Selecting a spot where the low barricade was scarcely manned, Fronto and his singulares jumped across, into the open ground before the seething fight that covered the rampart all across the north of the camp. His searching eyes picked out a small knot of men, amid which a flowing crimson horsehair crest protruded from a gleaming decorative helmet, and he thundered off towards what was plainly a senior officer, his men at his back.
As they neared the small group, which was composed largely of runners, centurions, tribunes and signifers, Fronto spotted the familiar face of Caninius, the legate of the Twelfth and commander of the Mons Rea camp. The legate was soaked in blood and spattered with gore, as were many of his officers and Fronto was impressed to see how the man had clearly become involved at the basest level of the action along with his troops. He reined in nearby and slid from the horse’s back, grunting at the pain in his arm as he did so.
‘Fronto,’ Caninius breathed. ‘What news of the south?’
‘The other gates still hold. Looks like you’re in the shit up here, though.’
The conversation was briefly interrupted as a small force of Gauls managed to break away from the main fight and run for the knot of officers, hungry to kill Roman commanders. A few free legionaries managed to pull out of the combat and chase them down, and the wounded artillerists put a few shots into the band as they ran, but still there were five of them when they reached the small group. Fronto watched in surprise as Caninius’ aquilifer swung the glorious, irreplaceable eagle of the Twelfth and stoved in the head of one of the men, righting the pole again to display an eagle drenched in blood and spattered with brain matter. Two tribunes attempted to halt the rest, and one of the Gauls had almost reached Fronto even before he’d managed to draw his sword.
Caninius, whose blade was already out and bloodied, stepped in and neatly sank his gladius into the Gaul’s side as Fronto braced himself, twisting and withdrawing with such casualness that Fronto wondered just how long the legate had been fighting here to become so calm in the face of that kind of brutality. He almost smiled. That was probably how everyone else saw the legate of the Tenth, in fact.
As the attack was put down and one of the tribunes went about the fallen Gauls making sure they were dead while the other clutched what looked distinctly like a fatal belly-wound to Fronto, the legate shook his head and focused on his opposite number from the Twelfth.
‘Where’s Labienus?’
‘Somewhere in that,’ Caninius replied, thumbing over his shoulder towards the seething fight at the rampart. ‘Reginus is there somewhere too, as well as Brutus. It’s a damn mess, Fronto. There are just too many. The walls won’t hold them.’
‘I can see that.’
As Fronto watched the fight in consternation, wondering how best to proceed, his eyes picked out three figures emerging from the press. At the centre, Labienus was staggering, blood-spattered and shieldless, his sword still in his hand. To either side of him came a legionary in a similar state and Fronto jogged across to meet him as he made his way into the open space. Behind them, at the rampart, another breakout of Gauls made for the retreating officer, but was quickly swamped by legionaries. It was only a matter of time now before the whole camp was overrun.
‘Labienus!’
He came to a halt in front of the staff officer, his singulares at his shoulders.
‘Hmm?’ Labienus’ eyes came up to meet Fronto’s but there seemed to be no mind behind that vacant gaze. It was then Fronto noted the huge dent in the officer’s helmet and as the two legionaries carefully undid the strap and lifted the bronze headpiece from him, blood trickled from Labienus’ ear. He was clearly stunned from the blow. Hopefully not in mortal danger, but certainly not much use right now.
‘Labienus. The walls are breached. Do you order the sally?’
The staff officer attempted to focus on Fronto’s face and the legate saw a brief flash of recognition as Labienus attempted to pull his thoughts together.
‘Sally. Breach. Mmmm.’
‘Titus! Concentrate. Do we sally north?’
‘N… no. No. I… no.’
Fronto frowned. The officer was clearly incapable of making the decision right now. But shaking his head in confusion, Labienus raised his hand and pointed back into the camp. Fronto turned at the gesture and felt his heart leap.
Several new cohorts of men, apparently drawn from at least five legions and mixed in together, from the standards, were moving up from the tents, passing the rough second rampart of wounded artillerists and archers. Amid the line, he could see Caesar in his gleaming armour with his crimson cloak whipping about. The general, always one to know how to motivate his men, had slipped from his horse among the tents and now marched as part of the line, clearly visible for who he was by that recognisable cloak and yet clearly showing his willingness to be a part of the desperate defence. Fronto felt once again that swell of pride in his general. The man might be a politician to the core and even willing to make unacceptable sacrifices at times, but in a battle there was no better general in all the republic to fight for.
And on the flanks of that force came cavalry. To the left, a wing of auxiliaries and regulars led by the familiar shapes of Antonius and Silanus. To the right another wing, bolstered by Caesar’s own Praetorian horse and apparently commanded by Ingenuus.
Relief! It would not be enough to win the day, mind, a nagging voice in Fronto’s mind noted. Perhaps four more cohorts and two wings of cavalry. But they would hold a lot longer now. Until their arrival it seemed unlikely another quarter hour would pass before the camp fell.
‘Fronto!’ the general shouted as the cohorts moved forward. ‘Move aside, man, there’s work to be done.’
With a grin, Fronto beckoned to one of the tribunes and handed over Bucephalus’ reins. Despite the look of surprise on the man’s face, the tribune grasped the other reins as Aurelius and Masgava handed over theirs too.
‘Get them out of the combat,’ Fronto commanded and ripped his sword from his sheath, falling in with Caninius and his group and waiting for the advancing line of cohorts to reach them and absorb them into the front line, where two of the army’s legates and several of the most senior staff took their place ready to fight among the foremost men. This was, after all, the last battle they would have to fight, one way or another.
* * * * *
‘Don’t it get strange, sir?’
Atenos, Primus Pilus of the Tenth legion, smashed his sword point into the inner thigh of a rebel attempting to clamber over one of the few sections of rampart that had not yet given way. He felt the jet of warm, tinny liquid from the opened artery as the howling warrior fell back into the throng, and glanced at the young optio at his side. He was getting sick of field promotions. On this one afternoon, he had confirmed the position of three replacement centurions and his own century had seen four new optios appointed in as many hours. They kept dying like flies no matter how big and muscular they were. His latest choice had been made in a free heartbeat in the press, and seemed in retrospect too young to be wearing a toga, let alone commanding men.
‘What?’