphery, past the lines of legionaries waiting for the order to advance, there was Galronus, cresting the hill from the west with a small party of riders at his back. The man was in a hurry.
Patting his restless, prancing steed calmingly on the neck, Crassus watched as the cavalry officer bore down on him, and hauled on the reins as he closed.
“I assume you’ve kept yourself busy patrolling the periphery?”
Galronus grinned.
“Something like that. I think I have some good news for you.”
Crassus nodded soberly. Good news would be welcome about now.
“The southern approach?” Galronus smiled, pointing at the fort. “I told you about the pitiful ditch there? Well it would appear that they’ve stripped the bulk of the defence from that wall to bolster this one. Clearly they’re aware that the legion is concentrating here.”
Crassus nodded again, his eyes narrowing.
“Stripped by how much?”
Galronus grinned.
“Give me a drunken circus crowd and I could probably get in there.”
The legate bit his lip.
“I cannot withdraw from here or they will become wise to the situation and even up their defences again. But then you cannot take that approach with purely cavalry.”
Galronus nodded, pointing across the valley.
“But…”
“Yes, the four cohorts in reserve.”
Crassus squared his shoulders and turned to spy the small group of tribunes gathered nearby with the signifers and cornicen.
“Rusca? Ride back to the camp with this man.”
As the tribune rode over to join them, his head cocked to one side quizzically, Crassus gestured to the pair of them.
“A joint force of cavalry detachment and four cohorts, led by the two of you.” He pointed at Galronus. “Your men know the area now. Lead them round by a distant route; the most hidden you can find. I don’t care how you do it, but get those men to the southern approach without being seen. We will continue to prosecute the main fight here and draw their attention as much as possible.”
He took a deep breath.
“Be as fast as you can, but do not sacrifice secrecy for speed, or all is for naught. You know what to do when you get there?”
Rusca looked vaguely uncomfortable, but Galronus nodded.
“Get inside the walls and cause mayhem!”
“Mayhem, indeed. Good. Juno watch over you both. Now go.”
He watched the two men ride off, the small group of riders at their heels, and took a deep breath.
“Juno watch over us all!”
Rusca peered around the bole of the tree and squinted into the distance.
“So how are we going to do this?”
Galronus shrugged.
“I’m a cavalry man, tribune. Siege is not my forte.”
Rusca nodded and, turning, waved the senior centurion forward.
“Sir?”
“I want your thoughts on how we assail that place.”
The centurion frowned.
“Direct and fast, sir. Not much in the way of a ditch to stop us, so we can be at the walls at a run in a few moments. There’s not many defenders so we need to get control before they can draw reinforcements to the wall.”
Galronus pursed his lips.
“Will you go over the wall or through it?”
“Both have merits” the man shrugged. “To bring sections of the palisade down is a slower job and would delay the assault, but we’d be inside en masse a lot quicker. Scaling the walls would give us speed and surprise, but it would be a while before we had any kind of force inside.”
He smiled and spread his hands.
“What I’d do, sir, is both at once.”
“Both?”
“Yessir. There’s a lot of powerful horses here that can’t do anything until they can get inside. The First cohort attacks, climbs the walls, cuts the palisade binding and secures ropes, then passes them to the cavalry. The horses can probably pull that palisade clean out of the ground one stake at a time. As soon as there are a few small holes, the other three cohorts come in, take the rest apart quickly and then get inside. Soon as we’re in and there’s a sizeable hole, the cavalry can do their bit too, sir.”
Rusca frowned.
“Where do you think we might find ropes at such short notice?”
“Brought them with us, sir, along with a lot of other trenching tools, caltrops and more. Never know what you might need, sir.”
Galronus grinned at the tribune.
“The plan has merit. Shall we?”
The tribune swallowed nervously.
“I suppose. Whatever we do, we need to do it fast.”
The Remi commander nodded at the centurion.
“Get the men moving. I’ll marshal a group of cavalry to haul the ropes for you.”
As the two men ran off toward their respective units, Gaius Pinarius Rusca sighed and ran his eyes once more across the wall top. He was acutely aware that he was entirely unsuited to this job. A few weeks ago, Crassus would have pondered deeply before assigning him to anything more deadly than stock-taking in the supply wagons, but then his reputation seemed to have blossomed after that incident with the ambush. For some reason just because he’d fought with the desperation of a cornered beast and ended the day covered head to foot in gore, the men had cheered him and the officers assumed that he was some sort of crazed killer contained in a small bureaucratic frame.
He was not.
Yet now he was nominally in charge of the most important assault in the battle and the responsibility was immense. Oh, clearly Galronus and the centurion knew what they were doing, but his was the accountability.
He shrank back behind the tree trunk, peering at the defences a few hundred yards away. Already, he felt that worrying loosening in his bladder area again.
“You alright, sir? You’ve gone really pale.”
Rusca almost shouted out in shock and turned, his heart racing, to discover that a legionary had taken position by the tree next to him, others moving up all through the woodland, the cavalry gathering in a clear area not far back where they were hidden from the fort by the woodland.
He felt like a child, out of his depth and on the verge of panic. Before he could stop himself, he found his mouth was busy, working independently of his brain and blabbing his worst fears to this ordinary soldier. In horror, he clamped his mouth shut and tried to think of a way to downplay what he had just admitted, but the legionary shrugged.
“It’s natural to be scared a bit, sir. Only a complete nutcase would feel no fear. Trick is to go piss your heart out in the woods first. Start every battle with an empty bladder and an empty bowel, sir. Me? I’d piss myself soon as I got within arrow reach otherwise!”
Rusca stared at the man.
“Sorry sir. Didn’t meant to speak out of turn.”
Slowly, a smile spread across the tribune’s face.
“Which bit of the palisade are we aiming for then, soldier?”
The legionary pointed at a stretch where a slight hump in the ground caused the palisade to rise and fall.
“Good” Rusca smiled. “Should be easier to get to the stakes. Think I’ll pop off and relieve myself before we go.”
The legionary grinned.
As Rusca trotted off through the advancing ranks of men until he found a convenient spot, he chewed on his cheek. It was right to be nervous. Of course it was… so long as the fear didn’t stop you, it didn’t control you, and the only answer was to tackle it face on.
Sighing with relief, he fastened his breeches again and made his way back through the ranks of men to the front, where it took a minute to locate his original position and the man who had spoken to him. The lump in the palisade, however, guided him true.
As he fell into place behind the tree, he became aware that the centurion off to his right was waving an arm. Rusca was still waiting for the cornu to blare out the call in response when the men sprang from their hiding places and ran out into the open. Of course! The element of surprise was paramount. Why would they use musicians?
Biting his lip, he ducked out from the bole of the tree and drew his sword. Stretching out his legs ready to run, he became aware that the centurion was shaking his head. Yes, an officer should be dignified. No running.
Close to the centurion, Rusca strode out into the open ground with a purposeful gait. Ahead, the legionaries of the First cohort were running for the wall, eerily quiet, roughly one man in every twenty carrying a rope.
The whole situation was so strange. The minimal number of defenders on this side had been so unprepared to witness any action and had spent the past hour or more staring at nothing, becoming bored beyond endurance, that they took far too long to react to the sudden rush of silent men. Moreover, the whole assault was so quiet that the overriding sound was that of Crassus’ assault on the far side of the large camp.
The running legionaries were almost at the contemptible excuse for a ditch by the time the cry went up from the scant defenders on the wall. Rusca ground his teeth as he marched along behind the assault, next to the centurion. Time was now very much of the essence. Once that cry had gone up it was a race to see whether the four cohorts could break in and consolidate their position before the defenders sent reinforcements to the wall.
The tribune strode forward, his heart racing, as the men of the First cohort ahead reached the earth embankment below the palisade and threw themselves against the timbers, scrambling for holds and pushing one another up, climbing precariously with one hand and a sword in the other, or with both hands and a pugio clamped between their teeth.
By the time Rusca reached the ditch, fighting was already occurring at the wall top, men falling with pained cries back down to the turf outside. The number of men on the walls appeared to have grown, but only a little; presumably a number of warriors had been standing by to support them in case of just such an event: enough to make the assault harder, but not enough to change the course of the battle, certainly.
He altered his stride to jump across the pitiful little ditch. Around the other three sides of the fort, the ground on the slope was turf with deep earth beneath, or grit that could easily be carved and dug. Here, the rocky bones of the spur neared the surface and had made the digging of the ditch near impossible, resulting in a channel hacked through the rock with great difficulty, a mere two feet wide and two feet deep. Barely enough to slow a running man.
A cry ahead drew his attention. One of the men had managed to achieve the wall walk and was busy fighting off warriors on both sides while his companions climbed up behind him. His task was hopeless, fighting on two sides and with no shield, and he disappeared with a shriek as a barbarian raised a huge spear in two hands and then brought it down behind the palisade, ending the legionary’s life out of view of the tribune.
The man’s achievement had been enough, though. His valiant fight had allowed time for two more men to reach the top, and the spear man was quickly dealt with, the legionaries pushing the defenders back along the wall as more and more of the cohort arrived. Slowly and painstakingly, the wall was coming under Roman control and, as he watched, the men at the base of the palisade threw ropes up to the top where they were caught and secured.
Rusca hadn’t even been aware that the cavalry had joined them until four horsemen raced past him, leaping the ditch with ridiculous ease and slowing at the wall. The tribune, now approaching the rampart, watched as the ropes were secured to the horses and the cavalrymen slowly walked their horses forward, each line threaded round the saddles and straps of two beasts.
A cry from above announced that something had happened on the wall, but Rusca was now too close to see clearly and his first warning that the defenders had gained the upper hand was when half a legionary plummeted to the ground next to him, his spine severed above the pelvis and the lower portion remaining somewhere above. He stared in horror as another man fell, screaming, a rent so deep through his shoulder and into his chest that his arm flapped about unpleasantly as he landed.
He stepped back, fighting the bile back down in his throat and tore his gaze away from the men and to the horses, who had reached the strain limit of the ropes and were pulling with all their might, their riders urging them on, ropes groaning and creaking with the tremendous force. Rusca took a deep breath and offered up a quick prayer to Minerva, hastily promising to raise a new altar as soon as he was somewhere he could do it reasonably.
Whether it was Minerva listening or pure chance, the tribune almost lost control of his bowels as the palisade suddenly gave way a few feet from him. The whole defence had been constructed Roman fashion, with the palisade backed by a huge earth embankment that formed the walk at the top and which would give great support to the timber when pounded by siege weapons but was of precious little use when the walls were pulled outwards.
The sudden force as they gave way, the bindings at the top having been cut by the legionaries in their initial attack, was so powerful that four of the great timbers were literally torn from the ground. The one directly attached to the horses hurtled into the air like some gargantuan pilum, crashing to the earth with tremendous force some twenty yards away. The other three, still initially bound near the base, but wrenched from the earth with the fourth, exploded and smashed to the ground all around, one whooshing dangerously close to the ear of the devoutly praying tribune.
Rusca stared as the great log that had almost taken off his head rolled slowly into the ditch where it came to rest at an odd angle, pointing accusingly at him.
He was still watching, stunned, when the cornu sounded and the remaining three cohorts ran screaming from the eaves of the wood toward the ramparts. The earthen embankment behind the shattered wall had crumbled, being only a recent construction, and was now a mere mound that stood between the tribune’s forces and the interior of the enemy camp.
The centurion, about whom he had almost entirely forgotten, but who remained close by, nodded in his direction.
“Would you like the honour, sir?”
Rusca wondered what the man meant for a moment, then realised and, swallowing nervously, nodded and strode forward toward the breech.
As he reached the shattered section of wall, he heard the explosive sound of the timber being wrenched free in two other locations along the defences, the distant thunder of hooves that announced the cavalry were on the way, and the roar of the three other cohorts rapidly closing the distance behind him.
Readying his sword arm, the tribune stepped up onto the slippery, smashed earth bank and clambered up into the gap. His heart almost failed him as he crested the top. A virtual sea of enemy warriors swarmed toward the attackers between him and the fort’s interior buildings. His knuckles whitened as his tightened his grip on the sword.
So many men. How could they ever hope…
Beside him, the centurion clambered onto the bank and grinned.
“Now we’ve got the whore dogs on the run, eh sir?”
Rusca turned to stare at the centurion but, as he did so, two barbarians that had been running along the interior of the earth bank bellowed and ran at them.
The tribune raised his blade as the first man launched at him and managed to turn the initial blow aside, more by luck then skill. He prepared himself for the lethal blow as the second man lunged, but the centurion was already there, smashing the sword aside and leaping at him, shouting curses.
Rusca drew back. The barbarian lunged again, a blow that the tribune narrowly dodged. Panic began to set in as he took two more steps back. Any moment he’d be at the loose soil where the palisade had been and then he was in trouble… unless he could make it work for him. Fight dirty. Always fight dirty.
Watching nervously as the barbarian ducked left and right, his eyes darting around, Rusca felt back with a foot and encountered only empty air. He’d been that close already.
Preparing himself, he watched the man. It was all about which way he went. He’d been on his right foot for both attacks so far, so Rusca needed to go left.
The man attacked with lightning speed, the long, leaf-bladed Spanish sword, so similar to a gladius in many ways, lashing out toward him. The tribune was prepared, however. As soon as the man put the weight on that foot and pushed, Rusca was already dodging to his left. Grasping the warrior by the shoulder, he used the man’s weight to throw him forward and past. The Celt cried out in surprise, his balance suddenly upset, as he plunged on and down the shattered bank. Rusca regained his own footing and shot his gaze around him. What had looked so hopeless mere moments before now held a strong grain of hope.
Galronus’ cavalry were pouring in through a hole in the rampart further along, and the four cohorts of legionaries were now almost all at the defences and beginning to push inside, the First forcing a bridgehead in the very heart of the enemy camp. One of the advancing legionaries paused as he climbed the bank to thrust his blade through the back of Rusca’s fallen adversary and curiously the tribune felt cheated and a little disappointed.
The wall was theirs and, given the calls that he recognised from a cornicen far away, Crassus’ force knew it and were pushing with renewed vigour.
It would all be over soon.
Gritting his teeth and silently thanking both Minerva for her assistance and the unnamed legionary for his advice, Rusca stepped down the embankment and put every ounce of his strength into the kick that he delivered with feeling into the dead Gaul’s bared crotch.
Rusca and his senior centurion straightened, their helmets beneath their arms, as they strode across the centre of the enemy camp toward the legate. The battle had ended less than twenty minutes after the south wall fell, the situation becoming increasingly hopeless for the enemy with every passing minute.
Once the Roman force was inside, forming up into shield walls and squares, the fort had effectively fallen and many of the enemy had clambered over their own defences, fleeing down the slopes and into the woodland, leaving their comrades behind and running for their lives. Those who remained and surrendered had been surprisingly few in number.
Crassus stood in the central space before the enemy commander’s tent, his standard bearers, cornicen and the other tribunes behind him, various senior centurions about and legionaries lining the square. Before him and under guard, perhaps two dozen richly attired and adorned Celts knelt, their heads bowed. Roman spears hovered close to their necks.
The legate looked up and gave Rusca a rare and uncharacteristic smile.
“Ah, tribune. My congratulations and thanks for a very successful action. Is the cavalry commander not present?”
Rusca smiled back at him.
“Galronus has gone for a while. I doubt he’ll return before nightfall. He and his men went off to hunt down the fleeing enemy. Whether he intends to return with them in chains, or just ‘chastise’ them, I’m not sure.”
Crassus nodded in satisfaction.
“He is to be commended.”
The legate turned his attention back to the cowering men before him.
“Who is your leader?”
There was a pregnant pause and finally one of the kneeling figures spoke in a deep, cracked voice.
“I am Beltas of the Cantabri. I lead this camp.”
Crassus shook his head.
“You led this camp. I am impressed with the scale of your adoption of our ways, though I am somewhat dismayed to find you using them against us, particularly in the defence of another people.”
The man remained silent.
“Good. At least you know when not to talk. Not all the Cantabri crossed the mountains to fight us?”
“No, general.”
Crassus nodded.
“Good. I do not want to be remembered as the man who destroyed an entire people. You realise that I am not afforded a great deal of room for mercy?”
Silence again.
“You must die, Beltas; you and your followers. I cannot have the peoples of Aquitania and Spain believing they can rebel as much as they like without punishment. You have forced my hand to this, but you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that I will carry no campaign against your people across the mountains. You will suffer for what you have done, but your wives and children will live on safe in their homes, so long as they stay there.”
The legate turned to the tribunes behind him.
“Round up every survivor you can find from the area, marshal them here in the fort and then split them into tribal groupings. There are at least a dozen different peoples involved here, some Aquitanian and others Spanish. Take them in those groups and crucify them in all the high places so that they can be seen from afar.”
A moan of dismay rose from several of the kneeling men.
“Make sure that any Spanish tribesmen are raised on their posts in the passes that lead down from the mountains to greet any reinforcements that may be tempted to continue on against us.”
He turned to walk away, but stopped, tapping his lip as though with an afterthought.
“But I shall still show the little mercy that I can. Should any man request mercy, you may cut and break them to speed their death. Moreover, any survivor you find that you feel should be too young or too old to take up arms, send them home and tell them to stay there and grow crops.”
As the legate strode away, Rusca wandered across to him.
“Mercy? Is it wise?”
Crassus shrugged.
“With the will of the Gods, this will be our last battle in Gaul and I have no wish to provoke any further rebellion. Hopefully this will have broken resistance but not prompted the surviving tribes to continue the troubles. We will wait three days to see if any other force turns up and then I shall send to Caesar my compliments and the message that Aquitania is ours. I don’t think we will see any trouble in those three days.”
Rusca nodded.
“But we stay here as garrison for now, sir? To be sure?”
The legate nodded.
“For now. At least until Caesar clears my return to Rome. Summer passes rapidly, tribune, and I have no desire to winter with the troops another year.”
Rusca nodded his heartfelt agreement. The more he thought about Rome and its pleasant diversions, the more he yearned for it. Perhaps they would all return soon, if the general had managed to suppress the Veneti.