Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (43 page)

Once they were all outside, the centurion nodded with apparent satisfaction, concealing his shaky nerves.

“Right. Let’s go. Remember everything we agreed.”

As they strode across the grass of the camp, Cantorix noted the watching faces of the many legionaries who stood beside their tents. Many held a look of vague, unintentional contempt. Others, though, nodded respectfully, fully aware of what these ragged men were about to attempt.

The rear gate of the camp opened as they approached, without the need for orders, and the legionaries on guard saluted as they passed. Cantorix peered into the gloom as he broke into a jog, the light from the torches and braziers in the camp fading behind him.

He was impressed, as they reached the bottom of the slope and made for the eaves of the nearby woodland, at the singular lack of noise the men around him made. They moved like cats in the night, hardly a twig cracking when they passed among the boles of the trees. After a few minutes the silence became oppressive and the centurion cleared his throat, speaking in his native Gallic tongue.

“Alright. I think we’ve probably come far enough south. Let’s cut west and make our way round. Feel free to talk, but only in low voices. We’re supposed to be refugees and bandits, after all, not thieves. But remember to watch what you’re saying.”

He took a deep breath. “And don’t try to put on any kind of accent. It’ll just end up sounding stupid and obvious. We’ll just have to hope that they don’t know the Veneti accent that well. We’re more than a hundred miles from their lands, so that wouldn’t surprise me.”

“You all need to talk; we spoke about that before. We’re not supposed to be soldiers, so act just like you would expect fleeing Veneti warriors to. Just leave the initial explanation of matters to me. Feel free to chip in with bits and pieces, but don’t get too creative.”

The man grinned.

“Oh I know. Art of any scam’s keepin’ it simple as possible. So’s not to trip yerself up.”

The centurion smiled. “Precisely. So
everyone
should talk.”

“’cept Villu, ‘course.”

Cantorix glared at the man’s poor taste in jokes, and glanced across at the afore-mentioned man, who was grinning wide and displaying the messy hole where his tongue should be, result of some unknown incident many years ago.

“Come on.”

Listening to the general conversation as they moved speedily through the woodland, the centurion began finally to relax a little. He had to admit that, to his own untrained ear at least, they sounded every bit the band of Gallic brigands. But then, truth be told, when you took away the mail and the tunic, that was very much what they were.

No surprise really that they were treated the way they were by the other legions. He resolved to try, once this was over, to get these men to mingle more with the other legions. Closing the cultural rift would require effort on both sides, after all.

He was still pondering on what could be done for the Fourteenth when they reached the edge of the woodland and gazed out across the open grass to the walls of Crociatonum, the fort they had so recently left rising from the crest of the impressive hill off to the right.

“Alright. Let’s run. Try to look relieved.”

Breaking into a fast pace as they left the trees, the fifteen men sped across the open land, keeping low and moving like a pack of wolves on the hunt. They were perhaps four hundred yards from the walls when the shout went up from within.

Warily, mindful of the possibility of missiles being hurled at them before any opportunity was given to explain themselves, the unit slowed and raised their arms, indicating the fact that their hands were empty of weapons. They continued to walk like that toward the town’s solid gate until, perhaps ten yards out and without the need for an order, the unit came to a stop.

Cantorix, listening carefully, could just make out the noise of urgent discussion behind the gate. Screwing his eyes shut momentarily, he took a deep breath.

“For Belenus’ sake, let us in. There’s thousands of Romans a cat’s fart away!”

He couldn’t stop himself flinching, but managed to stay steady and not drop to the ground in case of missile fire. Straightening, he threw an angry glare in the direction of the optio who was stifling a small laugh.

“Who are you?” called a voice from an unseen figure above the gate.

“I’m Cantorix of the Veneti!”

There was another muffled exchange and finally a figure appeared above the gate, tall and powerful, wearing bronze helm and a chain mail shirt, a heavy blade in his hand.

“You bring us a message?”

Good; a chance. “A message? Shit,
yes
, I bring you a message. Let us in and get ready for the sky to fall.”

“I’m not bloody proud of it, but yes” Cantorix snapped. “Now will you let us
in
? There was a lot of activity in that fort when we came past, and I don’t want to be standing in the open playing with myself when they decide to come and stand on my throat.”

He had to force himself not to smile as the urgent voices muttered again, a little louder and with a note of panic. The leader tilted his head to one side; a sign of worry, perhaps?

“Activity? What activity?” he asked.

“A lot of men moving around late at night and clanking stuff. Sounds a lot like the army of bastards we’ve had nipping our heels all the way. You wouldn’t believe how fast those bastards can move when they want to!”

“And you said Caesar is a day away?”

“Yes, now let us
in
!”

“Where are the rest of the survivors?”

“How the hell should
I
know? Some left by ship and headed for the Osismii. Others fled into the woods to hide. It was chaos. The Romans enslaved most of the survivors. A few of us got out ahead of them to bring warning to the other tribes. We’ve been running for four days.”

There was another pregnant pause as Cantorix held his breath and finally, after an age of nerves had passed, the gates of Crociatonum crept slowly open.

Chapter 14

(Iunius: Sabinus’ camp, near Crociatonum.)

“That’ll be the bulk to help fill in the ditches so they can get to us quicker. Sensible idea under most circumstances, but I’m not sure that if I were their leader I would have sent them running up a steep slope carrying them.”

The legate sighed.

“I wish you’d let me use the fire arrows and set fire to them while they’re running. It’d scare the hell out of them.”

“No. They must think we’re leaving and not prepared for this. You warn them while they’re still a mile off and we’ll lose the small chance we have. Besides, we only have a few archers and precious little ammunition, so we can’t waste it. Stick to the plan.”

They returned to looking down the long slope, soldiers and officers of three legions stretched out along the ramparts to either side of them, mostly crouched out of sight, the occasional man standing at the wall, giving the impression of a badly defended palisade. The Unelli would expect the bulk of the Roman force to be at the rear gates, preparing to march.

The Gaulish force, enormous and chaotic, came on at a surprising speed, given the gradient of the approach. The front runners among them carried huge bundles of faggots and wood, those behind ready with their swords and spears, and all ran swift as the wind, desperate to overcome these invading foreigners before they had the chance to join with an even larger army.

Buccinas blared and, in a carefully organised manoeuvre, other soldiers appeared at the wall, standing from where they crouched, creating the illusion that the warning of attack had gone up and men were being rushed to a hurried defence.

Silently they continued to watch, faked commotion all around them, and the confederation of northern tribes, along with their allied refugees, bandits and vagabonds ran ever upwards, bellowing their defiance, their anger and their determination to rid Armorica of the Roman presence. Sabinus’ gaze strayed to the ground before them and he noted carefully the location of the marker. All along the hillside, these markers stood in a line, crimson against the green; small enough to be unnoticed by the attacking mass and just large enough for the men of the legions to locate when concentrating.

Fixing his eyes on the red mark, he nodded with relief as the front ranks of Gauls raced past it, hurrying up the hill. He risked a quick glance up to the faces of the approaching warriors and was gratified to see the heaving, laboured breaths the enemy were now taking as they approached the Roman position, their faces red and sweating with exertion.

For a moment he worried that he had lost the marked position as his eyes wandered back and forth, but it took only a moment to pick it up from the terrain, without being able to see the crimson mark beneath the stomping boots of the Celts. Almost ready… the Gauls were perhaps two hundred yards from the outer ditch.

He watched, tense, as the Gaulish throng passed over the spot he had kept in mind and, finally, squinting, he saw the bright red mark emerge once again between the heads of the charging Gauls, at the back of the mob.

Turning to Galba, he noted relief in the face of the legate.

“First stage: fire!”

At the shout, a dozen archers, part of the small complement of auxiliaries accompanying them, rose above the parapet, the tips of their arrows already flaming, aimed and released in a smooth action before retreating below the palisade once more.

The fiery missiles arced out over the heads of the Gallic army, now so exhausted and obsessed that they hardly paid any heed to the act until the arrows came down behind them, several striking the hillside along the line of crimson markers and only a few going astray.

The swathe of ground where they struck, amid the deep, dry grass, held small pockets of pitch that had been carefully distributed the previous night, small enough to go unnoticed by the Gallic army as they ran past and across them, some inevitably coating the bottom of running boots, but most remaining in place.

In several locations across the slope, pockets of pitch caught, the fire spreading into the dry grass, quickly igniting the next and, within moments, a curtain of flame extended across the hill behind the Gauls, effectively sealing off their retreat.

Largely due to the sheer size of the attacking army and its lack of organisation, most of the enemy failed even to notice the move, the few at the back who did going unheard by the rest. A veritable sea of bodies rushed up toward the ramparts and their encircling ditches. Sabinus watched, his breath held, as the front lines cast their burdens of sticks and brush into the ditches.

“Second stage!”

In a fluid move, a dozen legionaries along the length of the wall reached out and grasped the burning torches that had been used to ignite the arrows and climbed up to the parapet. As they emerged above, the huge Gallic army was already pouring across the filled ditches. Each legionary took careful aim, identifying a spot where a gap opened up and casting their torches almost in unison.

The flaming missiles dropped among the Gauls who were too consumed by a combination of exhaustion and desperate blood lust to pay too much attention to a small number of falling weapons. The flaming torches landed among the dry brush infill beneath their feet and it took only moments for the fire to catch, wood and dried undergrowth spitting into orange life and spreading the fire rapidly. Within moments a swathe in the midst of the huge army was consumed by the roaring inferno, a small number of men trapped between the burning ditches and the rampart.