S. Turney - The conquest of Gaul

He was just considering pushing some kind of offensive, sending a couple of centuries out across the ford to try and relieve some of the pressure, when one of the legionaries nearby called out and pointed across the river. Following his direction, Petreius twitched with excitement.

Longinus and his skirmish cavalry had arrived. Not only that, but they had come through light forest and fallen upon the rear ranks of the Helvetii before the barbarians even knew they were there. In an instant the barbarians turned from fierce pride to panic and fear. Petreius ordered a concerted volley of javelins and arrows from the wall, and the Helvetii, trapped between the cavalry and the wall, fell like wheat before the scythe. Those that could escape east or west along the bank of the river did so, fleeing with no sense of order. The rest would never make it back to their comrades. Petreius turned to face the tired and beleaguered men of the Eighth Legion, a mad grin on his face.

“This is it lads. Open the gate and let’s get onto those fords and draw some serious blood.”

He turned once more to glance across the river. In the flickering light, Longinus and his cavalrymen moved like birds in flight, their blades raising and swooping, red and gleaming.

Velius and the primus pilus of the Eleventh surveyed the scene in front of them from the top of the wall. A senior centurion of the Eighth stood a couple of yards away.

There had been no sign of Tetricus when he’d arrived and, when Velius had questioned the leading centurion, he’d been told that no one had seen the tribune for over an hour.

The initial flurry of missiles from the opposite shore had been astounding. Like a swarm of hornets, the arrows and spears filled the sky, black against the dark blue curtain of night. A fair number of soldiers had fallen foul of the barrage and had continued to do so, even though the strength of the volleys had begun to wane. A defensive force three or four times the size of that the Helvetii expected waited patiently and quietly beneath the walls, shields interlocked above their heads. Waiting for the attack.

The eyes of the Eleventh’s leading centurion kept straying to the blood-soaked bandage around Velius’ arm and chest. He seemed to be fascinated.

“What’s the matter, centurion?”

The man jolted and met the eyes of the Tenth’s training officer. Despite the fact that he officially outranked Velius, he had been nothing but polite and deferential since they had arrived.

“I’ve been in plenty of battles in my time, and I’ve seen wounds like that put a man out of action for a month. Yet here you are, hours later and still on your feet directing the men. I’m just impressed is all.”

Velius sneered, though without real feeling.

“I haven’t got time to be wounded. Got to show the men that you’re impregnable. Only way they’ll ever follow you into the lion’s mouth.”

Velius ducked his head very slightly for another volley; then another; and finally, as a hail of arrows punched their way into the palisade, a mass of barbarian shapes plunged out of the scrub and into the river. There were so many that they bore a resemblance to ants from the top of the wall. Velius was wondering what they hoped to achieve when he saw the ropes. A large number of warriors were swimming the river, but they held ropes that trailed off up the opposite bank and out of site in the bushes.

Finally, the other ends of the ropes appeared, four of them hauling an entire tree trunk. A battering ram, as Velius immediately realised. The rest pulled smaller branches and roughly-hewn planks. He turned to the primus pilus.

“They’re going to fill in the ditch with wood and try to barge a hole in the palisade. What are your orders, sir?”

The primus pilus of the Eleventh, newly raised from the centurionate of the Seventh looked up in surprise. “What do you think we need to do? You’re the man who trained this lot. What can we do?”

Velius grabbed the primus pilus by the scarf beneath his chin and hauled him up until their noses almost touched.

“The tribune’s vanished and you’re the senior centurion. That means you’re in charge of this bloody legion. You’re supposed to be a leader. Now lead !” he growled.

The primus pilus raised his voice, trying to cover the slight tremble in it.

“All missiles on the wall pick off those swimmers.”

Velius’ eyes rolled skywards.

“Alright. Here’s what you do. Form everyone who’s not on the wall into three units, and make sure they’re armed to the teeth and carry full body shields. Keep them ready and out of sight. As soon as you know where they’re going to cross the ditch and punch through the wall, let them. As soon as they have a gap, they’ll come through, and you can box them in with three units of heavy infantry. The phrase is ‘rats in a trap’. It’s just about over.”

The primus pilus grinned. “You see? That’s thinking. We must talk, Velius, when this is over.” Velius looked up to see the centurion from the Eighth smiling over at him, and that was the last thing Velius saw before everything went black, and the waking world slid away from him.

(On the western road from Geneva)

“ Furca: T-shaped pole carried by legionaries which held all their standard travelling kit.”

“ Scorpion, Ballista amp; Onager: Siege engines. The Scorpion was a large crossbow on a stand, the Ballista a giant missile throwing crossbow, and the Onager a stone hurling catapult.”

The road was dusty and dry. Despite a late start to the spring, the weather had been kind. The storms of March had given way to rain and then gentle showers during early April. These had now abated and the last week had been dry, the sun gradually growing in heat and strength. Since the legions had foiled the advance of the Helvetii and the barbarians had been forced to find another route, the three legions had marched for the last week and a half, out of the Alps, and down toward the lower lands nearer the mouth of the Rhone. Then, one morning, the scouts had reported back that the Seventh, Ninth and Tenth Legions were less than three miles away and marching on a path of convergence. North of the Rhone, they had met and the six legions had turned, a fearsome army, to march west toward the Saone and the crossings into Gaul. The heavy drum of footsteps in perfect time, stretching simultaneously over nearly four miles of road with close to forty thousand men had become a constant drone, and the choking clouds of dust and grit thrown up by the marching feet had formed a steady haze through which the army moved.

There was another fight coming their way, and everyone knew it. To begin with, Caesar and the senior officers had tried to keep the situation confined to planning sessions and strategy meetings but by now even the common soldiery could not be kept blind to the groups of tribesmen moving among the hills and keeping pace with the army. Three of the local tribes had allied with the Helvetii who, by ingratiating flattery and by use of familial connections, had gained passage through the narrow pass in the mountains.

For the last four days, the legions had been ordered to march in tighter formation with full equipment and the artillery and support wagons for each legion following up directly. Every night now the army spent two hours creating a well-defended and neatly organised marching camp.

Fronto made a point of travelling at the head of the Tenth, close to Priscus who, as primus pilus, marched at the front of the legion. Fronto couldn’t help but smile. There was a fight coming, but this time he would be back with the Tenth, and it would be the Roman way. Open ground, fully manoeuvrable legions in proper formation. No skulking behind walls and hiding from archers. Any battles the army engaged in on this journey would be ten to one in favour of Rome; five to one at worst. With Longinus leading mounted scouts out and about within five miles of the army, there was no likelihood of the army being taken by surprise. They would have at a minimum thirty minutes warning of an enemy attack. May Fortune help any barbarian force brave enough to challenge them.