Gallia Invicta

“So how are we going to do this?”

Galronus shrugged.

“I’m a cavalry man, tribune. Siege is not my forte.”

Rusca nodded and, turning, waved the senior centurion forward.

“Sir?”

“I want your thoughts on how we assail that place.”

The centurion frowned.

“Direct and fast, sir. Not much in the way of a ditch to stop us, so we can be at the walls at a run in a few moments. There’s not many defenders so we need to get control before they can draw reinforcements to the wall.”

Galronus pursed his lips.

“Will you go over the wall or through it?”

“Both have merits” the man shrugged. “To bring sections of the palisade down is a slower job and would delay the assault, but we’d be inside en masse a lot quicker. Scaling the walls would give us speed and surprise, but it would be a while before we had any kind of force inside.”

He smiled and spread his hands.

“What I’d do, sir, is both at once.”

“Both?”

“Yessir. There’s a lot of powerful horses here that can’t do anything until they can get inside. The First cohort attacks, climbs the walls, cuts the palisade binding and secures ropes, then passes them to the cavalry. The horses can probably pull that palisade clean out of the ground one stake at a time. As soon as there are a few small holes, the other three cohorts come in, take the rest apart quickly and then get inside. Soon as we’re in and there’s a sizeable hole, the cavalry can do their bit too, sir.”

Rusca frowned.

“Where do you think we might find ropes at such short notice?”

“Brought them with us, sir, along with a lot of other trenching tools, caltrops and more. Never know what you might need, sir.”

Galronus grinned at the tribune.

“The plan has merit. Shall we?”

The tribune swallowed nervously.

“I suppose. Whatever we do, we need to do it fast.”

The Remi commander nodded at the centurion.

“Get the men moving. I’ll marshal a group of cavalry to haul the ropes for you.”

As the two men ran off toward their respective units, Gaius Pinarius Rusca sighed and ran his eyes once more across the wall top. He was acutely aware that he was entirely unsuited to this job. A few weeks ago, Crassus would have pondered deeply before assigning him to anything more deadly than stock-taking in the supply wagons, but then his reputation seemed to have blossomed after that incident with the ambush. For some reason just because he’d fought with the desperation of a cornered beast and ended the day covered head to foot in gore, the men had cheered him and the officers assumed that he was some sort of crazed killer contained in a small bureaucratic frame.

He was not.

Yet now he was nominally in charge of the most important assault in the battle and the responsibility was immense. Oh, clearly Galronus and the centurion knew what they were doing, but his was the accountability.

He shrank back behind the tree trunk, peering at the defences a few hundred yards away. Already, he felt that worrying loosening in his bladder area again.

“You alright, sir? You’ve gone really pale.”

Rusca almost shouted out in shock and turned, his heart racing, to discover that a legionary had taken position by the tree next to him, others moving up all through the woodland, the cavalry gathering in a clear area not far back where they were hidden from the fort by the woodland.

He felt like a child, out of his depth and on the verge of panic. Before he could stop himself, he found his mouth was busy, working independently of his brain and blabbing his worst fears to this ordinary soldier. In horror, he clamped his mouth shut and tried to think of a way to downplay what he had just admitted, but the legionary shrugged.

“It’s natural to be scared a bit, sir. Only a complete nutcase would feel no fear. Trick is to go piss your heart out in the woods first. Start every battle with an empty bladder and an empty bowel, sir. Me? I’d piss myself soon as I got within arrow reach otherwise!”

Rusca stared at the man.

“Sorry sir. Didn’t meant to speak out of turn.”

Slowly, a smile spread across the tribune’s face.

“Which bit of the palisade are we aiming for then, soldier?”

The legionary pointed at a stretch where a slight hump in the ground caused the palisade to rise and fall.

“Good” Rusca smiled. “Should be easier to get to the stakes. Think I’ll pop off and relieve myself before we go.”

The legionary grinned.

As Rusca trotted off through the advancing ranks of men until he found a convenient spot, he chewed on his cheek. It was right to be nervous. Of course it was… so long as the fear didn’t stop you, it didn’t control you, and the only answer was to tackle it face on.

Sighing with relief, he fastened his breeches again and made his way back through the ranks of men to the front, where it took a minute to locate his original position and the man who had spoken to him. The lump in the palisade, however, guided him true.

As he fell into place behind the tree, he became aware that the centurion off to his right was waving an arm. Rusca was still waiting for the cornu to blare out the call in response when the men sprang from their hiding places and ran out into the open. Of course! The element of surprise was paramount. Why would they use musicians?

Biting his lip, he ducked out from the bole of the tree and drew his sword. Stretching out his legs ready to run, he became aware that the centurion was shaking his head. Yes, an officer should be dignified. No running.

Close to the centurion, Rusca strode out into the open ground with a purposeful gait. Ahead, the legionaries of the First cohort were running for the wall, eerily quiet, roughly one man in every twenty carrying a rope.

The whole situation was so strange. The minimal number of defenders on this side had been so unprepared to witness any action and had spent the past hour or more staring at nothing, becoming bored beyond endurance, that they took far too long to react to the sudden rush of silent men. Moreover, the whole assault was so quiet that the overriding sound was that of Crassus’ assault on the far side of the large camp.

The running legionaries were almost at the contemptible excuse for a ditch by the time the cry went up from the scant defenders on the wall. Rusca ground his teeth as he marched along behind the assault, next to the centurion. Time was now very much of the essence. Once that cry had gone up it was a race to see whether the four cohorts could break in and consolidate their position before the defenders sent reinforcements to the wall.

The tribune strode forward, his heart racing, as the men of the First cohort ahead reached the earth embankment below the palisade and threw themselves against the timbers, scrambling for holds and pushing one another up, climbing precariously with one hand and a sword in the other, or with both hands and a pugio clamped between their teeth.

By the time Rusca reached the ditch, fighting was already occurring at the wall top, men falling with pained cries back down to the turf outside. The number of men on the walls appeared to have grown, but only a little; presumably a number of warriors had been standing by to support them in case of just such an event: enough to make the assault harder, but not enough to change the course of the battle, certainly.

He altered his stride to jump across the pitiful little ditch. Around the other three sides of the fort, the ground on the slope was turf with deep earth beneath, or grit that could easily be carved and dug. Here, the rocky