by regular storms, every settlement they reached had been abandoned and anything of use or value had been stripped and taken away. They had wandered a few miles inland, examining the situation, but had returned to the coast the next day and finally located, only ten miles or so from Brutus’ anchorage, the first major stronghold of the tribe.
He just couldn’t stop shaking his head.
The fortress of Corsicum stood on a huge rock that jutted out into the sea, like a lesser copy of one of the Pillars of Hercules. The only land approach was a causeway perhaps two hundred and fifty yards wide that stood almost at sea level and was swampy and treacherous. Above the approach loomed the heavy walls of the stronghold, the towers topped with Gauls watching intently as the might of Rome began an orderly descent of the opposite slope toward the causeway.
Fronto had tried to argue Caesar out of launching a full attack, given the obviously strong defensive capability of the Veneti. He had no doubt, given the mettle of the men in the four legions that accompanied them, that they would
Tetricus swung his gaze out past the high cliffs of Corsicum to the roiling sea beyond, trying to think of a solution. The rocks out there formed a platform just beneath the waves that would make it impossible for the fleet to approach, even were they here.
He ran his hands through his hair, brushing the excess water from his head.
“At the very least we could have pounded the walls first?”
Fronto grumbled next to him.
“We’ve got limited time to get across that causeway before the tide cuts the place off. Caesar’s determined to take the fortress without having to camp and perform a protracted siege. I have to admit the idea of sitting here in the pouring rain for days battering at the place is not entirely appealing, but I don’t think throwing men away is a valid solution.”
The young engineer sighed and shivered in the cold, wet air, pulling his cloak around him and totally failing to produce any extra warmth. He turned to look at his handiwork. On the promontory facing the fortress, a ‘dolmen’, as the locals called it, had been dismantled by the engineers. They had been dubious about doing so, through some strange Gallic superstitions, but the site was just too useful to leave for the dead of millennia past, and the stones had been taken down and rearranged to form a perfect artillery platform where, even now, the engineers were beginning to set up their machines. Caesar had not given the order, but Tetricus had consulted Fronto and they’d decided that the time would come when it was needed.
“In about a half hour the artillery will be ready to start firing” Tetricus said, flatly.
“In about a half hour the ground down there will be thick with dead Romans.”
The pair stood glumly watching as the ranks of marching soldiers reached the bottom of the slope and began to trudge their way through the marshy ground toward the well-defended Veneti fortress ahead.
“This is going to be a massacre. I can’t believe the general ordered it.” Tetricus turned back to Fronto. “And I can’t believe that you agreed to put the Tenth in the front line of the attack. Wouldn’t it have been fairer to march the legions in columns, so that the front line is evenly distributed?”
Fronto turned his head slightly and winked.
“Thinking ahead, that’s all.”
“What?” Tetricus frowned.
“When it all goes to shit and the legions are stopped, someone is going to have to call for the army to fall back. The order won’t come from command, since Caesar’s adamant, but there are a dozen or more veteran centurions down there who’ll decide it’s too much of a waste and will put their own head on the block to save the men.”
Tetricus nodded slowly.
“And you want that to be the Tenth?”
“Carbo knows what he’s doing, and I can argue Caesar into letting it slide, given the absurdity of the whole thing. I’d rather that came down to me than some other poor sod who’s not expecting it.”
Tetricus nodded as he watched the legions sloshing along the approach.
Down below, Servius Fabricius Carbo glanced left and right at the advancing ranks of the Tenth. From perhaps fifty yards behind him he heard his optio yelling in a parade ground voice:
“Get your arse back into that line, Falco, or I will stick my foot so far up it you can taste the boot!”
Carbo smiled to himself. For the first month or so since he’d taken over as primus pilus, the optio had treated him with care, as though he had to protect this new commander from his own men. Time, however, had brought him the respect of the first century and the optio had fallen back into his accustomed role, making the life of his men troublesome wherever needed.
Turning back to look ahead, he sized up the approach.
“Prepare to receive missile fire. Shields ready.”
Two of the men close by shared a nervous glance and Carbo smiled at them.
“They’re not Apollo with his bow, lads; they’re just a few dozen hairy misfits with rocks. Don’t let ‘em get to you.”
But the truth was entirely different, and Carbo knew it. The Veneti up there on the walls would have slings, spears, probably bows and maybe even fire arrows, since he was sure he’d seen smoke being suppressed by the incessant rain. The next minute was going to be a march into sheer hell and their only hope was to keep themselves as covered as possible and pray fervently. At least, until
“Incoming! Raise shields.”
Next to him, one of the soldiers frowned.
“I don’t see anything, sir?”
“Get your shield up.”
As the soldier lifted his shield into the most protective position, covering most of his front, his eyes peering over the top, a sling shot rapped on the wood and leather and fell to the floor in front of him.
And then, suddenly, hell broke loose.
The Veneti launched everything they had as individuals rather than in ordered units, and sling stones, lead bullets, arrows, rocks and spears fell from the walls in a hail. Carbo gritted his teeth, listening to the shouts and shrieks of the men who were too slow, too unprotected, or just too plain unlucky, and were felled by the onslaught.
The ground began to slope upward as they battled on against the constant hail of missiles, men toppling out of the line, only to be replaced by the soldier from the rank behind. Despite the change of terrain and the difficulty of maintaining a solid line while marching up a slope, Carbo still welcomed the end of the wet, sloshy ground below as his boots finally found dry land.
There was a deep and loud groan from above and the primus pilus frowned for a moment, cocking his head to one side and listening intently. A clunk and another groan.
“First cohort: Form two columns on the flanks!”
Without comment or question, nearly a thousand men forming the advancing ranks of the legions split into two groups, angling away from each other, so that the single line of two hundred men became two columns, each with a front line of fifty, a wide gap opening in the centre. Carbo just had to hope that the other cohorts and legions had realised what was up.
Just as the trap was sprung, Carbo glanced back to note with satisfaction that the other senior centurions had followed suit and that the front ranks of the Eighth behind then were copying the manoeuvre.
A cry of angry disappointment rose from the walls above as a huge tree trunk rolled through the now-open gate in the walls and hurtled down the slope toward the attackers, neatly descending into the gap between the two advancing columns and rolling inoffensively to a halt in the marshy ground below without having touched a single man.
Carbo nodded in satisfaction. If they’d oiled the hinges on those gates, that could have been so much worse. In his early days with the military, he’d acquired the nickname ‘the augur’ due to his innate sense of self preservation and his uncanny knack of being prepared just ahead of any unexpected event. Carbo himself knew
