Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (18 page)

The Belgae
experienced instant panic. Those at the front turned and tried to
push their way back into their own ranks. Some men at the edge of
the assault manage to get clear, leaping to the left or right to
avoid the horrifying assault from above.

The first tree
trunk hit the front line of warriors, already in chaos and trying
to push in half a dozen different directions. The momentum after
thirty feet of slope carried the trunk over and through the army
with an almost unstoppable force. Some men were broken in half
while others were crushed or driven into the ground, their limbs
torn from them by the force. They had no chance to deal with the
carnage before the second, third and fourth logs hit the mass.

By now, the
assault had failed utterly. The charge had died in the opening
moments as the remaining tree trunks hit each other and bounced
around like some sort of toy, creating an unpredictable rolling
hell than flattened all before it. One of the last few logs pitched
as it struck something and leapt into the air, carried by its
downward motion, plummeting down into the centre of the fleeing
mass.

It was
possible the remaining warriors might form up and try once more
but, given the phenomenal losses they’d just suffered, Fronto
doubted the warriors would charge again, even if their chieftains
ordered it.

Prefect Galeo
rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he watched the Belgae at the base
of the slope on their way up, howling like wild dogs. Galeo had
been in the service all his adult life and had, he believed,
reached as high as he was likely to reach. The only promotion an
auxiliary prefect could look forward to was perhaps as a tribune
among the legions, but most auxiliary units were commanded by their
native leaders. Only the longstanding units like his had reached
such a point of permanency that they attracted a Roman officer. And
they were then pretty much forgotten. In the field, Caesar’s staff
only noticed the job done by the auxiliary cavalry.

He grunted.
Look at that young ponce Ingenuus! Barely out of children’s clothes
and now commanding Caesar’s bodyguard. But nobody even saw the
Numidian archers or their commander.

Another grunt.
Today was a chance. Make or break, as they say. A good job here and
he might get commended and tagged for higher things.

And yet
despite the fact that he’d been given the western slope; the best
position to defend, his damned poor stagnant brain couldn’t come up
with anything useful to help him. His wits had atrophied from so
long babysitting these Africans that when legate Fronto had asked
the officers for suggestions to even the odds, while the others had
been coming up with clever little ideas, Galeo had just stayed
quiet, flapping his lips worriedly like a stunned fish. Fronto had
even frowned at him.

“
Damn it!”

“
Mmm?” enquired the dark skinned archer next to him.

“
Oh, nothing! It’s not like you understand a damn word I say
anyway. If it weren’t for your centurions, I might as well not even
be here.”

He looked back
at the line of men slowly advancing on his position.

Very well. If
he couldn’t find some clever way of gaining an edge he could do
what he’d always tried to do. To fight a decent and solid action in
the best traditions of the legions, even saddled as he was with a
load of illiterate Numidians.

He carefully
scanned the crowd below. Couldn’t be more than a couple of thousand
there. This place was the furthest from the main force of Belgae
and one of the most easily defensible positions with a good field
of fire. The odds would be about six or seven to one. Really, there
wasn’t much chance to show off but, on the other hand, he should be
able to safely hold his position. Each of his men would have time
to let off over a dozen shots before the Belgae got anywhere near
closing with them.

He smiled.

They may be
strange and have precious little Latin among them, but the one
thing he did know was that his centurions were confident, and
they’d had the archers practicing on a daily basis, even over
winter. In theory, even if his men missed with every other shot,
they should be able to deal with the situation before there was
hope of close combat. He turned to the centurion nearby, a
Romanised Numidian with reasonable Latin.

“
Get ready. Every man marks his target and makes each shot
count. I want every single one of them dead before they get
anywhere near this wall. Caesar wants the Remi, so we’ll save ‘em
eh?”

Above the
slope, looking down at the river below, prefect Pansa smiled at the
Belgae. There would be perhaps four thousand or so down there. They
could so easily overwhelm his position, should they get within
reach… but Pansa had plans. He’d almost laughed when he explained
to the legate what he wanted to do. In fact, Fronto had chuckled a
little himself, which must be unusual, given the legate’s dour
reputation.

Four thousand,
or possibly five, against his less-than four hundred men, including
the Remi natives with their Celtic blades. Something like ten to
one odds. Frightening, he supposed, but there was just something
comic about watching these heavily armed barbarians floundering on
the slope as they tried to climb the steep ascent while keeping
their eyes on the defenders above. More than once he saw a figure
slip and slide, toppling backwards and taking a few of his
fellows.

Pansa had
served in Caesar’s legions since the early days in Spain and he’d
seen some of the most horrifying sights a man could ever hope to on
a battlefield. He was aware of how little regard Caesar held for
human life. Pansa was different and had been relieved to discover
that legate Fronto was, too.

To Pansa, it
was far more important to save his men than to win some kind of
glory. He’d seen the look in Galeo’s eye at the briefing. Hopefully
the fool would stick to his defence and not go trying to win
points.

He smiled. The
leaders of the Belgae were now two thirds of the way up the slope
and almost in missile range for the slingers and the few archers he
had with him.

“
Right lads…”

He gestured
with an over-arm swing down to the advancing barbarians below.

As he shaded
his eyes and peered down at the eagerly-advancing defenders, he
chuckled. Behind him were several dull thuds. He stepped back from
the edge of the wall for the sake of his own safety and watched as
two dozen large barrels, much of the stored drinking water of the
Remi, were tipped over the wall and the liquid began to pour down
the slope in rivulets.

There was no
tide that threatened to wash away the attackers; that was not what
Pansa wanted. His objective was to make the ascent here so
difficult and unpleasant that the Belgae would give up in disgust.
Gallon after gallon of water tipped over the wall and flowed down
relentlessly, softening up the earth and making the grass slick and
slippery. The effect as the rivulets finally reached the advancing
warriors was almost too funny for words.

Pansa looked
back at his men and cleared his throat. He couldn’t be seen
laughing at this. People would think he was an idiot… but it really
was quite funny.

He turned once
more to gaze down the hill. The barbarians were slipping and
sliding around like something out of a Plautus play. Where the
water had made the lower slope wet, the longer Pansa watched, the
more hilarious the comedy ascent became. Men trying desperately to
keep their feet and climb were making the ground worse, churning
the mud and creating slides. Some of the mid section, as they
slipped, took a dozen or so warriors with them and the whole group
collapsed in a flurry of arms and legs as they slid gracelessly
into the river.

Off to the
right, one of the men laughed. He opened his mouth to discipline
the man, but changed his mind. Let them laugh. It was funny and,
after all, being laughed at might demoralise the enemy. Turning, he
addressed the centurions.

“
Save ammunition. I don’t want anyone to waste a shot until
they get up to the level of that pile of rocks.”

He smiled. If
they get that far, he thought to himself, and found that he was
laughing along with his men.

To the north,
Decius peered down into the woods. Though he couldn’t speak a word
of this local language, he could make an educated guess as to what
was being shouted by the Belgae as they climbed through the woods.
That was swearing and cursing if he’d ever heard it. They were
having fun with all the trip-wires, ankle-breaking covered pits and
hidden sharpened stake points that his men had been placing in the
woods for the last hour. Their advance had initially been at a good
pace and presented a reasonable front, or so Decius’ scouts had
reported as they returned from their observation points in the
woods. But now they had slowed to little more than a crawl as the
first few men fell foul to the Romans’ hidden defences and the
attackers began to carefully scour the forest floor for traps as
they moved.

He smiled at
the thought of so many eager warriors milling about in the trees,
getting sore feet, tripped up, broken bones, lacerations and
general irritations. In all likelihood the rest of the siege would
be over for the day before these Belgae reached the top.

He kicked an
errant pebble from the wall down into the trees and eyed, once
again, the piles of heavy boulders lining the walls. This was his
second surprise for when the Belgae finally reached the higher
slope. These piles of stones, each boulder almost a foot across and
weighing the same as a small cart, would bounce several times on
the forest floor and would rip through even the toughest of
undergrowth. He certainly wouldn’t like to be climbing that hill
when the piles were levered off the walls.

He sighed and
sat down to take a long swig of water from his flask.

Somewhere down
below there was a shriek and a great deal more swearing.

Time drifted
slowly on for Decius, listening to the sounds of slowly advancing
soldiers.

“
Need a hand?”

He looked
around in surprise to see Fronto.

“
Legate? Not seen a sign of them yet. I think they’re getting a
bit pissed off with my woods, to be honest.”

Fronto
laughed.

“
You must have led them a merry dance, man. The main frontal
assault dispersed in agony about five minutes ago. I’m just on my
way to see what’s happening at the other sectors, but I’ve left a
skeleton crew watching the main gate area. I’ll leave you a couple
of hundred more men.”

“
Why thank you, sir. And it’s not even my birthday!”

He grinned at
Fronto and the legate strode off, laughing, toward the western
slopes, hundreds of men following him.

Three of the
centurions led their units across to Decius, who smiled and
examined his reinforcements. Two were Cretans and the other a
Spaniard; probably not a word of Latin between them.

“
Get into positions,” he told them, waving his hand and
pointing vaguely up and down the line of the wall.

He kicked his
heels absently on the defences and smiled down into the forest. It
was looking increasingly like reinforcements would be unnecessary.
Suddenly, he saw a movement in the trees. He strained his eyes
peering ahead. Was that the Belgae?

Standing, he
shaded his eyes and peered into the canopy of gloom.

No, that was
another of his scouts. He sighed and sat down again. Slowly, the
scout clambered up through the undergrowth and then climbed the
wall close to his commander.

“
Are we expecting them any time soon?”

The Cretan
looked at him quizzically.

“
Gods, I’ll be pleased to get back to camp where at least the
occasional person understands a single word I say!”

Pointing down
into the woods, he tried to mime Belgae warriors climbing the hill.
The scout shook his head and said something unintelligible. Decius
had never bothered mastering Greek. It was the language of
thinkers, not doers; but even if he had, the strange dialect these
Cretans spoke was an entirely different entity. He listened with an
uncomprehending smile as he realised what the accompanying hand
gestures meant.

The way he was
waving his hand flat and gesturing to the plain…

“
They’ve given up?”

He
laughed.

“
We loaded all these boulders on the wall and they never even
got halfway up?”

Grinning, he
slapped his thigh.

“
Wait ‘til Fronto hears that!”

* * * * *

Fronto passed
his wine skin to Decius, who took it gratefully and drank deep.
Down on the plain, the last of Belgae tribal bands were striking
camp and moving away to join the massive force leaving the
valley.

“
I’d say we have to call that a rousing success, wouldn’t you,
gentlemen?”

Decius nodded
wearily. To the other side Pansa and Galeo smiled.

“
Think Caesar will give us any kind of reward, sir?”

The other
three turned to stare at Galeo.

“
Reward?” Fronto said in surprise. “The fact that the Remi have
our back now is a pretty bloody good reward as far as I can see.
Iccius over there…”

He pointed at
the chieftain, who was grinning like an idiot. His reputation would
be growing among the Remi now. Regardless of the help of Rome, his
small oppidum with its few warriors had fought off a huge army of
their countrymen and had lived, intact, to tell the tale. The role
of Rome would, of course, be downplayed in the tales of the Remi,
but Fronto couldn’t blame them for that. Whatever anyone could say,
the Remi would now recognise their ally, Rome, and honour them. For
the cost of remarkably few men, Fronto had given Caesar what he
needed most. Not because of the general, but rather in spite of
him.