Sons of Taranis (4 page)

Cavarinos sighed, heaved in a deep, cold breath, and turned to his horse.

Poor bastards.

Not his problem, though. He had enough of
them
without adopting more. With a last glance up at the oppidum’s centre, he turned to the gate and left Uxellodunon and Cadurci lands. Cavarinos was going home.

VARUS squinted into the grey blurry morning, the world lit by a watery, inefficient sun. This oppidum of the Bituriges – the latest in a long list – had a name, but he’d long since stopped bothering to commit such names to valuable memory, given that they flew by in a steady stream of campaigning. The low, elongated hill sat between two narrow stream valleys, its northern and southern edges protected by a wide ditch below the walls, the eastern and western by the valleys themselves.

On the Kalends of Januarius, Caesar had responded to a plea from the loyal factions of the Bituriges who had been ousted by rebels of their own tribe, and he had led out Varus’ cavalry wing, collecting the Thirteenth from Avaricon and the Eleventh from their own camp, heading west. The column of ten thousand men and horses had waded into Bituriges territory with, in Varus’ private opinion, a less-than-discriminate manner, and in the ten days since the army had marched, eleven such settlements had fallen. The rebellious nature of their early targets had been somewhat uncertain as far as the cavalry commander was concerned, for few men raised any kind of resistance to their attacks.

The enemy had been suicidally optimistic, attempting revolution in lands this close to Roman winter quarters. They had so few warriors among them anymore that a Roman action against them was like pitting hungry bears against condemned criminals in Rome’s entertainment pits. The two legions had barely broken a sweat, which was something to be grateful for, given that winter still had Gaul firmly in its icy grip and that none of the men were thrilled at leaving comfortable winter quarters and marching out into the wilds before the campaigning season had even appeared on the horizon.

But here they were.

Laniocon
– that was the place’s name, he seemed to remember – stood defiant and proud on its turf mound with its strong Gallic walls surrounded by ditches and narrow defiles. And yet that defiance was mere show at best, if that. For atop those ramparts a spear point gleamed every few hundred paces. Five years ago, when Gaul had still been a wild and unexplored land for the legions, this place would have blinded onlookers with the number of shining bronze weapons and helms visible above the parapet. Now, after eight years of exhaustive war, most of its defenders were old men and children, and even they would be too few to hold back a scout party, let alone two legions and a wing of cavalry. It was almost laughable that one rider in twenty in this mounted force had been drawn
from
these very Biturige settlements over the years, though now their allegiance was tied strongly to Caesar, who had made them wealthier men than many of their former leaders could ever hope to be.

Laniocon was ripe for the picking.

A cavalry prefect rode towards him from the southern fields, freezing dew settling on his helmet and mail and giving him a strangely ethereal sparkle in the misty grey. Beside the prefect, three of the Gallic princes who commanded the native levies waited hungrily. And well they might, for each oppidum that fell made those men richer and more influential. Even the native auxiliaries knew that Caesar’s time as proconsul was almost up and that soon he would return to Rome. When he did, Gaul would become the command of some fat politician and things would settle into status quo, so every man who sought advancement in the land was currently jostling for position and gain in order to secure a better future in what would clearly soon be a Roman province. And those who weren’t thinking like that – the few who still laboured under the impression that Gaul would return to being a tribal land – would be disappointed, disenfranchised and poor when the inevitable happened.

The Bituriges in the last oppidum they had advanced on had seen their future clearly enough, and had delivered to Caesar the half dozen men they claimed had taken control in defiance of Rome. The six rebel leaders had sneered at their Roman captors and spat at the countrymen who had sold them out, but in response Caesar had been generous, and that oppidum had suffered no ill effect other than the expense of feeding the legions for a night before they moved on west towards Laniocon.

Here, though, at least Varus was more sure of the need for castigation, for the gates had closed with a resilient thud at the sight of the Roman forces marching against them. Despite the fact that their doom hung over them like a dark cloud among the endless grey, they had seemingly decided to hold out.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ the prefect asked, reining in his steed.

Varus squinted at the hill again, shrouded in a world of soul-crushing grey.

‘There’s little for the cavalry to do here, Prefect. Have the force split down into standard alae and assign them sectors of the circuit beyond the ditches and streams. We’ll form an outer cordon and watch, just in case this land has managed to muster up a few hundred reinforcements to send them. Remember Alesia, eh?’

The prefect nodded and sighed. ‘Why do they persist, sir? Surely they can see they’re beaten?’

Varus rubbed his forehead and wiped away the fine film of dew that had settled on it. ‘The Gauls are just as proud of their history as we are, Prefect. Can you imagine in the same situation a Roman city just handing their heritage over to an invader?’

‘I suppose not, sir. It just seems so bloody futile, pardon the language.’

Varus sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Just a little longer, Prefect. The general thinks that the main stronghold of rebellion is at Argatomagon perhaps thirty miles west. Beyond that it’s mostly forests and farms until you’re in Pictone lands, so there’s no point in marching legions out there to round up a few cows and the odd toothless farmer. We’ll be back in quarters in a week.’

The prefect’s spirits rose a little at that thought as he saluted, turned and began to distribute orders among the princes with him before returning to the decurions of his own command.

The Eleventh had played the active role in the last fight while the Thirteenth had formed the defensive cordon, so this time the Eleventh under Rufio had split into cohorts and formed a ring around the oppidum, within Varus’ planned outer cavalry cordon, while the Thirteenth had formed up for the assault. Some few hundred paces south of the Gallic outer ditch, Sextius’ legion shuffled into tighter ranks as their centurions moved up and down the lines, jabbing mail-shirted chests and bellowing at occasional lax men. An opportunistic archer somewhere up on the rampart loosed a single arrow, which arced up gracefully past the defensive ditch and then plummeted into the thick grass between there and the waiting legion. Sextius had been careful to muster his force well beyond arrow range, but Varus acknowledged the fact that, standing on that wall and watching the army form ready, he’d have been tempted at least to try, too.

As the whistles and shouts of the officers continued in preparation, a horse broke from the command unit where Caesar in his red cloak murmured into the cupped ear of Aulus Hirtius, his secretary and confidante. Varus frowned as the rider made straight for him and hauled on the reins, pulling up his sweating mount and saluting.

‘Complements of the general, sir. He would like yourself along with a few turmae of regulars to follow on the heels of the Thirteenth and make sure the oppidum remains untouched. Caesar wants no repetition of Sidia.’

Varus rolled his shoulders. ‘I heartily agree.’ Sidia had been a notable fight four days ago, and the rebels there had managed to actually do some real damage to the Eleventh’s vanguard. In response, despite Caesar’s standing orders, the soldiers had gone in like Nemesis herself, taking out their avenging fury on the inhabitants, raping and burning freely. They had left Sidia a shadow of its former self, half the town a charred and smoking ruin.

This was not a campaign of occupation or suppression. These towns were nominally loyal to Rome now, and had simply been taken control of by a few bad elements. Consequently, Rome could not afford to have the settlements destroyed. The legions were here to liberate, not to violate.

Varus waved over one of his messengers. ‘Go and find decurions Oculatius, Granius and Annius. Tell them to muster their turmae to the rear of the Thirteenth in battle order.’ The courier saluted and rode off, and Varus continued to watch for long moments until he noted the three cavalry units forming and the Thirteenth settle ready for the advance. In that eerie silence that filled the field of battle while the army awaited the order to move, the commander turned his horse and trotted off across the wet, springy turf to join his men.

Barely had he reached the cavalry contingent when the general’s call went up by buccina and the various officers blew their whistles and yelled their commands, the men falling easily into their mile-eating step. Varus watched from his mounted position as the lead elements approached the oppidum’s defensive ditch, and he marvelled once again at the hardened professionalism of those men at the front. He had been in a few life-and-death fights himself, but it was different for a horseman, especially one in a position of command. It could never be compared to being given a shield and a sword and told to march straight at a wall into a hail of arrows, probably over agonising obstacles. It took a special kind of guts to do that and not falter.

Slowly the rear ranks of the Thirteenth began to move, following on with no less valour than their mates at the front, and Varus set his riders off at a stately pace in response. They advanced, the oppidum beginning to loom despite the low angle of the slope, and he found himself willing the centurions in the van to give the order. He’d seen where that opportunistic arrow had fallen. The front men must be in range now?

Despite waiting for it, Varus felt his heart flutter at the sudden call for
testudo
given by the lead centurion just as they closed on the ditch. In near-perfect timing, the front ranks shifted into their individual centuries, and several hundred shields clonked into position forming a defensive shell around and above the men. Not even a pause or a missed step. The Gauls up on the ramparts reacted almost instantly, sending out a cloud of missiles at the advancing army. Again, Varus could not help but compare the five or six dozen arrows whispering through the air towards them with the arrow storms of thousands of shafts that had hailed out over oppidum walls earlier in the campaign. It was pitiful by comparison, but in reality they still represented a very real danger, as the odd blood-curdling scream attested. No matter how well-trained or efficient a century might be at forming the testudo, there would inevitably be a few gaps, especially when terrain dictated a change in elevation, and on occasion stray arrows found those gaps.

As the testudo centuries reached the lip of the defensive ditch and began to descend, the formations broke up a little, and the falling missiles found more and more targets. Varus couldn’t see the action from his position at the rear, even on horseback, but he could picture it after so many other sieges and counter-sieges over the years. Those men who fell would probably take down one or two others with them, and here and there the formation would collapse, but as soon as things fell apart, the centurions and their optios would be there, calling out and blowing their whistles, sending men to plug gaps. Indeed, a moment later he saw the first men cresting the far side of the ditch and beginning the march up the slope, their formations quickly put back together and once more largely impervious to missiles.

The arrow storm, now joined by sling stones, continued to thud down on the shields as the legion approached the south rampart, and Varus was afforded a good view of the action up the slope as he continued his sedate advance with his riders at the rear. The walls here looked to be a little higher than they had at Sidia, and Varus found himself worrying that the new tactics the two legions had adopted would be insufficient to gain the rampart. His fears were allayed as the whistles of the leading centurions sent out the orders and the lead testudo broke into a run as though they intended to barge the oppidum’s wall aside.

As they had practised many times this past week, the lead centuries reached the walls and came to a halt still in solid testudo formation, with their shield-roof up and interlocked, and the rear men in the units dropped to a kneeling position, their raised shields forming a lower step. At that same command, the second centuries following on behind broke into a run, their own testudos unfolding as they charged, using the lower shields as the step they formed and leaping up onto the precarious roof of shields.

Here and there a man slipped, his hob-nailed boots raking the painted surfaces of the shields, and plummeted off to the grassy slope at the side. But the majority of the men, now well-practised, ran up the roof of the testudo and at the Gallic walls, with which they were now more or less of a height.

The defenders panicked, suddenly faced with the presence of Romans right under their noses instead of at the base of a high wall. A few of the braver or smarter ones fought off the attackers for a few moments before succumbing, but many simply stepped back in consternation, uncertain of what to do now that their defences apparently counted for nothing.

What happened next was a matter of conjecture for Varus, as the cavalry officer and his riders at the rear of the legion reached the defensive ditch and had to carefully manoeuvre their beasts down the slope and then back up the far side, losing track completely of the struggle at the front. By the time the riders were back up onto the gentle slope and making for the oppidum’s defences, the ramparts were already swarming with legionaries and a mix of alarmed Gallic cries and victorious Latin shouts announced that the southern gate had fallen.