Gauls. Further back along the line, among the other cohorts, the Gauls were already beginning to disengage.
“Why are they running?” Rusca wondered aloud.
“’Cause of the auxilia, sir. Look!”
The tribune raised his eyes and scanned the top of the valley side, where his companion was pointing. Units of auxiliary archers were pouring arrows down into the rear ranks of the enemy, while others, probably the spear men, were heaving at the loose rocks, setting them rolling down the steep incline and into the mass of Sotiates.
“Ha. Their ambush has been ambushed.”
The capsarius wore a look of concern as he turned back.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re very pale, sir. It’s hard to see beneath all the blood, but you’re white as a Vestal’s dress. Are you wounded?”
Rusca grinned.
“Far from it.”
He turned and scanned the men until he spotted the senior centurion.
“Looks like they’re breaking, centurion. Soon as they do, get formed up and follow, joining up with the First cohort.”
The centurion saluted and Rusca turned back to the capsarius.
“You and I, however, are going to wait until the enemy are cleared back and then head to the supply carts where I can get water for a wash, and some clean clothes.”
The capsarius grinned.
“Up to you sir, but if I were you I’d stay just like that. The very sight of you would loosen their bowels!”
The chief oppidum of the Sotiates had been a surprise to all. After an initial chase, it had become clear that, with its accompanying auxilia and baggage train, there was little hope of catching the fleeing Gauls before they reached their settlement and so Crassus had called an immediate halt to the fruitless chase and had changed tactics entirely.
Scouts sent ahead confirmed that over the next ten miles the land gradually lowered and flattened until it became a huge plain that extended all the way to the distant shore. The oppidum was constructed on only a very low hill, that being all that was available, and surrounded by low walls that, in quality and size, fell short of the impressive defences they had seen in other parts of Gaul.
Clearly the Sotiates had placed all their faith in the ambush in the valley, knowing that once the Roman forces reached the plain their defensive capabilities were drastically reduced.
Crassus had greeted the news from the scouts with a smile, reforming the Seventh legion and its auxilia and taking two days in the last of the forested hills before descending to the plain. While this delay would have given the Sotiates the time to recover from their heavy losses and panicked retreat, it would not be long enough for them to effect heavier defences or gather great reinforcements, yet would allow the Roman force the time to perform the onerous post-battle tasks: the tending of the wounded and the funerals of the dead and raising of a mound.
More importantly it had given the engineers of the legion plenty of time to strip areas of woodland and use the timber to construct a number of siege machines in preparation for the coming assault. From his position outside the army’s current command chain, Galronus had watched the engineers with interest. His duties with the cavalry had rarely allowed him time to observe the feats of the engineers in progress and the work was fascinating to watch. Clearly these men had worked together so many times that there was hardly any need for commands or directions, the soldiers going about their tasks with ordered precision, as though performing some sort of complicated dance.
By the time they had set off on the march again yesterday morning, the huge train of carts that followed the army had acquired mobile shelters that the engineers called vineae, two tall towers and a number of great screens that could protect troops.
The additional heavy engines had slowed the pace of the army a little and consequently the unnamed oppidum had only finally come into view this morning as the army continued along the line of the river down across the plains.
Tribune Tertullus had been lauded for their actions in the valley, with no mention being made of Galronus’ part. The lack of recognition had hardly bothered the Remi horseman, but the absence of the friendly tribune, as the man had been called to ride with the van once more, left a hole that had filled with tedium.
Even now, while the legions stood in shining ranks on the plain below the walls of the oppidum, awaiting the order to advance, the siege engines in place and ready to be launched forth, Galronus sat apart from the action, lounging on a flat, warm rock in the sunshine as he watched the glorious Roman parade before him.
Somewhere among the mass musicians issued calls and the army split and began to carry out carefully prepared manoeuvres, some trundling the siege towers forward, others sheltering in the vineae as they rolled toward the walls, the artillery details manning the onager and ballistae, firing off their initial aiming shots to find the range. The huge screens moved forward, protection for the auxiliary archers. It was so ordered it could have been a latrunculi board with two players shifting their markers.
Galronus shook his head and smiled. Fronto’s fault, that. A year ago he’d been Remi to the core, unaware of the very existence of the game. Now here he was after a winter in the great city under the dour legate’s influence and the first metaphor that came to mind was a Roman game. Briefly he wondered how his friend was doing, far away to the north, dealing with the rebellious Veneti, and found with surprise that he was suffering feelings that he would be hard put to call anything other than homesickness for Rome.
And yet, as he watched the first volleys of fire issue from the attackers and from the walls of the settlement, he could see the future of the world mapped out among the cohorts and centuries before him.
Before Caesar came to the lands of the Belgae, the Remi tribe had weighed their options and made the decision to support the forces of the general. Had they not, they may now be like the Aduatuci: nothing more than a name on a map, gradually fading into obscurity. Rome was coming to the whole world and embracing its arrival was the only sensible option. Aquitania would fall soon enough.
Distant cries of dismay drew his attention and he used his hand to shade his eyes and passed his gaze across the forces below the walls. Something was happening by one of the two huge siege towers. The structure was leaning at a precarious angle and it was with a smile that Galronus realised that two of the huge wheels had sunk into the ground. As he watched the legionaries desperately trying to right the huge construction, he almost laughed aloud when the tower swayed dangerously and then finally, ponderously, toppled forward and disappeared from view.
He frowned as he tried to focus on the distant spot, trying to work out what had happened and let out another bark of laughter as he realised that the structure had sunk into a tunnel, then tipped forward and vanished into the subterranean passage in its entirety.
The advance faltered for a moment as decisions were made. Galronus grinned and reached down for his sack of watered wine, purloined from the baggage train last night, and yet another indication of the influence Fronto had had on him this past year.
On the plain below, the bright silver and crimson figures of the tribunes marched around between the other officers, relaying Crassus’ commands. Galronus tried for a moment to identify them: the ageing Tertullus who had become a friend and ally so easily, and Rusca, who had arrived at the baggage train two days ago covered in gore, smelling of unearthly filth, and had spoken to him for the first time, lightly and with a gentle humour. The distance was too great, though, and one shining officer looked very much like another from this position.
It was curious. From here, with no command of his own and no direct influence on events, watching the army of Crassus at their work felt like those lazy days in early spring when he’d risen blearily from his bed in Fronto’s house and gone to watch the morning races in the circus. Momentarily he considered whether it would be in bad taste to find one of the medics or support staff that remained back from the battle and lay a few wagers.
Almost certainly they would think him callous, or an idiot. But then the betting of coin on games was a habit to which Rome had introduced him and not a natural pastime for the Belgae.
