“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.
“Very helpful.”
He sighed and turned back to the blank and confused face of the Remi chieftain.
“This is going to involve a lot of sign language.”
“Eh?”
“Oh, Nemesis!”
He turned back to Decius.
“If I were someone like Crassus or Caesar, I’d be delegating this shit to you.”
Decius grinned.
“If you were someone like Crassus or Caesar, sir, you wouldn’t be here without seven legions!”
Fronto laughed and squared his shoulders.
“Right. Let’s try and explain to these Remi what needs to be done.”
“You’ve not told us yet, sir…”
Fronto nodded.
“I’m not sure how feasible my ideas are yet. Wish I’d brought a good engineer with me.”
Decius opened his mouth, but Fronto cut him off.
“Yes, I know: afterthought is no better than no thought!”
He gestured to the growing crowd of damp and uncomfortable auxiliaries.
“First thing’s first: get them in position right the way round the walls, two archers and a slinger every so many yards apart. I’m guessing the Remi defenders didn’t have many missile weapons before. That’s how the Belgae got in close enough to undermine. They could only throw rocks down. Well when they come back in the morning, I want to be able to pick off every other man who sets foot on this hill. Let’s thin ‘em out before they get anywhere near the walls. We can’t fight them off, but with enough attrition from missiles we might be able to make them give up and move on.”
He frowned as he rubbed the slimy wet linen of his red tunic between his fingers.
“And once they’re in position, gather a small group. Get them to collect any loose or dead wood. I want fires at regular intervals. The men can rotate positions every thirty minutes so that everyone gets a chance to dry off and keep warm.”
“And rest, sir?”
“Sorry?”
Decius smiled wearily.
“The men need some sleep. I would suggest every group of three organises one to stay on watch in shifts.”
Fronto nodded.
“Sounds good. Get to it. I’ll be somewhere around with ‘Eh?’, teaching him about siege warfare.”
He turned to Iccius.
“Isn’t that right.”
“Eh?”
With a sigh, Fronto grasped Decius’ shoulder and then turned away to the chieftain.
“Come with me.”
To illustrate his point to Iccius, he beckoned. The chief nodded and followed him, three warriors at his back. Fronto took a deep breath as he approached a clear section of wall and pointed at it.
“Romans.” He held up three fingers.
Iccius nodded so Fronto mimed two archers and a slinger to him. Another nod. With a relieved sigh, the legate pointed behind him and held up three fingers again.
“More Romans.”
Another nod, so he turned and pointed ahead, repeating the process. As comprehension sank into Iccius, Fronto mapped out regular positions with his fingers.
“Here comes the first tough one.”
With another deep breath, he mimed two lots of three Romans again and indicated the space between them.
“Remi” he announced, miming spears and swords.
“Eh?”
“You have to be joking! I’m doing my best, man.”
Waving his arms frantically and interspersing three fingers here and there, he walked back and forth along the wall, announcing:
“Roman, Roman, Roman…. Remi… Roman, Roman, Roman…. Remi…”
A slow smile crept around Iccius’ face. He turned and talked to his companions and they all made affirmative noises.
“Alright,” Fronto said with relief. “I’m going to assume that means you understand. Let’s move on.”
He beckoned and climbed onto the wide wall. His plan might work, or might end in disaster. It was all a gamble but, as Caesar had said back at Durocorteron, Fronto was a gambling man. Of course, this gamble was made more perilous when translated from Latin by hand gestures and carried out by a motley force drawn from all over the world. As Iccius joined him, he pointed down at the Belgae.
Iccius nodded.
“So far, so good.”
Reaching down, he mimed digging.
Another nod.
He repeated the gesture and pointed up and down the walls, shrugging.
“Eh?”
“Nemesis, give me some bloody help here!”
He repeated the process and added wandering along the wall, looking down. There was a long pause and finally Iccius laughed. Beckoning, he strode fast along the wall. Fronto followed him until he reached a spot that looked like any other and stopped with a smile, pointing at the floor beneath him. Fronto glanced over the parapet and squinted. Sure enough, just below him and to one side was a pile of earth.