The swathe of ground where they struck, amid the deep, dry grass, held small pockets of pitch that had been carefully distributed the previous night, small enough to go unnoticed by the Gallic army as they ran past and across them, some inevitably coating the bottom of running boots, but most remaining in place.
In several locations across the slope, pockets of pitch caught, the fire spreading into the dry grass, quickly igniting the next and, within moments, a curtain of flame extended across the hill behind the Gauls, effectively sealing off their retreat.
Largely due to the sheer size of the attacking army and its lack of organisation, most of the enemy failed even to notice the move, the few at the back who did going unheard by the rest. A veritable sea of bodies rushed up toward the ramparts and their encircling ditches. Sabinus watched, his breath held, as the front lines cast their burdens of sticks and brush into the ditches.
“Second stage!”
In a fluid move, a dozen legionaries along the length of the wall reached out and grasped the burning torches that had been used to ignite the arrows and climbed up to the parapet. As they emerged above, the huge Gallic army was already pouring across the filled ditches. Each legionary took careful aim, identifying a spot where a gap opened up and casting their torches almost in unison.
The flaming missiles dropped among the Gauls who were too consumed by a combination of exhaustion and desperate blood lust to pay too much attention to a small number of falling weapons. The flaming torches landed among the dry brush infill beneath their feet and it took only moments for the fire to catch, wood and dried undergrowth spitting into orange life and spreading the fire rapidly. Within moments a swathe in the midst of the huge army was consumed by the roaring inferno, a small number of men trapped between the burning ditches and the rampart.
“Third and Fourth stage! Sally!”
At the command, the crouched legionaries rose up along the wall and began to cast their first pilum down into the ranks of yelling Gauls. In places along the ramparts, pockets of the less exhausted enemy managed to reach the palisade, climbing the slope and thrusting upward with spears or delivering heavy, scything overhead blows with their swords.
The number of men who had reached the wall in any state to commit to action was small, however, and the legionary defenders had little trouble holding them back, pushing them away from the palisade and stabbing at them with their second pila where they could. The massive bulk of the enemy were still contained between the ditches that now roared with deadly fire, and the wall of burning pitch and grass behind them, the narrow causeway across the ditches that led to the north gate filled with howling Gauls trying to reach the Roman palisade without falling into the raging inferno to either side.
Sabinus offered up thanks to the Gods once again that the rain had held off for so many days. What they would have done if this morning had brought a downpour, he couldn’t imagine, but things would likely be looking a great deal bleaker.
The flanks of the Gaulish force were already attempting to separate from the trapped mass, moving around the slope, trying to escape the burning traps afore and aft, and make their way into clear land around the other sides of the hill. At a call from the buccina, however, the east and west gates of the camp opened and the slow, deliberate stomping feet of thousands of legionaries issued forth.
The Twelfth remained at the wall and throughout the rest of the camp, dealing with those men who managed to find their way as far as the walls without burning, while the Ninth and Fourteenth exited the gate and moved in formation, shield walls solid and strong, around the edge of the defences and toward the Gauls as they spilled out from the flaming trap.
“Advance!” called centurions around the hillside, and the wall of armoured men rumbled slowly into the mass of fleeing Gauls, coming to a halt as further commands were issued. The Ninth and Fourteenth now contained the enemy in a space between them and the walls of flame, holding their shield walls as an impenetrable barrier and hacking and stabbing at those who came close enough.
The effect of the trap was impressive, and Sabinus smiled from his position atop the defences. The combination of exhaustion, frustration, and terrified surprise, had turned the mood of the enemy in moments from vicious lust to desperate panic. Far from the unprepared Romans, busy trying to de-camp and move off, that the Gauls had expected, they had, instead, run straight into a deadly mix of steel and fire.
“Surrender and mercy will be
Calls went up from among the mass and for a strange moment, the fighting stopped, everything falling silent and still, bar the roaring of the flames.
Sabinus readied himself. He would offer harsh terms for their surrender, but it had to be still within the realm of acceptability. He had them now, but if they really wished, there were still enough of them that they could break through the trap at an awful cost and crush the defenders. Terms had to be preferable to the losses they would incur if they continued.
A loud voice called something out in the local language and Sabinus watched in astonishment as the speaker, a nobleman judging by his dress and equipment, threw down his sword in a gesture of surrender, only to have his head removed by a sudden, scything blow from the man beside him. The act of defiance did something to the crowd and Sabinus could only stare in disbelief as the Gallic army flowed like a sea crashing against the rocks, those flanks that had been contained by the legions pulling back in.
The warriors at the rear, contained by the burning pitch and holding themselves desperately back from the roaring flames, were suddenly pushed, screaming, into the inferno by their comrades, the fire rapidly extinguishing with the sheer weight of men being thrown into the flames.
As he stared in horror, he saw the rear flaming wall of the trap put out by the sizzling, melting fat of a human carpet, and the mass of ‘free Gauls’ running back down the hill toward the distant gates of their city, trampling their dead and dying comrades as they fled.
He turned his sickened gaze away to Galba.
“I cannot decide whether that was a stunningly brave act of tribal preservation, or an atrocious act of barbarism.”
Galba nodded soberly.
“We have to deal with them now, sir, while they’re tired and on the run. If we give them a chance to catch their breath and reform, we’re in trouble.”
“Indeed. Can’t let them fortify against us. Have the general advance sounded. Let’s chase them down.”
Cantorix sighed and turned to look over the parapet once more. It had taken the rebellious tribes a matter of only a few hours to argue among themselves as to what to do about the Roman threat, to reach the conclusion that they had to be dealt with before they could leave and join Caesar’s army, and then to put their plan into action. Cantorix and his companions were untrustworthy foreigners to them and had spent that time safely locked in a dark, oppressive room deep in the oppidum, two men guarding the door.
When, just after first light, the leaders had finally assembled their men at the gate of Crociatonum and goaded them into a killing frenzy, the presence of the foreigners seemed to have been entirely forgotten, or at least ignored, the guards joining the attack and leaving the fifteen ‘Veneti’ refugees locked in their prison and unattended.
Given the background and dubious skills of some of these men, it had come as no surprise to Cantorix that someone had the lock undone and the door open within half a minute of the army leaving, the sound of bellowing violence dying away as the enormous force charged away up the hill.
Briefly the centurion had considered calling the unit to order and going to join the fight, but the sheer lunacy of the notion soon imposed itself as he recalled the throng of thousands of angry warriors and weighed it against the relative size of his small force. At least the enemy had not seen fit to drag the strangers along with them, as it would have been hard for his men to identify themselves before the general and his legions skewered them.
Instead, he had made his way to the gate and climbed to the walkway above where he would observe the action as best he could. Though they must be two miles away at the Roman defences, he could safely assume that the battle proper had started by now.
As he appeared over the parapet, he noted spots of flickering yellow flame appear in the haze, punctuating
