Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (9 page)

‘I will see to the disposition of the men, sir,’ Baculus announced, swaying slightly in his saddle with weariness.

‘You will do nothing of the sort, centurion. You will report to the medicus and return to your bed and stay there until either your infection passes and you take on a healthy complexion or until we are desperate enough that I am forced to send for you.’

Baculus began to shake his head, but Labienus held up a warning finger. ‘The medicus tells me that every time you come out and about and push yourself to the limit, not only do you endanger your life, but you also set back your healing progress by several weeks. Simply: if you do not lie down and rest, you will never heal and I will be forced to have you put down like a horse with a broken leg. Now go!’

The Primus Pilus stared helplessly at Labienus and finally sagged a little, saluted and turned his horse to ride back through the camp. Labienus, he knew, had been nicknamed ‘soft touch’ by the soldiers. The commander knew nothing of it of course, and Baculus had already disciplined every man he heard use the phrase. And it was, to some extent, a fair appraisal. Of all of Caesar’s officers, only Titus Labienus had repeatedly - even constantly - attempted peaceful relations and diplomatic solutions with the Gauls. One man had even called him ‘Gaul-lover’ and had been scourged until his back ran red for his wit. But while they were right about his desire to avoid conflict where possible, there was still a steel in Labienus that Baculus could see and respect. The man might favour the diplomatic option, but he would never put his army in the situation in which Sabinus and Cotta’s force had found itself a few months back. And he would brook no argument, even from Baculus.

The legate had a plan, and the centurion knew his commander well enough to know that a shrewd, tactical military mind churned away within that peaceable exterior. Despite being outnumbered and cut off from the rest of the army by a force whose capabilities and actions they could not predict, Baculus felt certain that Indutiomarus would rue the day he brought a force against the Twelfth.

* * * * *

Labienus cinched the belt around his cuirass and stood still while the slave brushed out the long red plume on his helm.

‘You don’t have to do this, sir,’ said one of the junior tribunes, quietly.

‘Yes I do, Lentulus. I know you’ve studied your Herodotus and the like but no amount of tutoring can match the experience of long-term command, and you’re very new to this. A good commander knows when to sit back and when to throw in his lot with the soldiery. That is where half of Caesar’s genius lies, and it is he who taught me the value of ‘getting involved’. The value of the boost in morale and strength it gives the men to find their commander amongst them in the thick of it far outweighs the danger I will face. And that is why I must look as ‘noble Roman’ as possible. Caesar wears his crimson cloak and rides a white horse so that the men can see him and take heart that he’s with them. A horse is of little value when under siege, but I can do my part, and I shall do so.’

‘But legate, why go to such lengths to levy local cavalry and then allow ourselves to be besieged? It makes no sense! We should have met them in direct conflict on the hillside before they reached the camp. Now our cavalry cannot be deployed and we sit and wait while they continually harry our defences.’

Labienus sighed patiently.

‘Lentulus, the cavalry are part of my long-term plan, so please stop concerning yourself too much. I realise that I am keeping my strategy somewhat obfuscated but we must learn the lesson from ourselves. I have spies among the Treveri and their allies and bearing that in mind we cannot rule out the possibility that there are enemy spies among our own native levies. It has not even been unheard of for a
legionary
to turn informant for promises of rich reward, though I would prefer not to suspect my own men of such low dealings. I will continue to keep my strategy contained until the time arises to open the carceres and let the horses run. Now… you stay here, go over my latest engineers’ reports and make sure I’ve missed nothing. If you can think of anything to add, be my guest and do so.’

Leaving the exasperated young tribune, Labienus strode out into the cold, slightly damp late winter air in his most resplendent gear. Lentulus was almost laughably young and naïve, but Labienus could remember being just like him as a junior tribune in Vatia’s army against the Cilician pirates. Still, in this current situation, better the boy kept himself busy with the records than getting in the way on the defences.

The camp was quiet, but it was a quiet that Labienus knew well. It was that specific, eerie, leaden quiet that presaged another attack. The thugs and bandits that made up roughly half of Indutiomarus’ force had committed themselves to the assault almost immediately, but had not come with the force and skill of a tribal war band or a professional army, and had broken on the defences like a small wave on the beach.

They were doing damage, for sure, and two rows of tents had been taken from their occupants and given over to the medicus for extra hospital space. Men were being brought in at a steady stream, wounded by blades and missiles, and the area left largely clear - due to being the site of the most recently backfilled latrine pits - was now stacked with bodies awaiting the pyre when timber supplies and time allowed.

But it was all remarkably easily fought off and contained. While Labienus had lost maybe two dozen men to the ‘dead pile’ and more than a century’s worth to the hospital, it was a smaller figure than most sieges would have brought on. And the number of Gallic dead in the ditches around the camp was substantially larger by comparison. A satisfactory situation.

Two things had occurred to Labienus as he ran his reports this morning:

Firstly: while the situation was perfectly acceptable to Labienus, the failure to make a dent would be driving Indutiomarus mad and soon he would snap and commit the Treveri to the attack as well. When he did that, one of two things would happen. Either the Treveri would turn on the man and refuse, which was Labienus’ main hope and great suspicion, or they would throw their full weight into the attack, and in that case the camp would be overrun before the next sun set.

A gamble.

Secondly, that the troops were well provisioned, well armed, and not being particularly tested in the current attacks. They were handling the siege with all the professionalism he could have hoped for, but there was every likelihood of them becoming over-confident and lax, believing their position unassailable. By going among them as he was, he could help fight off the ennui that would be infecting the defenders, as well as gauging the enemy’s situation. All he needed was a sign that Indutiomarus’ control was faltering.

The quiet was reaching that tense point and would snap at any moment. Another attack was about to launch - he could feel it crackling in the air. With a smile of self-assuredness, he slowed his step as he approached the east gate. This side had not seen a concerted attack yet, and he felt certain it was due, but he didn’t want to arrive too early and stand uselessly in the chilly air, passing the time of day with the men.

Almost as if he had given the signal himself, a roar arose beyond the walls as he reached the earth bank and the wooden steps built into it which led up to the gate top walkway. Climbing the steps with practiced ease, he emerged atop the wall just as the first shower of arrows and stones whipped, whined and thudded into the defences. The centurion in command of the section saluted, holding his shield - circular and smaller than the legionaries’ - up behind his head to deflect the missiles as he stood proud. His men cowered behind the parapet and their large shields waiting for the barrage to end and the infantry assault to begin.

‘How goes it, centurion?’

‘Very good, sir. The ‘braid-monkeys’ seem to have little heart for it.’

‘Pray it stays that way, soldier.’

‘Oh I do sir, but I’d be happier down on the grass out there, facing them in a shield wall.’

‘I’m sure, but my purpose is other than the complete destruction of the Treveri and the corresponding losses to the Twelfth.’

The centurion looked a little unsure, but the cacophonic honking and booing of the Gauls’ carnyxes ordering the infantry forward drew their attention. Labienus stepped across to the wall and peered over the top. The mob of unsightly, disorganised killers was coming again, swarming across the grass, passing the archers and slingers who were stepping back away from the fight, and thundering towards what remained of the ditches.

Had it been Romans on the outside, or some of the more civilised and advanced Gaulish tribes, men would have come forward first, covered with shields and carrying bundles of sticks and earth to fill in the ditch and make crossing easier. Not so with this rabble of criminals. They had simply charged and filled the ditch with corpses in the first two attacks. If was grimly effective, if very costly to the attackers.

‘Best get back down, sir. Here they come.’

Labienus rubbed his neck and drew the blade from his sheath. ‘I think it’s time to get my sword dirty, don’t you?’

The centurion grinned. ‘I’ll try and leave you one, sir.’

‘That’s the spirit. Share the fun.’

They both turned their gaze back to the exterior, where the enemy were pounding across the triple ditch, the bodies of their former compatriots forming an effective causeway.

‘Ready, men!’ the centurion bellowed. ‘To the wall!’

The soldiers, who had been sheltering behind shields and parapet leapt up and forward, taking their places at the timber palisade and preparing to meet the attack.

Labienus found a gap where a slick of blood rapidly drying on the timbers marked the absence of a man - wounded or dead - and fell in between two legionaries who instinctively moved slightly apart to allow him plenty of room. He had no shield - had decided against one to allow for a more impressive profile among the men - and so drew his pugio dagger from its sheath and held it in his free hand. The men were not leaning into the wall to get a good view of the attackers - that was a good way to receive a spear point in the eye.

A moment later there was a barked Gallic curse in front and below Labienus - hidden by the wall - and grubby fingers came over the parapet, gripping the timber and whitening as they took a man’s weight. The wavering tip of a sword appeared, glinting, as the man tried to get high enough to take a swing at the defender he couldn’t yet quite see.

With a grim smile, Labienus reversed his grip on the dagger and slammed the blade down onto the clutching fingers, easily severing all but the thumb and digging into the wood beneath. Blood sprayed from the stubs of the fingers before the hand disappeared outside once more, withdrawn with a howl of agony.

The sword point also vanished and, despite the danger in doing so, Labienus leaned forward to take a quick look. A long blade sliced out and cut through the air a few finger widths from his face as he pulled back. Startled, he forced himself to grin at his neighbour as though it had been intentional and even amusing.

Off to the right, a loop of rope appeared from the far side and settled on a protruding tip of one of the wall’s constituent stakes. The legionary closest lowered his shield and leaned in, using his gladius to saw at the rope even as it tightened. Such an enemy tactic could be effective if not dealt with quickly, as it would only take one stake pulled out of the palisade with ropes and brute force to begin the complete collapse of a section of wall.

The legionary sawed madly at the thick cable and was so intent on his work that he did not see the next attacker reach the top of the parapet and stab out with his sword. Labienus shouted a warning, but he was too late - the long Celtic blade jabbed deep into the legionary’s shoulder and he cried out, dropping his own sword. With a howl of triumph, the Gaul began to climb over the palisade. Recovering himself from the painful and debilitating - yet clearly non-mortal - wound, the legionary leaned forward and head-butted the attacker, the bronze brow of his helm smashing and pulping the man’s face. As his victim fell away down to the ditches below, the soldier hissed in pain and, collecting his sword, shuffled back towards the steps down to the camp’s interior.

‘Reserves!’ bellowed the centurion, but half a dozen legionaries standing at the bottom of the grass bank were already moving, climbing up to take the place of the wounded and dead, orderlies among them coming to help the injured back to the capsarii who tended them a little further from the wall.

Labienus heard the next Gaul before he saw him, and ducked aside as a spear shaft appeared, lunging for his head. Contemptuously, he knocked the spear aside against the timbers and brought his sword down in an arc, cutting the leaf-shaped blade from its tip. The man withdrew the broken shaft, but there was no time for Labienus to revel in his latest success, as a Gaul with a scarred face and a tarnished torc appeared atop the wall, propelled up by his fellows, heavy sword already swinging.

Labienus ducked the scything blade and lunged out with his gladius, jabbing it deep into the man’s chest, twisting it and wrenching it from side to side for good measure before withdrawing it. The man gurgled and disappeared over the wall again, dead before he hit the ground.

A noise resembling the anguished cries of a family of wounded oxen echoed out across the field and the attack broke off once more, men rushing back across the ditches towards the Treveri force on the far rise.

‘That was bloody brief!’ the centurion announced, peering out over the parapet at the retreating Gauls.

‘Shorter than usual, sir,’ an optio agreed a little further along.

Labienus peered into the mass of Gauls. What the others had failed to notice was that the call of the dreadful carnyxes was different from the ones that had sounded the recall in the previous dozen assaults. This was a
new
call.

‘Watch them, centurion. Most importantly, watch the commanders and the Treveri themselves, and forget this rabble in front. If you see any concerted movement before I do, shout out.’