Gallia Invicta

“Explain yourself, stranger.”

“The Roman, Caesar is about a day behind us with enough men to trample a forest.”

Cantorix was pleased to note a sudden, yet more urgent murmur behind the gate.

Off to his right, one of the men bellowed “Bloody Romans everywhere. How come you haven’t flattened that lot on the hill?”

The leader dipped down behind the parapet for a moment, and then reappeared from a discussion with his compatriots.

“The Veneti have fallen to Caesar?”

“I’m not bloody proud of it, but yes” Cantorix snapped. “Now will you let us in? There was a lot of activity in that fort when we came past, and I don’t want to be standing in the open playing with myself when they decide to come and stand on my throat.”

He had to force himself not to smile as the urgent voices muttered again, a little louder and with a note of panic. The leader tilted his head to one side; a sign of worry, perhaps?

“Activity? What activity?” he asked.

“A lot of men moving around late at night and clanking stuff. Sounds a lot like the army of bastards we’ve had nipping our heels all the way. You wouldn’t believe how fast those bastards can move when they want to!”

“And you said Caesar is a day away?”

“Yes, now let us in!”

“Where are the rest of the survivors?”

“How the hell should I know? Some left by ship and headed for the Osismii. Others fled into the woods to hide. It was chaos. The Romans enslaved most of the survivors. A few of us got out ahead of them to bring warning to the other tribes. We’ve been running for four days.”

The armoured leader stood silent for a moment.

“Think very carefully, stranger… when you saw the activity at the Roman camp, was it concentrated at the rear gate?”

Cantorix smiled to himself. The man was hooked now. Time to haul him in.

“I think so. What would you say, Idocus?”

“Yeah… off t’the other side, defnitly!”

There was another pregnant pause as Cantorix held his breath and finally, after an age of nerves had passed, the gates of Crociatonum crept slowly open.

Chapter 14

(Iunius: Sabinus’ camp, near Crociatonum.)

“I’d say that Cantorix and his men pulled it off, then?”

Sabinus glanced at legate Galba of the Twelfth beside him and then turned his gaze back on the approaching mass and smiled.

“I would say so, yes. How far would you say that is?”

“About a mile I’d say, sir.”

Sabinus’ smile widened.

“About a mile. Up a gradually steepening hill. And running.”

Galba nodded.

“And apparently carrying piles of kindling.”

“That’ll be the bulk to help fill in the ditches so they can get to us quicker. Sensible idea under most circumstances, but I’m not sure that if I were their leader I would have sent them running up a steep slope carrying them.”

The legate sighed.

“I wish you’d let me use the fire arrows and set fire to them while they’re running. It’d scare the hell out of them.”

“No. They must think we’re leaving and not prepared for this. You warn them while they’re still a mile off and we’ll lose the small chance we have. Besides, we only have a few archers and precious little ammunition, so we can’t waste it. Stick to the plan.”

They returned to looking down the long slope, soldiers and officers of three legions stretched out along the ramparts to either side of them, mostly crouched out of sight, the occasional man standing at the wall, giving the impression of a badly defended palisade. The Unelli would expect the bulk of the Roman force to be at the rear gates, preparing to march.

The Gaulish force, enormous and chaotic, came on at a surprising speed, given the gradient of the approach. The front runners among them carried huge bundles of faggots and wood, those behind ready with their swords and spears, and all ran swift as the wind, desperate to overcome these invading foreigners before they had the chance to join with an even larger army.

The Romans stood silent behind their wall, watching.

“Now?”

“I think so. For the sake of realism.”

Galba turned and shouted along the wall.

“Raise the alarm!”

Buccinas blared and, in a carefully organised manoeuvre, other soldiers appeared at the wall, standing from where they crouched, creating the illusion that the warning of attack had gone up and men were being rushed to a hurried defence.

“I hope this works” Galba grumbled darkly. “One hopeless last stand in defence of a fort is enough in a single year.”

Sabinus nodded.

“It’ll work. So long as the timing’s right.”

Silently they continued to watch, faked commotion all around them, and the confederation of northern tribes, along with their allied refugees, bandits and vagabonds ran ever upwards, bellowing their defiance, their anger and their determination to rid Armorica of the Roman presence. Sabinus’ gaze strayed to the ground before them and he noted carefully the location of the marker. All along the hillside, these markers stood in a line, crimson against the green; small enough to be unnoticed by the attacking mass and just large enough for the men of the legions to locate when concentrating.

Fixing his eyes on the red mark, he nodded with relief as the front ranks of Gauls raced past it, hurrying up the hill. He risked a quick glance up to the faces of the approaching warriors and was gratified to see the heaving, laboured breaths the enemy were now taking as they approached the Roman position, their faces red and sweating with exertion.

For a moment he worried that he had lost the marked position as his eyes wandered back and forth, but it took only a moment to pick it up from the terrain, without being able to see the crimson mark beneath the stomping boots of the Celts. Almost ready… the Gauls were perhaps two hundred yards from the outer ditch.

He watched, tense, as the Gaulish throng passed over the spot he had kept in mind and, finally, squinting, he saw the bright red mark emerge once again between the heads of the charging Gauls, at the back of the mob.

Turning to Galba, he noted relief in the face of the legate.

“First stage: fire!”

At the shout, a dozen archers, part of the small complement of auxiliaries accompanying them, rose above the parapet, the tips of their arrows already flaming, aimed and released in a smooth action before retreating below the palisade once more.

The fiery missiles arced out over the heads of the Gallic army, now so exhausted and obsessed that they hardly paid any heed to the act until the arrows came down behind them, several striking the hillside along the line of crimson markers and only a few going astray.