Marius' Mules II: The Belgae (15 page)

He had
entertained himself throughout his four hour vigil by conversing
with Decius and had been surprised to learn that the man had served
in many of the same places in Spain as Fronto had during that
campaign. Given the risk of what they were about to try, he found
himself exceedingly grateful to have an experienced veteran of that
calibre with him.

He crouched
and made his way across to Decius and his archers. The Cretans
looked so underdressed for war, in Fronto’s opinion. Plain linen
tunics and sandals, with a helm, shield and bow. But he had to
admit, they moved fast, light and quiet. In retrospect, given what
they would have to do, he couldn’t have chosen better units for the
job, though he’d have preferred a colour that stood out less than
plain linen. At least they weren’t bright white. One of the
prefects had come up with an idea that the men roll around in the
dirt to darken their clothes and it had worked to some extent.
Black tunics would still have been better, though.

His jaw
clamped tight, he gestured to his men and the various prefects
began moving their units down the slope as slowly and quietly as
they could. As always, Fronto led the column, Decius directly
behind him, and the large, mismatched force slipped down the grass
and into the reeds at the water’s edge like ghosts.

Fronto stepped
carefully amid the treacherous plant life and sucking mud as he
slowly made his way along the bank, watching for the occasional
tree root that snaked out of the soil to his right and threatened
to catch or trip him. Insects whined around his ears and repeatedly
bit him on the arms and scalp while his feet slowly numbed in the
cold water.

He smiled as
he imagined what this would look like from the far side. Ghosts is
what they’d seem, pale and silent in the darkness. It was going to
be a long trek. They would have to travel the better part of a mile
at this slow and difficult pace before they could even think of
climbing the bank unnoticed. Somewhere behind him he heard a splash
and he glanced irritably over his shoulder before stepping on.

The last
purple shimmer of evening lay ahead and to the right on the
skyline, outlining the bulk of the oppidum on its plateau and the
shallow v of the river in its dip. Fronto kept glancing nervously
ahead and to the left, trying to make out the details of the Belgic
guards on the far bank.

He could see
the flicker of camp fires, but couldn’t tell whether they were
singing and drinking due to the increasing noise from close by on
this bank. They were approaching the host of Belgae now.
Fortunately, the enemy had had the sense to encamp some distance
from the river to avoid the midges and other winged nuisances that
continued to bother Fronto and his men. Still, an insect bite was
less worrisome than a sword blow, as he kept telling himself.

As least, even
with plain linen tunics, they would be unlikely to be spotted from
the far side. The temperature was dropping rapidly, as it seemed to
do in Gaul during the late spring and early summer, and that had
resulted in the Belgae huddling around their campfires. And the
beautiful thing about fires was how thoroughly they destroyed a
man’s natural night vision.

Fronto grinned
at the twinkling lights slowly drawing opposite.

They must be
half way there now. Not as bad as he thought.

Suddenly the
sound of splashing stopped him in his tracks. For a moment he
couldn’t discern from which direction the noise had come, and
glanced back angrily, but the sound was coming from somewhere
ahead.

Squinting into
the ever deepening darkness, he finally spotted the man standing on
the ground above them and ahead, noisily urinating down into the
river while whistling some native tune. As Fronto watched with the
growing relief that they were still upstream, he noticed that the
man had a sack of wine in one hand. As he watched, the man let go
of himself in mid stream in order to tilt his head back and use
both hands to squeeze the last of the wine out of the skin. With a
guttural laugh, he began to shake his hips left and right, spraying
a wide arc out onto the water.

Were it not
for his situation, Fronto would have laughed, it was so
comical.

As he watched,
he crouched silently in the shallows and waited tensely as the man
finished, slung the bag over his shoulder, tucked himself away,
spat down into the water, and finally strode away to rejoin his
fellow revellers.

With a frown
of distaste, Fronto waited a while, partially to give the man time
to get out of earshot, and partially so that the water ahead would
have cleared. A minute passed and then the column began to move
again.

With
interminable slowness they made their way along the shore, the
sounds of the Belgae revels rolling down on them from above.
Regularly on the unpleasant journey, Fronto found himself offering
up fervent prayers to Bacchus that they wouldn’t suddenly find
themselves under the aim of ten thousand emptying Belgic
bladders.

It was with an
immense sigh of relief that he noted the sounds of the drunken
warriors next to them beginning to fade. Though it was now very
dark down here in the river valley, shaded by trees and tall
plants, the looming bulk of Bibrax was quite close and quite clear.
That, combined with the decreasing volume, put them in the no-man’s
land of the slope between the Belgae and the oppidum.

A quick glance
across the rippling surface of the water placed the camp fires of
the waiting Belgae almost opposite now. Fronto stopped and,
turning, made a motion to Decius. The command went down the line
into the distance. It was ridiculous, really. Much like a marching
column of multiple legions, this line of almost a thousand men must
stretch almost half way back to where they’d started. There could
be Spaniards back there being urinated on by drunken Belgae and
he’d never know until it turned into a brawl.

He clicked his
tongue, irritated at his own distraction, and made further gestures
to be passed on as he climbed slowly and as quietly as possible out
of the water and began to clamber up the steep slope at a crouch
toward the walls of Bibrax.

He was finding
his breathing more ragged and laboured the higher he climbed and
set his gaze resolutely on the nearest area of the walls. Bibrax
was clearly packed tightly within its perimeter and limited by the
geography. A sizeable building of typical stone and timber
construction rose up amid the occasional trunks of oak and beech
trees.

He examined
the surrounding wall as he climbed closer. Strangely, despite
having spent time around the walls of Bibracte, Vesontio and
Durocorteron, he’d never examined their defences. Of course, he’d
always been off duty with no likelihood of having to utilise those
walls. These ones might mean the difference between life and death
for him and his army.

He tutted with
irritation. The defences of Bibrax were clearly, even at first
glance, nowhere near as strong as those of the larger oppida he’d
visited. Vesontio had had defensive towers, for a start. This wall
had no towers, though at least, he noted with relief as moonlight
put in a brief appearance, they were faced with stone. They had
been constructed by creating a strong wooden framework and then
packing the intervening space with tamped earth. Very good against
men and they’d be superb against rams or onagers, but flimsy when
it came to undermining the structure. Fronto frowned. His plan
might still work, but now it carried more danger.

With a sigh,
he finally reached the base of the wall and gestured to the men
following him to form up on the riverward side. As the auxiliaries
began to join him at the summit, Fronto gazed down the slope at the
myriad fires twinkling out across the ground below like a mirrored
image of the stars. With a deep breath, he called on Nemesis, his
favourite deity, to protect them all tonight and tomorrow. That was
a lot of Belgae. He’d have to play it clever, as a straight fight
would be suicide.

Another few
gestures and his men began to climb the side of the wall.
Stretching, Fronto turned his gaze back the way they’d come. The
last hundred or so of his men were just reaching the slope and
climbing out of the water now.

Simultaneously, the world around him exploded into activity. Behind
and above him, one of the Remi guards above the rampart had finally
spotted the men climbing and had thrust out with his spear,
catching a Cretan auxiliary with a nasty stab in the shoulder and
hurling him from the wall. The shout went up on the rampart and
Bibrax burst into noisy life. Men appeared above them with spears
and the Cretans climbing the wall paused in their ascent, afraid to
climb further.

Fronto didn’t
have time to worry whether he could call out to the Remi and claim
friendship without drawing attention from the rest of the Belgae
below and endangering the last of the troops in his column.
Something had happened at the back; perhaps another urinating
warrior had seen them? He couldn’t tell from this distance, but
clearly something had gone wrong.

Trying to
block out the noises above him for a second, he concentrated and
could finally hear the faint sounds of combat down by the
water.

“
Shit!”

He turned and
looked up.

“
We’re Romans!” he yelled. “Roman relief force, get
it?”

There was no
reply, so he bellowed out again.

“
Roman!”

Somewhere on
the wall, a guttural voice said “Romani?”

“
Yes, bloody Roman! Roman!” he shouted again, as the call was
taken up by the prefects and other Roman officers.

Moments later,
ropes were fetched and lowered down the wall for the Romans to
climb. Fronto shook his head. Why the hell, now that it was clear
who they were, didn’t they just direct them to a gate and open it?
Grumbling, he turned to look back down the hill. There was now
quite a clash going on in the narrow difficult triangle where the
hill rose by the waterside. A small party of Belgae had risked the
advance in the darkness and were engaging the rear of Fronto’s
army. He barked his annoyance at nemesis for her lack of care. The
poor bastards at the back were a unit of Spanish slingers, whose
grand concessions to armour and weaponry were a linen tunic, a
sling and a dagger. Caught up with fierce armoured Belgae wielding
large blades, they would be cut to pieces in short order and there
was not much Fronto could do about it from up here.

“
Decius! Galeo! Get your archers gathered together here and
start firing down into that crowd.”

As Decius
relayed the commands, Galeo stared at Fronto.

“
You’ll hit your own men!”

Fronto shook
his head irritably.

“
Those men are already dead. The Belgae are cutting through
them like a grain harvest. At least if we fire down we might drive
the Belgae back and save some of our men! Now get to
work!”

As the two
units of archers rained their arrows down over the small group of
warriors laying waste to the slingers, the remaining troops, now
running up the hill to get out of the line of fire, climbed the
ropes and made their way to the relative safety of Bibrax. Fronto
waited a moment, watching the carnage below, before turning back to
the two officers overseeing the covering fire.

“
Keep going until the Belgae leave and the last survivors are
on their way up, and then get yourselves up and over the walls. I’m
going ahead to find the chief.”

Decius nodded
and turned back to his work as Fronto grasped one of the ropes and
began to climb.

* * * * *

Inside the
walls was a state of chaos. Many of the dirty and bedraggled
archers and slingers who had arrived were in position on the walls,
ready to give cover to their compatriots still clambering up
closer. Warriors of the Remi were in position with heavy swords and
long spears. Fronto gazed around the town itself. It looked
surprisingly peaceful, with torches burning here and there,
lighting the house fronts.

A figure
strode forward out of the press of Remi warriors. He was only of
average height, and armed like the rest, but wearing a heavy gold
and bronze torc and expensive wristbands. He looked vaguely
familiar for some reason.

“
You Roman… Durocorteron.”

Fronto
frowned.

“
Yes, I was there… I… Wait a minute? You’re the other chieftain
who was there with Antebrogius. Iccus or something?”

“
I Iccius. Bad Roman.”

Fronto
stared.

“
I beg your pardon?”

“
Bad Roman” repeated Iccius, and tapped himself repeatedly on
the chest. Fronto laughed.

“
Ah, you can’t speak Latin! Of course.” He frowned. “Then this
is going to get very difficult. I’m assuming none of your people
can, and I sure as shit can’t speak yours!”

“
Eh?”

Iccius’ face
was a mask of incomprehension.

“
Oh for Gods’ sake, this is ridiculous. Thank you, Nemesis... I
must remember to piss on an altar some time!”

“
What was that?” asked Decius as he arrived.

“
Oh, nothing. Communication issues. Our men are all Spanish,
Greek or Numidian apart from the Roman officers. His are all
Belgae. No one speaks anyone else’s language here. If it weren’t so
bloody frustrating and inconvenient, it’d be comical!”

Decius
frowned.

“
We should have brought a few Gaulish auxiliaries, I suppose.
Still, afterthought is no better than no thought, eh?”

Fronto glared
at him.