going on here.”
“You think there’s trouble, sir?”
“You’re damn right I think there’s trouble. They’ve not run away; they’ve no reason to. And if they’re not running away that means they’re organising; massing somewhere. We could be knee deep in the shit any minute now.”
The centurion nodded, a hunted look about his eyes, and sent one his men to rouse the soldiers of his century and bring them to the gate.
Galba ignored the quiet activity going on around him as the camp burst into silent, eerie life. Instead, he climbed the steps to the rampart by the bridge gate and turned slowly, casting his gaze over their surroundings. The town had emptied under the cover of darkness, and that meant that they were gathering somewhere secretly. There were seven hundred or so left of the Twelfth and at least twice that number of enemies had just left Octodurus. There was no doubt in Galba’s mind that the Veragri from the town had met up with a much larger force somewhere. His uneasiness of the last few days seemed to have been well founded.
Squinting, he peered off down first one valley and then the other, straying up the slopes and…
He stopped dead. Silvery moonlight had just, for a fleeting moment, flickered through the fast scudding clouds and there had been reflections, high up on the hills above the valley. Galba found he was holding his breath. Sharply, he reached out to the legionary nearby, who stood fast, watching the empty settlement across the river.
“Soldier, look up on the hills above us. What can you see?”
The legionary, startled at being addressed directly by his senior commander, turned and cast his own gaze up the vertiginous valley side. There was a long moment of silence and the legionary made some uncertain noises in his throat before finding his voice.
“I can’t see anything, sir.”
But he had.
Before the sentence was fully out there was another brief flicker of moonlight and this time they knew what they were looking for. Only one thing could produce that effect; like the myriad points of light as the moon reflected on calm seas, there was a scattering of reflections along the mountain top. Spinning round, already knowing what he’d see, Galba focused on the matching force of glittering men on the opposite side of the valley.
“Shit.”
Ignoring the shocked stare of the legionary as he gawped at the huge force that loomed over them, Galba scoured the camp. The watch centurion was returning to the gate with a dozen men from his century while Baculus, already armoured, strode down the street toward them. As he turned, he spotted the tribune, Volusenus, hurrying out of one of the buildings, strapping on his belt and carrying his helmet. Furrowing his brow, Galba gestured down to the watch commander.
“Belay my earlier orders, centurion… no time for that now. The hills above us are swarming with Celts. Get every man to the walls; we’ve not got long.”
Shaking his head in irritation, he beckoned to Baculus and Volusenus and the two most senior officers of the Twelfth hurried across the space before the gate and joined their commander on the rampart.
“Bad news, sir, I take it?”
Galba nodded at the tribune.
“They’re all over the hills above us. If they charge, they’ll be on us in minutes. Our only advantage right now is that I’ve kept the buccinas quiet and I’m hoping they haven’t paid too much attention to all the activity in the camp. Thing is, as you know, we’re vastly outnumbered, so I need your opinions. Can we hold out, or is it worth trying an ordered retreat before they attack?”
Baculus shrugged.
“We can hold out for a while, but not forever. There’s a lot more Celts around here they can call on and precious little chance of us getting any support. It’s a ‘gates of fire’ situation, legate: glorious, but suicidal.”
Beside him, Volusenus was nodding.
“True, but there is some value in certainty.
The primus pilus raised an eyebrow as he regarded the tribune for a moment and he finally nodded.
“I concur, legate. I don’t like it, but he’s right.”
Galba sighed. He had reached much the same conclusion, but had hoped for a flash of inspiration from his two veteran officers.
“Very well. Then if we’re going to stay and do this the old-fashioned way, let’s do it properly.”
He turned to the watch centurion, at the gate below, waiting for further orders.
“Have the call to arms delivered from the buccinas, get the cavalry in with the men, have all the spare pila brought out to the walls and get the artillery crews to their weapons. Time to let them know we’re aware of them.”
Tribune Volusenus leaned past him, a grin on his face.
“And when you’ve delivered the order, centurion, take these dozen men of yours across the river and fire the town. Get the whole place blazing as fast as you can and then get back here.”
He turned to the quizzical looks of his peers.
“Less cover for them to hide behind and it effectively prevents them from attacking on one side until the fire dies down.”
Galba nodded.
“Fortuna and Mars smile on us tonight!”
Baculus stood on the platform above the east gate of Roman Octodurus, surrounded by a centurion, an optio and a number of legionaries, while the ramparts stretched off to left and right, manned by the diminished cohorts of the Twelfth. Galba had taken the south wall and Volusenus the west, leaving the watch centurion to command the bridge entrance, should the enemy try to navigate the blazing streets.
The cavalry had dismounted and were now bolstering the numbers on the ramparts but at this moment, defending the walls of a fort against overwhelming numbers, Baculus wished once more that Pansa and his auxiliary archers were here and not still quartered up in Belgae territory with Labienus.
The walls of the fortification were punctuated with squat towers, each home to one or more of the precious few scorpion bolt throwers left with the Twelfth, while the remaining two ballistae and the single onager, of little use in this situation, were positioned together in the fort’s central square.
They were as prepared as the numbers permitted, and Baculus clenched his teeth as he looked back up at the vast swathe of men on the hillside above.
Only seconds later, a call bleated out from on high: a horrendous honking, followed by a messy metallic crash as the Gauls rapped their weapons on shields, helmets, or anything they could find to make noise.
“Here they come, lads. Hold fast and pray! Pila first, but make them count.”
The Veragri and their allies, the blaring and crashing done with, began to roll down the hillsides from their dizzy heights like a wave crashing toward the beleaguered Roman defenders. Baculus heard a soldier close to him mutter a prayer to Fortuna and nodded approvingly. They could all do with a little luck right now.
Closer they came, racing down the slopes and the defenders of Octodurus watched, patiently and professionally but, as Baculus glanced here and there, he noted that where the men changed their grip on the javelins ready to cast, there were a number of shaky arms.
“Ready…”
He concentrated on the enemy force that had reached the valley floor and picked up speed now they had to pay less attention to their footing. Most of them were unarmoured, much like any other Celtic force he had seen. The majority of those few with breastplates, mail shirts or helmets were in the front row; nobles and powerful warriors among the tribe, displaying their wealth through attire and their valour through the position at the front.
