Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (28 page)

Eight men lay dead or writhing from the onslaught, but seventy had survived, largely through their preparedness.

And then Priscus witnessed the latest in a long line of disasters engineered by the bastard Cassivellaunus.

The century - under Centurion Allidius if he wasn't mistaken - quickly formed up into a testudo exactly as Priscus would have ordered, had he been close enough, but then marched at double time to the treeline. That, Priscus would
not
have done. With the trouble and trickery of the Britons this past week, it paid to retreat in good order and re-form with the rest of the army.

Allidius, however, seemed dead-set on taking the fight to the natives who had pinioned a contubernium of his men. The sour-faced Sicilian had always pushed his men a little too far. Five years ago, Priscus remembered having been forced to rein the man in during the Helvetii battle as he had been about to break formation and push forward. And now the man had done it for the last time.

Priscus turned to the cornicen by his side, opening his mouth to demand the recall be blown, but his gaze had not left the century of men out by the woods and he realised all too quickly what little difference the call would make.

The men of Allidius' century charged on the men hidden among the boles of trees, bellowing their love of Rome and their hatred of the Britons, only to run directly into the covered trench that had been prepared lovingly for them and carefully lined with sharpened branches. Not a man of the unit escaped the trap, the second and third lines stumbling into the deep, wide pit on the heels of the first and plunging to their agonising death.

Even across two fields by the farmhouse, Priscus could hear the pained screaming. Already the natives had left the woodland and were plunging long spears down into the pit, killing the few active and dangerous survivors, but not bothering with those who would quickly die of their wounds.

"Sir?" the cornicen prompted.

"What?" snapped Priscus.

"Sound the rally? The charge?"

"No point. Poor bastards are already dead. Dead
and
stupid" he added bitterly. "By the time we muster and cross two fields those native arseholes will be half a mile away in the woods and lost to us. Just sound the muster and when the cohorts are in position we'll go and collect the bodies and head back to the army."

As Priscus stormed angrily away towards his horse and the cornicen blew the call, Furius strode across to his friend. "If we don't find and skewer this Cassivellaunus soon there'll be no one left to cross back to Gaul in our rebuilt fleet."

Fabius nodded. The list of the dead was lengthening, despite the low numbers falling to each individual incident. And with each fresh trouble and resultant burials, the army lost more heart.

Britannia truly was a cursed land.

* * * * *

"Priscus? Cicero? What do you see?"

The general sat atop his white steed on the rise above the river, hand across his brow, shading his eyes from the glare, calm and collected as though the entire campaign and journey had gone entirely according to his design.

Sitting on their own horses to one side of him, Priscus and Cicero shared a resigned, weary look. Neither of them was rolling around with enthusiasm at this point. They glanced across the wide Tamesis river at the north bank.

"Enemy horse and chariot wheeling around at the back" Cicero shrugged. "Most of the warriors on foot in the centre, close to the bank."

"Unseen, but almost certainly archers, slingers and spearmen hidden in the three or four small copses we can see over there" Priscus added.

"Your assessment?"

Cicero took a deep breath. Clearly, Caesar would not be happy to hear anything negative at this point in the push. "It will be an extremely hard fight. The men will have to slog across the river very slowly. This may officially be a ford, but it's still deep enough to drown a short man. All the way across they'll be in danger of enemy missiles with just their heads poking out. The other bank's as good as a fort's ramparts - a natural defence. Those infantry will cut to pieces anyone who reaches the far bank. Even if enough men make it in force to actually do any damage, there's not enough space for them to form up. In the vernacular, as Front… as the centurions would say: 'we're buggered seven ways from market day'."

Caesar's gaze hardened as he turned it on Priscus, who was nodding seriously. "They've set sharpened stakes along the far bank and - if you look carefully enough general - under the water too across the latter half of the ford. They're a death trap that'll need weeding out as we advance, which will risk ever higher casualties."

Caesar frowned. "You think it impossible?"

Cicero shrugged. "Nothing is impossible, general, other than making a vestal smile. But it
is
impractical. Can we not keep heading upriver and find a better crossing?"

Priscus shook his head. "Nearest crossing upriver is many days round, according to our information. And if they've got this place sewn up like a vestal's undergarments, I imagine they've some pretty unpleasant surprises for us there too. The way is here, but it's difficult."

His mind roved back over the past four days since the Tenth had lost a century of men in a farm. The endless cycle of loss and ambush had far from declined as they closed on the Briton's home ground, but rather had increased in intensity with each day. The one time the legions did seem to achieve the upper hand, routing a small enemy ambush of horse and chariot, they had pursued them, only to find half of Britannia waiting on the far side of the hill. Few men of that force had returned to tell the tale and the enemy had vanished by the time a punitive force hurried out to deal with them.

Worse still, a small force of particularly determined Britons had made a suicidally dangerous attack last night as the army made camp, aiming for the gap between two legions where a group of officers stood discussing the defences. Their attack was so small, swift and carefully aimed that they managed to cut down two centurions and Durus - a tribune of the Ninth - before any kind of force formed to stop them. Of perhaps a score of insurgents, more than a dozen managed to continue on out of the half-built camp and escape into the woods unharmed.

And now this.

Unhappily, Priscus peered into the water and then lifted his eyes to the massed enemy at the far side. No matter what they did, they would lose an unhealthy number of men today. Even putting aside the difficulties of the terrain, this was the largest force they had yet seen - though almost certainly not the full force of men that Cassivellaunus could call on - and it attested to the continually growing sureness and confidence of the natives that they felt they could face the invaders en masse now. Conversely, the legions slumped unhappily, following a week and a half of watching Charon dog their footsteps and now staring yet more death in the face. The morale level of the army would be very influential in any Roman assault.

They
would
win - there was little doubt in Priscus' mind about that. Rome had the advantage of numbers still, and the legions were disciplined enough that no matter how bad things became, they would do their duty even as they grumbled about it. But the losses would be appalling and would put any further campaigning in doubt.

"Then we will frighten them into submission" Caesar announced boldly.

"I beg your pardon?" Cicero frowned. Priscus turned his own surprised look on the general, who straightened and gestured at the ford - some ten feet wide.

"The ford is a killing zone, as you say" the general stated. "It is impeded with sharpened stakes, in much the same fashion as the whole of the far bank. It is deep and the legionaries will struggle across in constant danger from the enemy. At the far side they must deal with the enemy pushing back at them, and then they will have no room to form up. That is the essence of your observations, gentlemen?"

"It is, Caesar."

"Then we must do the unexpected. The unthinkable. We will commit to a charge with cavalry support."

"Caesar?" both men said at once.

"There is an interesting thing I have noted about fords. The water level is shallower there than the normal river bed, as you will note, but in addition upstream of any ford, the close stretch of river bed also becomes shallower over time. I know not whether this ford is a natural underwater causeway or a native construction of timber or stone, yet it matters not. Look upstream and you will see, if you look closely, that decades or even centuries of silting have built up the river bed against the ford to almost the same depth. That section is crossable almost as easily as the ford."

"Almost, Caesar, but it's still a little too deep. Even on the ford, men will only have their head above water. They'll drown there."

"The cavalry will not."

Priscus blinked. The thought hadn't occurred to him. With perhaps ten feet extra width, devoid of sharpened stakes, the cavalry would have a reasonable crossing alongside the infantry.

"They would still have to negotiate the river-bank stakes at the far side and the waiting Britons" Cicero countered, though his voice had taken on an almost eager note even as it voiced his concern.

"They will manage. They must."

Priscus nodded. "And if the cavalry can break the defenders at the bank, the legions will have time to remove the stakes and they'll have space to assemble. It
could
be done. We'll lose a lot of the cavalry, mind."

"Gauls are in almost infinite supply" Caesar replied drily. "And reducing their fighting numbers might be no bad thing if your fears are accurate."

Priscus sat back on his horse and glanced across at the auxiliary cavalry, extremely glad that Galronus was not here to be privy to such comments. It occurred to him as Caesar began to send out orders through the various message riders that a large proportion of the Briton leader's force had gathered here to stop the Romans in one major strike.

Given the nature of the sly bastard who ruled this group, the chances of he or his trusted companions actually being present was small, which meant that this was likely a force formed mainly of his allies under their own leaders. And if that was the case and the army could put the shits up them deeply enough, Rome might today have the opportunity to drive a few of the tribes away from their alliance, weakening Cassivellaunus' overall strength.

"Who gets to walk into the lion's den across the ford, general?" Priscus asked, nodding at the river.

Cicero straightened in his saddle. "I respectfully request that honour. My primus pilus and senior centurions have proved their valour recently."

Caesar tapped his lip. "That right could easily be claimed by the Tenth, Cicero. Or even the Ninth, who are also a veteran legion?"

Priscus could feel angry eyes boring into his back and turned slightly to see Furius and Fabius close by, both giving him a look that demanded he intervene. Again, the rivalry between they and the centurions in the Seventh was starting to spill over. Better not to pour any kind of fuel on that fire. Neither legion should take the honour. So perhaps the Ninth, or…

"Caesar, why not give the honour to the Eleventh? They recently lost their legatus to a Celt spear. They will be hungering for revenge and so far they've been in support."

Slowly, the general nodded. It was a sound idea.

"Cornicen? Signal the Eleventh to form at the river's edge beside the cavalry."

* * * * *

'Felix' - born Titus Mittius in a house of ill repute in Ravenna - looked down at the deep, fast waters of the Tamesis and fidgeted with the harness of medals that picked him out as a centurion. In fact, he was the primus pilus of the Eleventh and now, by his reckoning anyway - the third most senior, long serving centurion in the entire army. He had led the Eleventh since its formation at the outset of the war, but had served in senior centurion roles in the Ninth before that. His nickname  - 'the lucky' - was something of a joke among his peers, given the regularity with which he injured himself in curious and often idiotic ways or came a cropper through random acts of misfortune, but never had it impinged on his ability to do the job, and do it better than most other men could.

Today, particularly, he did not feel lucky.

Reaching across, he wrenched the small shield from the signifer's arm and cast it to the grass.

"Sir?"

"You'll need every ounce of strength to keep that standard aloft in the water. Besides, if I don't need a shield, neither do you."

The signifer nodded quietly, his eyes reflecting the same uneasiness Felix felt. It was an honour, of course. There would be awards and rewards for the first men across and the front position naturally went to the primus pilus. One thing that was missing from both his harness and his unit's standard was the mural crown for being first over the wall. Did that river bank count as a wall? It bloody well should!

Somewhere behind, the musicians blasted out the infantry advance, quickly followed by the call for double time. Double time? In neck-deep water? Who did the general think he was kidding?

"Right lads. Fast as you can."

Without further delay or thought, Felix dropped into the current, feeling the chilly waters suck the energy from his flesh, along with every prickle of heat. Corpses had been warmer than this. Next to him, Montanus the signifer disappeared beneath the water in a brief splash, the standard dipping alarmingly and then righting itself as the heavy-set man straightened and his head appeared above the water, arms gripping the heavy decorated pole with rippling muscles. Even as Felix and Montanus took their first sludgy, sucking underwater step at 'double-time' he heard the first line of legionaries dropping into the water behind, eight abreast, their swords unsheathed but held close to their chests beneath the torrent to prevent extra drag and resistance, their other hand holding their shield above their head, creating a strange testudo-style roof that moved gradually across the water. At least they had a little protection from enemy missiles.