(Gesoriacum, on the Gaulish coast, opposite Britannia)
Word of the impending campaign had already spread beyond the Roman forces and the civilian town; of that there could be absolutely no doubt. Only two days after the decision to sail had been confirmed, ambassadors from the tribes of Britannia had begun to appear. Caesar had greeted their arrival with his traditional grave expression, though Fronto could not help noticing a lightening of the general’s mood with each new advocate.
Eight tribes had sent deputations, promising hostages, support, supplies and money to the Romans. Some had even gone so far as to submit themselves to Caesar’s governance. It appeared that the fate of the Belgae in previous years was still fresh in the mind of the tribes of Britannia, many of whom were related to the Belgae by blood and tradition. Rather than face the inevitable iron-shod boot of the Roman republic pressing down on their necks, it seemed that several of the nearer tribes were willing to submit.
Moreover, and much to Caesar’s pleasure, their arrival had supplied him with eight new, heavy Celtic ships with which to brave the crossing – ships that were designed for these waters and were capable of withstanding the tremendous pressures and strains.
After a few days, when it became apparent that no further ambassadors were likely, Caesar had taken the hostages offered and quartered them in Gesoriacum’s fort. He had then set the eight groups of men on board a single ship and released them to go back to their own land, along with promises of Roman support and peaceful relations, encouraging them to spread the word and their particular brand of ‘Pax Britannia’ among the more reticent tribes.
Now, only three days after the ambassadors’ ship had sailed off from Gesoriacum on a sea as calm as the impluvium pool of a Roman villa, the men of the Seventh and Tenth legions sat or stood on the decks of the motley collection of ships that made up the Gallo-Roman fleet in the town’s harbour, staring out at what appeared to be distinctly unfriendly waters.
Only an hour before the troops had begun to board on Caesar’s orders, a wind had whipped up the water’s surface and changed its appearance utterly. Moreover, dark grey clouds started to roll in from the northeast as the evening sky began to darken, threatening heavy rain and worse. Brutus and Volusenus had conferred with three of the captains, two native guides and even with Caesar but, much to Fronto’s dismay, had pronounced conditions acceptable.
Even the pure white lamb that had displayed a healthy liver and kidneys and clearly shown Neptune’s favour had not put his fears to rest. He’d spent a small fortune on food, wine and trinkets merely to leave them reverentially on any altar he could find – Roman or native – to try and appease whoever controlled that particular stretch of water and his passage over it. He’d become increasingly convinced that his bandy-legged amulet was an image of some fat Gallic fishwife with as much divine connection to Fortuna as a dead herring.
All in all, everything pointed to a complete disaster as far as Fronto was concerned.
Then there had been the news that the eighteen ships destined to convey the cavalry across the water had been trapped in the next port down the coast, due to the weather. That was hardly encouraging and Fronto had watched with bitter dismay as Varus and his cavalry wing had ridden off south to find their vessels. The senior cavalry commander still sported his splinted arm and a pained look, but had recently taken to riding again as often as possible. Fronto had wondered with idle depression whether he’d seen the last of his brave cavalry officer friend.
The only bright spark had been the surprise addition to the fleet of Galronus and a single turma of thirty Gallic riders, their horses crammed in with the men and spread across the fleet. Caesar had apparently given the Remi officer permission to accompany the legions on the basis that he and his men shared a common heritage with the island’s inhabitants – a bond that could prove useful.
The cavalry officer grinned at him and tucked into a platter of bread, cheese and pilchards. Fronto fought the urge to stand at the rail and empty his stomach contents again. He’d already done so twice since boarding, and the ship had not even slipped the mooring yet. He’d glared at the men nearby, but the smirks had continued nonetheless, increasing with every colour change his face had undergone.
‘Remember, whatever happens while we’re over there – on the assumption we even make the crossing – not to get yourself in a position where you’re alone and anywhere near those two centurions from the Seventh. They’ve found it easy enough to attack people even with the whole army present. Over there, you could easily find yourself cut off and surrounded by the Seventh. Be alert at all times.’
‘Marcus, stop fussing over us like a mother hen’ Galronus grinned. ‘We’re all grown men and warriors.’
‘Aye’ Carbo laughed, looking up from his cup of watered wine. ‘And stop worritting about the journey, sir. It’s only thirty miles. Two more cups of this and I could piss that far!’
Again, Fronto looked around the deck of the high-sided Gallic beast in which they would cross. Such was its size that the officers had managed to secure themselves a fairly private area of deck toward the stern some distance from the groups of men sitting cross legged, rolling dice, singing songs and telling ribald jokes. They had even managed to obtain a shelter of leather tent sections that could hold off the rain that Fronto felt sure was coming.
Even as he glanced across at the steersman and the ship’s captain, the hooded lamp with which they had been signalling the other ships in the fleet caught the wind from the wrong direction and went black with a hiss, plummeting the entire stern of the ship into stygian gloom.
‘Whose genius idea was it to sail at night?’
‘Apparently it was the best choice’ Carbo chattered conversationally. ‘The tide is right, the omens are good, and all the locals are predicting inclement weather in the next day or two. If we don’t go on this tide, we might not go at all.’
‘Sounds just fine to me’ grumbled Fronto, feeling another heave of his churning guts on the way.
‘Did you have any of that ginger and mint?’ Galronus asked lightly.
‘Like I could keep it down if I did’ snapped Fronto.
‘Your sister said it was the only real remedy. You should at least try it.’
‘Piss off. And could you all stop eating stinking fish near me. Can’t you naff off down the bow with the grunts to eat that muck?’
‘This?’ enquired Galronus with a grin, waving a lightly-cooked headless fish at Fronto, who immediately leapt to the rail to empty his stomach yet again.
‘Anyway’ Carbo said in his light, happy tone, ‘if I’ve got my timings right, setting off now means we should arrive at dawn. We’ll surprise the goat-humpers and give ‘em no time to prepare.’
Fronto wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and heaved in half a dozen deep breaths before turning and collapsing to the deck again with his friends. As well as Galronus and Carbo, Petrosidius, the chief standard bearer of the Tenth, and Atenos, the huge training centurion, sat in the small circle, wrapped in their cloaks against the chilling wind.
Glancing around to make sure they had as much privacy as the ship’s deck allowed, Fronto leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. The rest of the ship’s occupants were native Gauls or members of the trusted Tenth, but some things needed to be kept quiet, regardless of company.
‘I’ve been thinking about our two centurion friends in the Seventh.’
‘You do surprise me’ muttered Galronus.
‘No, I mean I think I see a way to bring something good out of this situation.’
Carbo and Atenos leaned forward. Petrosidius continued to listen, with his head up, watching the other men nearby. ‘Go on’ Galronus grinned.
‘Well until now I’ve been thinking we need to be wary of Furius and Fabius; to keep ourselves away from them and not get caught where we can find ourselves in trouble. Problem is: if we keep doing that, we’re never going to be able to nail them for anything. Perhaps it would be better to play this entirely the other way.’
‘Draw them out, you mean?’
‘Precisely. With only the Tenth and the Seventh present, they might get bold enough to do something stupid. We should be encouraging that, rather than preventing it.’
‘What have you in mind?’ Atenos asked, frowning.
‘We need to goad them… to push them to breaking point so that they snap and go for it.’
‘But how?’
Galronus grinned. ‘Just be yourself, Marcus. It appears that your very existence annoys them deeply.’
The legate shot the cavalry officer a sour look, but he found himself nodding anyway.
‘Irritatingly, you might be right. I am the only one who could maybe wind them up enough to break them; and they already have it in for me anyway. I’m fairly sure they’ll relish the chance to get another crack at me. So the question remains: just how do I wind them up to that extent?’
‘That’s easy’ Petrosidius shrugged. The signifer, sitting bareheaded with his wolf pelt on his knees, had been so quiet that Fronto had almost forgotten he was there.
‘Go on.’
‘Well the Seventh’s eagle bearer, Sepunius, happens to be an old friend of mine, and he tells me that Furius and Fabius have pretty much taken it upon themselves to act as Cicero’s personal guard and escort. Apparently his tribunes are a bit put out that two centurions seem to have more influence than them, but the pair have such a brutal reputation that no one’ll confront them about it.’
‘I’ve noticed this.’
‘Well, Cicero is fairly outspoken against Caesar at times. A clever man shouldn’t find it too hard to start an argument between the two commanders, especially one of Caesar’s top men. And once you have the two commanders at each other, Cicero’s pet centurions will start straining at their leash and snapping. Should be a walk in the park for you.’
A slow smile spread across Fronto’s face as he pictured the scene. It really would not be difficult. Hell, he’d already seen it happen several times over the summer.
‘It’ll have to be when we land at the other side, of course.’
‘So you have long enough to argue between hurling over the rail, you mean?’ Galronus needled with a grin.
‘Oh piss off.’
‘You’re right though’ Carbo said quietly. ‘But that’s only half the battle, as it were. Once you’ve wound them up far enough to make them want to take you down again, you’ll have to give them the opportunity. But play it carefully. Remember that these two are both veterans with as long a record as you or I; both strong and fearless, and they’ve managed several sneaky attacks so far. How do you plan to play it?’
Again, Fronto lapsed into silence for a few moments, before nodding to himself a couple of times.
‘Like what happened across the Rhenus, I think. I can let myself fall behind and get separated – perhaps because of my knee. Everyone knows about that now, so no one will be surprised if I have to stop and tend to it. We’ll be very unlikely to have the chance to prepare any trap in advance, so we’ll just have to be ready to spring it whenever the opportunity occurs. We’ll work out some signal. Then, at some point when I find myself near enough the pair of them, I’ll give the signal and stop to deal with my knee or whatever I need to do to get myself alone. At the signal, you lot need to disappear, but shadow Fabius and Furius wherever they go. As soon as they come at me, you can reveal yourselves and we’ll have them red-handed in the act of attempting to kill a senior officer.’
‘We need an impartial witness’ Carbo said quietly.
‘No we don’t. The word of a legate, a signifer, two centurions and a cavalry commander carries enough weight to execute a man on the spot.’
‘Not in the current circumstances’ Atenos cautioned. ‘Bear in mind how well known your enmity toward them is. Whatever the truth, most of the army will think it was simply a setup by us. Legate Brutus and tribune Volusenus will both be present across the water. If either of them was to witness the attempt there could be no doubt over the truth, and no comeback.’
‘Think we can arrange that?’ asked Fronto quietly.
‘I think we’ll manage.’
‘Alright’ the legate said, clapping his hands together purposefully and then pulling out his ‘Fortuna’ amulet and rubbing it between his fingers. ‘Now all we need to do is make it across thirty miles of Styx-water in an unfamiliar ship, at night, in a storm, with only the divine protection of a small Gaulish trout-woman with bandy legs.’
* * * * *
The sun had been up for perhaps a quarter of an hour when the call issued from the bow of the ship. Fronto heaved himself up from his sodden blankets, crusty salt deposits giving a white sheen to the grey wool. The night had been the worst Fronto could remember. Fortunately, his memories of it were blurred, scant and confused, given the amount of time he’d spent wrapped in his blanket, shivering and trying to shut out the world.
Despite Carbo and Galronus’ assurance that the conditions, while foul, were not enough to capsize or wreck the ship, the legate had remained unconvinced and had shut himself away from all the horror around him.
There had been two rainstorms during the crossing, neither of which had apparently been particularly disastrous; not enough to cause concern among the sailors anyway. The officers had their leather shelter to retire to, but to Fronto it merely appeared to funnel the wet, salty wind into a bone-chilling draft that left the blankets almost as wet and cold as those of the troops laying wrapped up on the open deck.
The weather had seemingly broken sometime after Fronto had collapsed into a worried, exhausted sleep, and the shout of sighted land roused the legate to a world of bright skies, scudding clouds and calm sea, though the chill in the air and the faint aroma of damp belied the image of a summer morning. Gulls whirled overhead, shrieking and crying their welcome to this, the island of the druids.
Galronus was already standing at the rail with Carbo and Atenos when Fronto staggered toward them, his legs weak and finding trouble with the rolling of the ship.
‘For the love of Juno!’
Galronus turned to the approaching legate and nodded. ‘Impressive isn’t it? My father visited Britannia when I was a young boy and told us of this coast. I always thought he must have embellished a little. It would appear not.’
Fronto dropped his elbow to the rail in a space between the others and goggled at the white line approaching them. The cliffs must be three hundred feet or more in height for, even at this distance, more than a mile out, they could be seen to tower over the water, rising and falling as small bays opened up along the line. The morning sun caught the white chalky surface straight on, creating a blinding ribbon of white.
‘I think I can see why Volusenus stayed on his ship.’
The three men around him nodded sagely.
‘I take it we’re at the front of the fleet, then? I would have thought Caesar’s ship would have stayed ahead of us.’
Carbo pointed off to one side. A trireme rose and fell with the waves some quarter of a mile to their right, its shape distinctive even at that distance. Half a dozen other ships could be seen scattered across the water between and behind them. Dots on the horizon suggested that the rest of the fleet was some way back. The general had chosen to travel in one of the less stable Roman ships, rather than a Gallic trader, as befitted a praetor.
‘The trireme is Caesar’s I can see the red banners.’
‘You’ve got better eyes than mine.’
Carbo smiled. ‘I did a rough count of the ships within sight as soon as it was light enough. I could see roughly half the fleet. I’m very much hoping that the two storms separated us and slowed many vessels down. I’d hate to think that an entire legion’s worth of ships ended up turning back or, worse still, at the bottom of the sea.’
Fronto shuddered. He had trouble imagining a worse fate.
‘We’ll be there in about a quarter hour according to the sailor I spoke to’ confirmed Galronus. ‘Caesar’s ship seems to be angling toward us. I suspect we’re heading for that dip there.’ Fronto followed Galronus’ pointing finger and spotted a bay, slightly wider than the others, nestled between two particularly high sections of cliff.
The legate leaned over the rail and smiled faintly. They were almost across. He’d not been sick since the previous evening, but then it was difficult to see how there could be anything left inside to bring up. A quick probe of his torso confirmed his suspicion: that he had eaten so little since arriving at Gesoriacum that his ribs were now quite prominent through his tunic. He resolved to eat like a horse – possibly even to eat a horse – once they were safely on land.
The calm water raced by along the hull of the strong Gallic ship, the low waves picking up a little in intensity as they neared the cliffs, though nothing compared to those they had experienced during the night. Looking up and ahead once more, Fronto could not help but be impressed by the wall-like cliffs that protected the druids’ isle from the clutches of their enemies. Already, while contemplating his weight loss and the intensity of the waves, the ship had covered half the distance toward the sheltered bay and the cliffs that loomed ever higher.
‘Well. Time for me to get to work’ muttered Carbo, pushing himself back and smacking his vine staff against his bronze greaves. His face shone almost luminously pink, the morning cold and the sea air accentuating his already ruddy complexion. Turning, he began to bellow out orders to the other centurions, optios, signifers and men of the Tenth, calling the present centuries of the legion to stand to ready for disembarkation.
Fronto smiled at the efficiency of his men and then turned again, resting his chin on his folded arms upon the rail until the rocking motion threatened to set off his guts again. Caesar’s trireme was closing on them now, keeping pace, as was another Celtic ship to the far side. Those behind were doing their best to put on an extra turn of speed and catch up with the vanguard of the fleet.
Atenos grinned at him and left to attend to his duties. Galronus, on the other hand, had no duties yet; his cavalry turma was scattered around the fleet wherever there was room.
The cliffs rose sharply from the bay with a flat landing area not more than five hundred paces across between the slopes. Trees crowded in the dip and a wide expanse of woodland was visible stretching back behind, the forest starting only a few hundred paces from the edge of the water. As he watched, Fronto began to discern the trails of wood smoke from at least a dozen buildings somewhere close within the woodland. Clearly this bay housed a settlement, shrouded by the trees.
The heights, by comparison, seemed denuded, the white walls topped by a narrow line of green that suggested rolling grass above, dotted with only the occasional struggling, wind-blown tree.
‘Stand to. All hands stand to.’
Without need for the issuing of commands, the Gallic sailors began to haul on ropes and busy themselves with the sail. Calls were put out in the language of the Gauls, and the ship burst into a bustle of life. Fronto turned back to face their destination, ignoring the activity. He could hardly care less about the details that were required to make a ship work.
Something ahead drew his attention, though.
‘Did you see that?’
Galronus frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘On the cliff. Movement on the top. There it is again.’
The Belgic officer turned his furrowed brow to the coast and squinted. ‘I see it. On the right hand cliff: scattered movement.’
‘And on the left.’
Now the ships were coming close enough to land that Fronto found his head beginning to crane upwards gradually to see the occasional movement at the cliff tops.
‘Shepherds?’ muttered Galronus.
‘Too many. And at this time of the morning, that many people up there can only have something to do with us. I think Carbo was wrong about us surprising them.’
As if to confirm his suspicions his attention was drawn back to their immediate surroundings as the water nearby made a ‘plopping’ sound.
‘What was that?’
His question was answered instantly as an arrow disappeared into the water only twenty paces from the bow with another plop. Glancing up, Fronto could now see dozens of figures standing perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Even as he watched, more arrows began to arc out from the land and plummet toward the advancing ships. His eyes followed one of the shafts down and into the waves just off to the right. A moment later something small and heavy that could only be a sling shot plopped into the water.
‘Back!’ he yelled. ‘Err… reverse! Back! Retreat.’
Turning from the rail, he began to wave his arms, motioning the ship’s crew to pull the vessel back out of range.
‘Get us out of range of those missiles. They could kill half of us before we land.’
The sailors were now rushing in a panic, trying to slow the momentum of the vessel, while turning her, ponderously. Fronto watched, his nerves twanging, aware with some irritation that Caesar’s trireme, which had encountered the same reception and had decided on the same course of action, simply reversed their stroke. It was a difficult task and took master sailors to pull it off as smoothly as they were doing, but the effect was to move the trireme out of danger considerably faster than the slow arc taken by this great cow of a ship.
A scream echoed across the morning water from the left. The other Gallic ship had begun to turn and slow a little later and had already come within range, some poor sod becoming the first casualty of Britannia before even touching its soil.
As if to remind Fronto of the more immediate danger to himself, another arrow scratched a line across the timber at the prow of the ship as it whizzed past and into the water.
‘Faster, damnit! They’ve got our range.’
But the ship had slowed considerably now and even as Fronto held his breath the prow began to come round, angling toward Caesar’s vessel and then away, bringing them out of range of the arrows.
A horn blast rang out from the trireme, calling the fleet to converge on the general’s position. Slowly, the Gallic vessel closed on Caesar’s ship, others turning as they approached. Fronto’s gaze slid back to the cliffs that were now slipping away on his left hand side. He would be willing to swear that the number of small figures on the cliff tops had doubled since they had arrived only a few moments earlier.
Waiting patiently, Fronto watched the trireme as they closed on it, and finally identified Caesar standing at the rail, gesturing to him. As soon as he judged he was within shouting distance, Fronto cleared his throat and took a cold, deep and salty breath.
‘A warm reception, general.’
He could not quite make out the expression on the general’s face.
‘What…. landing…. bay….. think?’ called Caesar. Fronto waggled his finger in his ear, cupped his hand around it meaningfully and shrugged. Behind him, the ship’s crew slowed the vessel as it approached the trireme, careful to avoid interfering with the oars that drove it.
‘I said’ yelled the general, ‘what are our chances of landing in that bay intact, do you think, Fronto?’
‘Virtually nil!’ he shouted back. ‘If they could hit us out at sea with those arrows, they could just as easily hit us on the beach. We’d be cut down like wheat before we could move inland.’
‘Agreed!’ Caesar bellowed as the figure of Brutus appeared alongside him.
‘We have time to decide, sir’ the legate of the Eighth called. ‘It will be a few hours yet before all the stragglers reach us. Besides, we could do with waiting for the afternoon tide, to avoid falling foul of rocks on the coast.’
The general paused thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Very well. Can you still hear me Fronto?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll gather here and let the fleet assemble out of missile range. Then we’ll move up the coast to the northeast, looking for a better landing spot. We need somewhere gentle enough to land safely, and wide enough that we cannot be prey for archers as we are here.’
Fronto gave the general a sour look. ‘Or we could just turn around. Volusenus sailed this coast for five days and found it inhospitable enough to not even try to land.’
He could sense the general’s irritation, even without being close enough to make out his expression. ‘If you’d studied the map, Fronto, you would have seen that there are long stretches of lower coastline in both directions. We will find a suitable spot this afternoon.’
‘I only hope half of Britannia isn’t waiting for us by then’ Fronto yelled. ‘The population up on those cliffs is growing all the time, and I think I can see horsemen up there now.’
‘The entire population of Britannia would hardly be a worry for my veteran Tenth, eh, Fronto?’
Grimacing at the general, Fronto reached up and caressed the bandy-legged figure hanging around his neck, his eyes straying to the growing force arrayed on the cliff top and awaiting them.
* * * * *
The fleet had gradually assembled over the morning and into the early afternoon and by the time the cool sun had passed an hour beyond its zenith the sea to the south was clear of shapes. Shouted reports and commands from ship to ship had come up with a roll-call figure that was only four ships short of the fleet that had left Gesoriacum, though whether those four were safely back in port or decorating Neptune’s triclinium remained to be seen. The very thought sent a chilly shudder through Fronto every time he considered it.
At some time part way through the afternoon, Brutus and his captains had announced that the tide was suitable and would remain so for a while, and the fleet began to move again, calls going out from musicians aboard Caesar’s vessel. The mass flotilla turned slowly and proceeded up the channel, keeping the forbidding cliffs on their left and staying safely out of arrow shot. Fronto had lost count of the number of times he’d thanked the gods that the Celts seemed to have no interest in the development of artillery. The idea of a stone-throwing onager up there just did not bear thinking about.
Regardless, the mass of Britons at the top of the cliffs had grown constantly during the wait, to the point where it could now only be considered an army. As well as the large number of horsemen that had slowly gathered, there were also fast moving shapes that could only be chariots. It looked to Fronto as though the tribes of Britannia were gathering to prevent the Roman ships landing, as was almost certainly the case. So much for Caesar’s allies, hostages and so on.
Though the weather remained dry and relatively bright, the sky was still scattered with scudding and drifting grey cloud, the sun providing little heat to take the chill from the sea air. A nervous tension had begun to set in among the men that Fronto could feel without seeing or hearing anything specific. The men were growing increasingly unhappy.
Nervous eyes had fallen on the cliff as the ships ploughed their way up the channel in search of a safe harbour in which to land. The force of barbarians moved swiftly and easily along the coastline, following the cliff tops and dipping down into each narrow bay, keeping pace with the Roman fleet with little difficulty, a worryingly large force of cavalry and chariots leading the way.
No matter how easy the landing place Caesar chose, the Roman forces would encounter strong resistance in setting up a beach head.
Fronto’s own nervousness began to increase alongside his men as the miles slipped by until, after perhaps two hours further sailing, shadowed by the growing army of Celts, a call went out from Caesar’s trireme and the fleet began to converge again.
The cliffs had been gradually falling away for the last quarter hour and ahead they finally descended to a low, flat beachy area. Beyond, nothing but dunes and low hillocks marred the easy ground as far as the eye could see. Even Fronto, whose nerves were beginning to twang they were so taut, could see the sense in reaching this terrain before attempting a landing.
Another call rang out: the order to beach and, as the ships of the fleet angled toward land, Fronto’s eyes flicked repeatedly to the shore, as did those of many of the ship’s occupants. A large force of native warriors had begun to assemble at the rear of the wide beach, with more arriving on the scene all the time.
The Tenth’s legate leaned on the rail at the bow and watched as the land came ever closer, Caesar’s trireme closing up on their right as another big merchant vessel moved into position on their left. The noise became cacophonous: a crescendo of shouting, horn calls, whistles, cries of alarm and more. The sailors of every ship bellowed their commands, keeping the fleet in line as it approached. The commanders of the troops aboard shouted orders to their men, falling in each century ready to make landing. Somewhere below, Galronus’ horse neighed and cried nervously.
On land, the chariots had come forward and were now racing up and down the beach, daring the Roman invaders to land. Each vehicle was drawn by a pair of horses, harnessed with sturdy leathers to a lightweight chariot that was little more than a wood-and-wicker wheeled fighting platform. Each chariot was driven by a half-naked warrior, his body painted with whorls and designs, his wild hair whipping about in the wind as he rode the traces, reins clutched tightly in each hand. The sheer skill and dexterity of these men as they leapt about between the horses while controlling the chariot would put to shame any professional at the circus in Rome. But despite the phenomenal sight of such activity, Fronto’s eyes were drawn to the figures on the chariots themselves. Each vehicle carried but one man alongside the driver and each man was clearly a leader or a powerful warrior. They were all fully clothed, mostly armoured with mail shirts or bronze plated chest-pieces, and helmeted in the most elaborate way, with plumes atop many. Some warriors carried a shield visibly similar to those held by the legionaries – if a little smaller – painted with bright designs and sometimes the images of wild animals. Most carried a long, gleaming sword, held aloft in a triumphant fashion, and all gripped spears in their off-or-shield hand.
There were enough of them to fill the beach and endanger each other as they passed and turned, churning up the sand and throwing sheets of it into the air to the whoops of the crowd of warriors and cavalry behind them.
More and more detail became visible as the ships of the Roman fleet closed on the sand.
Fronto gritted his teeth and watched.
The legate’s first indication that there was a problem was when he received a dazing blow to the forehead from the heavy timber hull at the ship’s bow. Shaking his head in confusion, he untangled his legs and hauled himself back to his feet to a background of calls of alarm and the crash of dozens of mailed men in chaos.
The ship had come to a dead halt, the sudden loss of momentum catapulting those at the rail into the solid timbers and sweeping almost every other man on board from his feet. Hauling himself up and ignoring all the shouts and hollers around him, Fronto peered over the rail. Concentrating hard, occasionally, though the foam and the distortions of the waves, he could see pebbles.
‘We’ve run aground!’ he shouted, immediately aware of how obvious the statement was. The triremes around them were still ghosting forward, but the Celtic ships, with their deep hulls were all falling foul of the gentle submerged slope, slamming to a sudden halt and throwing the centuries of men to the deck in a tangle.
Whoops of delight and derision rose from the beach. A few enterprising archers among the Briton tribesmen rushed forward and released a shot over the heads of the charioteers. While none of the missiles actually reached the ships, odd ones hissed into the water close enough to cause alarm.
With the swift reactions one would expect from the experienced commanders of the Roman vessels, the triremes slowed their advance toward land and began back-oaring to the same distance as the beached Celtic vessels. Galronus frowned at the manoeuver and looked across at Fronto next to him.
‘Why are they pulling back?’
‘Two thirds of the fleet are these big bastards that won’t get to the beach. If Caesar lands he’ll only have a third of his troops with him. It’d be suicide.’
Galronus shook his head in disbelief. ‘A landing thwarted by four feet of water? Someone’s going to lose their balls for misjudging the slope of the beach.’
‘I don’t think so’ Fronto shook his head. ‘It will have been Brutus and the trireme’s captain, but Caesar will have made the decision. The big question is: what do we do next?’
Almost as if to answer his question calls began to issue from the trireme, from the general’s personal cornicen, calls that were relayed by other musicians until the sequence of notes rang out across the fleet.
‘That sounds like the advance!’ Galronus blinked. ‘But not quite.’
‘That’ Fronto said flatly ‘is the order for the Seventh to advance.’
‘But the Seventh are mostly in the same position as your Tenth.’
‘Yes.’
The legate was suddenly aware of the presence of his primus pilus by his elbow. ‘Is the general losing his wits, sir?’
‘No. He’s ordering the Seventh to attack the beach.’
‘But there’s four or five feet of water down there if not more. And why not us? The Tenth are more damn use than the Seventh any day.’
‘But the Seventh are dispensable as far as he’s concerned. He won’t risk losing the Tenth, but the Seventh are full of the former Pompeians, dissidents and anyone who rings a warning bell. That’s why they were chosen for this campaign. The Seventh are here to take the shit thrown at us and the Tenth are here to mop it all up and support the general.’
Galronus lowered his voice and leaned closer to Fronto. ‘You realise this is the perfect trigger to kick off a row between Cicero and Caesar?’
‘If Cicero’s nearby, yes. But look at the circumstances. The wrong call here could cost us hundreds of lives; thousands even. Hardly worth the risk, I’d say.’
‘Oh crap.’ Though the shout came from one of the soldiers back across the deck, and was immediately followed by the crack of an officer’s stick across him for speaking out of turn, the call drew Fronto’s eyes inexorably back to the beach and the waiting Celtic horde.
The archers among the force were moving between the chariots and toward the edge of the water, nocking arrows as they ran.
‘If they start to loose and we’re still beached, we’re in real trouble.’
‘Where are the Seventh then?’ asked Galronus, his eyes playing across the many vessels drawn up opposite the beach. ‘I can’t see anyone advancing.’
‘They’re not’ said Carbo. ‘It looks like their officers and men are refusing the order to advance.’
‘Someone’s got to do something’ Galronus frowned. ‘If we just sit here the archers will start killing people any moment.’
A series of notes issued from a ship two vessels to their left and, glancing across, Fronto could see a trireme flying the vexillum of the Seventh legion. Cicero’s ship.
‘That’s the rally call. What the hell is he up to?’
Rushing across the deck, Fronto leaned over the port rail. He could only just see Cicero’s trireme over the bulk of the Gallic ship between them. Certainly the likelihood of anyone hearing him was negligible.
‘Cicero! You have to advance! Screw the general’s call; the Tenth will go with you!’
There was no acknowledgement of the call for a long moment and then suddenly a figure appeared at the rail of the ship between them. The transverse crest of his helmet marked him as a centurion.
‘Legate Fronto?’
A cold stone sank into the pit of Fronto’s stomach as he recognised the voice of Furius.
‘What?’
‘Half the damn officers are encouraging their men to refuse the order!’
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. This was what came of an ‘all the bad eggs in one basket’ policy. ‘What about you?’ he called, narrowing his eyes. There was something urgent and angry about the centurion’s manner.
‘I’m not prepared to stay here and get shot at.’
‘Good. All together, then?’
‘Our eagle won’t go. He’s cowering on the command ship. Bad luck to charge without the eagle. You know that!’
Fronto looked around his own vessel urgently. Julius Pictor, the eagle bearer of the Tenth crouched by the rail, keeping his head down as he watched the approaching archers.
‘Sound the advance! Pictor… I want you first in the water. Make sure that eagle’s held high so that everyone can see it.’
The aquilifer turned and stared at him wide-eyed. Though he said nothing, his head began to shake almost involuntarily. Fronto glared at him. ‘In the water, Pictor. You’re one of the Tenth, not a street urchin!’
‘Oh for the love of Mars!’ snapped Petrosidius, the first century’s standard bearer, stepping away from his unit. Reaching down, he grasped Pictor by the crossed-and-tied paws of the wolf skin that covered his helmet and hauled him to his feet, and indeed almost off the ground. The eagle lurched in the man’s hand and nearly went overboard.
‘Consider yourself demoted, piss-britches!’ Petrosidius growled, ripping the shining silver eagle staff from the cowering man’s hand and thrusting his own bulky standard into the open grasp. ‘Follow on and try not to soil yourself.’
The standard bearer turned to Fronto and raised his brows in question. Fronto nodded.
‘Tenth legion: on me!’
Without another word, Petrosidius placed a hand on the rail and vaulted over the side with the strength and agility of a man half his age, plummeting into the waves beside the ship.
With an audible moan of dismay, the men of the Tenth rushed over to the rail, where there was no sign of Petrosidius but the churning water where he had entered. There was a horrible pause and then suddenly, with an explosion of foam, the head and shoulders of the big standard bearer rose from the sea, followed by the silver eagle that glittered and shone.
‘Come on in, ladies. The water’s fine.’
Grinning, the wolf pelt over his helmet plastered down to the metal, Petrosidius began to move laboriously toward the beach with the difficulty of a man in chest-deep water. There was a splash nearby and Fronto glanced up to see centurion Furius rise from the sea’s surface, yelling encouragement to his men.
The dam broke.
With a roar, the men of the Tenth and the Seventh began to hurl themselves from the ships into the chest-deep water, many throwing their shields ahead and trying to jump on to them. Fronto turned to Galronus and grinned.
‘I’m guessing the cavalry won’t be taking part!’
The Remi officer laughed. ‘I think not. The general will be irritated that you took the Tenth in, you know that?’
‘Not as irritated as he’d be if we all stayed here and died on deck. ‘Scuse me. I’ve a battle to fight.’ With a wicked grin, Fronto grasped the rail and threw himself over.