(Quintilis: temporary camp on the Armorican coast)
“Everyone is here, Caesar.”
The general nodded and rose to stand behind the table, leaning forward, his hands on the surface.
“Very well, gentlemen. The purpose of this meeting is to find a way to break the Veneti. Our strategy so far has been somewhat inadequate. However, the summer is wearing on, and my presence is required elsewhere as soon as things are settled in Gaul, and we need to end this decisively, and soon. So, the first order of the meeting, I would say, is to go through what we have achieved, what resources we have available, and the disposition and likely strategy of the enemy. Then we can decide how to go about dealing with them.”
Sighing glumly, Brutus gestured and stood.
“As I’m sure you’re all aware, the fleet has been less than effective during the campaign so far. We have been hampered by our inability to deal with the rocky shores, our inability to make it far out into the sea while racked with bad weather, and our general inferiority to the Gallic fleet in terms of both strength and speed.”
Galba gestured to him.
“Is the upshot of this that the fleet are to be effectively reduced to the task of scouting?”
“Not quite,” Brutus shook his head. “We have various possible solutions, but the problem is that we need to be able to get our hands on their ships to try them. And since they can outrun us in most conditions, unless it’s completely becalmed, we need to trap them for that.” He smiled wanly.
“Mind you, it looks like the weather might be breaking, though I’d hate to tempt the fates about that. If the winds and storms would die down, our range of operation would increase tremendously and, conversely, the enemy, who rely solely on the wind in their sails, might be put at a disadvantage.”
He folded his arms.
“So, in fact, the upshot is that it all depends on the weather. I’m making a libation every morning with the best wine and fruit I can find to every god I can think of, and I suggest everyone else does the same. If things improve, the fleet will finally be able to play its part.”
Caesar nodded professionally.
“Very well. Here is my assessment of our achievements:”
Fronto readied himself for a stormy moment, but the general maintained his composure and his voice was clear and steady.
“I have thought long and hard on the subject, and I am convinced now that we have been far from ineffective. We have continually driven the Veneti to the northwest, reducing the fortresses and settlements as we progress. It has felt as though we are chasing an elusive foe and that they are always a step ahead of us. However, an objective look at the situation allows one to draw an entirely different conclusion.”
He waved a hand across the map he was leaning upon.
“We have pushed them into a corner, and they are running out of places to flee to. We have removed their control over nine tenths of their entire territory. If the fleet is able to act as a cordon, they can prevent the Veneti from fleeing past us again to the south but, even if they did, they have no defensible fortresses there now. They are almost at the limit of their territory to the northwest, where the Osismii live and, while the Osismii are currently their allies, I suspect the alliance will become rather shaky if that tribe suddenly has to play host to the whole displaced mass of the Veneti.”
He tapped the map decisively.
“That means that the Veneti are running out of both room and time. Sooner or later we will trap them and destroy them, but until that happens we should continue to squeeze them against their allies until the alliance becomes strained and breaks. To that end, I feel we need to find plausible victories of the variety that will break their spirit. Symbolic victories.”
The room fell silent.
“Ideas, gentlemen?”
Cicero stood and gestured at the map on the table.
“May I, general?”
“By all means.”
The officer stepped forward, his crimson cloak swaying around his calves as he leaned over the map. He studied it for a moment and then smiled.
“Darioritum, general?”
Caesar frowned as he looked down.
“Darioritum is inland. We have it on good authority that the Veneti have abandoned their landlocked towns in favour of their coastal escape routes.”
Cicero nodded.
“Yes, sir. In almost all cases that has proved to be true. However, with respect, there are several things that need taking into account with Darioritum.”
Caesar narrowed his eyes as he gazed down. Now, Fronto, Balbus and Brutus were on their feet approaching the table with interest.
“Firstly, Caesar, this map is not accurate” Cicero continued. “I have spent time speaking to some of the less reticent captives of Crassus’ campaign last year and, in return for a little lenience, they can be very talkative. The map shows Darioritum some six or seven miles from the sea. In actual fact, the oppidum is by a large gulf or saltwater lake that has an opening to the sea. Two spits of land reach out like the horns of a bull. Darioritum is, essentially, by the sea. Moreover, it is also, according to two different sources I have questioned, considered the capital of the tribe, or the nearest approximation they have to a capital.”
Caesar nodded slowly, scratching his chin.
“A symbolic victory indeed.”
Cicero smiled at the general.
“Given its importance and location, it is almost certainly occupied, even if only by a small retainer force. That, I would suggest, is the victory you’re seeking, Caesar.”
The general smiled.
“An exceptional suggestion, master Cicero. Moreover, it gives us an even greater opportunity. Brutus?”
The fleet commander frowned.
“We can cordon off the south, Caesar and, given the right weather, possibly even engage.”
The general smiled wolfishly.
“You are thinking too small, Brutus. Think on what Cicero just told us.”
There was a moment’s silence and suddenly a grin split Brutus’ face.
“An enclosed bay. The horns of a bull, you said?”
“Indeed.”
Brutus laughed.
“If the army can lure the fleet into the bay, we can seal them in and deal with them at our leisure.”
“And what would draw the fleet in more than having to evacuate their capital?”
Fronto became aware that most of the other officers had stood and approached the table, the entire officer corps now trying to see the map. Brutus cleared his throat.
“Can we get a more accurate map of the situation around Darioritum?”
Fronto shrugged.
“Easily. Send some cavalry scouts from the Gallic wings to go and check out the lie of the land. They can bring us more accurate details. And, of course, if the weather stays kind, you can send a couple of ships up there to get a look at the coast.”
Caesar sighed with satisfaction and stood straight.
“I think, gentlemen, that we have a workable strategy here. We must not, however, rush into early action. If this is to be the point at which we break the Veneti, things need to happen in perfect order with no ghastly mistakes.”
Fronto frowned down at the map, trying to picture the large bay with its surrounding horns.
“You realise, Caesar, that those two promontories that seal in the bay will have Veneti fortresses on them. We’ve not yet encountered a defensible headland without one and they must have a way to control the entrance.”
The general frowned and looked back down at the map.
“I do believe you are right, Fronto. The scouts can confirm their presence, but they are almost certainly there and occupied.”
Balbus ran his finger along the coastline on the map thoughtfully.
“They will need to be secured before any attempt by the fleet to get into the bay and deal with the enemy ships. In fact that will have to be the first move in the whole plan.”
Caesar smiled.
“Indeed. Shall I take that as you volunteering for the task, legate?”
Balbus nodded without looking up, still intent on the map.
“The Eighth would deem it an honour, Caesar.”
“So would the Tenth” Fronto cut in. Both the other men looked up at him.
“Well, these strongholds could be only a few hundred paces apart, but getting to them will require miles and miles of marching. Both will have to fall at the same time to attacks from opposite directions. That’s a job for two separate forces.”
Caesar shook his head vehemently.
“No. I cannot spare fully half my army to take two peripheral forts.”
“With respect, general, these would hardly be peripheral. I realise that until we have seen the bay, this is all speculation, but if what we surmise is really the case, those forts will be key to controlling the bay and therefore destroying the fleet.”
He smiled.
“But we’re not talking about two legions anyway, are we?” He glanced across at Balbus, who shook his head.
“This would have to be subtle, general. We’d have to control the entrance to the bay before your main attack begins, or we risk giving their fleet time to organise and escape. For subtlety we’d only want a small force.”
“And engineers” Fronto added. “Once we have control of the forts, we’d have to try and get artillery set up to help seal off the bay.”
Caesar nodded.
“Very well. It’s an eminently workable plan at this point. We will have to see what happens when we have a better idea of the landscape and disposition. The timing will have to be very tight to achieve what we’re talking about.” He glanced across at Brutus. “And some of this is still reliant on the mercy of the Gods. Brutus is right. Everyone should pay their proper respects and try to keep Jupiter happy for the near future.”
He straightened again.
“Very well. We will reconvene each morning and hammer out the dents in the scheme until we are convinced the time and situation are right. In the meantime, each of you needs to think on what your own forces can do to improve our chances and have scouts sent out to bring us accurate intelligence of the bay and the town. Dismissed.”
Fronto nodded to Caesar and joined the general exodus of officers.
Outside, the air was chilly, and there was a faint tang of salt, though the sky had cleared overnight, leaving wispy clouds on the horizon to both south and west; clouds which threatened less than the heavy-bellied ones that had hung over them for the past weeks. The day felt fresh and new.
He turned to Balbus as the man left the tent.
“You realise we’ve just volunteered for about the most dangerous part of the whole show?”
The older legate laughed.
“Nothing new there, Marcus. Care to join me for a bit of breakfast? We’ve a few things to think on.”
Fronto smiled.
“I’d like to, but I have a prior engagement. I’ll call on you before lunchtime.”
Balbus nodded, slapped him on the shoulder and, turning, wandered back toward the camp of the Eighth. Fronto strode on toward the Tenth, smiling as he appreciated the dry crispness of the air. Was Fortuna favouring them at last?
His tent stood off to one side of the legion’s headquarters and his prior engagement stood at ease beside the tent flap, idly examining the sky, while drumming his fingers on his thigh.
“Atenos? Thank you for coming.”
The huge Gaulish centurion turned his pale grey eyes on Fronto, and he saluted.
“Legate.”
Fronto wandered past him into the tent, gesturing for him to follow. As the big man stooped and entered the tent where the legate had not even ducked his head, Fronto wandered over to his cot and unclipped his cloak, sitting down to undo his boots.
“Please centurion, sit down.”
“That’s disrespectful in the presence of a senior officer, legate.”
“My arse. Not when we’re alone it isn’t.”
The Gaul shrugged and dropped into the nearby chair, unfastening his chinstrap and removing his helmet.
“I expect you can guess why I’ve asked you over?”
Atenos nodded.
“I did, with respect, inform the legate that I was happy where I was.”
Fronto laughed and sat back.
“I’m sure it’s all very comfortable working with a legion largely composed of Gauls. Very homely. But the thing is, not only do I agree with my primus pilus that you would be a serious asset to the Tenth, but I have been in consultation with the general and both he and I are of the opinion that the division between the two largely Gallic legions and the rest has gone on too long.”
Atenos focused a shrewd look on the legate.
“You’re planning a large shake-up, sir?”
“To an extent. There is a stigma attached to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions just because they were raised from Gauls. The thing is: we are trying to build something in this land, not to just wipe it out; a new Gallia Narbonensis in the north, if you will. If we have any hope of incorporating Gaul into Rome, we need to start getting both peoples used to one another. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth have become almost perfect model Roman legions in the last year. I rarely even hear your own language among them these days, since nearly everyone among them now has at least passable Latin. It’s time to start mixing the blood in the legions.”
Atenos shrugged.
“It may not work. It may, in fact, cause resentment among the other legions.”
“Possibly, but it’s not a given. Remember that most of the Ninth were raised in Spain. There are surprisingly few native Romans among the Ninth, and Balbus’ legion are largely formed from the Gauls in Narbonensis. The future depends on the present, after all.”
The large Gaul nodded thoughtfully.
“If you are insistent, you will need to speak to Caesar, sir, since he is still nominally in charge of the Thirteenth.”
Fronto shook his head.
“No longer. Caesar has assigned the Thirteenth to Lucius Roscius. I’m not sure how brilliant an idea that is, given that the bulk of the Thirteenth has only been speaking Latin for a year and Roscius is from Illyricum with Greek as his first tongue. But… well we said it was time to start mixing the blood. Roscius won’t deny me the transfer. He and a few of his friends are a little… frightened of me.”
Atenos leaned back in the seat.
“You do realise, legate, that if you assign me to train your men, I expect full and total control of the training regime. No interference from senior officers?”
The legate nodded with a smile. “I’d expect nothing less. Velius used to say the same.”
He sighed and lay back on his bunk.
“Do the Gauls have any weather Gods that like slightly stale wine?”
Atenos frowned in incomprehension.
“Never mind” Fronto smiled. “Jupiter will do.”
* * * * *
Fronto lay on the slope and brushed a few blades of grass with his fingertips, immensely grateful that the weather had held. Two weeks now of largely blue skies and soft breezes had dried out the land and lightened the mood of the entire army. Two weeks, moreover, that had seen intense activity throughout the camp in the planning of the upcoming strike, despite the enforced wait.
Scouts had been sent out immediately by both horse and ship following the meeting, and had roved for nine full days, before returning to produce a detailed and thorough plan of the area concerned. Fronto’s concern that the two long promontories that almost sealed off the bay would be crowned with strongholds had been borne out.
Planning had then begun in earnest, and had concluded with the legions moving out two days later in individual fragmented groups, each on their own mission and with precise timing in mind. Brutus, along with his marine contingent, had left first, heading out to the open sea to practice before they were required for the third phase of the plan. Caesar and the bulk of four legions had left, heading inland to bring the second phase attack on Darioritum from the east as a surprise. Finally, Fronto and Balbus, with less than four hundred men between them, moved northeast up the coast, separating once they closed on their destination, Fronto waiting a full extra day to allow his peer the time to bring the other force down from the north.
Once more, Fronto glanced over his shoulder and down the gentle slope. Close behind him, two centuries from the Second Cohort crouched in the grass in the last embers of the fading light. Behind them, their cohort’s artillery section loitered by the carts among the sparse trees. Next to him, the two centurions and two optios peered across the two hundred pace strip of land that led up to the walls of the fortress.
For a while as they had approached he had been filled with apprehension, worrying that he had underestimated the place with only two centuries at his command. The scouts had been spot on, though. The fort was only around two hundred and fifty paces across, built on a rise above the entrance to the bay, but with sloping land to each side rather than cliffs. The whole fortress could not hold more than a thousand men at most; likely less than half that.
Curtius, the optio to his right, rubbed his eyes and squinted again in the dim, fading light.
“There’s hardly any movement. I make it perhaps three or four on the wall facing us.”
Fronto nodded.
“That was my estimate too. Assuming they have the same guard on each wall, there are only about a dozen men watching the defences. But then, I suppose, it’s nightfall, and they’re not expecting any trouble.” He turned to his left.
“Virius? What are your thoughts on the walls?”
“They’re not bad, but quite low. I’m thinking that the whole place was designed more to watch over the channel than to defend against any land attack. Still don’t know how we’re going to do it sneakily, though.”
Fronto harrumphed quietly. His own opinion on the plan he kept staunchly to himself.
“It all depends on whether Tetricus was right and how good your men are. If Tetricus was wrong, then we’re screwed when we get to the walls. If your legionaries aren’t sneaky enough, then all hell could break loose any time before then. Alright. Do the men all know their assignments?”
Virius nodded, glancing over his shoulder.
“Forty men apiece, sir. Who are you going with?”
Fronto gazed out over the small fortress.
“I’m going with Curtius.” He leaned over toward the optio and waved a hand. “No reflection on your ability. Yours is the most critical task, so I want to be there.”
Curtius nodded.
“Glad to have you, legate.”
Fronto returned the nod, his gaze lingering on the bearded optio for a moment. Curtius had distinguished himself two years ago at Bibracte as part of a death-defying mad charge against well-defended rocks, the only survivor of the four men who had made the attack. Despite being watched and appraised by his commanders following his actions, the man had been involved with dangerous lunacy regularly enough that it had taken well over a year before he was considered for a promotion. Tonight would be his first individual command and Fronto could not help but feel a little apprehensive.
“Alright. The artillery are well hidden, everyone knows what they’ve got to do, and it’s almost dark. Time to start getting into position.”
The officers beside him saluted as best they could and then shuffled back down the slope. Fronto remained for a moment, studying the small fort. So much could go wrong tonight, beginning with crossing the intervening space to the walls. He briefly offered up a half-hearted prayer to both Nemesis and Fortuna and then shuffled back on his elbows until he was out of sight of the target.
Curtius beckoned to him from his section and the legate crawled down the slope to the forty-strong force. They hardly even looked Roman. Due to the nature of the mission, the legionaries had left their armour, helmets and shields in the carts with the artillery, now dressed only in tunic, breeches and dulled cloak with a belted sword.
“Alright. Remember: a crawl at most. You have to be virtually invisible from the walls. Stay close to scrub and rocks for cover and only move when you think they’re not looking. It doesn’t matter if we take an hour or more to get there, so long as we’re not seen.”
There was a quiet murmur of understanding among the men.
“Good. The light’s almost gone now. Let’s get moving. When this is over, you can all have two days’ leave to drink yourself into a stupor.”
Without waiting, he nodded to the optio and the group began to move slowly up the slope toward the crest. Fronto’s heart thumped noisily in his chest as they reached the rise and slid gently over, slowly, like a tide of men. Making small hand gestures, he motioned for the men to separate and slow down.
The next moment was nervous enough to age Fronto several years as the men of the Second Cohort moved across the most open section of ground, far too tightly-packed, fast and obvious for his liking but, after that heart-stopping moment, they began to settle into a strange, broken rhythm.
Each man would wait until there was no movement close by, and would then shuffle slowly to the nearest piece of unoccupied cover. As soon as he was in place, someone else would move up to his unoccupied position and, gradually, the entire half-century moved forward at a barely noticeable speed.
Fronto grinned with relief as he realised it was possible. Other options had been quickly pushed aside, leaving this as the only feasible means of advance. Boats would be too obvious, and even swimming and then climbing the cliffs would draw too much attention. For all the openness of this approach, the defenders would be paying most of their attention to the water and the channel between the headlands, and much less to the remaining strip of land that connected them with the mainland.
With infinite slowness and care, the men of Curtius’ unit crossed the space, descending to the lowest point, close to the beach, where the scrub petered out but left them with dunes and large jumbled rocks instead.
Fronto paused as he pushed his back up against one of the great boulders of granitelike stone. He ran his fingers across the hard surface and nodded. Seems like Tetricus knew what he was talking about. Casting his eyes across the spur of land, he could see the other groups of men, slowly trickling across the ground toward the walls in much the same fashion as this group.
They had crossed fully half the distance to the walls, by his reckoning, in just a little under a quarter of an hour, way ahead of his expectations. He glanced over the top of the rock and could just make out the faint shapes of the men on the wall in the darkness.
Once more, he was grateful that Fortuna had seen fit to give them high clouds that hardly moved in the still air, hanging helpfully in front of the moon and stars and hiding their light.
He realised that nobody nearby was moving and, taking a quick glance around the side of the boulder, dipped forward and crept across the sand and scrubby grass to the next low pile of rock. As he came to a halt and allowed himself to breathe once more, he watched one of the men behind steal forward into the place he had just vacated.
How was Balbus faring at the other side, he wondered?
The sound of a night bird drew his irritated attention for a moment before he realised that the noisy creature was, in fact, Curtius, trying to get his attention from a nearby boulder.
He gestured with a shrug and the optio pointed over the top of his stone shelter. Fronto turned and looked at the walls again. Two of the four figures he had been able to spot last time he looked had vanished and, as he watched, the other two converged on a spot close to the gate and gradually disappeared from view.
Fronto scratched his head. Had they left the walls for some reason? Had they seen something and were heading for the gate to come out and investigate? He winced and rubbed his scalp nervously. What to do?
A short distance away, Curtius flashed him a wide grin and, making a couple of expansive gestures to those behind them, ducked out from the boulder that covered him, and ran in clear view across twenty paces of open grass, ducking briefly behind a bush to make sure the wall was still empty before running on.
Fronto stared at him. What was the idiot doing? What would happen if the guards suddenly came back into view? Fronto ground his teeth, but his irritation at Curtius blossomed into full blown panic as the rest of the unit, having seen the optio’s gesture, broke cover at a run and hurtled past the legate toward the fortress.
“Oh bloody hell!” Fronto grunted in a loud whisper and then, taking a deep breath, left the boulder and joined the running men.
Over the grass and sand he padded, willing the wall to remain empty as he neared the point where the men were gathering behind Curtius, not ten paces from the bottom of the defences. Fronto, snarling and frowning, ignored the helping hands that were thrust out to him from behind rocks and ran past the men until he ducked behind the low bush that sheltered the optio.
“You damn idiot!” he hissed. “I nearly died when I saw you running. What possessed you to do that?”
Curtius shrugged with a faintly apologetic smile.
“Sorry, sir. Saw an opportunity and took it.”
“What would have happened if you’d been seen?”
Curtius grinned.
“Ah, but we weren’t, sir. And now we’re here.”
Fronto continued to grind his teeth as his glare bored into the junior officer, but he did not trust himself to say anything else without shouting.
“You and I are going to have words when this is over.”
“By all means, sir. Shall we have a look at the wall for now, though.”
Fronto’s glare remained for a moment, and he pointed a warning finger at the optio. A quick glance upwards confirmed the footsteps he thought he’d heard a moment ago. Figures were reappearing on the wall. Must have changed the guard for the next watch. The unit was, indeed, ridiculously lucky that they had stopped running when they did. Fronto held his hand up, warning the others to stay still and, silently and slowly, ducked out from the bush, trying to avoid any noisy undergrowth.
It was only when his hands touched the chunks of rock that formed the face of the wall that he allowed his breath to escape. This was it.
Slowly, keeping close enough to the wall that he would be out of the defenders’ line of sight, he ran his hands across the surface.
Tetricus was right, the clever little bastard. He would have to buy the tribune a whole cartload of drinks for this. The fort walls were constructed in much the same way as most Celtic defences. A frame of heavy timber beams formed the shape of the wall, faced with tightly fitted smooth stones and then filled with compacted earth. Very defensible. All very laudable. But these walls had been here for a very long time and, just as the tribune had predicted, decades, if not centuries, of salt water and wind had had a profound weathering effect on the sawn wooden ends of the beams as they punctuated the stone of the walls, while the hard, solid rock had hardly suffered a mark at their hands. The end result was that the periodic beam ends had shrunk back into the surface, creating ready-made hand holes in the otherwise unscalable walls. Nature, for once, seemed to be giving them a helping hand.
Fronto heaved a silent sigh of relief and turned to the men behind him, hidden in numerous places.
With a smile, he gestured with his thumb.
* * * * *
Fronto glanced once more with irritation at Curtius. The man seemed determined to do things his own way, regardless of the consequences. The legate had made it clear that the rest were to stay behind him, lower down, until he had reached the parapet and peered over and yet, as he pulled his face up to the edge, the optio was already level with him to his right and doing the same.
Again, he glanced past the man to see the other units further along the wall, slowly and quietly scaling the surface. Angrily, he waved an arm at Curtius, while clinging tightly to the parapet with his free hand. The optio, thankfully, saw the gesture and ducked back down. One of the defenders, wrapped tight in his woollen cloak, strode past perhaps five feet from where the legate clung.
Moments passed until finally he heard the distinctive nighttime call of the corn crake from down near the water; nothing unusual enough to attract the guards’ attention, despite being replicated on this occasion with two notched sticks by one of the legionaries remaining at the beach on watch.
Fronto nodded. The call was short and singular and told him that all four units were in position along the walls.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the optio and hauled himself up onto the wall.
The guard had walked past him and almost reached Curtius’ position. As quietly as he could, as he got his knees on the top of the wall, Fronto drew his gladius. A few paces away, the optio’s hand shot out across the surface and grabbed the Gaul’s ankle, yanking it forward. The guard gave a gasp and fell heavily backwards. Fronto lunged forward to silence the man with his sword, but the fall had cracked the man’s head hard and driven the consciousness from him before he could shout.
Along the wall, the other guards were disappearing with quiet gurgles and gasps. Fronto immediately dropped to a crouch and turned to examine the fort interior and the other walls, as the men of Curtius’ unit began to arrive at the top. The only buildings in the Veneti fort were at the high, central point of the fort, just as they had found in all the coastal strongholds, and the only visible figures within were milling around in the central open space, around a small fire, largely hidden between the buildings.
There were more guards along the other walls, and they would likely be the big problem. Not the most important one, though…
Fronto’s eyes were drawn once more to the central buildings. At the far side of those, a small artificial mound had been constructed, crowned by a wooden platform upon which stood a beacon of dried wood, rising like one of the great ancient obelisks of Aegyptus.
Now that was the important target. If that warning beacon sprang into life, the whole plan was for naught. Subtlety was the key…
The legate almost bit off his tongue in panic as a warning cry went up from a particularly alert guard along one of the other walls.
“Bugger it.”
Fronto stood and waved his arms madly.
“Go!”
Without waiting, he grabbed Curtius and stepped forward. The interior face of the wall was much lower than the exterior and was backed with a slightly-sloping earth rampart. Still clinging to the optio, he jumped from the wall, landing heavily and awkwardly on the turf, jarring his ankle and cursing. To add insult to injury, Curtius, next to him, landed lithe as a cat and grasped the legate’s tunic to steady him.
“Thanks” Fronto said sourly as the first of the men behind him dropped from the wall to the turf. Around them, the camp burst into life as the occupants realised they were being attacked.
As planned, the first and second Roman groups split left and right and raced around the walls, securing all points of access and the main gate, dispatching the remaining wall guards and enclosing the whole complex before beginning to descend into the interior.
The third group formed up as they descended the stairs near the gate and began to move at a run to meet the first groups of defenders who were appearing between the houses, racing to meet the Roman attackers.
Fronto and Curtius, aware that their men were hot on their heels, however, moved off without pausing to form up, charging up the slope on a course to bypass the square and its surrounding houses, making directly for the beacon.
Fronto swore with every step as his sore ankle thudded to the floor, though he was damned if he was going to slow down and pander to it with the irritating figure of Curtius running alongside.
As they approached the level of the first buildings, six men burst out from a narrow alleyway, armed and shouting. Four turned to face the oncoming Romans, while the other two ran the other way, waving burning torches.
“Oh shit.”
The four Veneti warriors, two with strange decorative helmets, leapt forward into the fray, two at Fronto and two at Curtius. The legate lurched to a halt, raising his sword just in time to deflect the blow from a heavy Celtic blade. As he ducked back, looking for an opening, he glanced at Curtius, only to realise that the optio wasn’t there.
The confusion did not have long to take hold as he was forced to parry yet another heavy blow. Three more men joined him from behind, two of them taking up the position where Curtius had been moments before.
Fronto growled as he ducked a vicious, scything blow and, grinning, stabbed the man in his shoulder where he had overextended his attack. While the Gaul stumbled forward in shock, Fronto blinked as he saw Curtius over the man’s shoulder, already way ahead of the fight and racing off into the darkness after the torchbearers. How in the name of a dozen Gods had he managed that?
Fronto readied himself for the next blow, but it never came. The man he had lightly wounded had suffered a horrendous blow at the hands of a legionary who had just appeared on the legate’s left. The two Celts who remained standing were now hard pressed as over a dozen Romans lunged and stabbed at them, more arriving all the time.
Another seven Veneti appeared around the nearest building and made for the fray, bellowing harsh war cries. The legate grimaced and turned to the men around him, just as another Gaulish warrior collapsed in a heap alongside the dying legionary he had attacked.
Grabbing the nearest men, he yelled “You two with me. Everyone else, get stuck in!”
He pointed at the approaching Veneti and the legionaries roared as they ran to meet the enemy. Leaving the fight behind and hoping that his men would be able to hold off what could very well be a superior force, Fronto and his two companions ran on into the darkness toward the looming deeper black of the signal beacon.
They rounded the corner of the last building just as the first orange flames licked the timbers at the base of the tower.
“Oh bollocks!”
Curtius was being held at bay by two warriors, swinging madly with their long blades, while another ducked in and out of the beacon with his flaming torch. Wherever he touched it to the dry kindling, orange flames burst into life.
“Get those bastards!” Fronto barked, and the three of them leapt forward to join Curtius. The sudden arrival of reinforcements quickly turned the tide of the scuffle and the two warriors, hard pressed, went down one after the other to sharp, efficient blows.
As soon as the men were no longer barring his way, Curtius leapt forward and clambered up the small mound. The remaining Veneti warrior turned to meet this new threat, waving his flaming torch defensively.
Fronto and the other two men started up the slope, but they were clearly too late. Orange fire was racing up the kindling that formed the heart of the beacon and already the heavier timbers were beginning to burn. There was nothing they could do, now.
Almost derisively, Curtius knocked the torch from the man’s hands and drove his gladius deep into the man’s chest, pinning him to one of the strong wooden beams that formed the corners of the obelisk-shaped beacon.
“Get back, man” Fronto yelled.
Curtius let go of the sword, leaving it on the pinned man, glanced at the legate once, a crazed grin on his face, and then stepped across the wooden platform. There was a loud bang and the central mass settled slightly, a small explosion of fire and shards of burning wood bursting out of the beacon, setting light to the fringe of Curtius’ tunic. The man reeled back, the sudden intense heat blistering his face and arm.
Fronto watched in horror as the tunic caught fully, fire racing up the man’s back as the optio stepped to the next corner.
As the next moments unfolded, Fronto watched one of the most astounding acts of individual stupidity he would ever witness, his jaw hanging open and his eyes drying out with the ever increasing heat this close to the beacon.
Curtius, his hair frazzled, reached around the beam at the corner and gripped it hard in a tight embrace, the extreme heat of the wood blistering and ruining his arms. The optio, afire and sizzling, wrenched at the beam with all his might and, after a moment’s pause, there was a crack and a deep rumble.
The huge timber bole and the optio grasping it came away at the same time, falling back away from the beacon and tumbling down the slope. Fronto and his two companions stepped out of the way, still staring in astonishment as the entire beacon collapsed and rolled down the grassy artificial slope, the fire dissipating as the pyre disintegrated.
The legate blinked and leapt forward to the still form of Curtius on the grass. To his further amazement, as he reached sadly toward the prone, burning, figure, Curtius spun around onto his back and continued to roll for a moment until the flames on his tunic were out. As Fronto stared down at him, Curtius grinned through a blackened and blistered face, his white teeth a sharp contrast, and reached out.
“Mind helping me up, sir?”
Fronto stared and then burst out laughing as he reached down for the optio’s hand. As the junior officer rose to his feet, shakily, smoke rising from his burned hair and clothes, Fronto turned to the other two.
“Check that everything’s secure, then send for the artillery and make the signal to Balbus.”
He grinned.
“And find us a capsarius; preferably one who doesn’t flinch at a hog roast!”