Shaking his head, he once more cast his eyes over the panorama. There must be thirty thousand Belgae here at the very least. That was a very small portion of the Belgic army, but still enough to make the odds more than ten to one. He shook his head again and turned to look at his relief force, which threatened to make him laugh.
He had been denied the regulars, and the Gaulish cavalry would be of little or no use. Following half an hour’s consultation with his fellow legates, he had selected the units he could and formed what must be the most bizarre military force ever commanded by a Roman patrician.
His army, which numbered just under a thousand in total, was formed entirely of missile troops attached to the various legions. Slingers from the Spanish islands drawn from the Ninth and Tenth marched alongside Cretan archers from the Eighth, Eleventh and Twelfth with their short, flexible bows. And from the Thirteenth and Fourteenth: yet more archers, though these were dark as night, mustered from the Numidian peoples of northern Africa and freshly drawn from the training centre at Cremona for those newly-raised legions. Almost a thousand non-Roman soldiers, of whom half at most would be able to speak Latin with any real aptitude. The Roman prefects in charge of these irregular units all bore tired and resigned expressions, sure that the path of their career had reached a dead end. Indeed, on their eight mile hike from the bridge site, only one of the prefects had displayed any enthusiasm at all; a man called Decius, in charge of a unit of Cretans.
Now, Decius lay next to his commander on the brow of the hill, looking down at the scene with trepidation.
“How in the name of Bellona do you intend to get past them, sir?”
‘How, indeed?’ Fronto thought to himself as he once more examined the situation.
The oppidum rose amidst a carpet of Belgic warriors, who surrounded the town, keeping currently at a safe distance from the walls. The only way that stood remotely clear for access was to the south, where a steep slope of the hill came down straight to the waters of the Aisne. The Belgic leader had thought to cover every conceivable escape route, though, and had stationed a group of several hundred warriors on the far bank.
“Only one way in, Decius. Just the one. And it’s wet.”
The middle-aged prefect, badly-shaven and vaguely dishevelled, blinked.
“Swim? Are you mad, sir?”
Fronto grinned. He liked Decius. Scruffy and unshaven among officers was frowned on and often meant that man was more concerned about doing the job than pleasing his commander.
“It has been said, yes.”
He pointed down at the water.
“Clearly there’s no way we can fight through them, so the only way is to sneak in. And the only way to sneak is to get into the water down here, wade along the bank to the slope and then climb up to the oppidum. There’s just no alternative I can see.”
Decius frowned.
“I suppose you’re right, but we’ll be right under the gaze of those warriors on the far side.”
“True,” Fronto nodded, ”but the water’s fast and noisy and will cover our sound. And if we go at night, we can probably get right up to the walls without being seen.
The prefect spluttered.
“You seriously want to make a thousand men wade downstream in a strong current silently in the dark?”
He whistled gently though his teeth.
“People are right. You are mad!”
Fronto laughed quietly.
“Don’t panic. We won’t be swimming; just wading in the shallows. The bank’s high enough that we should be covered from view.”
Shading his eyes, Decius focused on the oppidum. ”They’re holding back from the walls because they’re busy undermining them. They must have picked off most of the missile-bearing defenders, but there’ll still be a few. The Remi are screwed when that wall collapses though, so we’d best hope it lasts until dark.”
Fronto nodded.
“If you look really carefully, you can see there’s no big piles of earth, so they can’t be very deep yet. We’ve got time. And I’ve got an idea, but we need to get in there first.”
Decius grinned.
“Fair enough. I’d better warn the others.”
Fronto grabbed him by the wrist as he moved away.
“Make sure they all know how quiet they’re going to have to be. I’ve seen Spanish warriors in bars. They sing like they’ve got delicate parts of them caught in a door.”
Decius grinned.
“Got it. Everyone very quiet; especially the Spanish.”
The wait for darkness had been tense. Throughout the afternoon and evening, a four hour wait, the veteran commanders had become more and more twitchy, waiting for the off. It was anyone’s guess how the Spaniards, Greeks and Africans felt, but they were certainly fidgety and their officers had been forced to quieten them more than once.
Up high on their viewpoint with a constant watch on the action below, they were far enough away from the Belgae that conversation should have gone unheard, but Fronto knew better than to risk it. All afternoon and into the evening the Belgae had worked at digging their three undermining tunnels beneath the walls of Bibrax. Now, heaps of earth outside showed how far they’d got, though they’d disappeared from view in the failing light around half an hour ago.
And now, in traditional Celtic fashion, the Belgae had abandoned their assault for the night, safe in the knowledge they had Bibrax cut off and that it would fall tomorrow, and moved instead onto celebratory singing and drinking. Fronto smiled. It was not unlike the legions in a way. Still, a loud and drunken army would be considerably easier to sneak past. With a last glance toward the oppidum to be sure of his bearings, he wished them all a pleasant feast, offered up a quick prayer to Bacchus, and dropped down below the hill to issue the orders to move out.
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.