Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (26 page)

‘Fewer than us, Caesar. Whether there is a second force elsewhere I cannot be sure, but as I observed the camp, I watched a man ride out with a large force of cavalry and infantry, heading north. From his entourage and all the commotion as he left, I can only assume it was Vercingetorix himself. He certainly rode under an Arvernian standard.’

‘So,’ Caesar mused, cradling his fingers, ‘more than likely we are looking at the enemy force being divided between two camps some distance from one another, and their leader has taken a number of them from the near camp. What can you tell me of their camp’s defences?’

The scout frowned. ‘There are no true defences, general, but they do not really need them. The hill upon which they are camped is low, but surrounded by the same swamps that defend Avaricon. The only feasible access to the hill is by two bridges. An attack would become congested at the bridge. I can only recommend against it, Caesar.’

‘What of their baggage?’

Another frown. ‘It sits atop the hill at the camp.’

Caesar pursed his lips, clearly tempted. ‘I relish the opportunity to strike at a minimal force and take his supplies, effectively pushing him into the same privations as us.’ He sighed. ‘But it is not to be. If I draw off enough men to deal with them, I imperil all we have achieved here. And as soon as they see us coming, they will destroy the bridges. We will be at great risk and likely impotent. Our best hope is to continue our action here until Avaricon falls and then raid its granaries, enabling us to continue our campaign and turn our sights on the great enemy himself. Perhaps if we are fortunate, his army will remain split until then.’

He shifted his gaze back on the walls of the oppidum before them, arms still behind his back as he sucked on his lip. The ramp was so close now, he could almost feel the walls starting to fall.

* * * * *

Vercingetorix slid from his sweating mount, the rain showering from him as he hit the sodden turf and shook out his cloak. Behind him, his vanguard of a score of the best cavalry dispersed at a nod from their commander, and the king of the Arverni smiled at his cousin.

‘Your face is dour and unhappy, Vergasillaunus. Does my appearance so distress you?’

The second in command of the Gallic army snorted, his eyes flinty. ‘The mood in the camp is not good, cousin. You return to find an army close to abandoning your cause.’

‘Oh? Do explain.’ His gaze took in the huge camp on the low hill, beyond which he could see the misty miasma of the marshes rising almost to obscure the hill of Avaricon a few miles distant. On the wide low crest here rested more than three quarters of his force, a small detachment left in the east to thwart the Boii and the Aedui in their efforts at resupply, and cavalry forces continually out and about burning anything they could find and still on occasion catching the Roman forage parties who would run cheering back to their camp even if all they caught was a brace of coneys. Avaricon may be denied them, since the swamps that kept out the Romans affected the Gauls the same way, but his army was still strong, while the Romans suffered daily.

‘Your men are hungry, cousin.’

‘Not as hungry as the Romans.’

Vergasillaunus clicked his tongue irritably. ‘Stop that. We burned
everything
within forty miles of this place, and anything of real value far beyond that. Well done. Your policy of charring the earth is starving the Romans. And yet they do not stop. They live on small biscuits and brackish water, apparently. But no forage for the Romans means no forage for us, too. Your army grows hungry and restive. We are close to the Romans, but we do not fight them, and the hungrier the men get, the more your allies begin to mutter against you.’

‘Then they will be pleased at what we bring.’

Vergasillaunus frowned, and his cousin broke into a wide grin. ‘The Romans have sent us a great gift: upwards of thirty wagons of grain and meat, with extra livestock, and even some of their emergency biscuits. And a few dozen of their men to entertain us, including an officer.’

‘You found the column from Cenabum? The spies were right?’

‘Perfectly. And I also have word that the Aedui noble who commanded half a dozen supply wagons from Dardon in the east threw in his lot with our forces and turned the whole column over to the commanders of our other camp. Our armies will both eat well tonight, while the Romans continue to starve.’

Vergasillaunus heaved a sigh of relief. ‘You still will not engage the Romans? Even though they starve and we must near their numbers?’

The king shook his head. ‘The Romans are tricky and tenacious. We know them of old. To be certain of victory we must overpower them completely. To try and to be uncertain of victory is to risk all we have done for the sake of impatience. See how the Aedui begin to fall to our banner, now? Soon their leaders will follow suit, and when we have them with us, they will bring dozens of other wavering tribes with them.
Then
we will have men enough to swamp Caesar. Patience, cousin.’

‘And if Avaricon falls?’

Vercingetorix scratched his neck. ‘The Bituriges will hold, especially with Cavarinos and Critognatos among their number. And should the worst happen and it does fall, it is little more than a setback in the grand scheme. We only came here to mollify the chieftains. I would have left well alone, for the Aedui continue to be my prime concern.’

* * * * *

The sound of a cornu blaring out the call for the third watch split the wet night, cutting through the fine mizzle that did its best to douse the torches and camp fires of the Roman army. Three officers stood on the low brow, careful of their footing in the mire, watching as the great ramp touched the walls. Already the bulk of the ramp butted up against the defences and within the hour the last few baskets of rubble and dirt would flatten the final stretch enough to bring the siege towers up against the walls. The Bituriges had taken over the last week to strengthening the defences here, where the ramp rose between two heavy, rebated gates, trying to raise the height of the walls and the towers that dotted them. But it would not be enough to render the siege ramp and towers ineffective.

One of the three legionaries who had brought the officers the wax tablets full of figures and numbers scurried over to right one of the flaring torches that had begun to lean as the mud into which it was jammed loosened. Antonius snapped one of the tablets shut and passed it across to Varus, who shook his head. ‘The attrition among our own forces is getting worse by the day. I hope this ramp is successful, general.’

Caesar’s stomach gave another hollow, unhappy growl, and he cleared his throat noisily in an attempt to cover it. It did not do when in the company of the ranking soldiers to show any sign of weakness, even hunger.

‘Did you hear that?’ Antonius said quietly.

Caesar turned, his eyebrow cocked.

‘I thought I heard a groan, sir?’

The general huffed irritably. If everyone was going to draw attention to the complaints of a shrinking stomach, they were going to be rather busy, given the level of hunger across the camp. He opened his mouth to frame a sarcastic reply, and then he heard it too.

It was a low, unearthly groan. Similar to those of his starving gut, but deeper, wider and all-encompassing. As though Tellus - the mother of the earth - showed her deep disapproval of something.

‘I do not like the sound of that.’

* * * * *

Critognatos peered out over the wall, watching the siege towers as they moved forward a couple of feet under the heaving muscle of hundreds of legionaries who used the vineae to shelter from attacks as they worked, their long ropes wound round huge stakes at the top of the ramp as a pulley system so that as they descended the ramp under the shelters, so the towers ascended in the open. Damn the Romans and their ingenuity.

Cavarinos clambered up to the top of the wall, carefully spooning some of the mutton and juicy broth from his wooden bowl and then, replacing the spoon, dipping some of the luxuriant bread into the liquid, watching it drip and then allowing the Roman army to come into focus behind it.

‘It is time, brother,’ he said, muffled through a mouthful.

Critognatos looked back at him. ‘About time. I have been restless.’

* * * * *

Fronto leaned out from the cover of the vinea, looking up at the defences as he rubbed his aching knee. ‘We’re there, lads. Come the dawn, we’ll be up those towers and onto the walls.’

Carbo looked back at him, his pink face streaked with sweat and rain that glistened in the torch light. ‘Any word from command as to who gets the chance at the
corona muralis
?’

Fronto smiled at his top centurion. The mural crown was one of the most sought-after military decorations, granted to the first soldier to raise a Roman standard above the enemy’s walls. Carbo, along with the senior centurion of every other legion present, would be twitching to lead the first assault in an attempt to win the coveted crown.

‘The general has not committed himself yet, Carbo. But I suspect he will grant the honour to one of the newer legions or one of the newer legates. We are his solid veterans and he will be looking to boost the morale of the newer men, after the past month of hardship. Be prepared to play a supporting role tomorrow, I’d say.’

Something nearby made a groaning noise.

‘What was that?’ the commander of the Tenth frowned.

‘Don’t know, sir. Sounded like an old building settling.’

The two men looked about in confusion. The soldiers who were carrying the last few baskets back from the walls, as well as the heavy stakes they had used to tamp down the ramp’s surface, had paused, their faces equally concerned.

Another deep rumble echoed around them and their attention was drawn to the ramp’s centre where, turning, they watched in horror as the nearer of the siege towers sank into the ground up to the top of its wheels.

‘What in shitting Juno’s name…?’

Suddenly Pomponius, the senior engineer of the legion, was pushing his way back along the line of legionaries under the shelters, shouting.

‘What is it?’ Fronto barked.

Pomponius spotted the two officers. ‘Run, sirs!’

Around them the soldiers had begun to move, heeding the shouts of the engineer, rushing back down the slope. There was a low groan and a thud beneath their feet and the twin wooden legs supporting the vinea above them sank a few feet into the ramp, tilting the whole structure dangerously.

‘Oh, shit.’

He and Carbo began to run with the others as all around them more groans arose, vinea struts sinking, the timber-and-hide tunnels tilting and coming slightly askew. The whole ramp appeared to be sinking, and Fronto almost lost his footing as a ripple or wave shuddered across the gravelled surface, which dropped perceptibly.

‘What have they done?’ Fronto shouted breathlessly as he caught up with Pomponius, the ground bucking under his feet.

‘Undermining, the clever bastards, sir.’

As he ran, Fronto risked looking back and was dismayed to see that the top end of the ramp had sunk perhaps ten feet, leaving a wet scar of mud where it had previously butted up against Avaricon’s ramparts. There was no hope now of the towers reaching the top of the walls. The ramp would have to be rebuilt, rising at least as high again, if that were even possible with its foundations crippled as they must now be.

‘They’ve tunnelled underneath while we worked, supporting the mine with wooden struts,’ the engineer added, unable to refrain from an explanation. ‘And as soon as we were almost there, they’ll have stuffed their mine with straw, wattle and kindling and set fire to it.’

‘Will the ramp be salvageable?’

Pomponius’ expression suggested that he doubted it, but he made a non-committal gesture.

‘That’s the least of our damned problems,’ snapped Carbo, suddenly sliding to a halt and arresting the other two men’s momentum with an extended hand as he turned and pointed. Fronto and Pomponius heard the discordant honking and booing of the carnyxes just as they saw the gates to either side of the ramp swing open, warriors pouring from them. Other figures appeared atop the walls, dancing flames of torches all along the line.

‘They’re attacking!’ Pomponius said in disbelief.

‘No. that would be suicide. They’re after the vineae and the towers,’ Carbo replied, and Fronto blinked. If the Bituriges gained control of the ramp for even quarter of an hour they would be able to utterly destroy the towers and shelters. Added to the sinking of the ramp, that would set back the Roman assault by weeks and, with the level of hunger the army was suffering, would effectively put an end to the siege.

‘Stop running!’ he shouted.

* * * * *

Cavarinos smiled down at the chaos on the ramp. The two forces that were spilling from the gates were already clambering up the steeply-sloping sides of the ramp, having a great deal of difficulty negotiating the precipitous escarpment, but managing slowly.

Some of the more alert Romans who had been near the top of the ramp and who had apparently realised what was happening had begun to hack at the ropes that held the two siege towers tethered in position, while others had run back to try and heave the wedges out from behind the wheels, allowing them to roll the intact tower back down the slope and out of danger. The other tower had sunk enough that it would not move without a lot of help, but they were doing their best there too, anyway.

‘Archers and torches,’ Cavarinos shouted above the jubilant din on the wall, ‘aim for the shelters. Burn them. Flask bearers, you know what to do.’

The air was still filled with a damp mizzle, and the Roman vineae would be difficult to ignite, soaked as they were, but rain would not save them tonight. All the Bituriges had to do was get a single fire started and it would eventually spread on its own, down the line of shelters and all the way to the bottom.

As the archers dipped the tips of their arrows into the flaring, sizzling torches, waiting until they burst into golden life and then loosing them at the hide-coated roofs, other men flung spitting torches over the parapet and down onto the shelters. At two places on the walls, twin groups of a half dozen men, chosen for their accuracy with a throw, hurled pottery flasks, which smashed upon impact with the timber structures, spreading oil, which immediately caught with the fiery missiles, blossoming into an orange inferno and racing across the first few vineae.