Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (23 page)

Cicero dithered for a moment and by the time he nodded his acceptance of the choice Pullo was already gone up the slope, catching up with the foremost men of the Seventh. Briefly the legate cursed the loss of Furius and Fabius and the arrival of their replacements from the Thirteenth, but he could hardly kid himself that Furius would have made any other decision. No officer had more knowledge, skill, or authority in the thick of battle than a veteran centurion, and only a stupid legate would ignore their advice. Putting his heels to his horse, he urged the beast up the slope.

* * * * *

Priscus reached the first tree trunk with a great deal of relief, though that was tempered a little as he looked back and saw the bodies littering their wake. More than a dozen men, in fact. More like a score of them. Satrius immediately began to give the orders to his men, and three contubernia lined up as best they could in the woodland, their shields presenting a wall against the odd stray shot coming from the deep forest where the straggling archers took an opportunistic pot shot.

There was the distinct possibility the enemy might reform, and so a good number of men had to create a shieldwall to protect the rest. Even as Priscus looked across the open ground, noting the fact that Carbo's century appeared to be mirroring the activity at the far tree line, he realised they were not 'out of the woods yet' so to speak. Some half a mile up the slope already the Seventh appeared - perhaps out of some mad lust for glory - to be launching a full scale attack on the hilltop fort. Behind them, the Briton cavalry and chariots had come very close to catching the rear of the legion, but had been prevented from pursuing them by the gradient of the last quarter-mile of slope.

Clever. He belatedly realised that Cicero had examined the poorly-defended camp and the mass of vehicles and horse, and had shrewdly decided that the former was the safer option. He was taking the camp not because he wanted to, but because he had to. The alternative was likely destruction.

Of course, that had freed the Britons' vehicles and horsemen to turn to their other threat.

Even as Priscus watched, the mass of cavalry and chariots was already beginning to thunder down the slope towards the rest of the army.

Decision time: To re-cross the river, re-join the rest of the army and leave the Seventh to it? Harsh on Cicero's men, but so long as they achieved the fort, they could probably hold it until the army found another crossing point elsewhere. Or to stay where they were and try to hold off the mass of cavalry and chariots while the rest of the army crossed? Extremely hazardous, of course.

He found his gaze wandering along the bank opposite and smiled at what he saw.

His newly-raised tribunes, Furius and Fabius, were attacking the problem with the sharpness and decisiveness of veteran centurions, not the dithering foolishness of most of their rank. The two men had split the rest of the Tenth legion and were moving them both ways along the bank, sending their men across the river within the protection of the forest to either side, where they ran the risk of meeting fleeing archers who could cause damage, but where they could safely assemble on the north side among the trees without having to withstand cavalry charges or chariot attacks. It was a playoff of potential dangers against definite ones, and Priscus approved wholeheartedly.

"Alright, gentlemen. The rest of the Tenth will be joining us presently. Break up that rear-facing shieldwall and get back here to the treeline. As soon as those horses and chariots get here, I want every pilum we have thrown in among them to keep them milling about. They can't cross the river and they can't enter the woods, so we should be able to hold them off. As soon as you've thrown your pilum, start hurling rocks and logs at them. If you find a discarded bow or sling, pick it up and use it. Whatever we can to keep them disorganised."

"Why disorganised, sir? What can they do to us here?"

Priscus eyed the young legionary - he had not seen him before. A new recruit, then.

"Because as soon as they organise, they'll dismount and come at us on foot. Then the odds'll be about ten to one in their favour, so we have to keep 'em busy until the rest of our boys join us. Come on."

* * * * *

Pullo rushed up the steepening incline. Vorenus, just ahead, was yelling commands that formed each century into a testudo. It slowed the advance considerably, but the defenders had kept a few archers and slingers at the hill top and they, added to the bulk of the warriors hurling random stones down, were creating a veritable hail of missiles.

There was at least four hundred paces to go yet to the crest, and the gradient was gruelling. The men were beginning to flag and lose heart, knowing they were cut off from the rest of the army. Somewhere back there Caesar would be fuming at the hold up.

With a manic grin, Pullo stepped out into the open, ignoring the falling missiles, despite the fact that three of the smaller ones bounced from his mail shirt.

"Five amphorae of wine and a week excused duties for the first century over the top!"

He laughed at the sudden surge of enthusiasm as the half dozen centuries that led the assault suddenly pushed hard up the slope, the rest - still forming testudos below - rushing to catch up in the desire to collect such a valuable prize.

Caught up in the surge of spirit, Pullo fell in behind his century, already one of the leading units. The ground was eaten up pace by pace at a surprising speed, the only thing to mar the splendour of such a glorious assault being the legionaries caught by lucky shots. Every five heart-beats or so there would be a shriek and another body would fall out of formation and tumble back down the slope, his helmet a flattened, concave mess of blood and hair where a heavy stone had smashed his skull or an arrow jutting from beneath the chin of a surprised legionary face.

Death went hand in hand with victory in the legions. Attachments were formed between friends, but no legionary ever called a man friend without the underlying knowledge that the next morning they might be withdrawing his funeral costs from the kitty and divvying up his gear.

Pullo was no green recruit. He silently wished well to every man who fell as he ran, but his eyes and his mind remained locked on that bank ahead. The earthen rampart had been hastily bolstered by the addition of intertwined branches and felled tree trunks. A poor defence even against their own kind of disorganised mob. Against a legion of trained soldiers?

The primus pilus grinned as he selected a spiky haired head jutting up from the defences as his first target…

Afterwards, Pullo would forget which century was first over the defences. It was Vorenus who distributed the wine; he who had watched that first man over the wall.

Pullo, however, had only the vaguest memories of the battle. As he neared the top of the slope, a sling stone hit him a glancing blow in the forehead that skimmed past his temple drawing blood and tearing out his hair until it lodged painfully inside his helmet, just above the cheek piece. The capsarius would later tell him just how lucky he was to be alive.

All
he
could remember was the sudden stunning blow and then the resulting loss of temper.

He had taken out his anger on the defenders, not even pausing long enough to loosen his helmet and dislodge the stone. As he had clambered across a sycamore trunk, sharpened branch ends sticking out, he had gone to work with his gladius, plunging it again and again into the panicked Britons defending the bank.

It might have been the unexpectedness of the attack that broke the enemy. It might have been the sheer voracity of the Roman force. It might have been the crazed bloodthirstiness of their senior centurion as he ripped and tore, stabbed and sliced his way into the fort's central space. Whatever the reason, before even the last of the Seventh legion were over the bank, the defenders had broken and run for it. Whooping, cheering Romans went to chase on down the far slopes of the fort as the defenders fled for the woodlands, only stopping as their centurions bellowed threats. Even then, the jeering invaders picked up the defenders' own rocks and hurled them down on the survivors, smashing and dismembering the fleeing Britons as they ran.

For Pullo the attack ended as the adrenaline surge passed and he sank to his knees in the grass, sprayed with blood and gore, his sword crimson right to the pommel, his dented helmet still trapping the slingshot against his bruised skull.

* * * * *

The sun rose on a scene of blustery tranquillity that sat at odds with the night's activity. The trill of waxwings and the buzz of bees accompanied the muted shrieks of the wounded as the capsarii worked on them and the buzz of flies around the pile of Briton corpses at the far end of the hilltop.

Tribune Furius, tired but hale, strode across the grass, his face a mask of grave concern, the Belgic scout who had arrived at the camp a few moments ago scurrying along at his heel. He paused as he passed a capsarius working on an officer.

"Nice work last night" he commented.

Pullo looked up, his vision slightly hampered by the linen wrap being wound round his head by the young man.

"I won't let it go to my head" he grimaced as the capsarius pulled the wrap tight.

On Furius strode again, his gaze fixed on the small knot of senior officers standing outside the front doorway of one of the sparse collection of huts which made up the farm that occupied this end of the fort. Caesar was deep in conversation with Priscus and Cicero. Of the other commanders there was no sign - the Ninth and Eleventh had been sent out to try and track down the survivors who had fled the attack and both legions had been gone since before first light. The Tenth and Seventh, having carried out the bulk of the attack, had been granted the morning to rest and recover as they secured the hilltop. Once the two pursuing legions returned, the general would decide whether to move on or to return to the beach and consolidate before planning the next move.

Caesar was the first of the three to look up as Furius cleared his throat noisily. "Yes, tribune?"

Furius gestured to the scout to step forth in front of the general. The Gaul looked extremely nervous. It was not unknown for messengers to suffer at the hands of Caesar for delivering bad news.

"With respect, general," the man stuttered uneasily, "I bear greetings from Quintus Atius Varus, commander of the…"

"I know who he is!" snapped Caesar impatiently.

"Err… the commander regrets to inform the general that terrible winds in the channel last night caused collisions. Err…"

Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose and held up his hand to silence the man. The scout paused, looking nervous. "What is the damage?"

"Sir, the ships were riding at anchor out…"

"
What
is the
damage
?" the general repeated, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. Furius could quite imagine what was going through the general's mind. Almost exactly the same thing had happened the previous year and had wrecked the fleet, almost endangering their chances of returning to Gaul. The scout swallowed.

"Commander Varus has confirmed forty two ships lost and only five remain undamaged."

Caesar trembled, just once, and even Furius found that he had taken an involuntary step back. "This is
unacceptable
. Why were the ships not beached?"

The scout was now visibly shaking and Priscus and Cicero had subtly taken a step back to allow the general a little room. As the silence in lack of a reply became oppressive, Priscus sighed.

"With all respect, general, the only man with any real experience in this sort of thing is Brutus, and he's back in Gaul commanding the Eighth. No one in authority had given the order."

Silently, Furius allocated blame to the general himself, who had moved off into a hasty night time march and assault without securing the beach head first. Beaching the fleet had clearly been the general's order to give, but who would dare challenge Caesar. He wondered how Varus would fare as a result. There was little doubt that culpability would end with the senior man left in charge.

"Send out the scouts and recall the legions" Caesar barked at no one in particular. "We return to the coast to assess the damage and rebuild the fleet!"

As men scurried around to carry out the instructions, Priscus found himself watching the general trembling and wondered if this was how Fronto generally felt?

Britannia was clearly cursed. And this was only the opening fight of a campaign!

Chapter Seven

SEXTILIS

It was an impromptu gathering in that there were no musicians or poetry recitals or other trivial patrician ephemera, no two weeks of ladies planning what to wear or having the house moved around to make it 'just right'. Fronto glanced around the room and noted with a strategist's eye just how carefully Lucilia and Faleria had planned the seating. The pair of them next to one another and directly opposite Fronto, where they could watch his every move, make subtle motions and mouth words to him easily. Where they could best control him. Balbus and Galronus next to them on either side, where Faleria could rein her husband-to-be in at any time and Lucilia could guide her father's moods as she was often able. And next to Fronto? Galba and Rufus - two people who he respected and liked, but who owed him nothing and were unlikely to take his side automatically. It was as well planned as any battlefield he had ever seen.

He had not had a declaration of war - no blooded javelin jammed in the floor as he slept - but it had the feel of the girls preparing to take him on in battle.

The only thing that reassured him just a little was the fact that none of the other male guests looked particularly comfortable or sure of themselves either. Clearly none of them had been enlightened any more than Fronto.

Posco stood by the door as the household staff brought in the drinks - Fronto noted a distinct lack of wine; just fruit juice - and platters of cold meats and simple delicacies. Once they had delivered their wares they shuffled back out quickly, Posco bowing once and then, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving the nobles in the triclinium with no attendants. The two less regular visitors raised their eyebrows in surprise at the lack of slaves present.