He desperately hoped so. When they had arrived at Agedincum two days ago, Fronto had gone with Priscus to examine the supply situation at the main camp. Labienus had showed them the granaries and storehouses, and they had been pitifully thin. Normally, when faced with such an issue, the commanders of the winter quarters would rely upon sending out centuries of men and foraging in the surrounding lands, but it seemed a Boii scout who had been working with Cita at Cenabum had survived to bring the legions news of the Carnute attack a few months back, and in response, Labienus had reined in all such forage parties, keeping the legions together and on high alert. The result had been low stores, but six well-prepared and alert legions, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Indeed, Labienus had told them of reports from native scouts of Carnute and Parisi warbands prowling the region in the hope of picking off any such small extended foray.
Caesar had rallied from the news, sending out messengers to the Aedui at Bibracte and the Boii at Gorgobina, reminding them of their allegiance and asking that they send whatever supplies they could spare. Still, Fronto had noted, Caesar had lost no time in fielding the army and making for the grain-filled oppidum of Vellaunoduno, leaving only two legions at Agedincum in reserve.
The centurion nodded wearily. ‘The lads are itching for a fight, sir.’
‘I suspect that by the autumn they’ll be sick of the sight of blood, Carbo. Somewhere south of here is an army of Gauls bigger than anything we’ve faced in this land so far. And some time in the next few weeks or months we’re going to have to bring them to battle.’
‘It’ll be a big one, sir.’
Fronto regarded the bald, shining pink pate of the stocky centurion and nodded. ‘It’ll end all this and settle the place one way or another, that’s for sure. By the time this season’s over half the population of Gaul of fighting age will be howed up in burial mounds, be they Gaul or Roman.’ He shrugged off the depressing thought and nodded to the growing rampart. ‘How long will the circumvallation take?’
Carbo shrugged. ‘The mound and ditch will be in place by nightfall… benefit of eight legions’ manpower. Another day for the fences, towers and gates. Then there’s the lilia pits and the like. Two days, though in all.’
A nod.
‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ muttered Palmatus, arriving at the completed mound that overlooked the south western corner and standing beside his commander. The singulares remained standing at ease close to the rear of the slope, ready to move should their commander require it, and watching the rest of the army labouring with the satisfaction of the excused-duty.
‘No,’ the legate replied. ‘But from here you can see why it’s important.’
‘Why’s that?’
Fronto pointed over the enemy ramparts at the sloping town within. ‘See up near the top, past that two-storey place with the red tiled roof? There are four extremely long roofs?’
‘I see them?’
‘They’re granaries.’
Palmatus whistled through his teeth. ‘They’re bigger than the ones in a legionary fortress.’
‘That they are. Vellaunoduno’s pretty much at the centre of the Senones’ grain-farming region, like Cenabum for the Carnutes. As such, it’s a hub, which supplies other towns within the tribe. There’ll be enough grain in those four buildings to keep us in the field for a month or more.’
‘Hopefully it won’t take that long to finish the job,’ Palmatus shrugged. ‘The general word is that the Gallic army is massing less than a hundred miles south of here. A bit of careful manoeuvring and we could bring it to open battle in days. Weeks at most.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ Fronto replied quietly. ‘Remember: we’ve met their leader. He and Caesar might well be a match for one another. Neither of them is going to commit on unfavourable ground, so there might be a lot of dancing around before anyone gets to bloody their sword. No idea what Vercingetorix is doing down there, but he’s close to the Aedui, and after last winter I’m not quite sure how far I trust our old friends any more. And as for Caesar: well he’s concentrating on breaking off the man’s northern allies and containing him. Could be a while before we put sword to throat in open field.’ The pair fell silent and perused the oppidum’s walls, pulling their cloaks tighter for warmth. None of the men were used to campaigning so early in the year. It was unnatural.
‘Look at that pair. Daring buggers, eh?’ Fronto and Palmatus followed Carbo’s pointing finger and picked out two men standing atop the walls of Vellaunoduno with their fists on their hips, regarding the Roman engineers sealing them in. The rest of the warriors atop the walls had either pulled back down inside the city or were crouched behind the parapet, ever since the Roman artillerists had loosed a hundred pot-shots at the walls just to determine range and the position for the line of the ditch. The Roman defences were safely out of Gallic bowshot, but a scorpion was still accurate enough with a good artillerist behind it to pick a man from that wall.
‘They’re just watching us, the cheeky bastards,’ Palmatus said.
‘Let ‘em,’ Fronto said. ‘Might help with lowering their morale.’
‘An extra corpse or two would help more,’ Palmatus snorted.
‘They’re wise to us, though, since the test volleys’ replied Carbo. ‘Any time the crews move the scorpions, the buggers go into hiding.’
Palmatus gave a nasty grin and turned, looking back down the earth bank to where Fronto’s bodyguard were assembled, supping from water flasks, exempt from all the manual labour going on around them.
‘Arcadios? Get up here.’
The swarthy Cretan scrambled up the bank, his bow across his back and a leather case of arrows at his waist. He saluted Fronto and Carbo and nodded to Palmatus. ‘Sir?’
‘I’ve seen you put a point through a torc at almost a hundred paces. Could you hit a man on that wall?’
Arcadios narrowed his eyes and squinted through the dreary air. ‘It’s more like a hundred and sixty paces. Maybe a hundred and seventy.’ He sucked a finger and held it aloft. ‘And there’s a more-than-moderate breeze. It’s possible, but I’d have to be very lucky.’
‘Be lucky, then,’ grinned Palmatus.
The three Roman officers stood and held their breath as Arcadios tested the wind once more, took a long moment to examine the shot, then bent forward, nocked an arrow, and slowly straightened, releasing the shaft as he reached the apex in a smooth move and with no pause. His aim had already taken place before he reached for the arrow.
‘Nice shot,’ whispered Fronto as they watched the arrow arc up into the air, on target for the two men, who might well be expecting pot-shots from the scorpions, but would not be anticipating an arrow.
Then, just past the apex, as the shaft began its descent and picked up speed, a sudden gust wafted it and the missile moved slightly off-target. The three officers sighed with regret as the arrow passed between the two Gauls and plummeted out of sight within the town behind them.
‘Pretty good,’ Fronto smiled. ‘They might not be hurt, but I’ll bet they both shat themselves!’
The four Romans on the rampart laughed.
* * * * *
Cavarinos saw the arrow only as it plummeted out of the misty grey, and he was suddenly grateful for the chill wind he had been complaining about all morning and which might well have been the only reason the shaft passed half an arm’s length from his head rather than straight through his eye. Damn, that was lucky!
The arrow thudded into the compacted earth of the street behind them.
As Critognatos turned to look back at the fallen missile, Cavarinos was impressed at the lack of concern on his brother’s face, but then put that down not so much to implacability and strength of character as to lack of imagination and not being bright enough to panic.
‘Our timing leaves a great deal to be desired,’ he sighed as he watched the Romans working hard. Critognatos had apparently been quite successful at stirring the local tribes and had been at Vellaunoduno for several days. Cavarinos had arrived late last night from his foray into the Carnute druid woods. And this morning the assembled might of Rome had hoved into view through the trees. Cavarinos had cursed himself for agreeing to break his fast on a hearty meal before they left. Had they just departed at dawn they would have been long gone before Caesar had arrived.