Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (30 page)

They rounded the corner of the last building just as the first orange flames licked the timbers at the base of the tower.

“Oh bollocks!”

Curtius was being held at bay by two warriors, swinging madly with their long blades, while another ducked in and out of the beacon with his flaming torch. Wherever he touched it to the dry kindling, orange flames burst into life.

“Get those bastards!” Fronto barked, and the three of them leapt forward to join Curtius. The sudden arrival of reinforcements quickly turned the tide of the scuffle and the two warriors, hard pressed, went down one after the other to sharp, efficient blows.

As soon as the men were no longer barring his way, Curtius leapt forward and clambered up the small mound. The remaining Veneti warrior turned to meet this new threat, waving his flaming torch defensively.

Fronto and the other two men started up the slope, but they were clearly too late. Orange fire was racing up the kindling that formed the heart of the beacon and already the heavier timbers were beginning to burn. There was nothing they could do, now.

Almost derisively, Curtius knocked the torch from the man’s hands and drove his gladius deep into the man’s chest, pinning him to one of the strong wooden beams that formed the corners of the obelisk-shaped beacon.

“Get back, man” Fronto yelled.

Curtius let go of the sword, leaving it on the pinned man, glanced at the legate once, a crazed grin on his face, and then stepped across the wooden platform. There was a loud bang and the central mass settled slightly, a small explosion of fire and shards of burning wood bursting out of the beacon, setting light to the fringe of Curtius’ tunic. The man reeled back, the sudden intense heat blistering his face and arm.

Fronto watched in horror as the tunic caught fully, fire racing up the man’s back as the optio stepped to the next corner.

As the next moments unfolded, Fronto watched one of the most astounding acts of individual stupidity he would ever witness, his jaw hanging open and his eyes drying out with the ever increasing heat this close to the beacon.

Curtius, his hair frazzled, reached around the beam at the corner and gripped it hard in a tight embrace, the extreme heat of the wood blistering and ruining his arms. The optio, afire and sizzling, wrenched at the beam with all his might and, after a moment’s pause, there was a crack and a deep rumble.

The huge timber bole and the optio grasping it came away at the same time, falling back away from the beacon and tumbling down the slope. Fronto and his two companions stepped out of the way, still staring in astonishment as the entire beacon collapsed and rolled down the grassy artificial slope, the fire dissipating as the pyre disintegrated.

The legate blinked and leapt forward to the still form of Curtius on the grass. To his further amazement, as he reached sadly toward the prone, burning, figure, Curtius spun around onto his back and continued to roll for a moment until the flames on his tunic were out. As Fronto stared down at him, Curtius grinned through a blackened and blistered face, his white teeth a sharp contrast, and reached out.

“Mind helping me up, sir?”

Fronto stared and then burst out laughing as he reached down for the optio’s hand. As the junior officer rose to his feet, shakily, smoke rising from his burned hair and clothes, Fronto turned to the other two.

Chapter 10

(Quintilis: Darioritum, on the Armorican coast)

Tetricus sat in the cold pre-dawn gloom astride his horse looking uncomfortable. The other tribunes had ridden back along the line of the Tenth, making their final checks before moving off. Tetricus glanced over his shoulder. The front line of the first cohort stood ready to march a few paces behind him; the primus pilus, next to the chief signifer, backed by the rest of the standard bearers, musicians and a few immunes with tasks of their own, the bulk of the men waiting patiently behind them all. The tribune waved a hand at the primus pilus in what he hoped was a good, commanding, beckoning motion. The centurion strode forward until he reached the mounted officer.

“
You
should be doing this.”

“Fronto always leaves the primus pilus in charge of the Tenth when he’s absent. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust tribunes, probably because they’re all politicians-in-waiting. Priscus used to command the Tenth on a semi-regular basis!”

That wide, infectious grin remained on the centurion’s face.

“I’m not Priscus, sir. My job is to direct the lads when we’re actually busy fighting, so I don’t have time to look all posh and official. Besides, the legate trusts
you
, even if he doesn’t trust the others.”

“And that’s another thing” Tetricus grumbled unhappily. “I’m the second most junior tribune and yet I’m commanding the others. I’m going to be as popular as a turd in a bathhouse!”

Carbo gave him an expression of fake sympathy.

“Just mimic Fronto. Drink too much, argue with everyone, disobey some orders and then launch yourself into a potentially fatal situation. Everything will be fine…” the grin widened even further. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve already got his grumbling down to a tee.”

Somewhere way off to their right a buccina rang out with a call that was picked up instantly by the musicians of each legion. Tetricus started slightly in his saddle as the call blared out close behind. Traditionally the tribunes rode at the front of the marching column with the legate, but Fronto was somewhat unconventional and Tetricus usually travelled by choice with the artillerists and engineers at the rear of the column.

Carbo nodded and then saluted.

“Ready to move at your command, sir.”

Tetricus grunted again and settled unhappily into his saddle. The sound of racing hooves announced the return of the other five tribunes.

“Everything’s ready, sir.”

Tetricus nodded, trying not to catch the eye of the senior tribune who had reported to him. He swallowed nervously, keeping his hands tight on the reins to prevent their shaking becoming too noticeable.

“Tenth Legion: advance!”

Slowly, he moved his horse into a walk. Behind him, the centurions bellowed their commands, the buccinas blaring out calls.

The Tenth Legion set off for battle and, keeping his gaze steadfastly ahead, trying not to look at the other five tribunes, Tetricus’ mind raced ahead of them.

He was woefully unprepared for this. The tribunes weren’t meant to command the legion. Oh, in the old days, they did. These days, though, the big decisions were all made by the legate and the actual running of the legion, even in battle, was the province of the centurionate. The tribunes were expected to ponce around doing whatever menial chores the legate had for them.

By Tetricus’ estimate, at least two thirds of the tribunes he had met across the whole army were a complete waste of time from a military point of view. Most of them were power-seeking members of the equites class from Rome who were desperately looking for a leg up in the political circles of Rome. The tribunate was a well-recognised step for that.

Tetricus, however, had taken his commission originally in the Seventh Legion not to climb the political ladder, but because even as a boy he had been fascinated by the great works of the army. At the age of five he had watched as the men of Strabo’s legions had carried out emergency repairs to the aqueduct of his home city of Firmum Picenum after tremors had brought down an arch and effectively halved the city’s water supply. Observation of three days of repair work had instilled in him a life-long love of all things engineering, though reading accounts of the siege of Syracuse and the great military works of Archimedes had clinched his desire to serve in the legions.

And despite inauspicious beginnings in the Seventh, his great love, and talent, for designing ingenious and complex defensive and offensive systems had been given full reign since the army had first marched into Geneva two and a half years ago. He’d achieved all he ever really wanted from the legions: a certain level of autonomy and the opportunity to turn his mind to overcoming amazing challenges with his engineering skill. He’d certainly never pictured this: sitting nobly astride a horse at the head of several thousand men, leading an army into battle.

“Sit up straight, for Minerva’s sake.”

Tetricus shot a glance in the direction of the hissed comment to see one of the other tribunes glaring at him. He opened his mouth to apologise and then realised how idiotic that would sound. Instead, he tried to stop wallowing in his own discomfort and to sit proud like a commander.

Slowly, interminably, the entire army moving at the lowest common speed, that of the ox carts, the legions of Julius Caesar began to cross the stretch of low ground toward the looming ramparts of Darioritum. The land here was decidedly flat, so the Veneti oppidum on the low rise by the water stood proud and impressive, though not as impressive as the walls, Tetricus suspected.

The general had decided that a show of force was needed. This whole attack was more about frightening the local tribes than the mere conquest of a city and to that end, all four legions, along with their cavalry and auxiliary support, backed by the wagon trains and the artillery that remained with them, would move together to bear down on the Gaulish city with standards raised and fanfares blaring.

The tribune squinted into the dim pre-dawn light, trying to pick out more detail on the oppidum and watched with relief as the first shaft of golden sunlight touched the tree tops high on the oppidum. The information they had on the oppidum itself was, to his mind, sadly lacking. The scouts had not come too close for fear of tipping the Veneti off about the coming attack and thus their knowledge of the defences came from long-distance and second-hand accounts.

Once again he wished that Fronto were here rather than he and again he wondered how Fronto and Balbus had fared during the night. This entire escapade would be for naught if the two legates had not managed to secure the bay entrance. If the Veneti still held the promontory fortresses, their companions in the city would wait until the Romans had expended a great deal of effort and time getting to them and would then simply board their ships and flee as they had so many times before in the past few months.

Slowly, still running through possibilities and alternatives in his mind, Tribune Tetricus led the Tenth Legion across the low ground toward the bulk of Darioritum and as the yards passed interminably by the sun rose behind them, adding to the impressive sight of the four legions walking out of the golden glow, and gradually illuminating the oppidum ahead.

Darioritum was an impressive sight.

The Veneti had countered the inadequacies of the territory by increasing the man-made defences of the city. In Tetricus’ experience, most of the oppida the army had encountered across the whole of Gaul had taken advantage of a high site, bolstered by thick walls and occasionally a low ditch at the bottom.

Darioritum lacked great hills or rocky cliffs; there were no unassailable slopes. Three low hills surrounded the port at the head of the huge bay and each was low and gentle. However, in response to nature’s failure, a man that Tetricus would have loved to speak to had carried out defensive works on an impressive scale. The walls of Darioritum were unlike any he had ever seen.

The oppidum sat on the slopes of the northernmost of the three hills, its ramparts reaching down to the water’s edge and rendering that approach impossible by the army. In place of the more common ditch, the architect of Darioritum’s defences had traced the two small rivers that skirted the base of the hill to both east and west and had widened the channel to create a moat a hundred yards wide.

Even if an army had managed to find a way by boat across the bay to the port or across the river, which would clearly be within easy missile shot of any defender, the Veneti had settled for not one, but two walls. A low wall constructed of timber and earth, much like a Roman camp, rose from the banks of the rivers and the rear of the port, leaving no flat land on which to marshal an attacking force. Twenty yards behind those rose the true walls of the city, high and powerful, with towers taller than was usual, allowing the defenders an unrivalled view of what was happening below the smaller wall, should anyone manage to get that close.

The result, as Tetricus had surmised from the scant accounts of the scouts, was that the only conceivable route of assault was to climb that northern hill and approach the oppidum from that side. However, the planners of the city had accounted for this weak spot in the defences by continuing both huge walls over the rise and allowing the slope several hundred yards from the enceinte to fill with dense woodland. The occupants must enter and leave the oppidum by boat at the port.

Clever.

The only possible land approach was hampered by trees and undergrowth. An army could pass through the terrain, but only slowly and individually, marshalling as a force once they had reached open ground, which would be in direct sight of the missile-wielding defenders.

It was well thought-out.

Again, as they moved on toward the looming fortress, Tetricus’ mind wheeled through ideas and concerns. This was why it was someone
else’s
job to lead the army: he needed his mind free to think on the problems ahead.

They could cut down the forest. They certainly had the manpower to do so. But it would be a slow job. Such thick woodland, it would be the job of a full day or two just to clear it out enough to pass a legion through. Even then, the ground would be impassable to carts and the artillery. Any attack would be delayed for the minimum of a day and would be down purely to legionaries with no artillery support.