Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (62 page)

The scene that greeted him sent a flood of horror through him, though he’d been expecting it in his heart.

At the sight of a clearly-rebel force gathering under a banner, the Germans had changed course en-masse and charged them. Even as Lucterius moved out away from the Roman horde who were busy rallying to kill the enemy among them, he saw the Germans hit the block of rebel horse.

When he had been a boy, his people had played a game in the street where a wooden ball was rolled at six wooden sticks standing on end, the objective being to collapse all six in one roll - a Roman game, sickeningly, that had come to the Cadurci through traders. And now he was watching the same game carried out live, the ball a tight-knit force of slavering Germans, the sticks a terrified block of Gallic horse.

The rebels exploded as the Germans hit them with seemingly unstoppable momentum.

Lucterius felt a cold stone of despair sink into his belly as he watched his men fall to pieces, standards cast down, nobles unable to control their men no matter how loud they shouted. A concentrated area of the block was savagely cut down by the newly-arrived force, but the bulk of the rebels were lost without even a blow landing. Terror flooded the horsemen, leaping from beast to beast and gripping the heart of each rider, widening his eyes, bringing forth the cold sweat, and sending him racing, as fast as his tired horse could carry him, for the hills and the camp atop them.

Lucterius tried to call things to order. He saw a musician - the moron who’d called the formation, perhaps? - but before he could shout to him, one of the Germans was there, ripping the man’s horn from him - along with half a severed arm - and then crushing his skull with the crumpled instrument.

What had been a foolish call by a foolish man quickly turned into a panic, and before Lucterius’ dismayed eyes, that panic slipped into a rout.

The few of his men still among the Romans were no longer fighting for freedom or victory. They were fighting to escape. The Romans had seen what had happened, too, and numerous horn calls went up as heart flooded back into the beleaguered cavalry.

Lucterius watched as the spearmen and archers, who had remained on the periphery and made their mark every time the Romans came too near, were suddenly swamped by auxiliary horsemen. In the time it took to blink, the sure victory of the rebel force had been turned into a panicked, ignominious flight. Only a few hundred of his men, rallying to banners, remained to fight, but they would not last long against the Roman cavalry in those numbers. Most of the men were even now racing up the slopes towards the relative safety of the relief army’s camp.

Lucterius looked around himself, hardly able to believe what had happened. Then, with no other option barring certain - if glorious - death, he kicked his horse to speed and made for the slope to the camp. He never looked back, but he did not need to. His acute hearing noted the gradual shift in calls. The carnyxes that had been urging the infantry on against the Roman fortifications were now calling the calls of defeat: rally, withdraw, fall back. The Roman horns, with a distinctly higher pitch, had changed too. He didn’t know those calls, but the melodies went from sad, discordant ones to uplifting, encouraging tunes. It didn’t take a genius to work
that
out.

They had failed. A whole day. A battle the likes of which the tribes had never seen, and planned with the most cunning strategies, and it had failed. Even now, the rebels would be falling back to their oppidum or camp, depending upon which side of the fortifications they stood. The armies had not managed to link up and the Romans would now be able to shuffle their forces around and repair the damage.

And it would take time to bring the reluctant leaders of the relief force around to the idea of another attempt. Likely a day or more of marshalling their forces, no matter the logic in forcing the point. The momentum would be lost in hesitation.

Failure.

It would be easy enough to blame the Germans. After all, they had had just such effects more than once on this campaign. But the truth of the matter was that, had the two armies remained mixed, the Germans would have been an unknown quantity, as dangerous to Rome as to the tribes. What had been the true cause of the failure had been one man with a horn.

He found himself hoping that the culprit
was
that poor fool with a missing arm and a bent horn jammed in his brain.

* * * * *

Cavarinos heaved in ragged breaths as he struggled up the slope nursing his arm, which had been dislocated during the last press and had caused him agony to pop back into the socket with the help of a nearby warrior. All around him, the dejected warriors of Vercingetorix’s army returned to the oppidum with a feeling of loss and hopelessness.

They had been so very close to breaking the defences. Indeed, in that last quarter hour, when the Romans had thinned out their numbers, small forays had actually made it across the fence and into the Roman fortifications. But then the attack of the reserve army had faltered and crumbled, and the Romans had been free to redeploy their men, strengthening the inner rampart. Perhaps hundreds of warriors had been lost inside, captured and killed by the Roman defenders, as the king had come to the inescapable conclusion that the day was lost and had the call for retreat blown. The various leaders of the tribes had echoed the call, and the attackers had pulled back from the ramparts, making their way back up the hill under the occasional shot from the Roman artillery.

Defeat!

His already failing spirits hit new lows as he spotted his brother picking his way among the dejected warriors. Cavarinos closed his eyes, steadied his breathing and counted to eight slowly.

‘Why did you sound the retreat?’ snapped Critognatos, shoving his brother roughly in the recently-dislocated shoulder and sending waves of pain through him.

‘Because we’d lost, you idiot,’ he replied just as peevishly. ‘Better to preserve our men than fight a lost cause.’

‘Bollocks. We were almost there. If we’d got more men across the fence, we’d have swamped them and won the day. You pulled the men back on the
cusp
of victory!’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ snarled Cavarinos. ‘We’d failed. Anyway, it was the king who called the retreat, not me.’

‘He doesn’t do things like that without you or his cousin telling him to. That’s why he keeps you around.’ Critognatos brandished his still-naked blade angrily. ‘I’m beginning to regret his investiture as leader of this army. He’s almost as big a coward as you!’

Cavarinos snorted. ‘Piss off and find someone else to insult. I don’t have the patience. It’s time to lick our wounds and rally. There’ll be another day.’

His brother simply sneered. ‘We should rally now and charge back. They won’t be expecting us again so soon, and the sun is setting. We could pull victory from the jaws of defeat.’

‘Just stop talking,’ Cavarinos snapped. ‘I get sick of the sound of your belligerent yapping. You’re like an overgrown kitten who thinks he’s a lion.’

‘And you are a pointless, womanish coward.’

‘Piss off.’

Cavarinos’ world exploded into a cloud of white hot pain as his brother suddenly grabbed him by the bad arm and yanked, pulling the shoulder partially out again. Despite of the agony, acting entirely on impulse, Cavarinos swung round, his good arm connecting with his brother’s cheek in a powerful right hook. Critognatos staggered back and his feet slipped from under him, leaving him rolling several paces back down the slope.

Cavarinos clutched his ruined arm and hobbled over to a nearby tree, setting himself against it. That he’d fixed himself once without breaking his arm or collar bone had been a surprise, and his entire body ached from the pain, his eyes dry from the seemingly endless tears he’d already cried. Preparing himself, he pushed the joint carefully, slowly, against the bark, slowly turning and extending his arm to provide the best angle.

With a flood of pain that eclipsed any wound he’d ever received, the joint clicked back, though an extra, new, pain suggested that he might have chipped a bone doing it. His eyes almost blinded with tears of pain, he turned to march on, only to see Critognatos bearing down on him angrily, his nose awash with blood, crimson-tinted sword in hand.

Through the flood of pain, Cavarinos tried in vain to draw his sword as his brother broke into a run, blade raised for a strike. Cavarinos was fairly sure he’d have died there and then had not half a dozen other Arverni rushed over and restrained the furious noble. Cavarinos watched through tears and half-interest as the big man was held back, spluttering curses, his face purple with rage.

‘This is not over!’ Critognatos snarled as he stopped struggling.

Cavarinos sighed as he turned and hobbled on up the slope.
That
was for certain…

Chapter 21

Fronto stood atop the outer rampart, feeling the cool night breeze rippling across his features, the slight chill cleansing and cathartic after a day filled with searing heat and the sick-sweet smell of death and charring meat, clearing the defences of the Gallic dead and burning the Roman bodies. A night and a day had passed since the attack with no sign of movement from the enemy reserve camp, nor from the oppidum. The Gaulish bodies had been cleared from the ditches by repeated Roman sorties and piled in the open land beyond the furthest hazards, where they were distant enough that their stink was muted and they would cause an extra obstacle to attackers, at maximum effective missile range. Indeed, the ditches had been cleared of all refuse - barring the water channel that had been filled in with cartloads of earth - and replanted with deadly points.

Priscus passed across the flask of watered wine, ready-mixed back in the prefect’s tent, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘I was surprised to see you at the wall yesterday.’

‘All hands needed,’ Fronto replied. ‘It’s was hectic, to say the least.’

‘You’re going to give your singulares a heart attack, you know?’

Fronto turned a curious look on his friend and Priscus chuckled. ‘You were busy fighting, so you never noticed. I was a sensible creaky old bugger and stayed down in the clear overseeing the resupply. And every time I looked up at your section I saw one of your men leaping around madly trying to keep the enemy from getting near you.’

‘They failed, then.’

‘Hardly. You’d have been swamped two or three times if your lads hadn’t had your back. I’d say you owe them a bonus after this.’

Fronto sighed. ‘You know me, Gnaeus. I give it everything I’ve got. No competent soldier could do less.’ He leaned on the fence top and his voice lowered conspiratorially so that it wouldn’t carry to the nearest sentries along the wall. ‘In confidence, Gnaeus, I think I’m starting to lose the heart for this, though. Do you realise there are men fighting us now who were still playing with stick games and starting to think about girls when we followed the Helvetii into this gods-forsaken land.’

Priscus gave him an odd look, and Fronto shrugged. ‘I used to think this place would be a nice place to settle when things are over, but I’m starting to think that I’ll never be able to walk Gallic soil without thinking of all the children I’ve put under it.’

‘Gods but you can be a morbid bastard at times, Fronto.’

‘I’m done after this one, Gnaeus. Time to raise the kids and maybe make a few denarii importing wine or something.’

‘You? The only place you’ll import wine is into your mouth. You’d be broke in a week!’

Fronto turned a faint smile on his friend. ‘Tell me you haven’t thought about it. We’re not young men anymore.’

‘Yes, but you’ve got Lucilia and the boys to drag you away.
This
is my family and has been for decades. I’ll die in a mail shirt, and I’m comfortable with that.’

‘And you call
me
morbid!’

‘You’d better
not
bloody retire,’ came a voice from back down the turf slope and the two men turned to see Palmatus, arms folded, behind them. ‘I’d have to look for another job, and there’s nothing else this interesting that pays half as well.’

Fronto rolled his eyes. Privacy was a thing of the past since his singulares had vowed never to leave him alone. Palmatus jogged up the slope, leaving Aurelius and Celer at the bottom, and joined Fronto at the other side, covering his left flank.

‘Shouldn’t you two be getting some shut-eye at your age,’ the former legionary grinned.

Priscus gave him a sour look. ‘There’s about half a decade between us, I reckon, you knob-end.’

Palmatus laughed easily and Fronto sighed. ‘This is the only thing I’ll really miss, though. Times like this with irritating knob-ends like you two.’

Priscus gave him a playful punch in the arm that he probably thought hurt less than it actually did and the three men folded their arms and leaned on the fence top, looking out over the defences, towards the hill upon which the Gallic reserve were camped.

‘Do you two notice anything different?’ Palmatus said quietly and evenly.

The two men frowned into the darkness. ‘No. All peaceful.’

‘Yes. Too peaceful. Where’s all the life on that hill? And it’s dark. Where are their camp fires?’

Fronto straightened. ‘Ah shite!’ he muttered with feeling.

Priscus turned and looked around the space between the walls until he spotted the duty signaller, lounging around on a barrel and looking bored.

‘Cornicen? Call the alarm. Stand to. All units.’

The man paused only a moment, aware of the exalted rank of the man giving the order, and then stood, taking a deep breath and blowing the calls through his cornu with all his might. Barely had the first refrain echoed around the ramparts before Fronto saw them.

No lining up on the plain this time. No cavalry manoeuvres. The enemy reserve force was coming with its eyes set solely on the walls, on foot and carrying ladders, grapples and all manner of bulky goods to fill in the ditches and allow easy crossing. Among them came large units of archers and slingers. The enemy flooded from the trees and across the mile of flat, open land like a plague.