Gallia Invicta

“Right. Everyone in position. Four men on the walls with the rocks. Rest of us hold the gate steady.”

He looked up.

“Shout if you’re in trouble.”

Without listening further, Cantorix ran forward to the gate. Constructed of heavy oak, the timber was almost entirely flush fitting, with precious few cracks and openings.

“Don’t lean into the gate yet, ‘cause you’ll just exhaust yourself, but be prepared. If you see a bracing beam giving way a little, get on it and reinforce it; hold it down. If you hear a shout from the lads above, get up there and help. Otherwise, keep your eye on any holes in the timber. If you can jab a blade through it and do some damage, get it done. No throwing yourself into anything. This is about holding on long enough for the rest of the army to do their job.”

“Brace yourself” one of the men above bellowed.

“Here they come.”

The sound of the panicked Gaulish army desperately trying to retreat to the safety of their suddenly inaccessible oppidum was immense, a roar and babble of shouts, mixed with the thumping of feet, the crash of metal and wood and screams from the few unlucky enough to fall and be trampled.

Cantorix closed his eyes and offered up a quick prayer to Mars, Fortuna, Minerva… and to Belenus and Nodens too, just in case.

The initial blow as the mass of the enemy threw themselves against the gate was as impressive as any forceful charge the centurion had seen. Despite the heavy timber of the construction and the two cross beams in their cradles, both gates shifted inwards by more than a foot, the bracing beams creaking and jumping in their earthen sockets.

“Bloody hell!” shouted one of the men in front of him and Cantorix couldn’t find a better expletive at that moment.

He threw his gaze around to take in the top walkway that had actually shaken under the blow, the dust and dirt that had fallen, dislodged from above, and the fact that the very walls had given a tiny amount to either side of the gate, earth slipping out and pouring to the ground from the timber-framed, soil-packed fortification.

“Swords” he bellowed, and the men under his command began to jab their blades through any hole they could find in sharp, swift blows, so as not to allow the weapons to become jammed.

The centurion leaned back and scratched his head as the second huge blow came, the gates shaking and releasing yet more dirt. With a loud retort, a thin crack appeared across one of the huge cross beams. Impressive. He’d seen similar results with a battering ram, but with shoulders and muscle alone? They must be desperate.

“Crap, I hope the legions hurry up.”

Pounding feet behind him made him turn. Dannos came to a halt, dropping his hands to his knees and breathing in deep gasps, Idocus close behind him.

“Two small posterns, sir. Both at ‘other side. Got ‘em locked, barred and piled up wi’ whatever shit we could get ‘us hands on.”

Cantorix sighed.

“Let’s just hope they don’t get that far then. Draw a sword and fall in.”

As the optio and the legionary rushed over to join the men at the gate, Cantorix pinched his nose again and gritted his teeth.

Five minutes was all they’d need, but five minutes might just be pushing it against that lot.

A third blow widened the crack on the beam and knocked one of the defending legionaries from his feet.

Galba frowned as he looked ahead.

“Baculus? They’re starting to spread along the walls. Those lads from the Fourteenth must have barred the gate.”

The primus pilus, a short distance to his right and moving at triple time, nodded.

“Got to keep them contained, sir.”

“Agreed.”

Ahead of them, the Ninth and Fourteenth legions nipped at the heels of the fleeing enemy, not allowing them the opportunity to pause and reform. In a minute they would have them pinned against the walls of Crociatonum and trapped. As soon as they formed a solid shield wall the enemy were done for, but there was still the possibility that a large number of the Gauls would escape along the walls first.

“Baculus: take the First through Fifth cohorts and break right to cut them off. Fast as you can.”

As the veteran officer saluted and began bellowing orders, moving off with half the legion to contain the fleeing Gauls on the far side, Galba gestured to the centurions and signifers behind him and peeled off to the left, picking up the already tortuous pace they had maintained down the hill. He could only imagine how the Gauls must feel. He himself was at the peak of his physical condition these days, yet the muscles in his legs strained and complained and his lungs burned from the activity at the fort and the long run down the hill after the fleeing Gauls. The enemy, on the other hand, had run up the hill, carrying bundles of wood, before even that.

Indeed, the Gauls’ state of near exhaustion was evident in the numerous bodies of those who had collapsed on their return journey, unable to go on. The two front legions, the Ninth and Fourteenth, had run on past the collapsed enemies, rear ranks pausing only to drive a blade through them before running on to catch up.

He risked taking his eyes off the ground ahead and looked around to the officers behind him.

“Spread the men out. Let’s come at them like a gate, swinging down and right and closing the exit for them.”

The men barked their confirmations and the legate turned back just in time to spot the rabbit hole and shift his pace to jump across it. There was something simple and powerful about a headlong charge into battle. Fronto had tried to explain it to him once but, for one reason or another, the Twelfth seemed generally to end up in a position where they were bracing themselves to take the force of an enemy attack. Now, the fresh wind battering his face, the turf springing under his feet and the men of his command roaring behind and around him, he began to see Fronto’s point.

The moments passed as they charged down the rapidly levelling slope and by the time they reached the flat ground that stretched out before the walls of Crociatonum, the desperate and fatigued Gauls had reached the defences and were spilling out along it and milling around.

Their panic expressed itself in many ways as the Gauls found themselves trapped. A number of them fled along the walls, though the men of the Twelfth were already swinging down on an intercept course to cut them off. Others began desperately to climb the wall, though to no avail. Despite its rough surface, no man among the Gaulish army had the strength remaining to make such an arduous climb. Still, others tried to push their way through their compatriots in an effort to get to the oppidum’s gate, unaware that it remained fast against them. The rest either turned, wearily, raising their weapons with hopeless expressions, staring death in the steel- armoured face, or dropped their weapons, drooping and giving up entirely.

A quick glance to left and right confirmed that the edges of the Twelfth had reached the wall and joined the flank of the Fourteenth, effectively sealing the enemy in. At calls from the centurions, needing no prompting from their commander, the whole legion settled into powerful shield walls, closing on the hopeless enemy.

Somewhere off to his right, several blasts issued from the instrument of the cornicen on the general’s staff. Along the line, the soldiers that were already involved in fighting stepped back, disengaging. The field fell strangely silent as the melee paused.

“Warriors of the Unelli and their allies!”

Galba smiled to himself. The voice was that of Sabinus, every bit as powerful and commanding as a Roman general should sound.

“Hear my terms. They are neither flexible nor negotiable.”

There was a low murmur among the enemy.

“Your tribes took an oath of allegiance to Rome and you have broken that allegiance. That makes you not only enemies, but criminals and traitors in the eyes of all civilised men. I am a man inclined toward mercy, but this situation tests my patience.”