Close to Gorgobina, five miles east of the Elaver River
Cicero and Plancus shared a look. Though their families were both old names and old money in Rome and they would likely attend the same social functions and vie for political offices back home, out here in Gaul they were as different as two men could be. Cicero was cavalier and cocksure in his decisions - especially when the fault might land with his underlings, some said. Plancus was still learning the military ropes despite his years of command, and remained nervous and defensive in his stratagems.
‘I cannot help but feel that this is a dangerous enterprise,’ Cicero said quietly.
‘I am rather glad to hear you say that,’ replied Plancus. ‘Generally I don’t open my mouth in staff meetings because often someone shoves my foot in it, but marching on the Arverni home city? It is not a good idea. I had a white goat sacrificed by an augur and the portents…’
He shuddered by way of explanation, and Cicero nodded.
‘But you’ve known the general now for six years. Do you see him changing his mind?’
‘No,’ Plancus replied. ‘But strangely, despite everything, I see him being successful. When is Caesar not successful, after all, regardless of the odds? We hitched our personal wagons to the greatest horse in this race, my friend.’
The two officers fell silent and watched as the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh and Thirteenth legions crunched down the hillside to join the Eighth and Fourteenth on the plain. Caesar rode on ahead, typically, in cold, steely glory with a white charger, a red cloak and Ingenuus’ cavalry surrounding him.
‘Will the wagons be alright?’ Plancus hazarded, picturing the wrathful side of Caesar they had all seen when his subordinates made decisions with which he disagreed. The two officers had received word of Caesar’s approach two hours previously and had immediately set the baggage train off back to the bridge across the Elaver under armed escort to save time.
‘Let’s hope so. Fabius and half his legion were with them.’
The two men sat and waited as Caesar and his staff closed on them. The general looked self-satisfied, which boded well for the results of the Aeduan matter at least. As Caesar reined in and nodded to the two legates awaiting him, the four legions continued to descend the slope and fall in alongside the other two.
‘Your force seems diminished,’ Caesar noted archly by way of greeting.
Plancus opened his mouth to explain, but Cicero was already speaking. ‘Five cohorts have accompanied the baggage to the Elaver this morning, general. Given the time it takes to move the wagons across the bridge we decided that saving a few extra hours would be of use.’
Caesar frowned. ‘My map of the region shows a sizeable ford some eight or nine miles upstream. I had planned to take the baggage across there, along with the legions, for speed.’
Plancus cleared his throat noisily, his throat-apple bobbing like a man in a heavy swell of sea.
‘Respectfully, general, the natives inform us that from early spring until late autumn the Elaver is too deep and fast to be forded. Run-off from the mountain thaws, sir. Bridges are the only option.’
The general nodded his understanding, though his frown remained. ‘This will slow us down. Irritating. I had hoped to be well on the road to Gergovia by sundown, leaving the escorted baggage to follow on behind. Oh well. Needs must. Good work, gentlemen. Now let us take the legions to the bridge and cross.’
* * * * *
‘I don’t like it, general.’
Caesar looked across at Fronto, rolling his shoulders, stiff from several hours in the saddle. ‘What would you have me do, Fronto? Commit half the army to support roles, when they are so clearly needed for the fight?’
The legate of the Tenth shook his head. ‘No, sir. I don’t know. I’d have preferred to assign the support tasks to the legions Labienus took north, perhaps. I just don’t trust the Aedui as far as I could spit a rat.’ He raised his face to the sky. The weather was warming daily now, spring beginning to take a firm foothold, but the clouds spoke still of imminent rain.
‘The Aedui are ours, Marcus. Convictolitanis owes his reign to us. He will not forget that.’
‘We make war on a huge army of rebel Gauls, general, led by a tribe who only two years ago we thought our staunchest of allies. And while we prosecute that war, we place our supplies and garrisons in the hand of another such tribe. It’s begging disaster, that’s all I can say.’
‘We have no other option, Marcus. I…’
The general’s voice trailed off as the two Romans eyed the native scout racing back towards them, where they rode at walking pace near the front of the army but off to one side, safely away from the dust cloud kicked up by the stamping feet, and protected by Ingenuus’ men and Fronto’s singulares both. The scout hauled on his reins and bowed his head.
‘What is it?’ Caesar asked quietly.
‘Trouble at the bridge, general. Legate Fabius sent me to request your presence as a matter of urgency.’
Caesar turned his frown on Fronto, who shrugged. ‘What sort of trouble at the bridge?’ he asked the scout.
‘It’s not there, sir.’
The two officers’ frowns deepened. ‘Come, then,’ Caesar said, urging his horse forward and lengthening to a canter as Fronto fell in alongside, Bucephalus matching the pace with ease. The two bodyguard units followed close behind as the men, led by the scout, passed out ahead of the column and between two stands of beech and chestnut trees.
Sure enough, as the river Elaver came into view, the mud-churned plain on the near bank was packed with hundreds upon hundreds of wagons and beasts of burden milling about impotently, five cohorts of the Eighth legion drawn up protectively in neat blocks around the mess. What had once been the wide, strong timber bridge that the army had used more than once to cross the broad river was now little more than a few broken struts and posts jutting forlornly from the rushing waters, the piles shattered, and what could not be broken down had been burned, now little more than charred sticks.
‘This is no accident,’ the general murmured as they slowed to take in the sight.
‘Clearly not,’ Fronto agreed, raising a finger to point across the river. The general followed the gesture and noted the dozen or so natives on horseback sitting watching from a rise on the far bank, distant enough to keep them safe from attack. ‘Who are they?’
The scout cleared his throat. ‘They carry the rearing horse standards of the Lemovices, legate. One of the rebel tribes under Vercingetorix.’
Fronto nodded sourly. ‘Then their army is not far off. They have destroyed the bridge to prevent us crossing.’
‘More than that,’ Caesar agreed, ‘they have left scouts. There are too few there to do us any harm, but enough on good mounts to ride and recall the rest of the army should we commit to constructing a new bridge. If we set the engineers to work, the whole of the rebel army will be on the far shore before we near the bank. And then we will be forced to funnel ourselves onto the bridge and into their waiting arms. Vercingetorix is shrewd. He thwarts my plan to cross and march upon his city. I am surprised he learned so quickly of our plans. He must have moved from Avaricon not long after our meeting at Decetio to achieve this. I knew that sooner or later his spies would hear of my plans, but I expected to be on that bank and marching south before that.’
Fronto had a brief flash of mental image - a face that might have been Cavarinos in among the nobles of the Aedui, and he felt certain now that it had been him after all, and that the man had ridden like the wind to warn his king as soon as Caesar had pronounced judgement. In truth, though, the source of the information mattered not. The Arverni king had learned of their plan and thwarted them. For now, anyway.
‘I will speak to legate Fabius down there, Fronto. You head back to the main force and have them alter course. We march south along the bank. There should be another bridge a little less than fifteen miles south, if our maps are correct.’
Fronto nodded and turned Bucephalus back towards the column.
‘And if it’s still there,’ he muttered quietly.
* * * * *
Vercingetorix smiled as he leaned back in his seat.
‘Your warning has saved our city, Cavarinos. I cannot thank you enough for that. My riders tell me that Caesar fumes on the far bank, unwilling to attempt a bridge for fear that we will have him then. This morning, word reached me that his army moved southwards to the next bridge at Dabrona. They were breathtakingly fast in doing so, given their army and its slow baggage and artillery, and yet they still reached there to find the bridge so long gone that even the embers had died away to ash. I have had no further word yet, but it seems highly likely he will continue along the river to the south, trying to cross the bridges at Macolion and then Sollurco. The former is already destroyed and my men are even now closing on the latter. Beyond that he will be heading south into the mountains way past Gergovia, and his army will be in danger due to the terrain and the huge distance their supplies must travel. And we can simply move easily down to the city and watch him flounder. He will eventually find a way across or around the river, of course, but they will be tired and demoralized by the time they do. So long as we are close enough to move to prevent a crossing, we are in no hurry.’
‘But why do we play this game at all?’ frowned Cavarinos. ‘With the Aedui, we should be able to beat him in open battle. Why not simply commit?’
The king rolled his shoulders. ‘The Aedui may have sided with us, but they have yet to add their strength to ours. Remember that Caesar is between they and us. Besides, I have a mind to teach the Roman a lesson. He seems to believe himself able to roll over any fortress he comes across, but he has never come across the likes of Gergovia. If the Aedui forces join us before Caesar eventually finds his way to the west bank of the river, we may invite him to battle, sure of our numbers and of success. If he crosses first, we will let him dash himself to pieces on the slopes of Gergovia while we wait for the Aedui to join us. We are in no danger, either way.’
Cavarinos narrowed his eyes. ‘Why not just leave Caesar to it? Why bother with Gergovia when we could turn north, slip past him and join the Aedui in their lands? Then we would be strong enough to pursue him and bring him to battle.’
He watched suspiciously as an uncomfortable look passed briefly across the king’s eyes.
‘It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it? Gergovia matters because it’s yours. For all your high words to the other chiefs back at Avaricon, you would never burn your capital, would you? Even if doing so would give us the edge over Caesar, you won’t sacrifice Gergovia.’
‘Cavarinos…’
‘No. Fear not, my king. I shall not tell the chiefs of this. You can cook up whatever excuse you like for them but remember, if this decision comes back to haunt us, that I know. Do not let your pride cost us this war.’
‘You do not believe I can hold Gergovia against him?’
‘I don’t believe that you should.’
‘But you think I can?’
‘Perhaps. You know the land, and it is the strongest oppidum I know of. But Caesar has proved resourceful and ingenious every time he has besieged a fortress thus far. Do not underestimate him.’
Vercingetorix straightened and brushed out his drooping moustaches. ‘You did me a great service in bringing us warning of Caesar’s plan, my friend, and the Aedui are ours now. But we still need to bring them physically to our side before we can crush Caesar, and so I must send you back once again.’
‘Banishment, my king?’
‘Hardly. We need the Aedui, and you are the man who can bring them to us. You know our people there and have seen the workings of their leaders first hand. Go and bring them for me, Cavarinos.’
The tired Arverni chieftain stood with a bow of the head. ‘Very well.’
As he turned and made his way out of the king’s tent, Cavarinos gave a heavy sigh and sagged. Back to the Aedui. And whatever Vercingetorix said, he was sure that the principle reason for his being sent once more was to keep his seditious opinion of his king’s motives far from the ears of the other chiefs. For the sake of his pride, Vercingetorix was willing to submit to a Roman siege rather than burn his own house. With luck that pride would not destroy them before Cavarinos could return with the Aedui.
Damn the man.
* * * * *
Caesar sat astride his horse in the faint mist, beneath clouds that intermittently soaked them, peering at his surroundings. The slight rise gave a good line of sight in almost all directions, with the exception of directly south, where scattered copses and woodland largely obscured the land. To the north, some half mile back, the army approached by the fading sunlight, heading for this strong position to make camp for the day’s end. To the east, the slope disappeared down towards now-untended and burned farmland. And to the west, the land fell away gently to the Elaver River, where twin dark lines of timber fangs marched out across the water, marking the latest destroyed bridge on their journey.
‘Good land for a camp,’ Antonius noted, sitting astride a fine grey mare. ‘Excellent view.’
‘Yes,’ Caesar replied with a bitter tone. ‘We will have a wonderful view of yet another burned bridge, but this time we will also be able to see those responsible.’
Antonius sighed and fixed his gaze upon the sprawling mass of the Gaulish army encamped perhaps a mile from the river on the far bank, almost taunting the Romans with their proximity. ‘We are close to Gergovia now. He no longer trusts us to small scouting parties. Now the whole army readies for us. He knows that we cannot afford to follow the river up into the mountains and cross it at the narrow point. He knows we must cross here or at the next bridge, but we all know that there will not be a next bridge by now.’
‘Yet cross we must, as you say.’ The general shifted his gaze to take in the advance party of legionary engineers with their gromas, pegs, ropes and plumb lines, laying out the basic plan for the army’s massive camp atop the hillside, large enough to accommodate six legions and more. It was an impressive sight. What must the Arvernian rebel think as he watches this massive force day after day?’
A slow smile spread across Caesar’s face and he turned to the gathered staff officers and legates who sat ahorse behind him. His eyes settled on the nearest of his legates. Both were good men - the best for what he had in mind.
‘Fronto? Rufio?’
The two men stepped their mounts forward a few paces to address the general.
‘Sir?’
‘What is your opinion of making camp for the night down there amid the copses and trees instead of here on the hill?’
‘It will be evil to put in adequate defences,’ Fronto said, peering at the wood-dotted landscape.
‘But considerably less windy,’ smiled Rufio.
‘We could fit six legions in there?’
‘Well, yes. We won’t be well-defended, mind.’
‘The enemy are not likely to cross the river tonight. They would be suicidal to do so.’ Caesar gestured to the engineer officer with the transverse crest, who was busy guiding the works.
‘Centurion? Have your men take up their measures and move down amongst the trees. I want the camp down there tonight.’
The centurion turned a respectful, if baffled, expression on his commander. ‘But sir, that land is dreadful for a camp.’
‘Nevertheless, I would like it so. See to it.’
The centurion, still perplexed, saluted and started to call his engineers in to change location down to the copse-dotted plain. As he did so, Caesar turned back to the officers next to him.
‘Antonius? Have the legions fall in down there once the camp is marked out and have them get to work. I want all six legions working on it, since we’re in no immediate danger. Fronto and Rufio? I want the Tenth and Eleventh, as soon as the works are complete, to camp on the eastern side of the camp, far from the river and in the most wooded area you can. We are about to deceive the enemy, gentlemen. It is time we crossed that river. And with any luck we will surprise the Gauls enough that we can thrash them on the plains without having to move on Gergovia after all.’ He smiled darkly. ‘Antonius, fish out your best red cloak.’
* * * * *
Fronto sat in the cover of the trees, the first heavy raindrops of the downpour that had been threatening for hours falling from the leaves and dinging off his helmet, blotting his cloak. In the early post-dawn glow, he could just make out Antonius on Caesar’s white horse, red cloak whipping in the breeze as he led four legions and the baggage on south along the Elaver’s east bank, the force carefully spread out to fill as much space as six legions normally would.
He glanced back at the Tenth and Eleventh, who had taken advantage of the darkness and moved out before dawn, slightly north and east, where they now lurked behind the hill, barely visible from this position and entirely hidden from the army across the river.
Caesar and Rufio stood close by, the rain battering them as they all watched, tense.
‘Now to see if they take the bait,’ Caesar huffed and pulled his cloak tighter about him to keep off the worst of the rain. The three men stood in edgy silence as the muted sound of the legions receded across the grassland to the south, soon to be lost from sight among the trees.
‘The men the Aedui were supposed to send us are taking their time,’ Rufio sighed as he watched.
‘If they come at all,’ muttered Fronto darkly, earning a piercing look from the general. He was about to add something in his defence when he clamped his jaws shut again and strained his eyes in the dim light.
‘I think they’re moving,’ he said, finally.
‘’Yes,’ Rufio agreed. ‘Large units of horse are heading off south.’
‘And the rest of the army is decamping, also,’ Caesar smiled. ‘It appears they fell for our little ploy.’
Fronto took a breath and rolled his shoulders. ‘With permission then, Caesar, I’ll move into position.’
* * * * *
Numisius flexed his arm muscles and checked the knot of the rope around his military belt.
‘Are you sure you can do it?’ Fronto asked, shivering and folding his sodden arms across his chest for the pitiful warmth they provided. Though the weather was fairly temperate, and still warming daily, the deluge dragged down the temperature of those out in it.
Numisius, one of Fronto’s remaining ten singulares, grinned. ‘Bit late to question me now, sir?’
‘Look, I know you can swim. Masgava tells me you used to hurtle around that pool in Massilia like an eel, but it’s less than a year since that arm of yours was smashed to pieces. Are you strong enough for this?’
‘Piece of piss, sir.’
Fronto opened his mouth to question him further but before he could speak, Numisius gave a wink and then threw himself backwards into the water, having carefully selected a deep section to enter. Fronto glanced back at the tree, and Palmatus was there, checking and tightening the knot at the other end of the rope.
Turning back, he watched the pale form of Numisius break the river’s surface and begin to make for the far shore, his arms coming up and over, slicing down into the dark like some sort of machine, tearing him through the choppy water at surprising speed. His head came up to the side rhythmically for breath, and he somehow continued to adjust his angle so that he was pushing into the current rather than across, with the net result that he was making directly for the tree opposite.
Fronto watched in amazement as in just a few heartbeats’ time, the man was clambering up the far bank. How that man could swim! Fronto would barely have managed a quarter of the distance in that time. Of course, he would probably have drowned on entry anyway. Never the best swimmer, he dunked in the rivers occasionally to perform his ablutions while on campaign, but his preferred method of swimming was to lie on his back in the warm basin of a good bath house, wiggling his toes and wondering what to have for lunch.
Readying himself, he adjusted the sword and pugio hanging at his side, fastened to the belt rather than the more usual baldric. It felt odd not to be bearing the beautiful blade he had taken from a villain those years ago, but he would not risk that blade either coming loose and sinking to the bed of the Elaver or suffering damage from the water, and so he had borrowed a standard issue gladius from the stores for today. It and the dagger both seemed jammed in tight, and he had used twine to fasten them down, too, just in case. He shivered in the sodden tunic. No armour or cloak for this task. No shield or helm. Just a tunic, boots and a sword. Still, he was about to get a sight colder and wetter.
He watched as Numisius carefully hauled in the rope so that it trailed along the river’s surface in a straight line, neither sinking too deep nor rising taut in the air, and then tied it off to the tree opposite. Once he had tested the weight and given an affirmative gesture, Fronto nodded and stepped to the edge. With a deep breath, he jumped in, hands coming up and grasping for the rope slung across the river.
The cold was mind-shattering. He hadn’t realised how warm the air had actually become with the advent of spring until the chilling water brought it home to him. It felt as though his blood ran with ice, and in moments he was beginning to lose the feeling in his extremities. Concentrating on the task at hand, he kept his grip tight on the rope as he hauled himself across, slowly but steadily traversing the river. He felt the rope jerk sharply and almost lost his grip for a moment, glancing back in panic to see that Masgava had jumped in and grabbed the line. Fronto wished he had a free hand to grip the figurine of Fortuna around his neck, praying to his patron goddess that the rope would hold their combined weight as he hauled himself onwards.
The journey seemed to take an hour, though it had actually been a quick crossing, Numisius assured him, as the soldier leaned down and helped him from the current, scrambling up the bank and onto the grassy slope. He stood shaking like a leaf for a long moment before he could control his limbs enough to make sure his sword and dagger - not to mention his fingers, toes and ears - were still present and correct.
Stamping his feet to bring life back into them, he watched Masgava clamber up to join them, hardly puffing with the effort, testing his reflexes and unfastening his sword.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know, sir?’ the big Numidian reminded him.
‘Just concentrate on making sure none of them get away.’
The pair watched as the rest of the singulares crossed. Once Palmatus had come over, Carbo, the last of the party standing on the far bank, unhooked the rope and fastened it to a sheaf of pila that had already been tightly bound together. As he gave a nod, Masgava started to pull in the rope, dragging the sheaf of javelins across the river and finally up the bank and onto the grass with them.
‘How many were there again?’ Fronto shivered.
‘Pila?’
‘Gauls.’
Masgava undid the knot and began to separate the weapons. ‘I counted thirteen. There might be one or two more, mind. It was hard to be sure with all the foliage.’
‘Typical Gauls. They can never do anything in sensible numerical divisions like a Roman. What kind of unit numbers thirteen?’
‘That one,’ Palmatus jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the small knot of horsemen the enemy army had left behind to watch the bridge site.
‘I hate this weather. Miserable weather to fight in.’
Masgava smiled. ‘The enemy will be almost as wet as us. Besides, we should be thanking the gods for this rain, not blaming them.’
‘Oh? How’s that?’
‘It if was sunny and dry, those thirteen Gauls would be lounging out on the open grass and sunning themselves. They would see us coming a mile off and ride out to Vercingetorix, telling him what we were up to. But the rain has driven them to shelter in that small copse, and that will allow us to close on them unseen.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Fronto conceded, ‘but I’ll still be glad to dry off later.’
Fronto waited sodden and impatient as Masgava distributed the pila to the other ten men and kept back two for himself. Fronto gripped the pair of weapons uncertainly. It had been a very long time since he’d thrown one, and even a couple of years ago back in Rome, when Masgava had set him on a very gladiatorial training regime, there had been little work with javelins. Plus, despite Masgava’s insistence they bring them, he couldn’t see pila being much use in woodland. Perhaps he might find a reason to discard them yet…
Shuddering in his freezing wet tunic once more, he scrambled up the last few paces of the slope and leaned carefully around the edge of a bushy juniper. The small copse in which the scouts had taken shelter from the weather was perhaps two hundred paces from the river, but Palmatus had chosen the site well. Between here and there lay a low hedge, crossed by a rough track that ran from an abandoned and burned farmstead down to the ruined bridge. So long as they kept low and moved quietly, only a truly alert scout would stand much chance of spotting their approach.
‘Ready?’ he asked the singulares. Each of them nodded or murmured their assent.
Palmatus stepped up to the juniper and with a quick glance at their target, ducked out into the rain and made the ten-pace dash through the open to the hedgerow, disappearing behind it. Numisius followed on, vanishing behind the bushy vegetation after the officer, and Fronto took his chance to sprint ahead of the next man. Despite the shortness of the run, the distance from the enemy, and the added obfuscation of the heavy downpour, Fronto felt the familiar thrill of nerves as he passed the open stretch.
As he reached the cover of the hedge, the men in front were already moving along it at pace, keeping slightly bent to prevent their heads showing over the top. Breathing steadily, Fronto ran on, stooped, along the edge of the burned-out field, keeping his eyes locked on Palmatus at the front, his ears straining to hear anything of the enemy through the battering of the rain.
A quick dash across the gateway in the hedge and over the rutted, worn, farm track, and then back into the hedge’s cover, closing on the copse. Then, quicker than he’d expected, they were there. Palmatus had stopped at the end of the hedge, where it gave way to a ramshackle fence that separated the farmland from the trees. It was a low, partially broken affair that would present no obstacle to the Romans, but it was not for the fence that Palmatus had paused. As the rest of the men caught up, the former legionary used hand signals to silently relay what he saw, given the proximity of the enemy. Fronto concentrated. Thirteen men, all huddled close together and trying to light a fire in the relative shelter of the pines. The forest floor would be largely clear due to the season, but would still be sodden and unpleasant.
Palmatus was now motioning something else: the corral of horses, off to the other side of the copse, away from the river. Fronto nodded. That was at least as prime a concern as the men themselves. If the horses were secured, none of the Gauls could ride for the rebel army and warn them. Fronto turned to see Quietus looming behind, and gestured for the man to come with him. Quietus nodded and Fronto turned back to Palmatus, making horse gestures with his hand and then pointing to himself and Quietus. Palmatus nodded and then lifted his hand, ready for the signal. As he confirmed that everyone was here and watching, he tensed and drew his blade as slowly and quietly as he could, the other ten men following suit.
As Fronto drew his sword, he smiled gratefully and jabbed his pila down into the ground, leaving them behind. Masgava may consider them useful against the men, but they would be of little advantage in dealing with horses. Quietus followed suit.
Palmatus waited until all were ready and poised, and his hand came down in a chopping motion. Fronto moved in the wake of the two men in front, using his free hand to vault the fence, wincing as his knee, still troubled by the wet weather, jarred upon landing, but not allowing it to slow him. And he was running, Quietus keeping pace at his heel. Now, he could see the horses through the trunks, eating the lush grass close to the trees. They had been tethered by thin ropes attached to the harnesses and variously tied off on branches or to pitons in the ground.
By the time they were closing on the beasts, which were whickering and stamping nervously at the sudden commotion nearby, the sounds of battle rang out deeper in the copse, where the rest of the singulares were dealing with the thirteen scouts. Fronto burst from the trees and the rain came back with a force once out in the open, smacking him in the face like a slap. Blinking away the water, he ran to the nearest horse and brought his blade down on the thin rope, freeing the animal, which trotted a few paces away from him and hovered nervously. Quietus arrived and freed a second horse, and Fronto crossed to the next, slashing through the rope.
Again and again, the two men cut bonds and shooed the horses, which invariably danced out of their way and the legate rose from his latest rope, looking around for the next tether. Quietus was nearby, busily sawing through a rope that was thicker and hardier than the rest and had resisted his initial cut. Fronto blinked out the rain once more and opened his mouth to shout a warning.
He was too late.
A Gaul, hitherto unseen at the edge of the woods and presumably set to guard the horses, was on Quietus from behind, that long Gallic blade sweeping out and down onto the big Roman’s neck, where it hacked through the tendon holding neck to shoulder and through muscle, lodging itself in the bone. Quietus gasped, his head tipping involuntarily to the side as his body began to register the fact that he was dying, the spinal cord snapped and blood fountaining from his severed artery.
The legionary’s sword fell from loose fingers as he collapsed to the ground, still spraying lifeblood and gurgling a blood-filled scream.
Fronto drew his pugio with his free hand and advanced on the Gaul, but the man was both big and quick, wrenching his long sword from the dying Roman’s neck with a horrible cracking sound and bringing it up ready. The warrior had a body shield, a mail shirt and a killer’s blade. The only thing he lacked was a helmet, which no doubt rested somewhere nearby where he had been crouched. Fronto, conversely, wore a fine quality russet woollen tunic and held two short blades. He felt woefully inadequate and eyed the long blade nervously.
Memories of his many training sessions with Masgava flashed into his mind. ‘If a man has a long sword,’ the big Numidian had explained, ‘he is limited at close range. Do not be afraid to close on him. The closer you are, the harder it will be for him to use his blade, and he will be limited to using body parts against you.’
Instead of hesitating and keeping out of reach of the long blade, Fronto picked up his pace, throwing himself at the Gaul and praying that the man didn’t have time to hold the sword forth to impale him.
Sure enough, the unwieldy size of the blade prevented the warrior from bringing it to bear in time, and Fronto hit the man as hard as he could, putting all his weight into the charge. The man recoiled only slightly, his foot pushed back to brace himself as he hunched behind the shield. Fronto felt the collision as though he’d been sideswiped by a chariot at full speed, the shield’s rib, which ran down its length, bulging out to a metal boss at the centre, cracking a rib and bruising him instantly.
He had no time to recover. Although the Gaul had been barely shaken by a charge which had already hurt Fronto, the legate knew it had given him a brief advantage, making the man’s sword effectively useless until he could back-step out of the press. He allowed his gladius to fall from his right hand and reached up in a fluid move, gripping the top of the man’s painted blue shield and dragging it down with every ounce of strength he could muster, ignoring the throbbing of his ribs and hip.
Gods, but the man was strong. Fronto felt the shield coming down, but the Gaul was fighting him every inch of the way, the big sword seemingly forgotten as the struggle for the shield raged.
But gradually, finger-width by finger-width, the shield dropped, revealing the chest and shoulder of the warrior behind, the doubling of the man’s mail shirt at the shoulder giving him extra bulk. Up came Fronto’s other hand, gripping the pugio.
The warrior was not done yet, though. Seeing the knife approaching, he ducked his head to the side, away from the weapon, simultaneously bringing up his right hand. As they had struggled, the man had somehow reversed his grip on the sword and now brought it up pommel first, smashing it at Fronto’s face. The legate saw the blow coming and tried to dip his face out of the way but, without releasing the shield, he was limited. The blow landed, not centrally on the bridge of his nose as intended, but on his cheek. He felt the heavy pommel smash into his back teeth and scrape up his cheek bone, drawing blood. Waves of agony washed through him and he felt blood and tooth fragments on his tongue as his mouth opened in a cry.
But he was not the only one yelling out. Just as the Gaul’s pommel had smashed into his cheek, so Fronto’s other hand had found its mark, the dagger driving into the warrior’s neck just above the mail shirt’s collar and driving down above the collar bone into unprotected soft flesh. Through the pain, Fronto could barely see what he was doing, but even blinded by the agony and the rain, he raked the blade and twisted it, ripping it back up through what felt like a tendon.
He faltered and almost fell as the Gaul collapsed, Fronto’s fingers still clamped around the shield rim, and he staggered back, shaking, the rain still blurring his eyes as much as the pain in his mouth. Taking a ragged breath, he spat and felt pieces of tooth come out with the saliva and blood.
Shaking like a leaf, he reached up, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he did so, and wiped the rain from his eyes.
The Gaul was still alive, but was convulsing and jerking as blood pumped from a wide, savage and ragged hole above his clavicle. Fronto stared down at him. The warrior was younger than he’d thought, seventeen or eighteen summers old at most. Ridiculous. When Fronto had been in Spain with Caesar, standing at that statue of Alexander the Great, this man who’d nearly killed him today had been a howling babe! When the Tenth had first followed the Helvetii into this land, the dying Gaul here had probably been running around the fields and playing war games with his friends, using sticks and wicker shields. How long had they been in Gaul now?
He felt very old all of a sudden.
Taking care to knock the sword away from the Gaul’s twitching hand he crouched, turning his head to spit out another gobbet of blood. He looked down into the young warrior’s eyes with an empathy that surprised him, given what had just happened. The young man wore a perplexed expression, as though he simply could not fathom what had happened. Not the defiant dying gaze of a seasoned warrior, but the innocent bewilderment of a boy.
‘I know,’ Fronto said quietly, wincing at the pain in his jaw as he spoke. ‘It’sh all shuch a damn washte.’
He sighed, the last of his aggression ebbing away at this sight. At Cenabum he had released all the tension that had built up for months - years, even, and since then it was becoming harder to find the heart for such killing with every fight. This campaign could not be over soon enough.
The boy tried to speak, but the pain was too much, and he gritted his teeth against it.
For the first time since winter, Fronto actually found himself thinking about that agreement he’d made with Lucilia. Retirement. No more blood and pain. No more living like this. Most importantly, no more watching the light go out in the eyes of mere children.
‘I’m shorry,’ he added, and reached down, quickly and expertly slicing the young warrior’s throat, putting him out of his misery. The Gaul gasped for a moment, his eyes bulging as air and blood issued from the wound, and quickly the life fled from his gaze. Fronto reached down to his belt, felt for the leather pouch attached, and withdrew two small bronze coins, fastening it again. With care, he placed one on the Gaul’s tongue and pushed the mouth closed. Charon’s obol. The coin to pay the ferryman.
Rising, with the pain throbbing in his side, he staggered across to the still form of Quietus and repeated the act. The sounds of fighting back in the woods still echoed across the ground, but it was dying away. He had no doubt that the Romans had won the day - with Palmatus and Masgava in there, the Gauls stood no chance. And the horses were now wandering around the field, eating happily, keeping a distance from the bloodshed.
Straightening, he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and felt the rain washing his face clean. Two teeth. Possibly three. He yelped slightly as his tongue explored the damage.
Yes, this war could not be over soon enough, now.
* * * * *
Caesar peered down at the Tenth’s legate, who sat on a log with a skin of water, taking swigs to swill out his mouth and then spitting it back out to the grass, tainted with the dark stain of blood in the mix.
‘You have looked better, Fronto.’
The legate looked up and winced. ‘I’m too old for thish.’
Caesar laughed mirthlessly. ‘Aren’t we all, Marcus. But soon it will be over. We have the rebels now. We’ll soon be on them. I’ve set the men about building the bridge, and the recall order has already gone out to Antonius and the rest of the army. By the time Vercingetorix knows we have crossed, two legions will be on this bank and well-entrenched, while the others file across to join us. As soon as we’re assembled west of the river, we can move against him. If he has any sense now, he’ll run for his walls at Gergovia, though I am still hoping he has the pride and guts to meet us on the plain.’
Wincing and grunting with the effort, Fronto rose. ‘He’ll make for the oppidum. Hish numbersh are not enough to enshure him victory in the field, sho he’ll retreat to the shafety of hish wallsh.’
‘I think you need to see my dentist, Marcus.’
‘I think I need a shtrong drink and a lie down.’
‘And you’ve earned them,’ the general smiled and looked around at Palmatus who stood nearby, blood running down from a cut on his brow and making him blink repeatedly. ‘Perhaps you should have the legate’s tent raised quickly and then all of you report to the medicus before you go off duty. Well done, all of you.’
As the general moved on with his praetorians at his heel, and the coterie of staff officers hurrying alongside, Rufio appeared, looming over them with an impish grin.
‘This is why as we age, we let the young men fight our battles for us, Marcus.’
Fronto merely grunted, carefully keeping his opinions of that statement locked behind his teeth, though they be fewer than usual. ‘Where’sh your wine flashk?’
Rufio frowned at him. ‘What makes you think I have one on me?’
Fronto merely answered by twitching his fingers, indicating the need for a flask, and with a grin, Rufio reached beneath his cloak and produced the desired object, passing it across.
‘You drink to your success?’
‘To the fallen,’ Fronto grunted.
Whoever they fight for, he added in the silence of his mind.