The quiet was reaching that tense point and would snap at any moment. Another attack was about to launch — he could feel it crackling in the air. With a smile of self-assuredness, he slowed his step as he approached the east gate. This side had not seen a concerted attack yet, and he felt certain it was due, but he didn’t want to arrive too early and stand uselessly in the chilly air, passing the time of day with the men.
Almost as if he had given the signal himself, a roar arose beyond the walls as he reached the earth bank and the wooden steps built into it which led up to the gate top walkway. Climbing the steps with practiced ease, he emerged atop the wall just as the first shower of arrows and stones whipped, whined and thudded into the defences. The centurion in command of the section saluted, holding his shield — circular and smaller than the legionaries’ — up behind his head to deflect the missiles as he stood proud. His men cowered behind the parapet and their large shields waiting for the barrage to end and the infantry assault to begin.
‘How goes it, centurion?’
‘Very good, sir. The ‘braid-monkeys’ seem to have little heart for it.’
‘Pray it stays that way, soldier.’
‘Oh I do sir, but I’d be happier down on the grass out there, facing them in a shield wall.’
‘I’m sure, but my purpose is other than the complete destruction of the Treveri and the corresponding losses to the Twelfth.’
The centurion looked a little unsure, but the cacophonic honking and booing of the Gauls’ carnyxes ordering the infantry forward drew their attention. Labienus stepped across to the wall and peered over the top. The mob of unsightly, disorganised killers was coming again, swarming across the grass, passing the archers and slingers who were stepping back away from the fight, and thundering towards what remained of the ditches.
Had it been Romans on the outside, or some of the more civilised and advanced Gaulish tribes, men would have come forward first, covered with shields and carrying bundles of sticks and earth to fill in the ditch and make crossing easier. Not so with this rabble of criminals. They had simply charged and filled the ditch with corpses in the first two attacks. If was grimly effective, if very costly to the attackers.
‘Best get back down, sir. Here they come.’
Labienus rubbed his neck and drew the blade from his sheath. ‘I think it’s time to get my sword dirty, don’t you?’
The centurion grinned. ‘I’ll try and leave you one, sir.’
‘That’s the spirit. Share the fun.’
They both turned their gaze back to the exterior, where the enemy were pounding across the triple ditch, the bodies of their former compatriots forming an effective causeway.
‘Ready, men!’ the centurion bellowed. ‘To the wall!’
The soldiers, who had been sheltering behind shields and parapet leapt up and forward, taking their places at the timber palisade and preparing to meet the attack.
Labienus found a gap where a slick of blood rapidly drying on the timbers marked the absence of a man — wounded or dead — and fell in between two legionaries who instinctively moved slightly apart to allow him plenty of room. He had no shield — had decided against one to allow for a more impressive profile among the men — and so drew his pugio dagger from its sheath and held it in his free hand. The men were not leaning into the wall to get a good view of the attackers — that was a good way to receive a spear point in the eye.
A moment later there was a barked Gallic curse in front and below Labienus — hidden by the wall — and grubby fingers came over the parapet, gripping the timber and whitening as they took a man’s weight. The wavering tip of a sword appeared, glinting, as the man tried to get high enough to take a swing at the defender he couldn’t yet quite see.
With a grim smile, Labienus reversed his grip on the dagger and slammed the blade down onto the clutching fingers, easily severing all but the thumb and digging into the wood beneath. Blood sprayed from the stubs of the fingers before the hand disappeared outside once more, withdrawn with a howl of agony.
The sword point also vanished and, despite the danger in doing so, Labienus leaned forward to take a quick look. A long blade sliced out and cut through the air a few finger widths from his face as he pulled back. Startled, he forced himself to grin at his neighbour as though it had been intentional and even amusing.
Off to the right, a loop of rope appeared from the far side and settled on a protruding tip of one of the wall’s constituent stakes. The legionary closest lowered his shield and leaned in, using his gladius to saw at the rope even as it tightened. Such an enemy tactic could be effective if not dealt with quickly, as it would only take one stake pulled out of the palisade with ropes and brute force to begin the complete collapse of a section of wall.
The legionary sawed madly at the thick cable and was so intent on his work that he did not see the next attacker reach the top of the parapet and stab out with his sword. Labienus shouted a warning, but he was too late — the long Celtic blade jabbed deep into the legionary’s shoulder and he cried out, dropping his own sword. With a howl of triumph, the Gaul began to climb over the palisade. Recovering himself from the painful and debilitating — yet clearly non-mortal — wound, the legionary leaned forward and head-butted the attacker, the bronze brow of his helm smashing and pulping the man’s face. As his victim fell away down to the ditches below, the soldier hissed in pain and, collecting his sword, shuffled back towards the steps down to the camp’s interior.
‘Reserves!’ bellowed the centurion, but half a dozen legionaries standing at the bottom of the grass bank were already moving, climbing up to take the place of the wounded and dead, orderlies among them coming to help the injured back to the capsarii who tended them a little further from the wall.
Labienus heard the next Gaul before he saw him, and ducked aside as a spear shaft appeared, lunging for his head. Contemptuously, he knocked the spear aside against the timbers and brought his sword down in an arc, cutting the leaf-shaped blade from its tip. The man withdrew the broken shaft, but there was no time for Labienus to revel in his latest success, as a Gaul with a scarred face and a tarnished torc appeared atop the wall, propelled up by his fellows, heavy sword already swinging.
Labienus ducked the scything blade and lunged out with his gladius, jabbing it deep into the man’s chest, twisting it and wrenching it from side to side for good measure before withdrawing it. The man gurgled and disappeared over the wall again, dead before he hit the ground.
A noise resembling the anguished cries of a family of wounded oxen echoed out across the field and the attack broke off once more, men rushing back across the ditches towards the Treveri force on the far rise.
‘That was bloody brief!’ the centurion announced, peering out over the parapet at the retreating Gauls.
‘Shorter than usual, sir,’ an optio agreed a little further along.
Labienus peered into the mass of Gauls. What the others had failed to notice was that the call of the dreadful carnyxes was different from the ones that had sounded the recall in the previous dozen assaults. This was a new call.
‘Watch them, centurion. Most importantly, watch the commanders and the Treveri themselves, and forget this rabble in front. If you see any concerted movement before I do, shout out.’
Tensely, he watched the mercenary Gauls return to the fold of the enemy. Though he could not say what the call precisely meant, he was convinced that this was the crucial moment — the tipping point for the battle. His breathing slow and deliberately calm, he squinted into the air, shivering in sudden recognition of the chill now that the brutal activity had stopped and his blood was cooling.