The centurion nodded and turned to the men lined up along the wooden wall, tapping his vine stick on his greaves impatiently.
“Pilum at the ready. Mark your man and check the soldier on each side to make sure you’ve not doubled up.”
Priscus and Fronto drew their blades and strode over to the wall. “You staying for the show?” Fronto asked, reaching down and collecting the shield leaning against it, settling it into place.
“Why not? I was getting sick of riding my desk into battle. Got a spare shield?”
Fronto nodded to a stack of five slightly damaged spares and, as Priscus collected one and gripped it ready, he crossed to the wall and looked over. The slope from this corner of the fort — the northeast — descended quite gently through a large apple orchard. Beyond the ditches, the ramparts of the town sloped away to the north on his left, the settlement itself only visible beyond as a jumble of roofs interspersed with trees. The view here was excellent; despite the apple trees that obscured the slope, the fields beyond opened up and were clear and visible for at least two miles, where they met the edge of the forest.
What was of more urgent interest, however, were the scattered forms of the Morini rebels scrabbling up the slope beneath the trees.
“They look a touch desperate?” Priscus noted.
“I thought that” Fronto replied with a frown. “They’re coming up dangerously fast and not at all carefully.”
“Release” bellowed Geminius. The legionaries along the wall, each having selected an approaching Gaul, cast their pilum with an expert arm, the twenty four missiles arcing out over the palisade and descending into the trees. Fronto watched with a sense of pride in his legion as the javelins punched into torsos, heads and limbs, tearing through them and inflicting horrible injuries, often killing outright. In several cases the plummeting, screaming bodies of the warriors knocked their fellows from their feet and brought them down in a jumble, coming to rest against tree trunks. Others were pinned to trees or the ground, transfixed in agony. One particularly brave warrior, affixed to a tree with a pilum through his middle, was hauling himself painfully forward off the weapon, leaving a trail of gore along its length.
“Get ready!” the centurion shouted. The legionaries who had cast the pila were already drawing their swords and stepping forward to protect the wall. Moments later, the first of the Morini reached the outer ditch, which had been rendered somewhat ineffective now by the large quantities of brush and rubbish that had been tipped into it over the past few days to grant access to the walls. Leaping forward, the warriors pushed across the unstable and difficult infill. The second, inner, ditch was now of little more use then the first. Originally filled with pointed stakes to maim those crossing it, the lowest portion was now blocked with scattered bodies that obscured the stakes and lowered the gradient enough that the warriors hardly slowed to pass it.
And suddenly battle was joined. The majority of the pila, arrows and other missiles had been used up over the first day of attacks and the scorpions had fallen silent since then. The workshops had slowed their production — their manpower being reassigned to help hold the walls — and were largely given over now to the repair of mail, helmets and shields, rather than the production of helpful missiles.
Fronto was surprised not only at the desperate speed and ferocity of the attack, but also at their numbers. Over the past half day, each push had been several hours apart, carefully planned and often executed at a new position on the walls; usually two or three places at once. Moreover, the attacking forces had clearly been rotated each time, allowing many of the tribe to rest while the freshest warriors took their turn reducing the defending garrison. This attack was different: the mass of men storming up from the orchard, combined with the shouts of alarm from all around the fort, suggested that the Morini were committing every last man to this assault.
Two warriors, each with arm rings of bronze and mail shirts denoting their high status, rushed at Fronto’s position, charging up the slope of the inner ditch and continuing at speed to the bank of the rampart and the palisade. One had a long spear with a wicked blade, which he thrust up at Fronto from the flat between the rampart and the ditch, forcing the legate to raise his shield and knock the point aside; the spear clearly had enough reach to cause him trouble above the wooden palisade. The second warrior had thrown himself at the timber and managed to hook an arm over the top, his other hand bringing the long sword slowly up to a position where he could strike. Fronto, continually batting away the jabbing, probing spear, looked across quickly at Priscus, but the camp prefect was fighting his own spear-battle.
Just as the legate was trying to decide how best to deal with the two men, a third tribesman — a young man with no armour and a muddy face — leapt up from the ditch and threw a rope with a looped end with heart-stopping accuracy. The loop fell around the point of one of the wall timbers and slid downwards, tightening as it went.
He hardly had time to register the move, though, as the spear was there again, lunging for his face. Glancing across, he could see the second noble warrior almost pulled up to his chest, ready to throw himself over the defences and come at them from inside. One of Rufus’ reserve legionaries appeared as if from nowhere and ran at the man, smashing his shield boss into the climbing Morini noble and sending him back over the parapet with a shout of pain and alarm.
“Good man!” Fronto barked as he finally noticed an opening in the spear-man’s attack. The warrior continually jabbed in a three-move sequence, after which he drew back for a second, gaining position to begin once more. Smashing the heavy shield around and panting with the exertion, Fronto knocked the point aside; and again, and again. As the man took a single step back, the spear waggling in an ungainly manner, Fronto swung sword and shield towards one another, the shield sideways and rim-out. The two edges connected on the spear about two feet below the head and smashed through the ash shaft, neatly trimming off the dangerous part.
There was a sudden crack and a creak as one of the wall timbers began to move outwards and separate from the rest. Alarmed, Fronto ducked forward to see four burly men hauling on the rope, pulling in an attempt to destroy a section of the wall. Almost contemptuously, Fronto leaned over and cut the rope with his gladius, trying not to grin as the four men fell back into the ditch, holding the severed rope.
His attention was neatly returned to the current dangers as the broken haft of the spear smashed into the side of his helmet, ringing it like a bell.
“Right, you little turd!” Fronto snarled, his eyes blurring slightly with the impact and his ears filled with the metallic ringing. Gripping his sword, he resettled the shield and prepared to deal with the attacker.
“Look!” bellowed Priscus as he smashed a man in the face with the bronze edging of his shield and then pulled back to point with his blood-soaked gladius. Fronto followed his gesture and grinned at the sight.
Two columns of gleaming silver and crimson were emerging from the trees to the northeast, with a large force of cavalry on their flank.
“That’s why they were so damn desperate!”
Reaching down, Fronto tried to stab at the man with the broken spear, but the noble had turned and was already scrambling back down the hill. All around the fort cheers were rising from the defenders, as the discordant shrieks of the carnyx — the strange Gaulish horns — called the rebels to flee the field.
“Must be Sabinus and Cotta both, looking at the size of that army!” Priscus said with a grin. Fronto squinted and peered into the distance at the column, trying to hear over the ringing in his ears.
“I can’t make the banners out yet, but I’m willing to bet Caesar’s with them. That looks like the Tenth in formation to me, and the show-off in red on the white horse has to be the general.” Lowering the tip of his blade, he stepped back and blew out a relieved breath. “Looks like we’re saved.”
“I only hope the old man brought several tons of beef stew with him” Priscus grumbled. “I can’t feed the three thousand men we’ve got here, let alone the rest of the army!”
“That’s right,” grinned Fronto, “find the gloomy side to it.”
The general gave Fronto a curious look as he rode through the gate and the Tenth’s legate grinned back at him, blood-soaked and dirty.
“I would ask what happened to you and Brutus, but I haven’t the energy now, Fronto. Come and see me at the headquarters once I’m out of my armour and have a bite to eat.”
Fronto nodded, his attention already locked on something else further down the column.
“You alright?” Priscus asked quietly next to him.
“That’s the banner of the Fourteenth. I’ve words to have and a score to settle with a certain pair of tribunes.”
“Don’t cause me extra work. I don’t want to have to organise your flogging.”
