but I can’t see much hope of us holding off the entire Germanic people until they get to this bank. It’s going to be a day yet, even if they work through dark.”
“I swear, Fronto, that if you get any more negative, you’ll change colour. It’s not about holding off an entire nation.”
“No?”
“No. It’s about dealing with the first attack so brutally that they daren’t try again.”
Fronto perked up, his eyes narrowing. “You think we can hit them hard enough to make them withdraw?”
“You and me? The defenders of Bibrax? Ha!”
The legate stood, slowly and painfully, and grinned. “What have you in mind?”
The first assault came less than an hour later. The pickets had withdrawn to the fortified boundary and the defenders had watched the barbarians moving around just inside the shadow of the woods, their numbers uncertain.
It began as a roar somewhere inside the treeline, followed by a crash as the Germanic warriors slammed their weapons against shields, other weapons, or just tree trunks, raising a noise that shook the world. Then, half a dozen heartbeats later, the enemy poured out of the forest, yelling their guttural battle cries, mostly unarmoured, often unclothed, but with every weapon honed to a killing edge.
Fronto, standing on the low embankment, was pleased to note the lack of enemy archers. Not a surprise, really, given the utter devastation their wedge-formation charge had wrought on the lightly armed missile troops. Very few bowmen had escaped alive into the woods, and those that did would be in no hurry to return. These men were very likely the remaining warriors of that first ambush at the farm. If that were the case, then it suggested to Fronto that perhaps the rest of the tribes were staying safely back in their own territory, watching the Roman advance carefully. If that
“It all sounds a bit unlikely to me” he muttered to Decius. “Are you really sure they’re that good? They look a bit shaky to me.”
The prefect grinned. “They’re just still recovering from that rope trip. But remember Bibrax? And we’ve been training on small target shooting since then, so watch and learn.”
Fronto cast a distinctly uncertain look at the archers, but nodded. They all looked worried and shaky. Not that he blamed them. If he’d had to cross that wet rope above the churning currents of the Rhenus, he’d probably have lost control of his bowels by now.
“Legionaries prepare! Front rank ready! Rear rank ready!”
As he glanced along the rampart, the sixty-five men forming the front rank stood with their shields forming a defensive ‘U’ within the defences of the tiny fort. Swords were held poised, ready to flash out each time the shields parted a couple of inches. The rear rank of twenty five men stood five yards back, each holding a pilum ready, five more jammed into the ground, ready to throw.
Decius waited until Fronto’s voice had echoed away and straightened. The forty archers who had crossed knelt on the embankment, arrows jammed into the earth.
“Remember the range. Only fire when you’re certain of a hit. Mark your targets carefully. Section one, you’re looking for the largest, least armoured men. Section two fire at will, but be selective and mean!”
Fronto looked along the line of archers and then glanced back and watched with regret as the two ropes splashed down into the water and were withdrawn to the bridge, a precaution against giving the enemy any advantage should the bridgehead fall.
It quickly became clear as the barbarians swarmed across the open grass that their numbers had been somewhat bolstered since the ambush at the farm. Even as the lead warriors — bloodlust filling their eyes and minds, swords raised for a first blow — closed on the small, hopelessly inadequate fortlet, more were still pouring from the woods in a seemingly endless supply.
“Steady” called Decius in a calm voice. Fronto glanced nervously across. Surely they were close enough now. He could almost smell them. In return, the tanned prefect grinned at him and, producing one of the wineskins, took a quick pull from it and winked.
“Fire!” he bellowed.
Fronto felt his eyes drawn back to the enemy by the arcing of the missiles. The initial volley seemed to have failed in its intended effect for a moment and Fronto was about to order the archers back, when he watched the results unfold with interest.
The nine archers of ‘section one’ were Decius’ best shots. The most accurate and consistent archers to be found in the whole unit of Cretans, most of whom were still trapped on the far side of the Rhenus.
Now Fronto could see how they’d earned the blue scarf that marked them out as double-pay men. Each of the nine arrows sailed straight and true and only one missed the intended mark, by a tiny enough margin that the effect was the same.
The result was impressive. Each missile had been aimed for the knee of one of the largest and most powerful barbarians and had struck home with impressive accuracy. The bulky warriors had floundered with the crippling blows and fallen sideways in the direction of the damaged joint, bringing down several of the other charging barbarians in the mess.
The rest of the archers were firing and nocking, firing and nocking, firing and nocking at a rate that Fronto simply couldn’t believe, their victims collapsing to the wet ground with cries of agony. Precious few arrows went astray, and even those that did caused some damage due to the press of the enemy.
The effect of the targeted knee shots was remarkable. Where a moment earlier a solid row of howling barbarians had been running, trying to out-sprint one another, now few pockets of men were still running, while most of the front five or six ranks’ worth of warriors were down, floundering in the churning mud while the mass behind them tried to leap over or clamber across them in their lust to get to the enemy.
Fronto had a momentary image of that hillside at Bibrax two years ago, the slope wet and muddy, churning and becoming more slippery and treacherous with every fallen struggling man. The same was now happening on the field before him. The floundering ranks of attackers were churning the mud and creating a mire that made it increasingly difficult to gain a footing and stand again.
As the entire attack ground to a comical, messy halt, the chosen men of the unit joined their compatriots in the simple nock-release-nock-release that was having a devastating effect on them.
Finally the warriors from the bulk of the enemy force managed to make headway, clambering across their fallen countrymen, using the wounded or dead as a walkway to cross the roiling mud.
“Your turn!” Decius shouted with a grin, even as his men continued their impressive rate of fire.
Fronto nodded and raised his voice. “Second rank, throw at will!”
As the barbarians continued to fall to the fletched hell that Decius had unleashed, the men of Fronto’s legionary force began to cast their javelins. They could not see their targets with the men of the first rank, the mound and the archers in front, but they cast their missiles high and hard, the pila falling somewhere deep in the mass of barbarians where they were almost guaranteed a kill.
And for more than a minute the battle seemed frozen in time; a constant repeat of actions. Arrows flew from the rampart, plunging with astounding precision into the nearest barbarians, holding back the surge, while pilum after pilum arced up and over, falling into the press of flesh.
Fronto stood on the mound watching the tableau with a professional eye, noting the slowing of the enemy force — not due purely to the damage being done them by the constant barrage of missiles, but also showing a growing uncertainty about their attack. Their enthusiasm was waning, their sureness of victory drained with every death and wound.
It would be a close thing.
There were still enough warriors in that field to completely swamp the hundred and thirty or so men defending the bank. If they could be pushed a little harder, the resolve that weakened with every minute might break completely and, if that happened, his small force had won. The barbarians would rout and leave the field and the bridgehead would hold, while fresh supplies and more men could be brought across.
But even as Fronto felt his breath come and his tension ease, his gaze took in the arrows jammed into the turf along the defensive line. Few archers had more than two or three shots remaining. In the moment he
