S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

As the legionary ran to find a horse, Fronto and Velius took another look over the parapet. A flaming arrow whistled by, close enough to light up the centurion’s face.

“Look sir. Over there. Must be a thousand of them.”

Fronto followed his gesture and saw the huddles of men, moving low to the ground.

“They’re probably pushing the other side, at the hill where the line ends. They’ve got to be disheartened after yesterday, and they must realise that they’ll never get through picking at us bit by bit. They’ve got to make one big push; all or nothing. I’d lay bets most of the tribe is gathering near the point where the Eleventh are weakest and at the far end, while the Eleventh are sending as many men as they can spare to help us here. I’d love to know what’s happening elsewhere. They might be trying to get across the fords down by the end of the wall. I hope Longinus is on top of it. I’ll bet something impressive like this is happening up by the lake too. They’ll have to keep Caesar distracted.”

Velius drew himself up as best he could while staying below the defences. “You can cope with anything they throw at you here, sir. The centurions know what to do as well as you. Let me take everyone we can spare and help the Eleventh. Tetricus may be a senior officer, but he’s no battle experience. They’re my responsibility until they’re fully trained and can carry their own eagle.”

Fronto deliberated for only a moment.

“Alright, centurion. Do it.”

Velius charged off in the wake of the dispatch rider, shouting the names of various centurions and optios, gathering whatever force he felt the legion could spare. A number of men were moving around the camp putting out fires, dousing everything flammable with buckets of water, and removing bodies from sight.

The wall was now packed with legionaries, all fully equipped and crouched below the top. Fronto looked around and saw the young optio who had addressed him earlier giving out orders to the men in a very professional fashion, ducking every now and then as a missile whistled over his head. He reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder.

“What’s your name optio?”

“Hortius, sir.”

“You seem to be remarkably together considering the situation.”

The optio nodded.

“I travelled everywhere with the legions when I was young sir. My father was a retired centurion, and he made a living as a blacksmith wherever the army settled for a year or more. I’ve seen pretty much everything sir.”

Fronto grinned.

“Stick close to me, Hortius. I may need your help.”

The two officers took another opportunity to peek over the palisade. The light and fast-moving barbarian force had gone from sight now, heading toward the defences of the Eleventh. The archers were still here and, judging by the increased flow of missiles, they were settling in for the night. Fronto glanced down. As yet they were making no attempt to cross the river.

“Hortius, keep everyone down, and return fire where possible, but on no account do we want to look like we’re besting them.”

“What?”

“We have a great opportunity here. We want to look pinned down, because they don’t know we’re reinforcing the Eleventh and that they’re walking into a trap. If we stop this lot too early, they’ll start to wonder if we know. The Eleventh need to look unprepared or the Helvetii might just give up and this’ll drag on for a lot longer.”

Hortius’ brows knitted above his nose, a worried look that Fronto recognised. “I hope you’re right, sir. If we send a sizeable part of our force to help the Eleventh and then they come at us, we’re in deep trouble.”

Fronto nodded. “I’m pretty sure. It’s what I’d do.”

Glancing back at the flaming arrows around the camp, he thought to himself ‘You’d just better be as bright as Caesar thinks you are.’

The fire in Caesar’s tent burned bright and the light reflected off the goblet in the general’s hand. Apart from the man himself, the tent’s only occupants were the two staff officers, Sabinus and Labienus, and legate Balbus, breathing heavily after his jog from the wall.

“Legate, what’s the latest news?”

Balbus relaxed into his chair. The last day or so had put an unusual physical strain on him and his legs were feeling a little shaky.

“There have been a number of attempts on the fords defended by the Sixth and Seventh Cohorts, though they’ve held firm. Longinus is spending most of his time with the cavalry on the other side of the river causing havoc among the enemy.”

“Good.” Caesar smiled. “And?”

“We’re having to deal with a small flotilla of boats attempting to cross the lake and come round behind us. Very flashy, but nothing to seriously worry about. I’ve sent a number of men under a centurion to bolster the Eleventh. I have a sneaking suspicion something’s up there. I gather Fronto had the same thought. My scout I sent with them for a report said that nearly a quarter of the Twelfth had been sent to support the Eleventh.”

Caesar steepled his fingers and smiled at Balbus. “And the Third Cohort up by the lake?”

“There’s been no signal from them, so no trouble there. Looks like they’re out of it completely.”

“Good. I expect the enemy will give up after tonight and try another way out.”

Baculus, the primus pilus of the Twelfth Legion, frowned worriedly. With half the legion under his direct command and a series of fords in the area, he’d been expecting a serious fight. His troops, green though they were, had been primed and ready and itching for bloodshed. He could understand that. They were new, and they wanted to prove their worth. They had seen a few barbarians moving on the opposite bank, and had deflected or dodged the odd missile over the last few hours, but they seemed to have been forgotten. He sighed and returned to watching the river intently for any movement.

Fronto and Hortius sat below the level of the wall, playing with a pair of dice. The camp was now well organised, and twenty men patrolled with buckets of water, protected by shields. There was no fire in the camp, and the missile volleys had slowed again. Every half hour, Fronto ordered another concerted attack on the knot of Helvetii, to remind them they were still here, but all they could do now was wait. Once word was received that the Helvetii attack had failed, the Twelfth could mop up the archers across the river in minutes.

Balbus, sick of stalking the wall and watching the occasional Roman or barbarian die, made his way down to the lakeshore. Here, the contingent of siege engines from the Eighth had been active for quarter of an hour now, picking off boats crossing the lake. Almost every shot from ballista and catapult had hit directly. The legate addressed the centurion in charge.

“How’s it going?”

“Easy as target practice sir. Not one of them’s come within three hundred yards of the shore. I think there’s only about half a dozen left. Got to admire their spirit. They just keep coming, not giving up.”

“Let the others get to the beach. It’d do troop morale good if they got to have a proper fight. This to-ing and fro-ing is driving us all crazy.”

The Sixth and Seventh Cohorts of the Eighth Legion were being hard pushed by the fords. The Fourth and Fifth Cohorts upriver had suffered minor actions, but had sent more and more troops down to bolster their comrades. Even Marcus Petreius, the senior centurion on site had been surprised by the number and the sheer bravery of the barbarians who had swept into view as soon as he’d received word that the Twelfth were under attack. They had been fighting for the fords, and had been winning ground all night. Petreius’ men kept fighting them back, but the defences were slowly becoming compromised. The barbarians kept throwing their dead into the ditch and now the sharpened stakes in the bottom were all but gone beneath the pile of bodies. Petreius knew his tactics and his men well enough to know that the Helvetii still didn’t stand a chance, but the Eighth were losing a lot of men and, at this rate the legion would be thinned out considerably before the barbarians gave up.