Vibulenus’s stomach knotted. The Guild could make the Romans immortal—unaging, at least—and it could repair anything but a spearpoint through the braincase. But it couldn’t get more Romans. Never more Romans. Never Rome again. Never home again—
He cut off that train of thought with practiced ease. There were easier ways to die here than a spear or a sword; thinking about home too much was one of them. Even the Medic couldn’t bring you back from a really determined attempt at suicide.
Attacking the Commander, for instance.
“That is correct,” the Commander went on. “But it is essential that this rebellion be put down. If assets must be expended, then they must.”
“Sir,” Gaius Vibulenus went on, in a voice that must not shake with the anger that poured through him like boiling oil poured on a storming party. “There are ten thousand men in there. Each of them has to eat every day. You can see that they didn’t have the time to get their harvest in, but it’s nearly ripe—all their food-stocks must be low. If we invest the fortress, we can starve them out and solve the problem economically.”
The Commander made a noncommittal sound, then blinked and looked at the fields and nodded. Vibulenus felt a slight chill. The Commander looked like something out of a nightmare . . . but in a way that response made him seem even more alien. He obviously hadn’t thought of the harvest as something important.
“If you assets are encamped here, is there not a risk that the enemy will . . . I believe the term is sally? At night, for instance.”
Vibulenus’s head rose up. “Sir, we are Romans. I assure you that within a week, they’ll no more be able to sally successfully than they could fly to Rome by flapping their arms.”
* * *
“Now, stay there, ye bugger,” the legionary grunted.
The pit he’d been digging was the depth of a man’s arm, slanting forward at a forty-five-degree angle. Inside it was a wooden stake only a little shorter, the upper point trimmed to a sharp point and fire-hardened. The soldier finished ramming the unhardened point into the soft earth at the base of the pit, flicked the stake to make sure that it was firmly seated, then moved on to the next pit, dragging his bundle of stakes with him.
The air smelled of freshly turned earth; from the rings of pits for the stakes, and from the square-section ditch ahead of them, twenty feet deep and neat as a knife-cut through cake. The ditch was an irregular oblong, intended to run all around the hill on which the enemy squatted; when the Romans began their siege works the ramparts had been black with watchers, but now only a normal number squatted or leaned on their spears atop the ramparts. Vibulenus cocked a critical eye at the massive excavation. The layout and initial digging had been done by the legion’s soldiers, but much of the donkey-work was being handed off to local peasants rounded up by the auxiliaries. The main problem hadn’t been resistance, but the simple blundering incompetence of backwoodsmen not accustomed to working in groups. Despite that the peasants were working hard—they’d been told that they could go back to their harvest when the circumvallation was complete. They even had a few tricks that the Romans hadn’t run into before.
Their spades and picks were familiar enough, but instead of carrying dirt away in baskets they used a little box with a wheel in front and two handles behind—really extremely clever. I wonder why we never thought of that? Vibulenus wondered mildly, then turned.
Behind the rows of lilies were more rows of stimulators, short sticks with a pointed iron barb at one end, hammered into the dirt with the barb pointing inward towards the enemy. Behind them was a ditch ten feet deep, full of trees with sharpened branches making a forest of points; behind that was another ditch, this one to be flooded when they’d linked it to the river that ran through the valley. Behind that was the wall proper, an earthen rampart, then an upright palisade. From the base of the palisade bristling sharpened stakes pointed downward, into the space where the faces of attackers would be if they tried to scale it. Square-section towers of wooden framework reared along the growing wall, each a long javelin-cast apart. Building the rampart and towers was skilled work; the locals were just dragging up the necessary timber, and the legion’s men were busy with adz and saw and hammer.