Sons of Taranis (46 page)

Varus swatted at an insistent bug that flitted around his chin and neck, watching the cavalry elements of the Tenth and Eleventh legions moving across the wide grassy valley of the tributary river which encircled Uxellodunon’s northern slopes, hooves pounding the earth. Perhaps eight hundred horsemen all told, their standards having been reported by the pickets.

The officers were out ahead, riding in a small knot with a guard of Aulus Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalry and a few native scouts, and that vanguard even now climbed the lower slopes to Fabius’ camp, where he, Varus and Caninius waited. A thin grey blanket of cloud was rolling in from the south as if to meet the new arrivals, blotting out the blistering sun, but replacing it with an oppressive muggy heat that brought incessant clouds of insects from the low-lying land.

‘The rest will be following on, I presume. Two more legions, then,’ Fabius murmured. ‘Six might even be adequate to crush this place.’ He sounded unconvinced, and with good reason, Varus mused, given their attempts so far at an action against the fortified town. ‘I presume the others have been distributed in garrison,’ the legate went on.

‘Perhaps the general lacked confidence in our ability to put an end to this,’ Caninius sighed.

‘He’s right to do so,’ Fabius replied. ‘We are no closer to a conclusion now than we were two weeks ago.’

The three men stood silent for a moment, contemplating the truth of that. Though Fabius’ arrival had doubled the Roman numbers, the few minor forays they had attempted at the vertiginous slopes of Uxellodunon had been costly and abortive. Even with information beaten out of the captives, none of the intelligence had proved useful. Uxellodunon was sealed tighter than a Vestal’s underwear.

‘Quiet now,’ Varus hissed as the newly-arrived officers closed on them, reining in atop the slope, their horses sweating and whickering, tired from the long journey. Caesar sat astride his white mare, calm and collected as usual, lacking his ubiquitous red cloak and foregoing a cuirass in deference to the stifling heat, yet still resplendent in a linen arming jacket with white and gold pteruges. His aquiline face, however, looked slightly more drawn than usual, and his hair thinner and greyer – to Varus’ eye, anyway.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Proconsul of Gaul inclined his head as he came to a halt and the waiting legates and cavalry officer saluted in response. ‘You have found me another Alesia, it seems. This land appears to be full of them. And is this Lucterius a facsimile of Vercingetorix, too?’

The two legates exchanged a look and Caninius cleared his throat. ‘It would appear not, general. He and his fellow chieftain Drapes made a lunatic attempt to deprive us of a grain store and in the process both men were defeated. Drapes sits in chains in my camp and Lucterius took to his heels during the fight and fled, we know not where.’

The general frowned. ‘Into the oppidum, perhaps?’

‘We think not, Caesar,’ Varus replied. ‘It would have been exceedingly difficult for him to do so, and since that scuffle we’ve observed none of the posturing or cunning we had seen in our earlier days here. It seems that the tribes up there are somewhat directionless, sitting tight in their stronghold and holding us off, but nothing more, as though they are awaiting a command to do something.’

‘Good. Then we will take advantage of the situation. Wherever Lucterius has run, he cannot hide for long. Just as Commius’ days are numbered, so are
this
rebel chief’s. Particularly without his army. Walk me through the situation,’ he commanded, dismounting and squinting at the ‘upturned boat’ shape of Uxellodunon.

Fabius scratched his chin. ‘According to the prisoners, interrogated separately and therefore with no reason for doubt, the oppidum has adequate grain, veg and livestock to see them through until next spring, even with an army that size encamped there. It would seem that Lucterius had been intending to use Uxellodunon as some sort of gathering point or staging post. Starving them out will not be as easy as it would have been at Alesia.’

Caninius nodded. ‘The slopes are treacherous and well defended. There are strong walls even atop the cliff stretches, and the flatter slope to the northeast, which is the natural assault point for infantry, is extremely well protected by a high wall pocked with towers that create an impressive arrow-reach from the parapet. We’ve probed the defences from every angle, and there is no guaranteed method. Indeed, I see
any
approach as being extremely costly and with remarkably little chance of actual success.’

Caesar nodded, tapping his chin as he strolled back and forth, looking over their objective. ‘The water supply? If assault and starvation are unfeasible, that is the only remaining option.’

Varus pointed down into the valley. ‘Apart from a narrow stretch to the northwest, the entire oppidum is surrounded by two of the tributaries of the Duranius River. Interrogation has also revealed the location of a fresh-water spring that grants them a permanent supply. The spring is close to the walls on that north-eastern slope, too close to assault without coming under concentrated attack from the walls. We looked at cutting the water supply, but it’s just as unfeasible.’

Caninius gestured around them. ‘And without the potential for assault or starvation, we have settled in for a long siege. Since Fabius arrived we have had adequate manpower to carry out siege works and, as you can see, have achieved a circumvallation almost comparable to your Alesia example, general.’

Caesar nodded absently, still squinting down into the valley beyond the Roman lines. ‘A cursory glance at the terrain tells me you did the right thing. Pointless wasting men on fruitless assaults, and we cannot overwhelm them by force. Only poor morale or starvation will win this for us. Could we get a traitor into the walls to burn their granaries? Are the artillery capable of launching fire missiles that far?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid, Caesar,’ replied Caninius. ‘Since the debacle that lost them both leaders, nothing has passed that wall in or out and it is carefully guarded. They withdrew any pickets on the slopes at that time and sealed themselves in. And it’s too far for the artillery.’

The general blinked a couple of times and peered off into the distance, towards the confluence where the fight in the marsh had taken place.

‘Can we divert the rivers?’

Varus frowned. ‘The engineers had a dreadful time just draining the marsh area. Apparently the tributaries are both fed by hundreds of tiny streams coming down from the mountains themselves. It is an immense job. I asked about it before we heard of the spring, and the senior engineer just looked at me as though I’d asked him to lower the sky a little.’

Caesar gave a low chuckle. ‘Engineers are the same the world over.’

‘Besides, the rivers are inconsequential while the enemy control the spring,’ Fabius noted.

Caesar’s nod was noncommittal. ‘Alright. You have auxiliary archers and slingers, and I have more following on with the Tenth and Eleventh. Arrange all your missile troops and artillery to cover the approaches to the rivers. Concentrate on any position where a natural descent from the oppidum might bring a man with a bucket to the water.’

The three defenders were frowning in bewilderment.

‘General,’ Caninius said quietly, ‘the rivers are immaterial while they can draw from the spring.’

‘They are indeed. That is why we must remove the spring from the equation. The spring is the clear target. But once we have done so, they will use the river instead, unless any Gaul who comes within twenty paces of it is pinned by arrows.’

Varus coughed and swatted away the fly again. ‘Caesar, we cannot even get to that spring without opening ourselves up to their archers, slingers and rocks. We could conceivably reach it with a testudo without losing too many men, but the terrain is terrible and they have such an advantage. Fabius sent a half century close to the spring a week ago, to test the waters as it were, and the enemy sallied from the walls just far enough to destroy the advance. With the angle of the slope, the height of their walls and the range of their archers it was a slaughter. Of forty men, a dozen returned. They were unable to maintain a testudo in the presence of the enemy infantry, and as soon as they lowered shields to take on the warriors the archers put down more of them. There is the possibility that if we flood that slope with men, we might be able to take the spring, but we’d never hold it, and the loss of life would be crippling.’

Fabius nodded. ‘He’s right general. It’s unfeasible. There simply isn’t a way.’

Caesar gave the three men an infuriating, knowing smile. ‘I think there might be, gentlemen. I think there might.’

* * * * *

Atenos, primus pilus of the Tenth Legion, swung with his vine cane, connecting with the reinforced mail shoulder of the legionary, who jumped in shock and then stepped back, clutching the painful joint.

‘Get that helmet back on, soldier.’

‘Sir, the engineers are…’

‘The engineers are a law unto themselves, Procutus, and I am inclined to leave them to the business they know well.
You
are
not
an engineer, Procutus. You are a
legionary
, and a particularly dim-witted one at that. The ramp may be done but it could do with a bit more packing down and flattening yet. Now put your helmet back on and take those rocks to the slope, and if I see you doing anything other than hard work, or with one piece of kit out of place, I will be sending you up to the oppidum’s gate to ask them for a cup of wine. Do you understand me?’

The legionary saluted and scurried off, collecting his basket of rocks. Atenos watched his men work. There had been endless complaints – and not just from the legionaries, but from veteran centurions too – at having force-marched from Cenabum with just hard-tack rations only to arrive at Uxellodunon and be launched straight into hard labour.

But the general had waited impatiently six days for their arrival and was not going to put off his scheme for one morning longer. It was, perhaps, a little lacking in compassion to put the bulk of the newly-arrived Tenth and Eleventh to work on the ramp, but the Ninth and Fifth had joined them. The Fifteenth had been assigned to the engineers and had been churning out vineae, as well as a giant, ten storey siege tower, even before the new legions had arrived. The Eighth had been given the completed vineae and had created a series of safe, covered accesses to the higher slopes all around that more accessible north-eastern approach. The surroundings of Uxellodunon had been a hive of activity before the Tenth and Eleventh had arrived, but now it had intensified.

Cries up ahead confirmed that Atenos’ men were taking the latest in a long catalogue of batterings from the walls. An entire century of the Fifth had been given the huge, thick wicker shields and had formed a defence against the archers, but they were clearly proving inadequate. Every now and again, though the Gauls kept their arrow storm slow and careful to preserve ammunition, they would suddenly launch into a flurry and a dozen legionaries would be escorted back down the ramp either dead, with shafts jutting from crucial places, or gritting their teeth and hissing in pain, arrows wedged in limbs or shoulders, helmets wedged onto their heads with horrific dents from the thrown boulders.

Atenos peered up the ramp. The wicker shields moved and parted and then solidified once more. He could just make out the tall stone that marked the position of the enemy spring. This had better work. This morning alone, the Tenth had lost just shy of a hundred men, with twice that number injured. It was like target practice for the Cadurci up there. And the Tenth had got off lightly. Last night – the general had them working through the night too – the Ninth had lost one hundred and sixty two men, with more than three hundred injured. It was fast crippling the legions.

Still, they were nearly there, though what use the ramp and mound would be was beyond Atenos. Taking the spring was going to be costly and hard, even with the tower, but holding it against the enemy for any length of time, let along long enough to starve them out was just unfeasible. Last night the enemy had forayed and managed to take in three barrels of water while the Ninth were reeling from the assault.

‘What do you suppose they’re doing?’ murmured Decumius, his third centurion, pointing at the line of vineae off to their right. Several dozen legionaries were gathering beneath the shelter, not far from the works at the spring.

‘A gold coin to the man who can reveal the mind of Caesar,’ grunted Atenos.

‘Uh oh. Look out, sir. Senior officer approaching.’

Atenos turned back down the slope to see a tribune approaching, wearing a worried expression, probably due to his proximity to the enemy archers’ range markers. The two men saluted.

‘Centurions. Which of you is Atenos?’

The big Gaulish officer, senior centurion of the Tenth, took a pace forward. ‘That would be me, sir.’

‘Compliments of the general. He is pleased with your speed and asks whether the ramp is complete enough to take the tower? The
sacerdos
has read signs all morning and informs us that there will be a downpour this afternoon, so the general is of a mind to begin the action with all haste.’

Atenos sighed and nodded. ‘Apart from some dressing, it can be done, sir. There will be a couple of places near the top that might not be adequately compacted yet, but the engineers tell me that such things can be circumvented with the use of heavy planks. With enough manpower we’ll do it, sir.’