Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (19 page)

Little remained of that place, barring ruined sheds and a torn and fallen stockade. Half a dozen large, grassy mounds bore silent witness to the death that had been dealt here. Looking at those burials in the knowledge that they were filled with mostly Roman civilians, but also housed a man with whom Fronto had argued affably over the availability of wine for half a decade, the legate of the Tenth felt a distinct pull toward retribution, his fingers reaching up to the ivory figurine of Nemesis at his neck and playing across the cold curves. While it would be better in almost all ways to resolve the war in Gaul peacefully, the Carnutes were now another matter. They could go hang for what they did here, and Fronto would happily knot the rope for them.

Images of Cita’s obstinate, argumentative face and his ample bulk swam through Fronto’s mind, and he found himself picturing that same face slashed across and mangled by blade and arrow. He realised that his teeth were clenched and his wrist tendons taut as he gripped his patron goddess tight for, unnoticed in his mind’s gallery, that face of Cita - murdered by the Carnutes - had morphed into that of poor young Crispus, brutally dispatched by the traitor Dumnorix of the Aedui two years hence.

His attention was dragged back by a sharp
snap
, and he realised with some vexation that he had gripped his beloved ivory Nemesis so tightly in his anger that he had snapped off her legs below the knees, such was the delicacy of the carving. He was still staring at the broken piece in his raw palm as he realised the officers were talking again.

‘We can seal them in easily enough,’ Plancus shrugged. ‘Ship a legion across the river somewhere upstream and out of sight and they can seal off the far end of the bridge. Then we surround them here. Starve them into submission.’

Caesar shook his head. ‘The theory is good, but we are now starting to feel the pinch of time, gentlemen. Vercingetorix does not tarry, I am sure, and a siege here will take too long. Cenabum is a hub for grain the same as Vellaunoduno, and their stores would permit them to withstand a siege for months. We need to secure this city fast. They will not submit the way the Senones did, for they know we will revenge ourselves upon them and they imagine that their tribe and the Arverni will come to save them. We must be quick and efficient.’

Rufio tapped his lip, musing. ‘So we cannot afford the time to besiege them, but we will lose a lot of men needlessly storming that heavy wall. Throwing away half a legion on their defences will not send the message of Roman strength that we need the Carnutes to witness. So, we draw them out, then?’

‘Precisely. But how?’

‘Fear,’ Fronto growled, peering at the city yet seeing only mangled Romans, his fingers rolling broken ivory.

‘What?’

‘
Fear
will draw them out. We set up the camps around the perimeter on the north bank as though we are prepared to besiege them. We start building large engines so that they know we mean business. We set up the artillery and fire-archers and start setting fire to the place, as though we don’t care about the grain inside. In fact, if we can set fire to a granary all the better. We do everything we can to terrify them, such that they are under no illusions that their time has come.’

Caesar nodded. ‘But they must already know that we will not give them quarter, so why would they leave the city?’

Fronto pointed down at the bridge. ‘Because that will be unguarded. They will have an escape route. We don’t need the
whole
city to flee. If just a few panic and try to bolt across the bridge, and we are ready for them, the city is ours.’

The general nodded his understanding. ‘Then we must be careful with our positioning. Fronto, you organise a force to keep watch from a hidden point on the far bank. Whether they run or not, I don’t want them to escape. The Tenth have the bridge. The other seven legions will encamp in a semi-circle around the city, setting up a cordon of pickets with torches by nightfall to ensure nothing leaves Cenabum. I want each officer here to begin dragging all their artillery into position and start constructing ladders, vineae and even a siege tower if we can source enough timber and hide. Frighten the life from the devils. And as soon as the archers and artillery are in place, I want a constant barrage, day and night, to keep them in a state of constant nervous tension. As soon as the city gates are secured, your men can stand down and rest. The rest of the legions will move in to clear the streets.’

Fronto nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Given the width and openness of the dock area, Caesar, we might want to deploy part of the legion there to prevent any flight by water.’

‘Very well,’ the general announced. ‘Have the army hold position until Fronto’s men cross the river.’

* * * * *

It was eerie. If there was one thing in the whole of the world that was not for Fronto, it was waterborne travel. The fact that the boat upon which he sat was moored and had not moved more than a few feet back and forth throughout the day did little to improve matters. He felt faintly ill and was well aware that his skin had its usual waxy grey sheen, despite being hidden by the darkness. He tried not to listen to the rhythmic
slop, slop, slop
of the water being compressed between the boat’s hull and the dockside, not to breathe in too deeply the smell of dead fish that lingered unpleasantly around the dock area.

Leaving six cohorts of the Tenth with the army to help secure the upstream and downstream banks, Fronto had sent Carbo across the river with the First Cohort. The half a thousand men had crossed around four miles upstream, over a gentle rise and around the Liger’s curve, out of both sight and hearing of the oblivious city. Using two fishing boats they had found tied up to the bank, it had taken almost an hour to get the entire cohort across, and a further two for them to move into position as subtly as possible among the ruins of the destroyed Roman depot. Finally, as the sun was beginning to descend towards the horizon, a brief burst of smoke from a fire went up among the ruins… just a thin tendril, which was instantly cut off and smothered. So brief as to be considered a trick of the eye to a casual watcher in the city, but enough to let those who waited for it know that Carbo and his half thousand men were in position.

Then, as Caesar’s army began to move, stomping into view of the city and drawing the full attention of its residents, Fronto, his singulares, and the remaining three cohorts had begun their own advance. Every man had stripped off his helmet and mail, his shield and his pilum, leaving them in the legion’s support wagons, and fourteen hundred men in units of eighty, each dressed in their drab russet tunics and carrying only their blades, had moved to the river bank. Then, dropping to the reeds and the mud and the small fishermen’s trails that wove among the almost continual coverage of trees and bushes, they had moved towards the city. Each century, aware that even without their metalwork, discovery was all too likely, waited for the previous century to move to the limit of their sight before following. Thus over the succeeding three hours, as the sun sank ever westward, a third of a legion moved in small clumps, hidden by shadows and foliage, descending unnoticed upon Cenabum, whose eyes were riveted elsewhere, upon the seven legions who had begun to set up a semi-circular cordon around the city.

Fronto had been relieved to find that his assumption had been correct. As he reached the edge of the foliage and the trees gave way to the solid dock and a packed line of trade and fishing vessels, not a single soul was visible there, every last man having run for the safety of the city walls before the gate shut in the face of Caesar’s aggression. As the sun’s rays glorified the sky with a golden sheen, the first thud declared that a ballista had begun to find its range. Within a quarter of an hour that single thud had blossomed into a constant clatter and rumble of stones, bolts, arrows and slingshots, all pounding the city of Cenabum into panic. All the defenders’ attention had gone from the waterline, worried eyes turned towards this impressive display of threat.

At the edge of the dock, Fronto waited for the last tip of the sun to disappear below the horizon, leaving the entire dock area a playground for shades and ghosts and, taking a steadying breath, he had climbed from the steps at the end of the dock onto the nearest boat, risking perhaps three feet of open space. Once aboard, he scurried along, hidden by the sails and shipped oars, the coiled ropes and the numerous crates and sacks, and then took a quick jump to the next ship, his precious leather bag slung at his waist.

Behind him, he could see the Masgava following, and then Palmatus, and so on. The brief argument as to whether it was the job of the singulares to move ahead of their commander had been ended with a reference to their ranks alone, though both his officers were still unhappy with him moving out first. In truth, they could probably all have run openly down the dock, given how little attention was being paid to this side of the city, but the plan relied upon the bridge appearing clear and inviting, and so they took care, the thuds and creaks, bangs and clatters as they ran and jumped helpfully concealed by the general noise of boats moving in the current and bumping against the dock.

An hour after sundown everything had been in place. An entire cohort was concealed at the western end of the dock, just within the trees, and another at the east. The remaining cohort - on paper four hundred and eighty, though numbering perhaps three quarters of that through ongoing casualties and losses - was concealed among the thirty or so boats moored by the river’s edge.

The sound of over a thousand men making absolutely no noise was so oppressive that it made Fronto want to scream, especially given the simmering thirst for retribution that bubbled beneath the surface of his skin. Sitting in this floating hell of gut-churning sea-sickness after the tense hours of moving so carefully into position was bad enough, but sitting in the silent presence of eighteen other soldiers, each apparently suffering near-terminal flatulence, was really starting to wear on his nerves, and he had already chewed three fingernails down to the nub - something he hadn’t done since childhood.

His gaze took in his boat-full of men, their shapes barely distinct in the darkness - Masgava virtually invisible, but for when his eyes turned this way. His entire singulares unit and a contubernium of legionaries from the Tenth with their officer, and each one had found something. Some carried lengths of rope, others sacks, pieces of dried timber or lengths of sailcloth. Fronto breathed again to calm his pulsating gullet and reached down for his own burden. A misshapen globe of horseshoe fungus taken from a dying birch tree, contained in the leather bag he had now untied from his belt. If he concentrated, he was sure he could feel the faint threads of heat emanating from the bag. An old soldier’s campaign trick, and one that would shortly play an important role in events.

He swallowed the latest thick-saliva mouth of his sickness and concentrated. In the distance, muted by the natural sounds of the river and the boats, he could still hear the continual barrage of artillery and missile troops driving the defenders of Cenabum down behind their walls. Somewhere in the midst of it he could hear a roaring noise that betrayed the successful torching of at least one building, and the shouts of consternation among a civil populace desperately trying to extinguish the conflagration.

Time passed in their nerve-wracking watery tomb.

It was perhaps approaching midnight when he heard a hiss from Atenos, the hulking Gallic centurion who stood at the prow of this boat - the nearest to the bridge. Fronto glanced across to see Atenos pointing towards the city while remaining hidden behind the raised prow. His eyes tracked passed the officer and noted the city gates opening.

This was it
.

He held up his arm, indicating that no one should move, though every man knew the drill from the repeated explanations before they had set off along the riverbank. Moments later, he heard the pounding of feet as they passed from the packed gravel and earth of the dock and onto the echoing timbers of the bridge. There was no small number of panicked deserters, by the sound of it. Had they overcome the gate guard in their flight, he wondered? Or had they been released to their fate by a warrior intending to close the gate after them? Either way, it would be their end.

Keeping as hidden as he could, he mimed a question at Atenos, and the big centurion flattened his palm and made calming motions, suggesting that he wait. The urge to vomit was now becoming almost unbearable, given the mix of the boat’s sloshing movement and the tension at work on his nerves. Footsteps continued to pound across the bridge. There was clearly no small number of panicked runners.

And then suddenly Atenos was motioning at him. The escapees were all out. Time to move.

Atenos reached down to the bone whistle that hung at his neck and blew three short bursts. The call was echoed up and down the dock by each centurion and, without pause, the calm night scene of Cenabum’s dock became a seething nightmare.

All thought of formation completely ignored in the circumstances, the men of the Tenth Legion poured from the boats along the whole riverfront, large forces of them closing now from each end of the dock to seal the area off. Every second soldier had his sword out ready. The rest carried their various burdens, and here and there other centurions and a young tribune burst forth from the cover of the boat onto the hard dock. As he ran, Fronto discarded the leather bag. Cupping the horseshoe fungus in both hands, he cracked it open where it had earlier been cut in half, and blew repeatedly on the core, trying to divide his attention between that task and keeping his footing.

Sure enough, the smouldering core of the fungus, which had been in a slow burn now for many hours, began to flare up, pungent smoke pouring from the odd sphere. Now, satisfied that his burden was alight, he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Across the river, Carbo and his cohort were sealing off the southern exit, cutting down the fleeing Carnutes and pushing them back across the heavy bridge towards the chaos that awaited.