But it had to be done quickly. The scouts had had the reasonable light to work by. Now the attack would go ahead in the dim hazy indigo of evening. But they had to achieve their goal while there was still enough light for Antonius to bring the army to bear.
Moving from tree to tree and ducking behind scrub, trying to stick to the hollows afforded by streams or natural ditches, the motley assault moved across the flatland towards the western end of the oppidum. Squinting as he went, Fronto finally started to see the walls more clearly and could pick out the men on watch there. He smiled in gratitude. The druidic grove was indeed sparsely guarded, with only three men visible from this southern approach. Three men. Perfect. Thank you, Fortuna.
On and on they crept, as fast as they dared — the natives faster than Fronto would have recommended, but still they closed on the ramparts without an alarm going up, and Fronto found himself gripping the figurine on the thong through his tunic, mouthing prayers and offers as they moved.
Masgava gave a silent hand signal and the attack separated into three groups, one peeling off to the left and the other right, six men in each group, including one missile weapon and one native. Fronto followed the one to the right, the man in front of him a stocky legionary with a rope coiled over his shoulder — again one of three. The engineer from the Ninth, Fronto noted. Iuvenalis, he seemed to remember suddenly.
His world had then shrunk from an attack of eighteen men to an assault by six. He realised that the archers had gone off the other ways and his unit was relying on the slinger. Some might say slingers were less effective, but Fronto had nearly had his brains knocked out of his head with a slingshot twice now, and he would disagree. The Remi scout led the group, the slinger behind, then two lithe and dangerous looking legionaries that he vaguely recognised, followed by the engineer, and then him.
It took what appeared to be only a couple of dozen heartbeats to reach position behind an ailing yew tree and its surrounding undergrowth, and the Remi gave another little crake call. It was answered in only a few heartbeats by a ‘kua kua’ from somewhere nearby, out of sight. A heart-stoppingly long pause was finally followed by a third call.
No sooner had that final noise risen than the Spaniard who had been crouched near the tree, bullet already in his sling, rose and whipped it round just once, his arm coming up and over as he released the cord at the top of the arc. It amazed Fronto to watch a skilled slinger at work, and there were no better than those drawn from the Balearic Islands. Youths and the unskilled would whirl the damn thing round for hours, making a ‘whup-whup’ noise. Even the damned treacherous tribune Hortius a couple of years ago had whirled it three times before striking Fronto, but a truly skilled professional would be able to rotate it just once, the only sound being the faint flap of the loosened thong after and the hum of the bullet through the air.
The figure on the rampart disappeared instantly, thrown backwards by the blow to the face, most certainly dead before his feet left the ground. As Fronto strained to look left, the next man had also gone and even as he squinted he saw the third vanish silently, a shaft — invisible at this distance — through his throat.
The wall was clear.
Without the need for commands, the engineer with the rope ran forward and uncoiled it, holding the end near the iron grapple — a naval design, but put to good use here too. With a few test swings, the soldier heaved the rope up over the rampart. Fronto couldn’t see the other groups, but the engineer with his party was clearly an expert, and the grapple caught and held, even when he tested his considerable bulk on it. Pulling it taut, he nodded to the Remi scout, who grasped hold and began to climb fast, hand over hand and legs dangling.
Fronto hated climbing ropes. Always had. It was one of the few exercises Masgava had had him doing last year that he truly loathed. But now, at least, he was grateful for the practice.
By the time the Remi had reached the top — Fronto mentally noted that he must learn these men’s names — the engineer was already on his way up and the slinger was spitting on his hands and rubbing them ready for the climb.
Fronto, determined not to be that officer who was ‘just along for the ride’, made sure he was next, before the other two legionaries, and as the slinger, light, lithe and energetic, neared the top of the rope, Fronto grasped and began to haul.
Once more he marvelled over the difference last year’s fitness regime with Masgava had made. As he struggled up the rope, using his feet and his hands both to pull and push, he considered how two years ago he would never have stood a chance of making it to the top, let alone quickly and without exhausting himself.
As he reached the parapet, one of the men reached out and helped him over onto the rampart top, where he stayed in a crouch and scanned the area. The same was happening at the other two assault points. Because there was a good chance that other guards across the compound were watching the walls occasionally, the Remi scouts were standing, taking the position of the dead defenders, while the others crouched out of sight.
The area enclosed by this rampart was heavily green and wooded, with a small cluster of huts near a clearing at the centre, where rituals were presumably carried out. It was empty, apparently, or at least the priestly inhabitants were safely ensconced in their residences. The far rampart had men spaced wide-apart along it, around to the western and northern sides, but no alarm had been given. There was only one single guard on the wall between the nemeton area and the main town, and he appeared to be slumped, possibly asleep, but certainly inattentive in any case.
Where the two walled areas’ ramparts joined, Fronto had expected some sort of barrier, given the lack of a gate between the two enclosures, but it seemed he was in luck. The wall carried on uninterrupted from where he crouched all the way to the main gate, though the concentration of men increased there.
Even as he was turning to give a signal, he realised it was unnecessary. The parties that had scaled the walls further along were already in motion, led by the irrepressible Masgava and Palmatus. The Remi scouts remained in position to allay any suspicion while the other ten men scuttled along the wall to join him, keeping low and in the shadows.
In a matter of twenty heartbeats, fourteen men were gathered around Fronto and moving off, drawing their weapons with a quiet rasp and leaving the three Remi standing silent and still in position.
A thrill throbbed in Fronto’s blood and he realised only as he caught the worried expression of the legionary next to him that he was probably grinning like a jackal, or possibly a wolf. He was right where he should be at last, after almost two years of faffing about, and even more than that of meddling in political chicanery. He was in the midst of combat. He had trouble stifling the laugh that almost burst from him. The legionary next to him afforded him a couple of feet of extra space, in the manner that sane men avoid the mad.
He didn’t care.
The party of fifteen soldiers burst onto the main town’s defences like a wave breaking over rocks, overrunning the two guards standing closest, who hardly had the chance to see their death approach in the failing, dim light. Fronto felt his blade meet the resistance of only tunic and cloak before sliding between ribs and tearing the life from the Nervian guard, while his other hand went around the head and clamped over his mouth to prevent the cry. The next guard along the wall opened his mouth to yell a warning and toppled backwards, a dark arrow shaft jutting from his eye socket.