“Scouts have given a clear report of several passes a few miles to the east. Perhaps we can reroute the supply wagons to come to our position by a circuitous route? We could besiege them then and slowly force them to capitulate.”
Crassus nodded.
“It’s worth a try… the supplies, I mean. Have riders dispatched with the appropriate orders and have small units posted to keep a clear view on the route. But the supplies will be seriously delayed and may have trouble with the terrain, so we cannot rely on them.”
He clapped his hands together in the misty mountain air.
“No. No sieges. We have to move quickly and decisively. You may be able to give us half a day’s warning of approaching reinforcements, but we cannot be sure that the enemy do not have other, more secret, ways across the mountains. They know this land far better than any of us and I can’t risk waking one morning to find they outnumber us ten to one.”
He turned to the tribunes.
“What say you?”
The men glanced at one another nervously until Tertullus shrugged.
“We didn’t come this far to sit on our hands and watch the whole of Spain arrive across the mountains. Let’s go over there and give them a lesson in how a
There was a murmur of assent from the others and Crassus nodded again.
“Seems like there’s only one clear course of action. Have the senior centurions gather for a briefing. We move at dawn tomorrow.”
Galronus walked his horse slowly forward at the head of a detachment of auxiliary cavalry on the army’s left wing and glanced across the lines of advancing troops appreciatively. The organisation of the army seemed nonsensical unless one had listened to the legate explain it.
Shunning the traditional formations, Crassus had placed his auxiliary spearmen and archers at the very centre of his force, the position usually reserved for the heavy infantry, with three cohorts of the Seventh flanking them on each side, the cavalry split into four groups at the two edges and following on behind and the remaining four cohorts guarding the Roman camp on the spur opposite.
Presenting such a weak centre had stirred discontent among the veteran centurions, who considered it their job to hold the prime position, but the subtlety of the plan soon quietened them.
The auxiliaries were a lure. Since the enemy knew Roman tactics well, they would expect a standard Roman advance and would be prepared to deal with it. This would perhaps throw them a little off guard, but would hopefully also lead them to believe their opposition to be tactically incompetent. After all, what general in his right mind fields his weakest troops in the centre?
The Remi officer clenched his teeth. They were getting too close. The speed of the Roman march perhaps hadn’t given the enemy enough time to draw the appropriate conclusions.
Surely such a formation would be too tempting for the enemy to pass up?
And as soon as they poured forth from the gate, even should they do so as a Roman-style shield wall, and engaged the auxiliary spearmen, the centre would begin an orderly fall back, keeping a line of spears to their pursuers, as the two wings of legionaries would swing round and turn inward, flanking the enemy, effectively boxing them in until they were trapped and slaughtered. The cavalry, at this point, could create a cordon around the periphery to prevent any escapes and try to gain and hold the fort’s gate.
It was an ingenious move; a manoeuvre subtle and cunning in its formation.
But something was wrong. The lure had not worked.
By now the enemy should be rushing from the gate, or at least forming up. No horn blasts sounded and no warriors appeared. The Roman forces were now no more than a quarter of a mile from the enemy fortifications, which stood proud on the crest of the long slope. They weren’t coming.
Grinding his teeth, Galronus wheeled his horse and raced off past his men to the rear of the advancing Seventh legion and toward the commanders who rode behind, shining silver and crimson in the early morning sun.
His thoughts must have been shared by the legate and his tribunes since, just as he rounded the rear and made for the officers, the cornicen blew the call for the legion to halt. As the entire advancing force stopped in perfect unison, Galronus trotted up to the command group.
“Clever fellow” the legate was saying to the tribunes.
“Clever, sir?”
“He’s not been fooled by the weak formation. This leader we face knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to sit inside his fortifications and wait until he has enough men to squash us like a fly.”
Rusca frowned.
“Then what do we do, sir?”
“Quite simple. We attack. What other choice do we have?”
The legate turned to the cornicen, noting Galronus’ presence for the first time with a flick of his eyes.
“Send out the calls” he addressed the man. “I want the auxiliaries withdrawn to the rear and the Seventh to form up in standard battle formation.”
Dismissing the musician, he turned to Galronus.
“Can’t see much use for the cavalry in a direct assault. I suggest that you just keep your men back and send them anywhere you think they might be useful as the opportunity arises.”
Galronus shifted in his saddle. For his entire force to be so summarily dismissed was irritating, but there really was no way he could think of to fault the legate’s reasoning. He would just have to make sure that a situation that he could use arose.
As he waved to his own standard bearers with their dragon-headed banners and Celtic horns, ready to give them their orders, Crassus watched the auxilia pull back and reassemble to the rear, the legion shifting to present a solid shield wall.
Horns were blown across the hillside and the cavalry pulled back in their four groups to a distance from which to observe events. Galronus watched them and then frowned in surprise as Crassus rode forward, approaching the rear lines of the legion, an enterprising optio giving hasty commands and having a passageway opened for the legate.
Crassus nodded at the man and rode between the ranks of the Seventh until he reached the front, where he turned his horse and looked down at the men.
“Our Aquitanian and Spanish friends appear to be a little nervous?”
A ripple of laughter spread out across the crowd.
“How do we reward their resistance?”
A deep, raspy voice from somewhere amid the ranks called out “death?”
Crassus pointed in the man’s direction.
“Death is a
A lighter voice muttered something and one of the centurions on the front rank raised his vine staff over his head.
“Obliteration, gutting, burning, dismantling and salting the land, sir!”
Crassus laughed.
“I fear you missed the looting from your list, but good man nonetheless!”
This time the laughter raced around the army in a roar.
“So do we go back and prepare for a siege, men?”
The negative murmur was clear indication of the feeling of the troops. Galronus smiled to himself. This was a Caesarean speech if ever he’d heard one. Fronto rarely made speeches of this kind; his men were so tightly bound to him they’d follow him into Tarterus if he asked. Caesar, however, relied on his oratory to goad his men and stiffen their resolve, like the public speakers Galronus had heard urging the crowds in Rome. Remarkably, it seemed to work and, more remarkably yet, the young legate seemed to be turning into a shadow of the general himself. The mood was suddenly tingling and electric, like the air between a crash of thunder and the flash of the
