(Maius: Off the coast of Gaul some five miles north of Corsicum)
Brutus pinched the bridge of his nose as the trierarch’s fierce gaze bored into him.
“Just do it.”
“As you say, commander.”
The ship’s captain turned his piercing blue eyes away from the staff officer back to his second on deck, periodically calling out the timing for the oarsmen.
“Signal the fleet to move into bull horns formation and as soon as the ships are in position, give me attack speed.”
“Aye, sir”
The trierarch turned back to Brutus and glared. The young officer had chosen the Aurora as his flagship solely because it had been the first trireme to be completed and the first he had sailed on. He was beginning to regret choosing one with such a headstrong and outspoken captain and, while he knew that he had the authority to shut the man up, remove him from command, or even have him disciplined, he had not the heart, since he knew with every ounce of his being that the man was absolutely right.
“You are aware, commander, that this is inviting disaster?”
Brutus nodded unhappily.
“Sadly, captain, I have my orders and therefore so do you. Whatever else we do and whatever the result, we have to try.”
The comment did nothing to lift the disapproval from the man’s gaze as the other ships in the fleet pulled into a flattened crescent shape some three or four vessels deep.
“Execute the plan.”
Brutus took a deep breath. It was a long shot, for certain. In fact, it was several long shots and made him nervous just thinking about it, particularly given that it was a plan of his own devising. Still, none of the experienced naval officers could come up with a better solution.
The ‘horns’ of the bull on the outer points of the crescents were formed of the quinqueremes, the heaviest warships in the fleet. Their initial task was to sweep in as pincers and to take the edge of the Veneti fleet, effectively sealing them in and, hopefully, given their size and weight, to sink a few with the rams. While this happened, the rest of the fleet would close, the rear lines spreading out to encircle the enemy.
Brutus found that he was uttering a silent prayer to Juno, the family’s patron deity. The Veneti fleet, almost twice as many vessels as his own, drifted along at a gentle speed as though they had not a care in the world, and it was both frustrating and worrying. The Veneti were clearly a clever and resourceful people and to let Brutus’ fleet descend on them was extremely out of character. Was it a trap somehow? He could not see how. They were too far from the headlands for the Veneti to have hidden surprises, while trying to stay close enough to land to avoid the worst of the seas, even in this soggy lull in the weather.
It was foolish and worrying.
During his last meeting with Caesar, which had not gone well, he’d managed to argue himself into a corner. When Fronto had passed on his orders to track the Veneti, he’d been to see the general to point out that the job could be done just as effectively by scouts on the cliffs without endangering the ships. Caesar had rounded on him angrily, asking what use the ships were then, and by the time he’d left the tent, his new orders were to launch an attack.
The fleet closed on the Veneti, and he swallowed nervously. If they could get the Veneti pinned they might stand a chance, the crews had spent the previous evening constructing platforms at the prow in order to raise the height of the ‘corvus’ boarding bridge and therefore overcome the difference in deck height. It looked uncomfortably precarious to Brutus, but no other solution had leapt to mind.
Glancing to left and right from his commanding position, he watched the horns of the bull closing on the Veneti and something caught his attention. The enemy fleet had thinned out at the periphery. In fact, as he scanned the Gaulish mass, the entire fleet had thinned. A huge proportion of the fleet of ships had begun to break away, altering their huge leather sails to fill with the billowing wind and picking up speed, heading for the coast.
Even as he watched, more and more clumps of vessels began to pick up speed and move away. It was like watching patches of ice breaking away in a fast stream, and the truly irritating thing was that, despite the Roman ships moving at attack speed, the Veneti vessels were fleeing the scene even faster.
He frowned.
Why, then, had they clearly left a few of their fleet at the mercy of the Romans. As more and more of the enemy broke away, it became obvious that they had left six… no… eight ships with their sails sagging, waiting to be overcome. What strange trap was this? Could the vessels be about to be fired? Disease ridden by design? Something was wrong.
He was about to begin shouting, giving the order to call off the attack, when he realised that there were still Veneti standing at the rails of the ships. Why would they leave their own men?
Brutus was without answer as the quinqueremes on the flanks closed on the two outer enemy vessels that remained, drifting alone as the rest of the fleet swept away from them.
Unable to find a convincing reason to halt the attack, he watched, mystified, as the engagement, such as it was, began. The quinquereme on the left flank; the Celerimus, he believed, swept forth with a final surge and a roar from the ranks of rowers, and ploughed into the side of their target vessel.
Brutus shook his head, realising what had happened before the scene fully unfolded. The trierarch of the Roman vessel had done nothing wrong, but the Veneti had allowed their ship to drift just slightly, putting it at a slight angle. The ram on the Roman vessel slammed into the heavy oak hull but, rather than punching through and disabling the enemy, the ships came to a mutual halt with a resounding crash and men and goods were thrown around the decks. The ram had broken timbers, but had then glanced off and slid along the hull harmlessly, leaving the boarding bridge pointing out to open sea.
The enemy crew were laughing at them, Brutus realised, as the Gauls raised their sail and began to gather the wind to move away. Silently, he willed the captain of the Celerimus to pull the disaster around and, as he watched, the quinquereme changed angle and tried to face the enemy ship long enough to drop the corvus, which was already manned. There was, he realised, no chance of this happening successfully. The oarsmen had begun to row, trying to manoeuvre the heavy Roman vessel, but it just took too long to pick up speed in the circumstances, while the swift Veneti ship that had been their target began to open the distance between them, disappearing toward the land with a bulging sail and laughing crew.
Brutus felt the pain behind his eyes coming back and pinched the bridge of his nose again.
“Signal the fleet to break off.”
He opened his eyes again, already knowing what he was going to see and dreading it.
Sure enough, two other Roman vessels had closed on the enemy, one on the opposite flank and one close by in the centre of the formation. As they lunged forward, trying to ram and with the corvus swinging and ready to drop, the Veneti ships shifted their sails, caught the wind, and swiftly moved out of the way.
There was no trap. Quite simply, the Veneti had known from the start that they were safe from the Roman fleet, but were testing not only the tactics of their hated oppressors, but also their abilities. The answer was almost embarrassing. Without something new, nothing in the arsenal of Roman naval experience was going to be able to make a dent on the Veneti fleet. The Gauls were toying with them, batting them on the nose and then dancing out of reach.
He turned to catch the accusing glare of the trierarch.
“Yes, I know. Signal the fleet to follow them. When they put to shore, we need to find a useable harbour somewhere nearby and keep a squadron at a time out there, making sure the Veneti stay still. As soon as they’re ashore and we’ve got them under surveillance, I’m heading back to the general to report.”
The captain nodded quietly, and Brutus ground his teeth. Caesar was unlikely to be sympathetic.
* * * * *
Brutus sighed as the general let his glare slip slowly away. Caesar had said nothing, but his expression had said more than the harshest words.
“Very well… We are in the same position as we were before we marched on Corsicum. The only advantages we have this time are that we know what their tactics are likely to be, and the fleet is there and will be able to at least try and hold the enemy fleet in.
“Weather allowing” Brutus added quietly, unwilling to raise his eyes to meet the general’s sharp glance.
“Solutions, gentlemen. We now know the situation of this next fortress. It is similar to the last, but with narrower coves opening to the sea on either side of the headland. Is there some way we can speed up the whole procedure and not be at the mercy of nature and her damn tides?”
Tetricus cleared his throat next to Fronto.
“We can stop the legions out of sight of the fortress, general; assemble as much of the artillery as possible so that it will require considerably less time to put them in position and find the range. If we then send scouts ahead as we start to move, they can locate a good place for an artillery platform and direct the engineers there. If we do it right, we can have the artillery pounding the enemy in a fraction of the normal time. The surprise could give us an edge and buy us time.”
The general nodded slowly and appreciatively.
“Surprise is clearly important. If they have too much time to plan, we could end up with a repeat of Corsicum, or worse. We shall keep the legions from moving into sight until we are ready. Let’s keep them guessing and off guard. What else?”
Balbus frowned.
“Tetricus? Can you split your attack when you’re set up and drop some of your shots into the centre of the fortress?”
“I can, but won’t it be a waste of shots we could be directing against the walls?”
Balbus smiled and scratched his bald head.
“If we’re trying to prevent them from having too much time and leisure to plan, the confusion created by being under random shots across the place could be useful.”
Caesar nodded again.
“Do it. Next?”
“Dams.”
The general turned his head to the voice off in the recess of the command tent. Mamurra, the engineer who had joined the staff in the spring, stepped into the circle of light.
“We know how deep the tide comes in over these causeways. It’s not deep; just enough to prevent any kind of land attack. If, as you say, the apertures to the sea to either side are relatively narrow, we can dam them enough to hold back the tide, and that would give you the freedom to work your attack any way you wish.”
Caesar frowned and leaned forward across the table, the stylus in his hand tapping on the surface.
“Wouldn’t that take a long time?”
Mamurra shook his head.
“Not with, what, four legions available to us. Given complete control, along with a few good engineers and perhaps a legion of men, I can have serviceable dams in position in an hour or two. It’ll take longer than that to flatten the walls, so we should have the time.”
Caesar frowned at the engineer for a while and then nodded and faced the others again.
“Surprise, artillery prepared in advance, a fleet anchored in the bay beyond, the sea held back with dams. Anything else we can do?”
There was an uncomfortable silence and, after a pause, the general smiled and sat back.
“Then at least it’s an improvement on the last attack. We’ll move out in the morning. Have the word given to the officers. The Eighth, Ninth and Tenth cohorts from each legion are hereby assigned to Mamurra to construct his dams. They can separate out now, excused all other duties, and start quarrying the stone and loading it into carts to save time when we arrive.”
“General?”
Caesar turned again to see the interim camp prefect wearing a quizzical expression. Fronto glowered at the Illyrian officer. The man had kept carefully quiet and out of Fronto’s way since the day they had spoken in Fronto’s own house, which was just as well, since the mere sight of him was enough to make the legate want to break the man’s nose.
“Yes?” Caesar said quietly.
“General, the Tenth cohort is currently assigned to camp construction, maintenance and deconstruction. How will I take down the camp and prepare to move?”
Caesar rolled his eyes.
“Good grief, man. The assignments to camp are all transitory. Any cohort can do the job. You have the authority; just draw some other men and get the job done.”
The man shrank back out of sight, and Fronto smiled menacingly to himself as the general stood and stretched.
“Then everything is settled. Let’s get prepared and put and end to this uprising.”
* * * * *
“Respectfully, legate, I’m going to have to request that you get your arse to the back and take up the traditional role of looking good and urging the men on.”
Fronto blinked at Carbo.
“Sod off.”
“Now, now, sir. I know that Priscus let you charge into the enemy next to him, and I’m slighting neither your ability nor your bravery, but it’s my job to lead these buggers into a fight, and not yours.”
“Fine. Your request has been duly noted and declined. Care to disobey your commanding officer?”
The pink faced centurion next him smiled and winked.
“Then don’t get in the way, eh, sir?”
Fronto opened his mouth to bark a sharp reply, but the primus pilus turned his head away and shouted across to the signifer some twenty paces away.
“As soon as you see the Eighth move, signal the advance.”
Petrosidius nodded, keeping his gaze on the standards of the Eighth off to their right. Ten paces behind the officers, the Tenth Legion shuffled their feet in agitation, itching to be off. Fronto faced forward once more, looking at the path before them.
It had certainly been a whirlwind preparation. Only two hours ago had the first Roman scout crested the hill in sight of the Veneti stronghold and in that short time Mamurra’s men had constructed what looked, to Fronto, like a very unstable dam on either side of the headland, holding the sea back from the causeway. Certainly they appeared to have the odd small leak, rivulets of seawater trickling down the inner face. The plan had extra merit that had occurred to them after the meeting. With the tide in, when the legions attacked, Brutus’ fleet would be able to get closer to land.
Fronto’s gaze passed across the mass of artillery on the headland keeping up a constant barrage, though having now shifted from the ruined walls to pounding the interior. This fortress was smaller and less well-defended than Corsicum and had succumbed to the assault remarkably quickly.
His eyes followed the missiles as they arced up from the onagers and once again he focused on the brooding sky. He just hoped in the name of every god he could think of that the weather would hold off until after the attack. The grass underfoot was faintly damp, but ‘faintly damp’ was as dry as it had been in weeks. The sky above, however, boiled with black, grey and white clouds, promising storm conditions and torrential rain, likely with lightning and thunder. Not, he grumbled to himself, good conditions to be marching up a slope and wearing bronze.
A buccina call rang out from the Eighth, and Petrosidius waved the standard, triggering calls from the Tenth’s own musicians.
The legions moved off and a grin split Fronto’s face. It felt good to be marching into a fight again.
The three officers slowed their pace slightly until the First cohort reached them and then slid in among the men, taking their place in the front line. The smile on Fronto’s face widened for only a moment, and was then rudely removed as the men around him pushed, shoved and jostled suddenly, falling back into military precision moments later and leaving the legate two rows back from the front.
Fronto issued a low growl, glaring ahead, and an apologetic voice spoke up from next to him.
“Sorry sir. Orders of the primus pilus.”
For a moment the legate was tempted to argue, but knew it would be fruitless. The Tenth respected their commander, Fronto knew, as much as he respected them, but the legate was often just a voice from high up, whereas a senior centurion was the man that put you to digging in shit for months at a time when he was unhappy with you. Fronto had no chance against that kind of threat.
Settling into his position in the third line, Fronto continued with the steady march as they descended the slope and reached the causeway at the bottom. His eyes strayed to his left, where he could see one of Mamurra’s dams, the other out of sight beyond the promontory. His mind immediately furnished him with vivid images of a dam exploding inwards, rocks tumbling this way and that, releasing the structural internal timber beams to rush toward the panicked Tenth Legion on the crest of a deadly wave. Fronto squeezed his eyes shut and forced the picture away but, when he opened them again, he could not look too closely at the dam without his knees taking on a very unmanly tremble.
The legions marched on across the causeway. By this time, the ground they trod would normally by under at least six feet of water.
Pictures in his mind again.
Damn it.
Or dam it, anyway…
Fronto smiled to himself. The ground beneath his feet squelched unpleasantly, and he sank a fingerwidth or two into the murk with each step.
The moments passed with the unpleasant sound of thousands of squelching feet and the dull clunk of armour and weapons that were becoming a martyr to rust in the conditions this summer.
The legate sighed with relief as his feet confirmed they had finally reached the upward slope that led to the walls and almost smiled until he realised that the rumbling he was hearing was not now the constant barrage of the artillery. The shooting had ceased to allow the legions room to manoeuvre, and so the low grumble he could now hear was thunder.
“Shit.”
“Problem, sir?”
Fronto glanced at the man next to him. He’d not meant to say it out loud.
“Just the weather.”
“I always try to stand next to someone taller if it’s thundering and I’m wearing armour, sir” the man replied with a grin. Fronto laughed for a moment and scanned the ranks around him, noting with wry humour that he stood half a head taller than any man close to him.
“Great. Just great!”
The slope ahead was much easier than that of Corsicum. Just as the stronghold was only perhaps a quarter of the size, with less powerful walls, so the cliffs were lower and the promontory less pronounced. Wearily the men of the Tenth slogged up the incline toward the smashed walls that had protected the fortress proper.
Carbo, ahead and to his right, barked out commands as they moved.
“We take the left. First century: peel off as we reach the walls and secure to the left before working your way round the edge of the cliffs. Once we near the crest, I want the rest of the First cohort to start spreading down the hill and then swing round at higher speed, like a closing gate, making sure we clear the whole surface. I don’t want to miss anyone.”
There were shouts of acknowledgement from the appropriate centurions and Fronto grinned. It was this that granted command ability. Oh, some of it was natural talent, such as in the case of the general, but far too many legates and tribunes stood at the back, slapping each other on the shoulder and watching happily as their men fought the battle. Only when you understood the men themselves, the abilities and responsibilities of the centurionate, and how everything fitted together in the actual fight, could you hope to direct a legion effectively. It was his appreciation of the situation his men were in that had given Fronto all his experience. He and the Tenth had made a name for themselves together.
His attention was brought back to the immediate situation as there was a shriek from ahead.
He focused, startled, as the line staggered to a halt, a figure missing.
“Lilia?”
Sure enough, as the legion began to move again, more cautiously, Fronto looked down with sympathy at the man who, two rows ahead of him, had discovered the first hidden pit with its sharpened stake.
The man writhed in the hole, the point of the stake through his thigh, the bone shattered. Once the legions were ahead and out of the way, the capsarii following up would find him and take him back to the makeshift camp, but the man’s leg was ruined, along with his career. Fronto swallowed sadly and raised his eyes again.
Then, thankfully, they were past and the man was out of sight, though the occasional shriek from left and right announced the location of another deadly trap. Fronto grimaced as he kept his gaze straight ahead, locked on the walls. For just a moment, he wondered how a tribe they had never fought had adopted Roman defensive methods, but it had not taken him long to realise that Crassus had spent last summer suppressing these people. They had picked up Crassus’ tricks.
A moment later the front ranks reached the line of the fallen walls, slowing once more as they stumbled over the rubble and into the stronghold itself. The first century set off along the line of jagged stone, only to discover that the deep grass here had been left deliberately long to hide the brambles and thorns that had been left there in a tangled mass.
Moments later the rest of the attacking force encountered the same conditions. The defending Veneti had clearly, as they left the walls, traversed narrow channels through the brambles, before disappearing into the interior.
Fronto gave an involuntary yelp as a thorn wrenched a long jagged cut across his shin, raking through his breeches with little trouble. Fortunately, the entire advancing Roman force, which had slowed to a virtual crawl, were mostly grumbling or shouting at the tearing and jabbing brambles.
If seemed like hours, dragging, wading and stomping through the painful undergrowth before the legions reached short grass and heaved a sigh of relief, examining their arms, legs and feet. To a man, the Eighth and Tenth legions had been scratched and raked, drawing blood in dozens of places. Hardly a great defensive measure by the standards of the Roman army but, Fronto had to admit, innovative and simple. The thorns had irritated and pained the legions and slowed their advance considerably.
Setting their sights on the square at the top of the gentle slope, the Tenth moved on, men fanning out down the hill and searching out any hiding places. The eerie quiet was all too familiar to Fronto and his spirits fell.
The Tenth reached the top of the hill to find, just as he’d expected, a deserted square, surrounded by apparently empty buildings. Irritably, he wrestled with his chin strap and removed his helmet, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.
“These people are seriously starting to piss me off.”
He spotted the heavy figure of Balbus, legate of the Eighth, striding across the square toward him from the right. The older officer, bald and tired-looking, had also removed his helmet and carried it under his arm.
A rumble of thunder announced the coming storm just as the first swathe of pounding rain began to fall, battering Fronto’s scalp and further darkening his mood.
“Campaigning in this bloody place is like drowning in depression. I am starting to take an intense dislike to the Veneti.”
Balbus shrugged.
“It is irritating, I’ll grant you, but you can hardly blame them, really. What would you do?”
“I’d migrate to a country with better bloody weather for a start.”
The older man laughed and pulled his crimson scarf tighter around his neck.
“Come on. Let’s go see what’s happening.”
Knowing exactly what he was going to find, Fronto nodded irritably, leaving his discarded helmet where it had fallen, and strode off with his opposite number toward the sea. The slope was gentler than at Corsicum and the cliffs lower, and they were, but a few moments from the top when Fronto blinked as he took in the situation.
“Bloody hell, Quintus! We’re still in with a chance!”
Below, Brutus’ fleet sat like a dreadful wall of timber in a wide crescent out in the bay, safely away from the rocky shelf, but close enough to cut off any route to the open sea and close enough to flee to their safe harbour at short notice when the storm began to churn the sea too much.
The Veneti fleet wallowed close to the cliff below, almost close enough to drop rocks on.
“They must still be boarding.”
Balbus nodded, his brow furrowed.
“But how did they get down there? The cliffs are too steep. There can’t be a path!”
Fronto swung his head this way and that and spotted the primus pilus directing some of his men.
“Carbo! Spread the men out. Start looking for hidden paths or tunnel entrances or some such. There’s a secret way down to the water.”
Carbo turned with a grin and saluted, marching away with his men, while Fronto turned his own grin on Balbus.
“We might just have them by the short and curlies, Quintus.”
The older legate nodded and turned back toward the gathered structures at the crest.
“I’ll get Balventius to search the buildings thoroughly. Could be there.”
Fronto nodded and punched one hand into the flat of the other with deep satisfaction.
“Got you, you bastards.”
* * * * *
“Here, sir!”
Fronto’s head whipped round at the shout. A legionary was gesticulating from a rock near the grassy cliff edge. Slapping Balbus on the shoulder to get his attention, he jogged off down the slope.
“You got something?”
“Think so, sir. Looks like a tunnel.”
Fronto hurried down to the rock, blinking the water out of his eyes. The smooth boulder rose from the grass some ten feet from the edge of the cliff and the far side concealed what did appear to be an entrance to a passageway some five feet tall and just wide enough for a man.
“If this is the way they left, they couldn’t have taken all their gear through there.”
Balbus, behind him, nodded.
“But if they were prepared with enough time to spare, they could have lowered everything down the cliff before they left. Balventius has put out the call. The Eighth are on the way across.”
Fronto nodded, but was already levering his way down into the gap.
“Then they can follow us down. No time to waste.”
Balbus grinned.
“Crazy as ever, Marcus.”
Stepping into the tunnel and straightening as much as he could, Fronto drew his sword and gestured to the legionary.
“You’re not one of mine?”
“No sir. Legionary Capito, sir, of the Eleventh legion, Third cohort, century of Pictor.”
“Well, legionary Capito” Fronto grinned “time to lead the charge. Come on, but you’ll have to leave your shield; I don’t think there’s room.”
Balbus examined the entrance speculatively.
“I’m not sure I’m going to fit through there either. I can only assume there are no fat Veneti!”
Fronto laughed.
“Stay there, Quintus, and send your men down behind us once they’re ready.”
Even as he stepped into the passageway, Fronto could hear the men marching across the hill toward them. He examined the passageway ahead, descending steeply into the darkness. As the legionary clambered into the tunnel behind him, Fronto clicked his tongue irritably.
“No time to get torches and light them. We’re going to have to go down in the dark.”
The legionary shuddered.
“Best watch your head, sir.”
Fronto nodded and turned back to the tunnel.
The first half dozen steps were easy enough, despite the wet and slippery rock beneath his feet, as there was a touch of daylight still filtering through from behind. As they descended though, the light faded, leaving an oppressive gloom. No matter how hard he squinted, Fronto could hardly make out the passageway ahead and had to move at a ridiculously slow pace, feeling his way as he went.
Ten more steps. A scraping of his cuirass on the wall and a grazed elbow. Yes, it would have been almost impossible to get down here with helmet and shield.
Eight more steps…
Thump.
Fronto almost struck out with his sword before he realised that what he had bumped into was solid rock. Capito walked into the back of him and apologised profusely.
“Shh.”
Feeling around, Fronto tried to determine where the passage went from here. This couldn’t be a dead end, could it? It could just be for storage? It…”
His hand disappeared into dark space. The passage turned to the left. Fronto nodded. Of course, it would have to turn back on itself, or it would come out two thirds way up the cliff. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the space, feeling for more. Yes. It only went a few feet and then turned left again. Nodding with satisfaction, convinced now that this was the route the enemy had taken, Fronto explored with his hands. The passageway seemed to be opening out at this point, much wider and more spacious. Perhaps this was now a natural passage they were in? It was so hard to tell in this stygian darkness.
A few more steps brought him to the next turn and, as he carefully edged round, he was surprised by a yellow glow. Perhaps fifty feet down the long, straight passageway, a lamp flickered on a ledge, illuminating the tunnel. The light was low and small, but felt like the glare of the sun after the darkness behind him. Fronto smiled as he realised that this part of the tunnel was quite wide and high for most of its length.
He paused, blinking. The light had, of course, ruined his night vision, resulting in purple and yellow blotches dancing around in his eyes no matter how much he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut. Why would they leave a light to help…
It was only that sudden thought that saved his life.
The Veneti warrior who had been lurking in the darkness behind a section of jutting wall, his back to the light source and fully attuned to the dark, lunged forward with his blade aimed resolutely for Fronto’s neck. The legate was already moving to the side as the man leapt, the blade connecting instead with the shoulder section of his cuirass and scything through the fasteners. The shoulder piece flapped loose as the sword ripped on through it, deprived of a solid target, and the point hammered home into the wall of the tunnel.
With a breath of relief, Fronto stepped to his left twice, away from the blow, trying to get the flickering of the lamp out of his vision so that he could see better. There was a clunk and a shifting of weight as the front and back pieces of his cuirass separated at the shoulder, becoming instantly irritating and uncomfortable.
The Gaul was hauling his blade back for a second blow, though the long Celtic weapon was unwieldy in the confined space. The well-designed gladius in Fronto’s hand, however, was subject to no such restrictions. Unwilling to allow the man enough time to make another careful blow, Fronto stabbed with his sword repeatedly into the rough area of the Gaul, the dancing blotches in his eyes making targeting difficult. Still, given the closeness, at least three of his six sharp lunges connected and he heard a gasp and a gurgle.
Stepping back, he tried to focus. Slowly his vision cleared as he saw the body of the Veneti warrior crumple to the floor. Lucky… very lucky.
Fronto turned to the legionary behind him.
“Try not to look at the light. Keep your eyes low.”
Stopping for a moment to try and adjust his shoulder, he fidgeted at it irritably and gave up in disgust. The shoulder piece was ruined. A job for the armourers next time they had a moment. They did not have time now…
Back and above, he could hear the legionaries pouring into the tunnel, making a noise like a hundred iron plates being dropped into a well. So much for sneaky…
Gesturing to Capito, he moved on downwards. The way was easier, but they moved warily, watching for more hidden figures to left and right. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the lamp and Fronto gratefully turned left to peer down the next corridor, putting his back to the dancing light.
For the second time in a few short moments he cheated death as he felt a hand grasp the broken backplate of his cuirass and haul him away from the corner. He toppled backward, caught surprised and off-balance, and landed on Capito whose hand was wrapped tightly around the bronze plate.
The arrow that would have struck Fronto square, and very definitely fatally, in the head sailed past and hit the passage wall with a crack. Fronto blinked.
“Sorry sir” Capito breathed. “Heard the bow string stretch.”
“Crap, you have good hearing. Thanks!”
“What now, sir?”
Fronto smiled.
“If they’re there to shoot at us, it means they haven’t left yet. Hang on.”
Standing, the legate stepped forward gingerly to the corner and peered round the very edge, squinting. The next length of passage, perhaps forty feet long, was lit by dim reflected daylight. The end of the tunnel was sealed with some sort of gate, through which the light filtered. Outside was some sort of wide cavernous opening at sea level. The smell of brine and the distant noise of waves confirmed it. This was the end of it.
He could see two figures moving behind the gate, in some sort of undergrowth. There was the tell-tale stretch of a bow string again, and he stepped back.
“Could be a bit troublesome getting down there without being shot.”
The legionary nodded.
“Not much we can do, sir.”
Fronto grumbled. He refused to get this close and be stopped by a damn gate. Behind, the first men of the Eighth legion rounded the corner and moved down to join them. A voice called out.
“Legate Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“Centurion Hosidius of the Eighth. What can we do to help?”
“Anyone back there brought a shield?”
Hosidius paused for a moment and then relayed the question back through his men. There was a murmur of argument back a way and then a voice piped up.
“Got a signifer’s shield, sir. Quite small and round, though.”
Fronto shook his head irritably.
“It’ll have to do. Pass it forward.”
There was a moment of grumbling and muttered complaints as the bulky shield was passed with difficulty along the passage. Eventually an unseen hand passed it to Fronto, and he took the item and looked down at it. A circle of red wood and leather perhaps two and a half feet across, emblazoned with the golden bull. Hardly what he really wanted, but apparently the best thing on offer. Fronto turned to Capito.
“As soon as I start to run, get along behind me. Stay close. If I fall, take the shield and keep running. We need to get to that gate and secure it, so that we can get to their ships.”
Capito nodded nervously, and Fronto grinned.
“Don’t worry. Fortuna’s a personal friend.”
Without waiting further, the legate took a deep breath, raised the shield, and turned the corner, breaking immediately into a run. He felt the bronze strip at the edge of the shield grating along the rock sides of the tunnel as he ran, but was more concerned about the possibility that, though much of his bulk hunched over behind the shield, a well placed shot could still put an arrow through his thigh.
And yet there was no stretch and no twang. He ran on, but began to falter. Something was wrong. Why were they not at least trying to shoot at him?
Smoke.
His nostril hair curled, and he came to a halt, Capito bumping into him again, and risked lowering the shield for a moment.
It had struck him as odd when he first looked down here that there should be undergrowth by the gate in a sea cave. Undergrowth, no…but carefully prepared and dried faggots and bundles of perfectly combustible foliage stacked against the gate? Now that made sense. Fresh flames leapt up among the sticks as he watched, and the entrance to the tunnel began to fill with dense smoke.
“Shit!”
Turning, he pushed Capito and yelled up the passageway.
“Retreat! They’re smoking us out!”
The silence from further up the tunnel erupted into panicked movement as half a century of men turned as fast as they could and began to scramble back up the passageway toward the stronghold above.
The tunnel acted, just as the Veneti had obviously planned, just like the draw hole in the roof of a hut, funnelling the smoke into the passageway and drawing it up toward the boulder entrance on the cliff top.
Fronto coughed as the first cloud of grey, roiling smoke wafted past him.
As fast as they could, they ran back to the corner with its lamp. Already Hosidius had moved his men up to the next bend.
Ignoring the jagged rock walls tearing at their arms as they ran, Fronto and Capito charged up the slope, the passageway thickening every moment with heavy black fumes.
Another corner; and another. And suddenly they were at the back of a column of legionaries desperately clambering through the opening and out into the air.
Fronto coughed raspingly and next to him Capito burst into a fit of choking. Around them the drawn fumes filled the passage, blackening everything and blocking out the light. Everything went dark as men coughed and struggled.
And suddenly an arm grasped his wrist. Fronto squinted into the smoke to see a centurion’s chest harness, adorned with phalera and other decorations. The back of the hand around his arm was crisscrossed with scars.
“Come on, sir. Out of there.”
Fronto sighed with relief as Balventius hauled him out of the entrance and all but threw him back on to the grass before reaching in to retrieve Capito.
Fronto fell back with immeasurable relief, relishing for a moment the heavy rain battering his skin and washing the black dust from his face. He wiped his forehead and eyes and sat up. A huge column of smoke issued from the tunnel entrance, pushing up into the sky like a signal. His euphoria at the sudden breathable air and dull light waned once more as he descended into a racking cough that was matched by a crack of thunder from above.
As the fit subsided, he became aware than another figure had crouched next to him. He squinted up into the rain to see the shiny face of Carbo, his primus pilus, frowning down at him.
“Dangerous, sir. Moments like that are why you have underlings.”
Fronto sighed.
“There wasn’t time. What’s happening?”
Carbo shrugged unhappily.
“They’re leaving, sir. They’re just flitting across the rock shelf as though they’re on wheels. Our fleet can’t pursue them, ‘cause they just can’t get close enough. We can watch where they go, but we can’t follow.”
Fronto growled.
“These people are really starting to piss me off, Carbo.”