“Alright lads, we’re going to break out of the front of the tortoise in four different places and give ‘em several targets. I’m relying on you. If you get hit, ignore it and keep running. Our job is to keep them busy long enough for the Tenth to move up the hill. Got it?”
The others nodded and, saluting briefly, pushed their way through the mass of people to the front ranks. A few moments later the horn sounded, and the four Romans burst from the front shield wall at a fast run, shields held high and directly in front.
Velius ran as fast as he could, and with years of outrunning the fittest recruits the military could provide, that was a fair turn of speed. He blindly ignored the sounds of heavy items bouncing off the front of his shield and concentrated instead upon where his run took him, zigzagging as much as possible and avoiding obstacles that could trip him and leave him open to the enemy. In his mad dash, he couldn’t spare time to consider the others. He just hoped they were the fearless lunatics he thought they were.
Something whizzed past his sword arm, grazing the flesh and drawing blood. Cursing, he stumbled as the incline became suddenly much steeper. As he regained his balance, the point of an arrow pierced his shield and came within inches of his face. Risking a look above his shield, he could see two huge rocks not more than ten yards away. Gritting his teeth once more, he sprinted diagonally up the slope and then, turning on his heel, came back across and dropped in front of the rock.
For the first time, he spared a glance to see where the others were. Nonus was little more than ten yards behind him, floundering on the slope which had almost tripped him. Curtius was at around the same elevation, but twenty yards to the left. Of Albius he could see no sign.
In order to give Nonus as much cover as possible, he grabbed a handful of pebbles from below the rock face and, clambering round the side of the boulder, hurled the pebbles at head height among the Gauls. The shouts suggested his aim had been accurate and the missile fire aimed at Nonus slackened for a moment.
Velius held the shield up to ward off a number of blows and, moments later, Nonus was by his side. As he made a few tentative strikes with his sword, Nonus grabbed a handful of pebbles and repeated the earlier gesture. The two continued to harass the Helvetii as much as they could, and finally Curtius arrived at the rock, his sword arm hanging limp at his side, clearly broken. Jamming his shield into the gap with his good arm, he leaned toward Velius.
“Anyone seen Albius?”
“No. He can’t have made it. Are the troops moving yet?”
Curtius glanced around and over his shoulder.
“They’re on their way.”
Velius breathed deeply. This was it. The legions surged up the slope like locusts over a lush field, bearing down on the beleaguered and now doomed Helvetii.
Balbus, who had been at the rear of the legion, jogged forward to reach the primus pilus. Balventius led, as all the centurionate did, from the front. The Eighth were closing in, slowly but surely, on the Helvetian baggage. On the other side of the baggage train, Crispus’ Eleventh were closing the trap. There was no escaping the encircling Romans, but the Helvetii had formed a makeshift rampart from their wagons and were fighting with spears from beneath and behind the vehicles.
Balbus knew, as he felt Crispus must, that one quick rush would overwhelm the survivors, but would cost the legions dearly. Instead, both legates were maintaining a careful attitude to the assault. The wagons were surrounded by a Roman shield wall, and every five minutes a different century or two were sent forward to push at one of the wagons. The tactics were working. The Roman losses had been negligible, but the Gauls were gradually being thinned out and the defences of their makeshift wall were becoming dangerously stretched.
Balventius stood dangerously close to the enemy, in front of the Eighth, wielding only his vine staff and with his shield propped against his leg. One well-aimed shot from the Gauls could kill him outright.
The man would never learn. Balbus sighed. He had now known some of the Tenth for a few months, and their primus pilus, Priscus, reminded him greatly of Balventius. It must be something about the position. To become a centurion took a certain fearlessness and strength of character; indeed to want to become a centurion indicated a certain audacity. To survive as long in the centurionate as Balventius had suggested invulnerability. Balventius was due his honesta missio at the end of this year, and would probably leave the legion to go farm somewhere in Cisalpine Gaul. Good for him; bad for the Eighth. They would have to promote a new primus pilus, and change was never that good. Balbus reached the front of the Eighth, legionaries respectfully making way for him, and motioned Balventius aside.
“Titus, you sent for me. What’s up?”
Balventius smiled at his commander. His face was a patchwork of scars, and one of his eyes was filmed over with a milky white, the result of an action against bandits near Geneva early last year. The smile was disturbing in such a face. Balbus wondered what the enemy felt when they saw him, as the sight made even him shiver occasionally.
“Sir, it’s nothing vital, but I would think we’re going to break through in the next couple of pushes and I thought you’d want to see.”
Balbus nodded.
“Absolutely. I can see how thin their defences have become. Well done. A marvellous job. I shall say so to Caesar when I see him.”
Balventius turned his evil features toward the Eighth again.
“Fabius! Petreius! Your turns. Get your centuries moving and see if we can break them this time.”
Two sets of horns blared and the signifers signalled the advance with their standards. A hundred and fifty men moved out of the shield wall at a steady pace, keeping formation. The two centuries, side by side, moved in toward a wagon that had been turned on its side. Five bodies in the kit of the Eighth lay before the wagon, but dozens of Celtic bodies littered the ground around and behind it. The wagon was defended by little more than two dozen men now.
Balbus, his hearing sharp as he carried his helmet under his arm, could hear the two centurions speaking to each other and to their men as they moved forward.
“Alright lads, we’re not making a bit of a push. We’re not stopping until we’re in the centre of the baggage, you got that?”
The rumbling affirmative noise from the troops radiated enthusiasm. The men of the Eighth were itching for a fight after being held back for so long.
As Balbus watched, the two centuries picked up speed on their assault, finally hitting the wagon at a run. After his earlier discussions with Balventius they had decided on a slow and steady advance each time, gradually wearing the enemy down. Nowhere in their discussions had there been mention of a mad charge.
The front wave of legionaries leapt and climbed, surging over the wagon and into the Gauls, heedless of the blows they received from the defenders. Among them the two centurions were in the first few men over the barricade. Once they were clear and fighting in open ground, the second wave hit, putting their shoulders to the wagon and heaving it back onto its wheels. As they trundled the wagon aside to leave a gap in the wall, the rest of the centuries swept past and into the defenders.
Balbus turned to Balventius.
“I think you might as well sound the general advance.”
Balventius cupped his hand round his ear as the signal to break formation blared out.
“Way ahead of you sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some Gauls to disembowel. Can’t let the rest of the lads get there first or they won’t leave me any.”
With a quick salute and without waiting for a reply, Balventius turned and ran toward the defences, his sword in one hand, vine staff in the other and shield left forgotten, lying in the dirt. Balbus shook his head again. The man should be given his honesta missio for his own good, before he got himself killed.