Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (72 page)

‘Hear that?’ he asked the centurion.

‘Deployment calls,’ the officer replied, rubbing tired eyes.

‘Yes. The Eighth and the Thirteenth if I’m not mistaken, down on the plain. Caesar gathers fresh men to his own position.’

‘And to ours,’ the centurion said with audible relief, jabbing out with a finger back towards the south gate. Fronto turned and heaved in a much needed cleansing breath. ‘That’s Fabius,’ he noted, recognising the figure in the grey cloak with the white plume and the small skewbald horse. ‘And… what? Six more cohorts?’

‘I count the standards of seven, sir.’

Fronto squinted and smiled. ‘I do believe you’re right. Caesar reinforces his own position because he’s sent us more of his men. Good boy,’ he grinned, noting the look of disapproval on the centurion’s face at such an appellation applied to the proconsul. ‘I wonder how many men we’ll get this time. Should buy us some time.’

The centurion nodded sombrely, his gaze slipping back over the camp to the distant western horizon. ‘I hope the general has something up his sleeve though, sir. Another hour and a half - two at the most - and that sun’s going to sink, and with it go our chances.’

Chapter 24

Varus huffed and chewed his lip as he stood at the command post in the centre of the plains sector. Next to him, Quadratus sat disconsolately, trying with difficulty to tear apart a piece of stale, worm-eaten bread with his one good arm, the other bound up and slung at his chest. The medicus had grumbled about the cavalryman yanking out the arrow that had impaled his arm, but it seemed there was no permanent damage. Enough to keep Quadratus out of action for the rest of the season, though. It would have irritated Varus to lose his most able officer were it not for the fact that all the cavalry sat idle anyway between the Roman fortifications, nice and safe and bored, while the infantry fought for their survival.

‘Maybe you should throw your men into the wall defences?’ the sub-commander mused.

‘The general already refused that. I offered, but he wants the cavalry in reserve.’

‘No use being reserves while the defences fall, though.’

Varus grunted his agreement and watched as another of the artillery towers fell silent, Gallic archers from the reserve force outside having raked it clear of life with their constant flurries and kept the ladder under attack so that no Roman could reach the scorpion above. All along the plains sector the story was the same: hard-pressed legionaries fighting what appeared to be a losing battle. The supplies of pila had gone and few men on the walls now had any kind of missile to cast down or shoot. The Roman defenders had fallen back upon sword and shield at the fence, which meant the enemy were so close at all times that they could feel one another’s breath.

‘Soon they’ll be down to hitting each other with rocks,’ Quadratus muttered, as if reading his commander’s thoughts, and Varus sighed. ‘It’s looking bleak. And we’ve an hour perhaps 'til sunset.’

A series of calls from a cornu across the plain noted the distribution of the reserves from the Eighth and Thirteenth around the twin ramparts, and the new arrivals created a temporary reprieve for their comrades as they cast their pila straight away and pushed back the waves of attackers, only for the tide of Gallic life to immediately flow back against the fence.

The two officers scanned the area irritably and caught sight of Antonius and Caesar riding through the chaos towards them, the ever-present Aulus Ingenuus and his Praetorian horse alongside. Varus and Quadratus hauled themselves wearily to their feet and saluted the army’s most senior officers.

‘Varus,’ Caesar greeted him quietly. ‘The time has come. All reserves from the system are now committed on the plains and on Mons Rea. I have no more legions to call, and the light is leaving us. I must finish this now, before darkness falls.’

Varus nodded, sensing the call to action in the general’s words.

‘The plains are bolstered by the new arrivals,’ Caesar continued. ‘I will ride for Mons Rea, where I believe the battle will be broken one way or the other. There are two redoubts on the hill and one between here and Mons Rea. I should be able to draw four cohorts from them to take to the camp.’

‘Leaving the walls on the hill poorly-manned,’ reminded Antonius quietly, but Caesar brushed it aside.

‘I will take those four cohorts and attempt to win the day at Mons Rea. I will be taking most of the cavalry with me. They are - as you so helpfully noted - largely ineffectual between the ramparts, but word is that the enemy are already breaching the north wall of the Mons Rea camp, and if they are inside the fort, the cavalry can do their work well.’ The general looked appraisingly at Quadratus. ‘Can you ride and fight?’

‘Not well enough, general,’ Varus cut in. ‘
Most
of the cavalry?’

‘Yes, a good part of them. Two of the three wings.’ The general turned to the men behind him. ‘Antonius? You’re an experienced cavalryman. You command that force. Ingenuus here will commit the entire Praetorian unit alongside you.’ The bodyguard officer opened his mouth to object but Caesar overrode him. ‘No. I realise that I will be in danger, but if we lose this fight, we’re all doomed anyway, so I need to commit every man I have, and your horsemen are the best the army has to offer. You will commit to battle in the camp.’

Ingenuus nodded, looking less than happy with his lot. Varus was still frowning.

‘And what of me then, and the rest of the cavalry?’

‘You, Varus, are to be my surprise. I want you to take the remaining wing and the German cavalry and head back south, in an almost complete circuit of Alesia. When you reach Labienus’ camp to the north, you will be far from any of the action. There, you can cross the circumvallation and manoeuvre outside.’

Varus broke into a grin. ‘I like the sound of it, general.’

‘You will have to be as quick as you can and as subtle, too. It’s a long ride to get round and out of the defences unseen, and if you are spotted too early, the whole plan might fail. We will fight on as we must and wait for your hopefully timely arrival.’

Varus faltered for a moment as he turned.

‘Perhaps you would be better taking the Germans with you inside, general?’ he prompted, trying not to sound hopeful.

‘No. You take them. They have proved to be a vital force against the Gauls repeatedly this year, time and again. You will need the fear and chaos they bring with them if you are to break this.’

Varus nodded and saluted.

‘Go then, commander. You know what you must do.’

Caesar and Antonius watched the eager cavalry commander run off towards his signifers, who were standing in a knot telling stories, and then turned to one another. ‘Can we do it?’ the general breathed quietly to his friend, so that no others nearby might overhear. Antonius broke into a quirky half-smile. ‘We can’t crush them - we don’t have the numbers. But they have to be as spent as our own men, in both strength and morale. If we break today, the siege is over. But if they break, they will lose. It’s that simple. We just have to make them yield before our own men collapse.’

The general raised an eyebrow. ‘Nowhere in that oratory did I hear a yes.’

‘Nor did you hear a no, Gaius. Come on. We have troops to raise.’

* * * * *

Fronto ducked a sweeping blow and clutched his wounded forearm, a deep cut still pouring out blood where his shield had been brutally hacked from his arm. One of the capsarii had tried to drag him back from the fight to bind it twice but Fronto had pushed the man away, suggesting with some rather colourful language that the medic might be more useful drawing a sword and killing a few Gauls.

Of his singulares, only Masgava and Aurelius remained at the barricade, which had now been reinforced and bulked up on four separate occasions and was still weakening with every axe blow from the far side. The rest of his bodyguard were back at the makeshift hospital, sporting a variety of wounds, though none of them, miraculously, life threatening. It seemed they had listened to his order to stay alive, after all.

What was even more miraculous was that the makeshift redoubt was holding at all. The light was beginning to dim, which meant that the battle here had been raging for half a day without reprieve. The gates had held for a matter of mere moments, but this wall of carts, crates and sacks had kept many thousands of screaming rebels at bay for - what, six hours? Seven, perhaps.

The regular feeds of reinforcements had been critical to that, mind. Without those men sent by Labienus, Brutus and Caesar, the gate would have fallen long ago. To his left, just past Aurelius, who was barely recognisable beneath a sheet of blood, stood an optio who had arrived with his centurion under Labienus’ command hours ago. Less than an hour after that he had unfastened his crest ties, making use of the new, almost Gallic-style helmet he wore with the multiple crest fasteners to swivel the red horsehair arc through ninety degrees, taking on the role of the centurion who now lay a dozen paces behind them among the piles of honoured dead. Fronto couldn’t remember what legion the young man was from but he fought like a lion, with the tenacity and inventiveness of a gladiator and, had he not been planning to retire after this battle, Fronto would have been seeking the man’s transfer into the Tenth.

A spear lanced out towards him, clipping the ravaged and torn timber frame of the cart behind which Fronto stood, and he knocked it aside with his wounded arm, hissing at the pain that rippled through it as he drove his gladius into the Gaul’s throat, twisted and withdrew, watching the body fall away only to be replaced immediately by another.

A call went up away across the camp, and it was only on the third repeat that Fronto paused, having dispatched another enemy, and frowned.

‘Shit. That call!’

The centurion nodded, struggling with a Gaul and finally forcing him back. ‘Sounds like they’ve breached the north rampart, sir.’

Fronto spared a heartbeat to glance in that direction, but from this angle he could see nothing, the ordered rows of tents filling the intervening space. The call had been clear enough. A rally to repulse meant that the Gauls had managed to cross the rampart somewhere. But why had Labienus not reacted. The senior officer had quite clearly told Fronto that the Bacchanalia chant would be blown in case of a serious breach and the army would form up for a last sally. Had the breach not been serious enough to warrant it? Or had something happened to Labienus? Fronto ground his teeth. It was all well and good holding this position, but he had to know what was going on elsewhere. Reaching a decision, he turned to the recently-promoted centurion.

‘Can you hold here without me and these two?’

The look that passed across the centurion’s face was one of uncertainty, which Fronto could quite understand and sympathise with, but it was quickly swept aside and replaced by grim acceptance.

‘We’ll hold this ‘til even Minerva’s bones are dust, sir.’

Fronto smiled. ‘Good man. Fortuna be with you.’

‘And with you, legate.’ The centurion had no chance for further exchange, a Gaul attempting to clamber over the top of the barricade requiring all his attention. Fronto stepped back from the barricade, gesturing for Masgava and Aurelius to join him. The beleaguered soldiers at the redoubt immediately shuffled up to close the gap, never letting up in their staunch defence as they did so.

The three men sheathed their swords and stepped back inside the camp to where their horses were tethered, along with those belonging to the wounded singulares. As soon as he left the barricade, the capsarius caught him again and, even as Fronto shouted at the man, he slapped a vinegar-soaked sponge into the open cut on the forearm, causing Fronto to let forth a sharp bellow and a series of unpleasant expletives. The capsarius ignored the legate as he howled and his good hand went to the dagger at his belt, wrapping a bandage around the wound and binding it tight, tying it off at the end with professional, practiced ease. Fronto threw him a murderous look, the dagger half-drawn before he snicked it back into its sheath. The medic smiled. ‘At least you won’t bleed out, legate.’

‘
You
might, if you try that again.’

But the capsarius was already running off to help another man who’d fallen back from the barricade, and Fronto joined his singulares at the steeds, hurriedly untying the reins and then hauling himself into the saddle, grunting at the pain in his arm, but reluctantly acknowledging the good work of the medic.

‘Where are we bound?’ Masgava asked.

‘North wall. There’s been a breach and Labienus hasn’t reacted. I want to know what’s going on.’

The three men heeled their horses and rode off through the chaos of wounded men and supply dumps, between the lines of tents and towards the site of the main battle. Fronto hoped fervently that the young centurion he’d just left
could
hold that gate. It would be little use recovering the north rampart if the southeast gate was overrun. The camp was under too much pressure.

Precious moments passed as the three men passed the leather tents and burst out into the open area at the north end of the camp. The sight that greeted Fronto was heart-stopping.

The nearest rows of tents to the wall had been cleared out of the way by enterprising wounded officers and their stumbling, bleeding men, and a low barricade of junk had been hastily raised, half a dozen scorpions from the reserve supplies set up along the line, manned and stocked with ammunition. Men who were clearly novices at the art held the spare bows that had been dug out from somewhere and their arrows protruded from the junk wall before them ready to be nocked and loosed.

This was the last line. The desperate one. Manned by the sick and the injured and making use of whatever could be found, for the wounded had seen the rampart give four times now and had decided they had to do something.

The north wall itself was no longer visible. Even the towers had suffered, every third or fourth one having been brought down somehow. Fronto had expected to see beleaguered legionaries atop the parapet, fighting off an external sea of Gauls, as at the southeast. But the defensive line here was now an arbitrary thing, much of the fighting going on inside the camp. Every now and then a Gaul would break free of the struggle, already inside the camp’s confines, and run for the tent lines. When that happened, the wounded let fly with whatever they had, putting the incursions down. But the number of Gauls inside the camp was growing even as Fronto watched, and the ever-changing line of defence was gradually moving back towards the ‘wounded wall’. The camp was a dozen heartbeats from lost.