His spirits hit subterranean levels as his eyes took in the legions spread out on the plain before Novioduno.
‘We are too late,’ said one of the scouts, somewhat redundantly, given the fact that Lucterius could quite clearly see over a hundred legionaries marching across the southern bridge and into the open gates while the oppidum’s nobles stood in a useless knot, watching their own downfall coming to pass around them.
‘What now?’ another scout asked quietly.
Lucterius fumed. Twice now he had raced to deal a damaging blow to Roman hopes, and twice he had found himself thwarted by the speed and efficiency of their general. His eyes picked out the red-cloaked figure on the white horse, surrounded by officers and Lucterius cursed the man to every god that leapt to mind.
‘We are lucky not to have encountered outriding scouts,’ the first scout reminded him. ‘We will not stay lucky for long. Soon they will discover we are here, so if we are turning back to Gorgobina, we should do so immediately.’
Lucterius ran his tongue along the edge of his top teeth, his mind whirling. He had three and a half thousand horsemen, all strong, determined and experienced warriors. Each was worth at least two Romans in individual combat. The odds were appalling, but more appalling than failing and being forced to retreat again?
‘They have only four legions here, on the southern plain. The others are across the river and will take time to bring into the fray. I can see little sign of their auxiliaries, and only a small force of cavalry — mostly Belgae by the looks of it. Perhaps fifteen thousand infantry, not more than a thousand cavalry — fifteen hundred at most. Seventeen thousand against three and a half. It is far from acceptable odds.’
‘Plus many others who can be brought across the river within an hour or so,’ muttered the scout.
‘The estimated strength in warriors of Novioduno is around a thousand. If we show ourselves, there is a good chance that they will fight with us.’
The scout shook his head in exasperation. ‘That is still four and a half thousand against seventeen. More than four of them to one of us.’
‘But,’ Lucterius smiled slowly, ‘there is something else to consider. Their legions are standing at ease, not prepared for a fight. As far as they are aware they have won the day and are in no danger. And they are formed up facing the town, as are their artillery. We could hit them before they are even aware of who we are. If we hit them fast enough, even a veteran legion will have trouble turning their lines to face us and stopping our charge. And their officers are exposed. There is a chance — a small one, I’ll grant you — but a chance at least, that we could kill Caesar himself. Imagine what that would do to them.’
The scouts were nodding, their faces betraying their uncertainty over the plan’s wisdom, but each picturing their sword biting into the Roman general’s neck.
‘Get back to the column. No tactics. We hit them hard and fast and try to take the commanders. If all goes badly, I will have the horn sounded and we will retreat at speed. Now go.’
* * * * *
Atenos, centurion of the First Cohort’s Second Century in the Tenth legion, former Gallic mercenary and chief training officer of the legion, gestured to the small knot of Biturige nobles who were doing a superb job of impeding his work, standing in the centre of the street just within the gate. They seemed to be arguing over which families would provide hostages for Caesar.
‘Hold your arguments in one of the buildings,’ he barked in his native tongue, not far from that of these despondent nobles, though more refined and inflected with the accent of the Greek and Latin-influenced southern tribes.
The nobles looked up in surprise at this Roman centurion who spoke their tongue like a native, and slowly moved across to the side of the road, still somewhat in the way. Atenos was about to shout at them when his senior centurion, Carbo, shouted down from the second floor of a building close to the gate. He looked up to see the shiny pink face of the centurion within his crested helmet leaning out over a balcony on the second storey.
‘Sir?’
‘This house is a veritable armoury, Atenos. Get some lads in here with a cart. Looks to me like they’ve been preparing for action. Weapons destined for the rebel army.’
Atenos nodded and gestured at a contubernium of his men who were dragging a stubborn, reluctant horse from a stable door nearby. ‘Two of you should be able to manage a horse. The others get in there and help the primus pilus…’
As he turned back to the senior officer on the balcony the air was suddenly rent by a horrendous honking and squawking, and a voice rang out urgently in the local dialect.
‘What the hell was that?’ called Carbo from the balcony, but Atenos was listening to the other, native, voice, his hand cupping his ear and his eyes widening.
‘Enemy cavalry spotted. That’s the call to arms!’
‘Shit!’
As Carbo’s face disappeared from the upper storey, Bituriges appeared from nowhere, stirred by the call and running for the gate. Others were coming up to the palisade, carrying spears or bows. A small group emerged from a side street, running for the house of weapons in which the primus pilus was at work. Atenos felt his head spin. Vercingetorix was here?
‘You!’ he bellowed at a party of legionaries bringing a string of horses down the street. ‘Get inside that building and hold it. Help the primus pilus.’ He gestured to an optio he vaguely recognised, who had emerged from a doorway to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Optio: gather your men and hold that gate!’
Already locals had reached the gate and were busily trying to close it. Atenos drew his blade and ran for the nearest, who was more concerned with pushing the timber structure shut than defending himself. His gladius slammed into the man’s back, sliding between ribs and piercing the organs inside. The man screamed and fell, but the gate continued to swing shut, his comrades still hard at work, trying to keep the legions out.
Again and again, Atenos struck out, stabbing them and pulling them away from the closing portal. Then suddenly there was a deafening ding as something hit his helmet hard and rang it like a bell, shaking his brain and almost causing him to fall. He staggered, his sword momentarily forgotten, and he was spun around as an arrow thudded into his shoulder, hard enough to break bones and only saved from penetration by the double thickness of the mail there.
One of the natives had taken long enough away from the gate to turn on him, and the man raised a sword to bring down in an overhead killing blow, but was sharply knocked aside by a legionary, whose shield boss smashed into him, hard. Then the optio was there with a growing number of men, engaging the Bituriges.
Atenos staggered, bile rising and thick spittle in his mouth at the combination of the pain in his shoulder and the ringing in his ears, which would not stop and which drowned out all other noise. He fell against the wall and was vaguely aware of legionaries fighting to hold the doorway of the house in which Carbo and his men worked. Desperately, Atenos turned to see the gates beginning to pry open once more under the fresh onslaught of the optio and his men.
‘Sound the cornu,’ someone yelled. ‘Rally at the gate.’
Finally overcome by the waves of concussion-induced nausea, Atenos jerked forward and vomited for a long moment before his legs lost all strength and he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he remembered hearing was a desperate call across the river for the legions to form up.