S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

The centurion lowered his voice to a whisper.

“And beggin’ your pardon sir, I know they’re new men, good lads all of ‘em, but they’re not strong enough trained to handle dirty fighting sir.”

Fronto nodded. He shouted to the man leading his horse.

“Soldier, get on that horse and ride upstream to the first fort. Find the centurion in charge there and tell him to send help. Any surplus troops they have from the Eighth, and the unit of Cretan auxiliary archers and Spanish slingers I saw in reserve. Tell him legate Fronto of the Tenth requested it.”

He turned back to Bassianus. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Get every reserve man here to collect the shields from the dead. You’re going to get your men back up onto that wall, with every second man using two shields, protecting the ones in between. The soldiers in between are going to take all these long spears that have been thrown over the wall and use them to stab down at the barbarians below. You only have to keep them occupied and keep their numbers down and your own men protected until the archers from the Eighth get here. Then use them in the same way to take out their archers on the other bank. I’m going to head on toward the Twelfth. If I find anyone else that can help, I’ll send them back. If the Twelfth aren’t too pressed I’ll arrange relief.”

As Fronto set off west at a jog, the men of the Eleventh around him began collecting up spears and shields.

Velius was beginning to wonder if the legate would be turning up at all. He was starting to get very tense. About ten minutes ago, a whole load of Helvetii had been seen on the other bank, moving between the trees and undergrowth. There was something going on, and it must be going on all the way down the line. The tint in the water was still going strong, and it was far too concentrated to be coming from miles away by the lake.

There must be a fight going on somewhere upstream, but not too far. Velius gripped his sword until his knuckles went white. Please don’t let it be the flank of the Twelfth. If there was a fight going on there, then there must be something happening up by Caesar’s encampment near the lake. Now that there was activity here, Velius would be prepared to wager money there was action further downriver too. There were fords down there, and the fringes of the Twelfth, along with two cohorts of the Eighth, would have to defend them well. Somewhere out on that end was Longinus with his cavalry. The man had ridden past at high speed not long after Velius had received word that it had begun. He hoped Longinus was up to it; hoped he was even still here and not lost out in the woods.

What was happening with the Eleventh? He hadn’t had a report from anyone recently. Suddenly there was a creaking noise and a tremendous splash. Glancing over the top of the wall, Velius saw a tall tree bobbing on the water, reaching halfway across the river. As he watched, another tree came down with a crash, parallel with the first. What the hell were they up to? The centurion was fairly sure he wasn’t alone in having assumed that these barbarians were the sort to charge blindly against an enemy. He certainly hadn’t expected engineering.

His worst fears were born out when, a moment later, wooden rafts began to slide down the impromptu ramp; rafts that were tied together with rope. They were building a bloody bridge! Anger rose rapidly in Velius. They were using Roman techniques, against the legions. Weren’t barbarians supposed to be stupid? He ran to the highest point.

“Get all the javelins up here, and bring the archers in from the redoubt. I want every missile we have dropped in those thickets on the other bank, now! Before they get that bridge across. I don’t much care for this type of fighting, but I’m damned if they’re going to get past the Twelfth. I want men packed shoulder-deep on the wall, and all reserves up in four solid rows on the bank ready to take their place or, at the worst, take care of incursions. I…”

Velius fell silent and his head dropped to stare at the shaft sticking out of his chest. With a deep reverberating noise, the arrow had struck home just beneath his collar bone and driven in until it touched the inside of his shoulder blade. He touched it gingerly, his face registering neither pain nor fear but merely surprise. Blood welled up around the shaft as it moved. Using his other arm to take off his scarf, he wound it round the arrow shaft and tied it around his arm and neck to hold the arrow steady. Having temporarily secured it, he looked up.

No one had moved.

“What the hell do you think you’re staring at? Get moving. I gave you orders.”

As the men moved to obey, a capsarius, drafted in from the Tenth at Aquileia to the new legion, came running up the slope to Velius.

“Looks deep sir. It’s not near anything vital, but we should get you to the hospital tent as soon as possible to avoid excessive blood loss.”

Velius flashed a humourless smile at the capsarius.

“Just pad it and we’ll break it off a few inches out. There’s no way I can go anywhere while there’s no legate here. You really want me to put an untrained junior in command?”

The capsarius sighed. “I do wish you officers would occasionally trust our judgement. We don’t do this for a laugh, you know, sir?”

“Hmph!”

Another sigh. “You’ll suffer some fairly severe discomfort sir, and I strongly recommend that as soon as the legate gets here, you get down to a doctor.”

Five minutes later, Velius was back on the top of the wall, waving his vine staff with his one good arm, the other strapped to his side. Looking down over the side, he could see that the raft bridge had almost reached the bank, though the fire from the scrub and trees had all but disappeared under the constant hail of missiles from the wall.

As the centurion watched, a tall and powerfully built man, red hair and beard flowing behind him like a mane, came running out of the brush and onto the raft bridge, his long strides taking him from one vessel to the other easily. Velius held up his hand and the firing stopped.

“One shot from one man. In the head. Let’s give these hairy bastards something to think about.”

There was a moment of muttering among the legionaries on the wall, and then an optio, one of the precious few veterans in the Twelfth, stepped up to the front, carrying a javelin. Weighing it carefully and squinting along the line to the point, he hefted the weapon and raised it, standing sidelong with the point close to his chin.

“Give the word sir.”

The barbarian was getting close to the shore by now, a sword in each hand, one Roman gladius, and one Gaulish blade.

“Now, I would say.”

The missile arced out over the wall and caught the barbarian mid-leap between two rafts. Striking him just beneath the jaw, the point drove the man bodily backwards in mid-air, to pin him to the raft behind. A small crowd of Helvetii that had massed near the other end of the rafts pulled hurriedly back beneath cover.

Velius laughed. “Good man. Go tell the quartermaster that I want any heavy rocks he can lay his hands on brought up to the wall as soon as possible. And while you’re there, draw some wine from supplies. Tonight you’re excused duty and you’ll need it.”

“Rocks, Sir?”

Velius’ grin had turned vicious. I’ll need heavy rocks to collapse that thing while they come across it. No fun doing it now.”

Night was beginning its descent when Fronto finally arrived at the command redoubt of the Twelfth. A cheer went up as he jogged past the first of the main detachments from the legion, puffing and panting for all he was worth. He saw a square of guttering torches near the centre of the tents, by the bottom of the slope. Velius stood with three other centurions and a number of soldiers gathered around him. Fronto could hear him doling out orders in a clear, no-nonsense voice as he approached. Smiling, he ducked behind the last tent and watched Velius as he concluded his briefing. He was glad he wasn’t one of those who’d just had a chewing out for not reporting their situations regularly. He wondered for a moment whether he sounded like that when he gave briefings.