Volusenus grinned.
“Given the alternatives, I’ll have to say yes.”
“Then lets get back out there and start passing the orders down.”
Baculus mopped his forehead and then replaced his helmet.
“Are we set?”
The wounded legionary with the empty pitch bucket nodded and gave a weary half-salute, being careful to avoid the medical padding at his temple. The primus pilus turned and peered into the early light. Someone by the south gate was waving a torch. Reaching down, he lit one of his own from the brazier that burned at the top of the sloping rampart and as it burst into life, passed it to the legionary.
“Wave that like you’re at the races.”
The man did so and Baculus squinted off across the camp once more. Two tense minutes followed until he finally saw the twinkle of a torch being waved across at the west gate.
“Fire!” he bellowed and, as the dozen men standing ready with blazing torches stepped up to the rampart, in a precision manoeuvre as beautiful as any parade ground exercise, the beleaguered legionaries defending the walls stepped back, disengaging the barbarians and feeding between the torches, retreating down the bank in an orderly withdrawal. Barely had they left the walkway and stepped onto the grass slope before the torches of those men that had stepped forward connected with the pitch that had been liberally spread on as many of the wooden surfaces as possible.
The victorious cries of the Veragri as they began to clamber across the palisade in pursuit of the fleeing defenders turned in short order to panicked screams as the timber defences around them caught like dry tinder and leapt into roaring flames. Many of the front line of the barbarian attack were unable to pull back from the flames, the crowd behind driving them on, and blazing figures dotted the ramparts, screaming and floundering, as the Roman lines reached the bottom of the slope and, turning at Baculus’ orders, reformed quickly and ran in perfect order along the street toward the fort’s centre.
At the call of a buccina from somewhere in the heart of the camp, Baculus and his men split into lines and hugged the buildings at the sides of the street as they ran. Overhead, a half dozen rocks, each larger than a balled fist, arced across the heavens toward the mass of barbarians beyond the walls. The chances of one falling this far short were very small, but Baculus had lost enough men for one day and motioned the centurions around him to keep close to cover.
A roar of dismay arose behind them outside the fort, as the artillery fire of the Roman defenders began to take its toll on the mass of enemy milling around in confusion below the blazing walls.
As they approached the central square where the siege weapons kept up as speedy a barrage as they could manage, Baculus spotted the men from the other walls, pouring in good order from different roads and into the space, where they converged, creating larger units and moving toward the northern street.
With a quick gesture, the primus pilus passed down the order to continue on to the north gate, while he marched at speed from the advancing column toward the onager and its crew. As he reached the engineers, they finished winching the machine and stepped back. Baculus waited patiently until they fired the shot, launching a collection of small but deadly rocks away toward the distant unseen attackers. As the crewman reached for the next in the pile of ammunition, the primus pilus waved his vine staff.
“Forget that now. Cut the cables, get your gear together, gather the ballista crews and fall in with the rest of the men. Time to go.”
Leaving the men to their work, Baculus strode back, picking up his pace yet more in order to catch up with his unit. As they marched off down the street toward the north gate and the bridge that would take them to relative safety, he spotted legate Galba striding out alongside another column and angled across to join him.
“Centurion.” The commander looked tired and drawn.
“Sir. All went off rather nicely, I thought.”
The legate shook his head.
“We’re not out of it quite yet, Baculus.”
The primus pilus nodded.
“Perhaps, sir, but we’re on our way. We’ll be out in no time and then heading down for friendly territory. Mind if I ask, sir, what we do then?”
Galba nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about that. Caesar promised us extra recruits that we never got. He’s going to be a little put out by what happened up here, but even
“What do you think the general’s plans are for the coming summer, sir?”
Galba shrugged.
“That all depends on what’s happened to him in Rome, Crassus in Armorica and Labienus and the Belgae. I can see this being a problem season for us, Publius. Once we’ve replaced some of the losses and I’ve sent off a report, we’ll march off up to Vindunum, training the recruits while we move, and joining the main force there. At least there we can make use of their stores and armourers to rebuild the Twelfth.”
Baculus nodded as they approached the gate. The massing Roman force within, added to the burning of the camp, had struck the smaller force of Veragri among the charred ruins on the opposite bank with uncertainty and, far from gathering to prevent the legion leaving, they had skirted away out of reach to the east and west, watching warily.
“Been a hell of a winter, legate.”
“That it has, Baculus… that it has.”
Chapter 2
(Februarius: The Andean oppidum of Vindunum in northwestern Gaul)
“Have you made an example among the locals?”
The tribune sighed inwardly but was careful to keep his expression neutral. He’d managed to avoid much direct contact with Crassus, but word got around.
“With respect, legate, we’ve made an occasional example, but it really is no good. They simply don’t have the corn to spare and no amount of beating is going to made more corn grow.”
He winced, aware that he could have overstepped the mark there. Crassus may be only one of several legates with a command at Vindunum, but Caesar’s orders had been clear. Crassus was in overall command of the army in this region over the winter months. There were many rumours as to the reason for the extra power granted to the man, but the most common was that Caesar needed to tighten the bonds between himself and the legate’s father in Rome.
Crassus stared at him, silent, those piercing eyes boring into his skull.
“Also, legate, the Gauls are a proud people. If you push them hard, they don’t bend, sir; they break. I and the other officers are walking a fine line between keeping them subjugated and trying not to fan the flames of revolt. The failure of the Belgae’s revolt last year may have settled things for now, but they will only take so much.”
“I fear you forget your place, tribune…”
Gallus, senior tribune of the Ninth, ground his teeth, irked at such a rebuke from the commander of a different legion. A complaint to legate Rufus would be no use; Rufus was as powerless as he to put the influential Crassus in his place.
“I mean no disrespect, sir…”
Somewhere deep within, Gallus laughed at his own words.
“…It’s just that the Andes have been nothing but accommodating and helpful. Given that we have effectively displaced them and tithed their stores during a fairly harsh winter, I feel we should be rewarding them, rather than punishing them. Perhaps we can send to Caesar and request that extra supplies be sent up from
