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 registered the change in the situation, the last few pila arced up and over, signalling the end of that particular advantage.
Decius was grinning as he turned to Fronto.
“That’s us. Your turn now!”
The last few arrows whirred into the enemy, picking off the closest and biggest of them. As the final missile flew, Fronto took a deep breath. “Ranks part!” he bellowed.
All along the defence, the line of legionaries shuffled to create gaps through which the archers could move to the relative safety of the camp. Decius ran along the mound to Fronto and gestured. “We’ll do what we can from behind. Good luck!”
Fronto nodded, casting a last glance at the enemy. Perhaps two or three hundred men had fallen in that brutal assault — more than a third of the enemy force. The rest came on slower, a little more carefully, watching the defenders suspiciously, with the blood lust gone from their eyes. With a deep breath and a murmured prayer to Fortuna, he dropped down the slope and moved between the parted ranks where he collected a shield and fell in with the second rank.
“Front line, close ranks to shieldwall!”
As the shields slammed together, the legate closed his eyes for a moment, willing the enemy to break fast. The second rank, himself included, would be ready to plug any holes in the shieldwall, but until a gap opened, all he could see of the enemy was a general mass of howling flesh in the tiny openings between legionaries.
“Ready?” came a voice from behind and Fronto turned to see Decius and his archers gathered in small groups, hefting hammers, mattocks and stakes that had been brought over to help with the work — even a few empty and discarded wine jars. Even as he frowned at the prefect, the first man swung hard and released a heavy-headed mallet, which arced up over the defenders, falling somewhere among the enemy.
Decius caught his glance and grinned.
“Anything that might help, eh?”
A mattock, heavy and sharp, thrummed overhead, plunging into the mass of the enemy, barely making it over the heads of the legionaries and causing a brief bladder release in the soldier who’d almost lost his head to a flying spade.
“Careful!” Decius snapped. “High and far… high and far.”
He turned his grin back on Fronto, who shook his head but could not help but join in with a disbelieving smile.
The crash of close combat drew his attention back. The enemy had finally reached the shieldwall, though from the screaming and gurgling more were still falling foul of the sharpened branches jutting up from the ditch.
From his position in the rear rank, Fronto watched the men of the Tenth and Fourteenth going to work, their shields changing angle every few seconds in a single movement that opened up a foot-wide gap through which every gladius in the line lanced out, biting into flesh before twisting and withdrawing behind shields that closed once again.
It was an almost mechanical process and the enemy began to pile up on the far side of the rampart, several of them falling foul once again of the slippery conditions underfoot, the combat ripping the turf and earth beneath and churning it into a soup of treacherous mud. Here and there a legionary slipped, but managed to maintain his footing due to the heavy hob-nailed sandals they wore. The barbarians, largely unshod or clad in flat-soled boots, were less lucky, every slip bringing them down into the sucking mire, where they floundered as their own tribesmen clambered across them desperately.
Fronto counted almost a minute before the first legionary went down, an overhead blow cutting him almost in two. The gruesome corpse slopped backwards and splattered into the pool of watery grass behind, staining it with a spreading pink tint. The legate opened his mouth to give the order, but a man was already moving forward to fill the gap.
That was the moment in every battle, though.
The legions fought their mechanical fight with a feeling of invincibility until that breaking point. The first death seemed to trigger it, and Fronto prepared himself as first one and then two, then three men fell, some slumping forwards onto the earth bank, their heads smashed and slashed, their bodies opened and spilling their vitals to the wet ground, others tumbling backwards.
Each time, one of the second rank ran forward, stepping into the gap and slamming his shield into place, continuing the butchery.
The legate watched with held breath as his small force of reserves dwindled more and more, twenty five men now down to fourteen. Now thirteen. Now twelve.
Even as he realised he was about to run out of reserves, Fronto blinked in surprise. Three of the auxiliary archers had joined the line of men, armoured in their light mail shirts, less than half as protective as a legionary version, but gripping spare legionary shields and hefting their backup blades ready to join the fight. Decius fell in beside him, grinning, as more Cretan archers armed up and joined in.
“Ran out of things to throw” he shrugged, hefting his sword.
Only seven legionaries were left and now eight auxiliary reserves. Fronto took another deep breath. “Think we might be in the shit, Decius.”