(Maius: The Veneti fortress of Corsicum on the west coast of Gaul)
Tetricus shook his head.
“It’s a joke. He can’t be serious?”
Fronto nodded glumly.
“He’s very serious. This whole situation has him wound tighter than a ballista. I honestly think that at this point he’d sacrifice a legion to get his hands on Corsicum.”
The tribune and artillery engineer continued to shake his head in disbelief. Just as they’d expected since they left Brutus and his fleet wallowing in both waves and misery, traipsing through the torrential rain and accompanied by regular storms, every settlement they reached had been abandoned and anything of use or value had been stripped and taken away. They had wandered a few miles inland, examining the situation, but had returned to the coast the next day and finally located, only ten miles or so from Brutus’ anchorage, the first major stronghold of the tribe.
He just could not stop shaking his head.
The fortress of Corsicum stood on a huge rock that jutted out into the sea, like a lesser copy of one of the Pillars of Hercules. The only land approach was a causeway perhaps two hundred and fifty paces wide that stood almost at sea level and was swampy and treacherous. Above the approach loomed the heavy walls of the stronghold, the towers topped with Gauls watching intently as the might of Rome began an orderly descent of the opposite slope toward the causeway.
Fronto had tried to argue Caesar out of launching a full attack, given the obviously strong defensive capability of the Veneti. He had no doubt, given the mettle of the men in the four legions that accompanied them, that they would take the fortress at the end of the day, but the casualties could be appalling.
Tetricus swung his gaze out past the high cliffs of Corsicum to the roiling sea beyond, trying to think of a solution. The rocks out there formed a platform just beneath the waves that would make it impossible for the fleet to approach, even were they here.
He ran his hands through his hair, brushing the excess water from his head.
“At the very least we could have pounded the walls first?”
Fronto grumbled next to him.
“We’ve got limited time to get across that causeway before the tide cuts the place off. Caesar’s determined to take the fortress without having to camp and perform a protracted siege. I have to admit the idea of sitting here in the pouring rain for days battering at the place is not entirely appealing, but I don’t think throwing men away is a valid solution.”
The young engineer sighed and shivered in the cold, wet air, pulling his cloak around him and totally failing to produce any extra warmth. He turned to look at his handiwork. On the promontory facing the fortress, a ‘dolmen’, as the locals called it, had been dismantled by the engineers. They had been dubious about doing so, through some strange Gallic superstitions, but the site was just too useful to leave for the dead of millennia past, and the stones had been taken down and rearranged to form a perfect artillery platform where, even now, the engineers were beginning to set up their machines. Caesar had not given the order, but Tetricus had consulted Fronto and they had decided that the time would come when it was needed.
“In about a half hour the artillery will be ready to start firing” Tetricus said, flatly.
“In about a half hour the ground down there will be thick with dead Romans.”
The pair stood glumly watching as the ranks of marching soldiers reached the bottom of the slope and began to trudge their way through the marshy ground toward the well-defended Veneti fortress ahead.
“This is going to be a massacre. I can’t believe the general ordered it.” Tetricus turned back to Fronto. “And I can’t believe that you agreed to put the Tenth in the front line of the attack. Wouldn’t it have been fairer to march the legions in columns, so that the front line is evenly distributed?”
Fronto turned his head slightly and winked.
“Thinking ahead, that’s all.”
“What?” Tetricus frowned.
“When it all goes to shit and the legions are stopped, someone is going to have to call for the army to fall back. The order won’t come from command, since Caesar’s adamant, but there are a dozen or more veteran centurions down there who’ll decide it’s too much of a waste and will put their own head on the block to save the men.”
Tetricus nodded slowly.
“And you want that to be the Tenth?”
“Carbo knows what he’s doing, and I can argue Caesar into letting it slide, given the absurdity of the whole thing. I’d rather that came down to me than some other poor sod who’s not expecting it.”
Tetricus nodded as he watched the legions sloshing along the approach.
Down below, Servius Fabricius Carbo glanced left and right at the advancing ranks of the Tenth. From perhaps fifty paces behind him he heard his optio yelling in a parade ground voice:
“Get your arse back into that line, Falco, or I will stick my foot so far up it you can taste the boot!”
Carbo smiled to himself. For the first month or so since he’d taken over as primus pilus, the optio had treated him with care, as though he had to protect this new commander from his own men. Time, however, had brought him the respect of the first century and the optio had fallen back into his accustomed role, making the life of his men troublesome wherever needed.
Turning back to look ahead, he sized up the approach.
“Prepare to receive missiles. Shields ready.”
Two of the men close by shared a nervous glance and Carbo smiled at them.
“They’re not Apollo with his bow, lads; they’re just a few dozen hairy misfits with rocks. Don’t let ‘em get to you.”
But the truth was entirely different, and Carbo knew it. The Veneti up there on the walls would have slings, spears, probably bows and maybe even fire arrows, since he was sure he’d seen smoke being suppressed by the incessant rain. The next few moments were going to be a march into sheer hell, and their only hope was to keep themselves as covered as possible and pray fervently. At least, until he’d had enough, anyway.
“Incoming! Raise shields.”
Next to him, one of the soldiers frowned.
“I don’t see anything, sir?”
“Get your shield up.”
As the soldier lifted his shield into the most protective position, covering most of his front, his eyes peering over the top, a sling shot rapped on the wood and leather and fell to the floor in front of him.
And then, suddenly, hell broke loose.
The Veneti launched everything they had as individuals rather than in ordered units, and sling stones, lead bullets, arrows, rocks and spears fell from the walls in a hail. Carbo gritted his teeth, listening to the shouts and shrieks of the men who were too slow, too unprotected, or just too plain unlucky, and were felled by the onslaught.
The ground began to slope upward as they battled on against the constant hail of missiles, men toppling out of the line, only to be replaced by the soldier from the rank behind. Despite the change of terrain and the difficulty of maintaining a solid line while marching up a slope, Carbo still welcomed the end of the wet, sloshy ground below as his boots finally found dry land.
There was a deep and loud groan from above and the primus pilus frowned for a moment, cocking his head to one side and listening intently. A clunk and another groan.
“First cohort: Form two columns on the flanks!”
Without comment or question, nearly a thousand men forming the advancing ranks of the legions split into two groups, angling away from each other, so that the single line of two hundred men became two columns, each with a front line of fifty, a wide gap opening in the centre. Carbo just had to hope that the other cohorts and legions had realised what was up.
Just as the trap was sprung, Carbo glanced back to note with satisfaction that the other senior centurions had followed suit and that the front ranks of the Eighth behind then were copying the manoeuvre.
A cry of angry disappointment rose from the walls above as a huge tree trunk rolled through the now-open gate in the walls and hurtled down the slope toward the attackers, neatly descending into the gap between the two advancing columns and rolling inoffensively to a halt in the marshy ground below without having touched a single man.
Carbo nodded in satisfaction. If they had oiled the hinges on those gates, that could have been so much worse. In his early days with the military, he’d acquired the nickname ‘the augur’ due to his innate sense of self preservation and his uncanny knack of being prepared just ahead of any unexpected event. Carbo himself knew that it came entirely down to using the senses the Gods had gifted him with, combined with experience and a sprinkling of common sense.
And common sense and acute hearing had just saved the First cohort. Above, the gates were shut once more, hurriedly, and the missile shots increased, accompanied by savage cries.
“Single line… lock shields!”
In a perfect reverse of their earlier manoeuvre, the Tenth Legion closed ranks once more, though the formation would be no help in taking those walls in the circumstances. The time was almost upon them, now.
As the legion trudged slowly up the slope, men occasionally falling out of the line with a squawk, Carbo narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze across the ranks of men. There were very few places in the cohort where the line was five men thick, and as often as not it had thinned to three rather than four. He’d lost a fifth of his men already, and they were still two hundred paces from the walls up an ever increasing gradient. The First cohort would be gone before a Roman hand touched the wall.
“Pass the word back. Sound the retreat! Orderly, mind you…”
The signifer, Petrosidius, three men along from him, grinned and waved the standard as somewhere back by the optio the buccina called out the retreat order. Carbo could almost feel the relief, not just from the men around him, but also from the legions following them up, who took up and relayed the call with telling speed.
The First cohort slowed to a halt, their shields still up against the battering missiles falling on them from above, and began carefully to step back down the slope, maintaining the forward defensive wall.
“We’re going to get bollocked, sir.”
Carbo smiled at the man who had spoken.
“I don’t think you need worry, lad. The legate’ll look after us.”
Fronto, high on the promontory above, watched and nodded with satisfaction. Shame they’d had to waste so many damn men before retreating, but at least they could show Caesar how stupid the idea was. Tetricus laughed.
“You were right, Marcus.”
“I know. I’m going to see Caesar. You get that artillery up and running. As soon as I’ve talked some sense into the old man, I’ll get the other legions’ engineers up to join in.”
Tetricus nodded and jogged off towards the makeshift artillery platform while Fronto turned and set his sights on the hastily-erected headquarters tent that held a commanding view of the enemy stronghold. The general emerged from the tent as he watched, waving his arms angrily at three of the staff officers that lurked outside in the torrential rain.
The hawk-nosed general was still laying into the innocent officers a short while later as Fronto approached, and one of the men meekly raised his finger and pointed at Fronto. Caesar turned to him, his face red and angry, his eye flickering dangerously.
“I want the man who ordered that call to be stripped naked and flung down onto the rocks, and the musician who made it will follow him.”
Fronto shook his head.
“No you don’t.”
“What?” The eye flickered faster.
“With respect, Caesar, those two men just saved you thousands of men. Remember last year? Plancus marching on the walls of Noviodunum? Throwing men away like mad until you relented and let us do it properly? Don’t turn into a Plancus, general.”
“I…”
The flickering in his eye stopped, and the general’s face took on a strange and almost frightened look.
“Fronto… the tent…”
The legate frowned and stepped forward, grabbing the general’s arm, just as his legs started to give way. The officers stared at them.
“Don’t read anything into it, lads. He’s exhausted.”
Without sparing them another glance, he steered the general toward the command tent and entered without ceremony. The tent was empty other than a table and seat.
“What’s happened?”
The general was starting to shake slightly, his brow pallid and sweaty.
“I’m fine… Fronto.”
He leaned over the table, his face hidden in the darkness.
“Just… exhausted, like you said.”
Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“You’re ill.”
“No. I’m fine... Get out. You deal with it how… however you feel.”
Fronto’s frown deepened as he watched Caesar slump slightly.
“Get out!”
With a shrug, Fronto turned his back on the general and strode from the tent. The old man had looked like death was closing in on him, and the expression on his face had only added to the impression. The legate had this nagging feeling that he would deal with the retreat and go back in only to find the great Caesar dead on the floor in a pool of his own bile.
Perhaps the world would breathe a sigh of relief if that happened.
Fronto gritted his teeth as he emerged into the rain and looked at the three officers, their faces full of concern.
“As soon as the legions are back, send the officers to me and have the engineers report to Tetricus.”
One of the officers opened his mouth to object to this clear command from a man who was, in theory, at most a peer, if not a lesser officer, but his throat dried up as he saw Fronto’s face.
“At once, legate.”
* * * * *
“Caesar?”
“Fronto? Come in.”
The legate shrugged, casting a quick look around at the view outside the tent. The rain had died down to an intermittent drizzle that was almost worse than the downpour, but the change had made the work of the engineers easier and visibility was greatly improved. Straightening his shoulders, he ducked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back behind him.
The general sat at his table in the cavernous, largely empty tent, a studious look on his face; no sign of his recent indisposition showing.
“I’d offer you a seat, Fronto, but I only have the one, for now. I’m rather hoping not to have to unpack. What is the news?”
The legate shook his head.
“Oh no. I’ll give you a full report in a moment, but first I want you to level with me. There’s something wrong, and I don’t want to come in to report one morning to find you draped over your table bleeding out. I wouldn’t know how to proceed.”
Caesar gave a knowing smile.
“I rather think you know exactly how you’d proceed. In fact, I’ll be most surprised if you haven’t already planned for the eventuality. But no… I’m in no danger of dropping dead.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Caesar fixed him with a searching glare and sagged in the chair.
“Just an illness, Fronto. I caught something in Illyricum that’s taking a little more shaking off than normal.”
“With respect, Caesar, that’s a pile of crap. I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve never seen you do that. You were in the middle of building up a real argument with me, and I know how much we both enjoy that… and then you petered out and almost collapsed. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that you’re trying to hide it, even from those closest to you.”
The general glared at him.
“This subject is not open for discussion, Marcus. Leave it be.”
Fronto gave a vicious grin.
“Well we were headed for an argument about the attack, so let’s just have an argument about this instead.”
He ignored the warning glance again.
“Whatever it is, we’re in wet, boring, north west Gaul, a long way from the jackals in the senate that are always sniffing around you for a weakness. Out here it’s just you and your army. You need to be straight with me, ‘cause it worries me. I’ve not seen you…”
The legate paused and frowned thoughtfully.
“But that’s not true, is it? I have seen you like that before.”
The general still had not spoken, and Fronto nodded as his thoughts stretched back.
“Vesontio last year… before we moved against the Belgae. You virtually pushed me away and disappeared on your own, complaining about the smell or something. That was the same thing, wasn’t it?”
“Fronto, you might sometimes be too bright for your own good. How can you have recall like that when you pickle your brain so often?”
Fronto brushed the comment aside, frowning.
“It’s a preservative. Come on… you’ve got to trust me. I know something’s up, and you’d be better off giving me the truth than letting me speculate.”
Caesar sighed and sagged again.
“I do have an affliction that strikes from time to time. It’s not lethal; just inconvenient and I would rather like to keep it from the rest of the men. You and I know that it’s men, not strange forces, that control the future of the world, but there are a lot of intelligent men out there who cling to ridiculous superstitions, let alone the average soldier.”
Fronto nodded.
“They could see it as some sort of curse?”
“Exactly. A mark of divine disfavour or some such.
“How many people know about this?”
Caesar shrugged.
“My body slave, some select few of my family… and a merchant in the forum holitorium who will die a very wealthy man so long as he keeps his mouth shut.”
The general smiled.
“But since you now know, I may need your help from time to time in keeping this quiet.”
“Does it happen often?”
Caesar frowned.
“Rarely more than a couple of times a year, really.”
Fronto sighed and leaned against the leather of the tent wall.
“So what is it? Give me the details and I’ll know what to do the next time that happens, rather than making feeble excuses to the men and leaving you on your own in the tent to ride it through.”
The general nodded quietly.
“I’m not entirely sure, Marcus. It only started a couple of years ago, about the time we first left for Gaul. I’ve discounted the possibility of a connection; men like you and I look at plain fact, rather than superstition, as I said.”
Fronto pursed his lips.
“And you’ve not seen a physician?”
Caesar smiled.
“In fact I have seen several, Marcus. One of the main reasons for my wintering in Illyricum this year was to be safely away from Rome for a while, somewhere where I could investigate this without my enemies getting wind. Illyricum is home to a number of physicians who follow the Greek medical traditions; very smart men. Unfortunately, just like their democracies, the medical profession are plagued by differing opinions and the inability to reach a unified conclusion.”
“And?” Fronto prompted.
“The most common theory is that I have what they call the ‘falling sickness’. That’s the worst case, I suspect, since the stigma it carries means that revealing it could be political suicide. But even if that is the case, it needn’t be a real problem. I’ve heard it said, after all, that Alexander of Macedon had the same problem, and he built a vast empire.”
“And died very young if I remember rightly” Fronto added flatly.
“Something from which, I fear, I am quite safe.”
Fronto sighed.
“There are other possibilities?”
Caesar nodded. “I will not speculate, Marcus. Whatever it is, it appears to be periodically debilitating rather than life threatening. But if you see me starting to get hazy and confused, or if I appear to be hearing or seeing things that aren’t there, find an excuse and get me somewhere private urgently.”
“Then what?” Fronto asked with genuine concern.
“I may lose consciousness. I may shake and spasm for a while. The symptoms, I understand, are quite varied and interesting…” the general smiled “…though I am never in the right frame of mind at the time to record what it is that’s happening. It might be very useful the next time it happens if you could note the progression, so that I can approach the physicians with the details the next time I return to Salona.”
Fronto nodded seriously.
“Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you share traits with Alexander. Alright, general. I’ll keep this quiet and my eyes open. In the meantime, we need to deal with the current situation. I realise that I overstepped my bounds by allowing the Tenth to call the retreat but, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve always considered it more important to do what you needed done than what you wanted done.”
Caesar shook his head slowly.
“You were, of course, quite correct, and I would normally recognise that myself. You’ve known me since my earlier commands, Fronto. You know I’m not the sort of man to throw troops away on foolish errands.”
Fronto nodded. “That’s what took everyone by surprise, sir. Is it the illness?”
Caesar shook his head sadly.
“Nothing to blame this on but lack of adequate thought. The past few months have been extremely draining and aggravating, Marcus. Those in Rome who have influence are beginning to array themselves against me; the senate and even the people, who have ever been my greatest advocates, are beginning to question my actions, since Gaul will not accept the eagle; the elder Crassus seems to be genuinely affectionate towards me while his son undermines everything I do here; Pompey keeps placing minor obstacles in my way and even Cicero is starting to speak out against me. Everything feels like it is pressing on me and I’m on the verge of snapping under it all.”
Fronto smiled sympathetically. He could understand the weight of politics. It was a contributory factor to his own avoidance of it.
“You need the campaign over as fast as possible. We all know that, general, but cutting corners will only cause you trouble in the end. Let the legions do their jobs properly, and we’ll have this over in no time.”
“I hope you’re right, Marcus. I really do. Alright, then; let’s have the update.”
Fronto stepped away from the tent wall and stood before the table.
“Alright. Well I’ve sorted things outside. We lost maybe four hundred men, but it could have been a lot worse. I’m allowing tents to be set up, but nothing else. No fortifications or suchlike. We don’t want to get involved in a protracted siege, as you said, but the men need to keep dry when they’re off duty, or the whole army’s going to come down with something.”
“You still expect to be able to resolve this quickly, then?”
Fronto shrugged.
“A lot of that depends on factors outside our control, Caesar, but we hope so. Tetricus has the artillery of four legions finding their range right now. If you listen hard, you can hear them.”
“I thought that was just my head” the general said with a small laugh.
“Tetricus reckons that he can topple those towers and flatten that gate in about half a day with the full weight of the artillery. And there’s free stone knocking around here for ammunition, so that’s no worry.”
The general nodded.
“So by the next low tide, we might be able to manage?”
Fronto nodded.
“I’d have hated to be down there when the tide came in. It’s not like standing on the beach at Antium and watching the line slowly licking towards you. With the storms and the choppy sea, the tide came in here in about quarter of an hour. It was like watching a dam burst.”
Caesar nodded wearily.
“We might need to repair the morale damage of that first attack. Perhaps if I march with the men? Always boosts morale when the officers take a risk.”
Fronto nodded.
“And you’ll also be pleased to hear that our scouts have reported sighting Brutus’ fleet a few miles away. Looks like he’s taken advantage of the lull and come out to meet us.”
“Very good. That could give us an edge.”
“Perhaps”. Fronto looked less certain.
The general sighed.
* * * * *
Fronto strode up the slope at the head of the army in the gentle drizzle. The Tenth, having led the first, abortive attack, had been given the honour of being the first legion through the breach. The walls had crumbled swiftly under Tetricus’ constant deadly barrage, and the Gauls lining it had fled after the first few shots found their range. Despite the stone, timber and packed earth of the ramparts, the artillery of four legions made swift work of them, reducing the gate to rubble and toppling the towers more than an hour before the tide had receded enough to allow troops to cross the causeway.
As soon as the water level dropped, the general gave the order and the legions marched before even the artillery had ceased. The general, resplendent in his red cloak and gleaming cuirass, joined the vanguard as they crossed the gap and began to climb the incline toward the shattered walls.
The broken defences reached toward the boiling clouds like stumps of sawn trees, small sections of wall at full height, interspersed with rubble, spreading down the hill. As the legion approached the walls, Fronto glanced across in the other direction to Carbo, marching strong at the head of the Tenth. The man was already looking at him and, as the two men’s eyes met, Carbo nodded, sharing an unspoken thought, and addressed the legion in a steady voice.
“Be prepared, now, lads. Anything could await us up here.”
Fronto nodded quietly to himself, imagining the traps the Veneti could have set up behind the broken walls. It had been many hours now since the last figure had dared climb the walls to look at the attackers, and the quiet was eerie. He hefted his sword.
“Secure the walls” Carbo barked as they crossed the rubble, slowing their pace accordingly. Two centurions began shouting out orders, and a century peeled off the column in either direction as they reached the line of the defences, rounding the shattered wall carefully, not knowing what to expect. Fronto and Caesar continued alongside Carbo and the front line of the First cohort and passed between the remains of the gate and into the fortress of the Veneti. As the two centuries rushed along the line and into position, checking the defences for any traps or lurking Gauls, the bulk of the army marched on up the slope and into the centre of the large headland stronghold.
This was far from the usual Gaulish oppidum or settlement with which Fronto was familiar. Rather than the unplanned, rambling streets of a Gaulish town, with trees rising from the roadside for summer shade and gardens in front of each house, this was a utilitarian arrangement, designed purely to protect a people from harm. There was no subtlety or joy in the layout, with squat, dark buildings for shelter all gathered close around a square at the highest point, with bare, windowless facades facing the outside, one end of the central square given over to granaries and storehouses.
“So where the hell are they?” Fronto asked no one in particular as they crested the hill and approached the silent, strangely deserted-looking buildings.
The general, beside him, bore a puzzled frown.
“Perhaps they hide within?”
Fronto shook his head.
“I don’t think so, general. These people aren’t the sort to cower without even trying to fight. But the question does remain: where are they?”
Again, Carbo barked out orders to his men and two centuries split off the main group as they approached the square and began to check out the buildings surrounding it. Behind the Tenth, the Eighth crested the hill, Balbus leading his men fast to catch up with the front line. Farther back, Crispus had split the Eleventh and sent them in two groups around the lower edges of the headland, above the cliffs, to meet up at the far end. The Fourteenth had played rearguard, remaining with the artillery for their protection.
Fronto and the general watched with growing unease as the legionaries of the First cohort entered and exited the buildings, shrugging, nonplussed at the strangely deserted fortress.
“Is it possible that we were mistaken?” Caesar frowned. “That this is not a principal fortress, and there were only a few dozen men here on the walls after all and they’re hiding somewhere. A distraction? A decoy?”
Again Fronto shook his head.
“No. This is a major fortress, and if you look at the mud here you can see hundreds of tracks. The ground’s been churned up recently by a lot of people. They’ve got to be here somewhere. Perhaps there’s something down near the cliffs? A cave system or something? I’ve heard tell that they do that in the east; occupy cave systems. If so, Crispus’ men will find them soon enough.”
They suddenly became aware of shouting. Squinting into the fine mist of rain, Fronto spotted an optio waving from the edge of the grassy slope ahead, toward the sea; one of Crispus’ men from the Eleventh. The man waved both arms above his head and then pointed out to sea. Fronto felt his heart sink. Somehow, he knew what had happened. Gesturing at Carbo, he beckoned the general and the three men strode speedily between the storehouses and across the grassy headland toward the man.
They saw it before they caught up with the optio, as soon as they reached the area where the ground began to fall away down toward the cliffs. Ships. Dozens of dark, heavy ships, their huge rectangular sails unfurling as they watched, were making their way out toward the open sea, hundreds of jeering Gauls lining the rails and gesturing up at the Romans in the empty fortress.
Caesar, next to Fronto, stopped in his tracks, grinding his teeth in angry frustration.
“No.”
Fronto looked across at him.
“Brutus and the fleet can get them. Look… the triremes are already moving.”
The three men watched intently as other officers joined them at their vantage point. Behind them, three legions spread out across the stronghold, searching every inch.
Fronto found that he, too, had his teeth clenched as he watched the sea below. Despite the fact that the storm had died to a gentle drizzle, the sea still rose and fell dangerously, huge waves crashing against the rocks where they breached the surface. The Veneti galleys were moving slowly as yet, a mere hundred paces from the cliffs, their sails only just beginning to catch the wind, whereas Brutus’ ships, powered by banks of oars, were already tearing at high speed toward them.
“They can’t get away” Fronto noted as he watched. “There’s not enough time.”
Caesar nodded as he continued to peer down into the roiling waves in intent silence. Beside them, Carbo made a strange rumbling noise. Fronto turned, frowning, to look at his primus pilus. The man was shaking his head.
“What’s up?”
Carbo unstrapped his helmet and, removing it, mopped his brow.
“It’s not going to work. If the commander doesn’t pull his fleet back, they’re in trouble.”
“What?”
But instead of explaining, Carbo merely pointed to the lead trireme as it put on an extra burst of speed, bearing down on the escaping Veneti fleet. Fronto turned back to it and peered down.
“I don’t see…”
He fell silent as he watched the trireme meet the submerged rock shelf that surrounded the headland. There was a series of cracks and crunches as the oars hit rocks and shattered, followed by an almighty bang as the hull connected with the undulating shelf beneath the jagged pinnacles.
He watched in horror as the trireme foundered on the rocks, water rushing in through the broken hull. The crew panicked and began to abandon the ship, some diving blindly onto the rocks. Behind them, the rest of the fleet veered away sharply.
Fronto stared. “How is that possible?”
Carbo shrugged.
“It’s all about draft, sir. The hulls of the triremes are too deep beneath the surface to cross these rocks, and the oars are no use there.”
“But how do the Veneti do it then?”
“Their ships must be designed differently. A lower draft so that their ships can cross the rocks in safety. And if you look, sir, they’ve a much wider beam too.”
“Beam?” Fronto began to feel as though he was being toyed with.
“Yes sir. The beam is the width of the ship. Ours are deeper underwater and narrower in the beam. Theirs have a shallow draft, which allows them to approach the coast easily, but that would make them less stable at sea, so they’ve counteracted that with a wide beam so that they remain the right way up even in strong waves. Quite clever really. They’ve adapted their shipbuilding style to the conditions they live in.”
As they watched, the Veneti fleet was already leaving the rocky area beyond the cliffs and making for open sea, their sails billowing.
“It’s not over yet” Caesar noted, watching as the Roman fleet, now carefully avoiding the rocks, began to head out to sea.
Again, Carbo shook his head sadly.
“They’re actually moving faster than our ships at the moment. Once they get out into those heavy waves our triremes will be in extreme danger. They’ll capsize and break up in those conditions. If commander Brutus doesn’t turn them back before they’re half a mile out, we’ll lose the fleet.”
Fronto frowned at his senior centurion.
“You seem to know a lot about this?”
“I wasn’t always a soldier, sir. I grew up in Ancona. My dad was a shipbuilder, sir.”
Fronto raised his eyebrow. This man never failed to surprise him.
“What’s the answer then, Carbo? How do we stop them?”
The primus pilus sighed, his shoulders drooping.
“I’m not entirely sure that we can, sir. Catching them’s possible, but it’s a matter of surprising them and trapping them in a harbour with deep enough water that we can get our own ships to them, while they can’t escape past us.”
Fronto nodded and suddenly became aware that the general was at his shoulder, paying close attention.
“Go on, centurion” the general said. “You say we could catch them, but that is not enough?”
Carbo scratched his head. “I’m not sure, sir. The thing is, even from this far away you can see the difference in size and construction of the ships. Their hulls are much higher and thicker than ours; they have to be to withstand the conditions of the sea here.”
“So?” Fronto prodded.
“Well sir... if their ships are, say, six feet higher at deck level than ours how would we get a boarding ramp across to them? There’s no realistic way of doing it, which renders boarding impossible. That, in turn, means the marines are useless and can’t get aboard the enemy.”
“Then we sink them and pick them out of the water.”
Again, Carbo shook his head.
“Solid oak. Very thick hull. I doubt our rams would go through it. If one of our fleet hit their ships at ramming speed, I would give even chances that it would be our trireme that sank and not them.”
Caesar’s teeth began to grind again.
“Are you suggesting that the fleet is unlikely to catch the enemy and effectively powerless to deal with them even if they did?”
Carbo nodded.
“Unless the commander can come up with something that helps turn the odds his way.”
The three men raised their eyes to the distance once more. The Veneti fleet were already out among the choppy waves, and Brutus’ fleet, having begun to buck and roll with the sea, had slowed their pursuit.
Caesar turned his angry gaze to Fronto.
“Get the legions back to the mainland, dismantle the artillery and, when Brutus puts in an appearance, tell him to get out there and track them. I don’t care how he does it, but I want to know where that Veneti fleet goes, so that when they land we can deal with them properly.”
Fronto nodded and turned to Carbo.
“You heard the general. Get the Tenth on the move.”
“Yessir.”
Fronto gazed out once more at the distant, retreating sails of the Veneti. He had engaged defiant people before who had fought until the last man stood, and had dealt with tribes who had surrendered in order to preserve their culture. He’d never dealt with a tribe that refused to engage them and simply slipped out of the back door when the might of Rome came knocking. This was going to be problematical.