(Gesoriacum)
Fronto glanced left and right in the almost claustrophobic press of the testudo, his vision filled with mail-shirted torsos, dirt-streaked arms, sweat and dripping water. Brutus gave him an equally helpless look.
‘We’ve got to take control of the street or we’re done for!’ Fronto shouted.
‘On the bright side, they’ll stop firing things at us once they’re carving us up!’
‘We’ll have to break the testudo – get the men at the front to split off and deal with the ambushers. They can block the windows with their shields and maybe kill the bastards while they’re at it.’
Brutus nodded, taking a deep breath. ‘Then we can form a defensive retreat up the hill. You take the lead and I’ll form the rearguard.’
The two men held one another’s gaze for a moment and then Fronto returned the nod.
‘At my command,’ he bellowed ‘the front tent party in each line will break formation. Pick a target from the men shooting at us. Get to his window, take him out and block off any further attack with your shield. Hold that window until further orders.’
Pausing, he could hear the war cries of the Morini closing on their rear and steeled himself.
‘Break!’
The men of the Tenth and Seventh legions that led the advancing ‘tortoise’ immediately scattered at the command, eight contubernia splitting off, their shields coming up directly in front as they ran to protect them from the inevitable missiles pouring out of the open shutters of the low, squat Gaulish buildings, their swords gripped ready for action.
It was obvious to Fronto’s professional eye which legion was which even when scattered. The Tenth had been a proud unit with a strong bond among its men, well-trained and constantly drilled over years by some of the best officers the republic had to offer. The Seventh was a recent hotchpotch of men from different legions as yet new to working together as a unit, lacking the focused training of a veteran legion. Almost every man in the Tenth marked a window and ran for it, a contubernium of eight men held back for a moment, ready to take the place of any man who fell on the way. The men of the Seventh, however, moved in sporadic groups, often two or three men marking the same window.
Fabius and Furius would have their work cut out over winter if they survived all this.
An archer at one of the nearest windows managed to pick off his attacker as the legionary pelted across the street, the arrow taking him in the chest and knocking him back to the slippery, muddy road, tripping the next legionary so that they rolled down the gentle, messy slope in a tangle. Before Fronto could shout the order, two of the reserve party were moving. While one ran off up the street after a different target, the other raised his shield and charged the window where the archer was busy nocking another arrow as fast as he could. The legionary, two broken shafts already protruding from his shield from his time in the testudo, angled his shield slightly to lessen the chance of the arrow punching straight through as he ran. The archer proved to be both quick and surprisingly accurate as the arrow thrummed out of the window and punched into the wood and leather. A look of wide-eyed desperation fell across his face as he desperately fumbled another arrow from the sheaf on the timber in front of him and tried to bring it up in time to loose again at the legionary.
There was clearly no time and the Roman was upon him before he could draw the string back. As the soldier swatted the bow aside with an almost contemptuous and amazingly dextrous flick of his shield, the archer screamed, his arm broken by the bronze edging strip. He floundered, dropping the bow from useless fingers, and reached down for the hilt of the sword at his side. The legionary leapt up, leaning in through the window and driving his gladius though the man’s throat before twisting it and ripping it back out.
The archer fell away, gurgling and clutching his neck with his good hand, blood spraying up and around the window, while somewhere back in the dim interior lit only by the glow of the warming fire a woman screamed and threw a red clay bowl that skimmed the legionary’s helmet and crashed out into the street. A quick glance inside confirmed for the soldier that no other missile wielders occupied the room and he set his shield to block the aperture, keeping only enough space free to peer over the top and keep watch on the woman.
Similar stories were playing out along both sides of the street. Here and there a legionary had fallen foul of a well-aimed arrow or slingshot, or a sword or spear thrust from a better prepared defender. It seemed, though, that the ambushers had not expected such an efficient and organised reaction, and only one Gaul had taken position at each window. With only seven men down, the small Roman force had quickly taken control of the street’s edges, nullifying the dangerous crossfire. The last few stones and arrows bounced down to the ground and allowed the hiss of the rain and the roar of the pursuing Morini to fill the air once more.
Brutus had pushed his way through the centre of the mass of legionaries, most of whom were still holding to an almost testudo formation until further orders came. Arriving at the rear of the small force, he strained his ears, listening out. After a few tense heartbeats, during which the Morini began to rain blows down upon the shields of the rearmost legionaries, he finally heard Fronto’s call that the missiles had been nullified.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped his sword tight in his hand and looked about.
‘On my command, everyone but the rear four ranks will turn and break toward the fort, taking further orders from legate Fronto when you reach him. The rest of you will hold with me until we have room to manoeuvre.’
Fixing his thoughts arbitrarily on a number that would give Fronto plenty of time to consolidate further up the hill, Brutus counted to ten and bellowed ‘Now!’
Almost two thirds of the force in the street, some two hundred men, broke from the party and began to hurtle up the incline toward the looming shape of the fort walls, their passage now safe, legionaries from Fronto’s vanguard holding the windows against further assaults.
‘Right!’ Brutus yelled. ‘On my next command, the entire force will take three quick steps back and reform as a solid shield wall three men deep that fills the street. Mark your position in advance. There cannot be any gaps!’
Even as he prepared to give the order, the legionary in front of him suddenly exploded like a ripe melon, a Morini axe finding its way over the top of the unfortunate soldier’s shield and cleaving both helmet and skull in its descent. Brutus spluttered for a moment, stunned and coated in blood and brain matter as he saw the axe man withdraw his weapon with the grating of bone and a slopping sound, pulling it back for another blow. There was little room in the press to react with the sword which was held down by his side and he bore no shield.
‘Reform!’ he bellowed, bracing himself.
As the axe reached its apex and began its extended descent toward the Roman officer, Brutus felt the press of men around him suddenly give as they shifted into position and he found himself almost manhandled back out of the way as a legionary stepped in front of him and brought his shield up high. The axe buried itself in the wood, becoming lodged only half a foot from the boss. Grimly, the legionary heaved the heavy, cumbersome shield and trapped weapon to the side a touch – enough to drive his gladius into the pit beneath the man’s extended arm.
Not even waiting to see him die, the soldier pulled the blade back and closed the gap. Some of the weight on his shield fell away as the warrior expired and released his grip on the axe, though the weapon itself remained wedged.
Brutus, his heart pounding a tattoo in his chest, stepped back a few paces and took stock. The seething mass of the Morini tribe were now held back by a thin shield wall. It would do for a while, but not for long.
‘On my command, the line will begin to withdraw in good order up the street toward the fort.’
He took a deep breath and raised his voice enough to double as a signal for Fronto back up the street.
‘On the count of five, strike and then take two paces back and reform.’
‘One… two… three… four… five!’
En masse the thirty men angled their shields and stabbed out into the mass of howling Gauls, took two steps back and locked shields again.
‘Good!’ Brutus bellowed. ‘Now we repeat the move until we reach the fort. And I can’t afford to lose the line, so any man who dies will get docked a week’s pay!’
A laugh rippled through the desperate defence despite the situation, and Brutus straightened.
‘Here we go… One!’
Further up the street, Fronto heard Brutus’ shouted commands and sighed with relief. They might pull themselves out of this after all. Watching the approaching men who had broken from Brutus’ force, he felt a lurch of worry again as he realised how few soldiers his fellow legate had left himself to bar the way to the enemy.
‘You men’ he addressed the legionaries guarding the windows. ‘You will hold position until the rearguard reaches you and then fall in and join their line as they pull back.’
Pinching his nose, he looked down at the blade hanging from his hand. He’d not even drawn blood yet. Was this what it felt like to be a normal commander? Ordering men around with no personal involvement? Blinking, he refocused on the large force of soldiers slowing as they reached him. No time to muse on the nature of command now.
‘You men come with me. I want you formed into an advancing shield wall. The bulk of the enemy may be behind us, but there could yet be Gauls between us and safety. Someone was trying to burn the gate, after all. Form up and prepare to advance in good order.’
The legionaries, a confused mix of the Seventh and Tenth, quickly formed into a column ten men wide, the front line holding their shields up ready to meet any resistance.
‘Advance at the steady march.’
With the slow, determined tramp of a marching legion, the column of protected and armed legionaries began to stomp up the road toward the camp. Up here, the houses of the Morini townsfolk – rebels? – petered out with no archers in windows threatening them, and were replaced by small orchards, vegetable gardens, animal pens and patches of waste ground.
Closer they moved until finally the path curved slightly and gave them their first clear view of the fort. Fronto grinned. Rufus had really gone to work on his fortifications. An extra ditch had been dug around the fort, and the joins between it and the new settlement ramparts had been severed and cleared, the ditches extended through them.
The smoke that had appeared to be from an attempted burning of the gate proved instead to be the charring, smouldering remains of the Morini’s attempt at creating a vinea – a protective mobile shelter – that they had apparently used to cover a battering ram. The ram itself was now a huge, black cinder in the centre of the smoking pile, hissing in the rain.
The fort had held and held well. The amount of churned mud and destruction around the outer ditch and the bodies piled within it suggested that the siege was probably in its second or even third day now.
‘Come on, lads. We’re clear’ he shouted to the legionaries.
A few figures appeared at the top of the gate, on the parapet. A man with a transverse crest on his helmet, visible in the light of a guttering torch, turned and bellowed out commands. Fronto could not quite hear what the man had said, but the words ‘Roman’ and ‘relief’ were definitely among them.
The fort’s gate began to swing open and the duty centurion and his men issued out in full battle array, looking about as relieved as Fronto had ever seen a man. The advancing force came to a halt and Fronto strode out ahead.
The centurion saluted and grinned. His face was streaked black with soot and dark circles hung under his eyes.
‘It’s very good to see you, sir. Can I ask what legions you bring?’
Fronto sheathed his sword and coughed quietly.
‘Just four centuries of the Seventh and Tenth returned from Britannia, I’m afraid. We’re not so much a relief force as fellow prisoners.’
The centurion tried to hide his disappointment, his face hardening. ‘Then it’s good to see you back, sir. Legate Rufus is in the headquarters building. I assume you’ll want to see him straight away?’
‘I will. Legate Brutus is on his way up the hill with the rearguard, followed by a sizeable force of Gauls. Get these men fell in with your own and prepared in case they decide the night can stand another attack yet.’
The centurion nodded as Fronto strode in through the gates.
* * * * *
‘Legate Rufus sends these with his compliments, sir.’
Fronto turned, taking some care on the slimy timbers of the rampart walkway, to see an optio from the Ninth saluting him, two legionaries behind him carrying a bundle of pila some twenty-odd in number, bound into a sheaf with leather ties.
‘Thank you. I suspect we’ll need them. Looks like they’ll coming back for another try any time now.’
The two soldiers struggled up the ramp to the parapet with their burden and then upended it to rest against the palisade wall, saluting as they caught their breath before turning and jogging back the way they had come. The junior officer threw out another salute and marched back to his duties.
Geminius, a hard-bitten ginger haired centurion with a flat nose and a hare-lip that showed failed stitch-marks, grinned his ugly grin along the palisade.
‘Shall I distribute them, sir.’
‘Go ahead.’
Fronto watched Geminius as he began the task. The centurion was one of the two from the Tenth who had disembarked with him last night, the other having fallen foul of a particularly vicious sword wound in the retreat up the street from the port, and currently waiting to greet Hades in person in the makeshift hospital. The wounded centurion’s optio had only been made up in Britannia and was, as yet, not ready to take full command and so Geminius had combined the survivors of the two centuries into one outsized unit that had been given the northeast sector of wall.
‘Lounging about again?’
Fronto turned at Priscus’ voice, too tired to anger – he’d found that since his explosion of untamed rage in Britannia anger was slow to come and less common, or possibly he was deliberately making it so. He’d had less than an hour’s sleep since leaving Britannia and the fatigue was beginning to wear him down. The rain had stopped at dawn to the great relief of the men, clearing the sky and bringing a cold wind and pale sun that totally failed to dry up any of the standing water. For the thousandth time, Fronto wished he was in Puteoli with a bunch of grapes and the timetable for the races. It seemed so far away in both distance and probability.
‘Haven’t you got to be annoying somewhere else, Gnaeus?’
‘I am free of duties for a grand total of quarter of an hour in order to halt my steady descent into starvation.’
The prefect produced a cloth-wrapped bundle and opened it to reveal two small loaves of freshly-baked bread, half a cheese, and a small bowl of meat chunks the origin of which Fronto was not about to question. It was common knowledge that cheese was in ridiculously short supply and that meat had run out before they had even arrived.
‘I hope you shaved the rat first.’
Ignoring the meat, he gratefully tore off a piece of bread and a chunk of cheese, only realising as he bit down on them how hungry he was and how much his stomach was growling.
‘All quiet?’ Priscus enquired lightly
‘Sort of…’
The Morini had given them a period of grace after the column had reached the fort, pulling back out of range of the walls to change tactic. The new arrivals had had little time to rest, though. After an hour’s meeting with Rufus, Brutus and Priscus, Fronto had managed maybe three quarters of an hour of shut-eye before the alarm sounded and the army rushed to the defences to prepare for the next onslaught. Rufus had explained unhappily that this routine had been going on now for days, the locals never giving them more than four or five hours of rest.
‘They’re not going to rest until they have the fort.’
Fronto shook his head. ‘They know there are still several Roman legions out there, as well as the cavalry. It’s a matter of time. They need to wipe out this garrison and then disappear into the woods before another army appears. I can see what they’re planning; I just can’t see why they’ve gone this far. I just can’t figure what triggered it?’
Priscus swallowed his mouthful and cleared his throat. ‘I talked to Rufus about it. I gather the Morini were never truly under Caesar’s thumb by the end of last year. To expect them to sit by and let us use their main settlements as a campaign base was maybe a little short-sighted.’ He leaned closer. ‘Personally, I think they were expecting you to come back from campaign rich and loaded down with slaves. I think it was an ill-conceived and opportunistic attempt to essentially rob the victors of their spoils. It’s all gone wrong for them though, as only two ships made it back to harbour. I expect they’ve looted your ships and are still hungry for more.’
‘I can only assume that Sabinus is doing his job well, though’ Fronto countered. ‘I don’t know how many there are in the town, but I wouldn’t estimate more than six thousand. Rufus reckoned there were probably three times that number when the Ninth were first attacked. If it weren’t for Sabinus and Cotta out there standing on various necks, the number besieging us here would be growing, not shrinking.’
‘There are more. They’re just hidden in the woods in a cordon, keeping us trapped here. We tried sallying out to get provisions after the first assault and it was a bloody massacre. Lost three centuries of the Ninth and they never even reached the tree line. Don’t underestimate them, Marcus. They reduced the Ninth by about a third of their manpower and sealed them up in this fort in a matter of hours.’
Fronto turned to his friend. ‘They’re not going to keep me pinned here until Hades reaches out for me. I’ve a longstanding arrangement with the bookmakers at Rome and Puteoli; I’ve half a cellar of good quality wine; and I’ve a very attractive, if controlling, young lady waiting for me to make her officially betrothed.’
‘Then you’d best tell them that’ Priscus said quietly, casting aside his bread uneaten and pointing over the palisade. Fronto did not need to look. He could hear the roar.
‘Geminius? Time to use those new pila.’
The centurion nodded and turned to the men lined up along the wooden wall, tapping his vine stick on his greaves impatiently.
‘Pilum at the ready. Mark your man and check the soldier on each side to make sure you’ve not doubled up.’
Priscus and Fronto drew their blades and strode over to the wall. ‘You staying for the show?’ Fronto asked, reaching down and collecting the shield leaning against it, settling it into place.
‘Why not? I was getting sick of riding my desk into battle. Got a spare shield?’
Fronto nodded to a stack of five slightly damaged spares and, as Priscus collected one and gripped it ready, he crossed to the wall and looked over. The slope from this corner of the fort – the northeast – descended quite gently through a large apple orchard. Beyond the ditches, the ramparts of the town sloped away to the north on his left, the settlement itself only visible beyond as a jumble of roofs interspersed with trees. The view here was excellent; despite the apple trees that obscured the slope, the fields beyond opened up and were clear and visible for at least two miles, where they met the edge of the forest.
What was of more urgent interest, however, were the scattered forms of the Morini rebels scrabbling up the slope beneath the trees.
‘They look a touch desperate?’ Priscus noted.
‘I thought that’ Fronto replied with a frown. ‘They’re coming up dangerously fast and not at all carefully.’
‘Release’ bellowed Geminius. The legionaries along the wall, each having selected an approaching Gaul, cast their pilum with an expert arm, the twenty four missiles arcing out over the palisade and descending into the trees. Fronto watched with a sense of pride in his legion as the pila punched into torsos, heads and limbs, tearing through them and inflicting horrible injuries, often killing outright. In several cases the plummeting, screaming bodies of the warriors knocked their fellows from their feet and brought them down in a jumble, coming to rest against tree trunks. Others were pinned to trees or the ground, transfixed in agony. One particularly brave warrior, affixed to a tree with a pilum through his middle, was hauling himself painfully forward off the weapon, leaving a trail of gore along its length.
‘Get ready!’ the centurion shouted. The legionaries who had cast the pila were already drawing their swords and stepping forward to protect the wall. Moments later, the first of the Morini reached the outer ditch, which had been rendered somewhat ineffective now by the large quantities of brush and rubbish that had been tipped into it over the past few days to grant access to the walls. Leaping forward, the warriors pushed across the unstable and difficult infill. The second, inner, ditch was now of little more use then the first. Originally filled with pointed stakes to maim those crossing it, the lowest portion was now blocked with scattered bodies that obscured the stakes and lowered the gradient enough that the warriors hardly slowed to pass it.
And suddenly battle was joined. The majority of the pila, arrows and other missiles had been used up over the first day of attacks and the scorpions had fallen silent since then. The workshops had slowed their production – their manpower being reassigned to help hold the walls – and were largely given over now to the repair of mail, helmets and shields, rather than the production of helpful missiles.
Fronto was surprised not only at the desperate speed and ferocity of the attack, but also at their numbers. Over the past half day, each push had been several hours apart, carefully planned and often executed at a new position on the walls; usually two or three places at once. Moreover, the attacking forces had clearly been rotated each time, allowing many of the tribe to rest while the freshest warriors took their turn reducing the defending garrison. This attack was different: the mass of men storming up from the orchard, combined with the shouts of alarm from all around the fort, suggested that the Morini were committing every last man to this assault.
Two warriors, each with arm rings of bronze and mail shirts denoting their high status, rushed at Fronto’s position, charging up the slope of the inner ditch and continuing at speed to the bank of the rampart and the palisade. One had a long spear with a wicked blade, which he thrust up at Fronto from the flat between the rampart and the ditch, forcing the legate to raise his shield and knock the point aside; the spear clearly had enough reach to cause him trouble above the wooden palisade. The second warrior had thrown himself at the timber and managed to hook an arm over the top, his other hand bringing the long sword slowly up to a position where he could strike. Fronto, continually batting away the jabbing, probing spear, looked across quickly at Priscus, but the camp prefect was fighting his own spear-battle.
Just as the legate was trying to decide how best to deal with the two men, a third tribesman – a young man with no armour and a muddy face – leapt up from the ditch and threw a rope with a looped end with heart-stopping accuracy. The loop fell around the point of one of the wall timbers and slid downwards, tightening as it went.
He hardly had time to register the move, though, as the spear was there again, lunging for his face. Glancing across, he could see the second noble warrior almost pulled up to his chest, ready to throw himself over the defences and come at them from inside. One of Rufus’ reserve legionaries appeared as if from nowhere and ran at the man, smashing his shield boss into the climbing Morini noble and sending him back over the parapet with a shout of pain and alarm.
‘Good man!’ Fronto barked as he finally noticed an opening in the spearman’s attack. The warrior continually jabbed in a three-move sequence, after which he drew back for a moment, gaining position to begin once more. Smashing the heavy shield around and panting with the exertion, Fronto knocked the point aside; and again, and again. As the man took a single step back, the spear waggling in an ungainly manner, Fronto swung sword and shield toward one another, the shield sideways and rim-out. The two edges connected on the spear about two feet below the head and smashed through the ash shaft, neatly trimming off the dangerous part.
There was a sudden crack and a creak as one of the wall timbers began to move outwards and separate from the rest. Alarmed, Fronto ducked forward to see four burly men hauling on the rope, pulling in an attempt to destroy a section of the wall. Almost contemptuously, Fronto leaned over and cut the rope with his gladius, trying not to grin as the four men fell back into the ditch, holding the severed rope.
His attention was neatly returned to the current dangers as the broken haft of the spear smashed into the side of his helmet, ringing it like a bell.
‘Right, you little turd!’ Fronto snarled, his eyes blurring slightly with the impact and his ears filled with the metallic ringing. Gripping his sword, he resettled the shield and prepared to deal with the attacker.
‘Look!’ bellowed Priscus as he smashed a man in the face with the bronze edging of his shield and then pulled back to point with his blood-soaked gladius. Fronto followed his gesture and grinned at the sight.
Two columns of gleaming silver and crimson were emerging from the trees to the northeast, with a large force of cavalry on their flank.
‘That’s why they were so damn desperate!’
Reaching down, Fronto tried to stab at the man with the broken spear, but the noble had turned and was already scrambling back down the hill. All around the fort cheers were rising from the defenders, as the discordant shrieks of the carnyx – the strange Gaulish horns – called the rebels to flee the field.
‘Must be Sabinus and Cotta both, looking at the size of that army!’ Priscus said with a grin. Fronto squinted and peered into the distance at the column, trying to hear over the ringing in his ears.
‘I can’t make the banners out yet, but I’m willing to bet Caesar’s with them. That looks like the Tenth in formation to me, and the show-off in red on the white horse has to be the general.’ Lowering the tip of his blade, he stepped back and blew out a relieved breath. ‘Looks like we’re saved.’
‘I only hope the old man brought several tons of beef stew with him’ Priscus grumbled. ‘I can’t feed the three thousand men we’ve got here, let alone the rest of the army!’
‘That’s right,’ grinned Fronto, ‘find the gloomy side to it.’
* * * * *
The general gave Fronto a curious look as he rode through the gate and the Tenth’s legate grinned back at him, blood-soaked and dirty.
‘I would ask what happened to you and Brutus, but I haven’t the energy now, Fronto. Come and see me at the headquarters once I’m out of my armour and have a bite to eat.’
Fronto nodded, his attention already locked on something else further down the column.
‘You alright?’ Priscus asked quietly next to him.
‘That’s the banner of the Fourteenth. I’ve words to have and a score to settle with a certain pair of tribunes.’
‘Don’t cause me extra work. I don’t want to have to organise your flogging.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t get caught doing anything wrong.’
‘Very reassuring’ Priscus replied sourly. ‘I’d best run. Caesar will no doubt have questions and endless requests for me and I have a few things to do first.’
Fronto half-heartedly waved him away, his eyes still on the flag of the Fourteenth. Plancus rode at the front as usual, his armour gleaming and not a spot of dirt on him. Fronto was staring in concern at the Fourteenth’s tribunes, who seemed to number but four with two conspicuously empty saddles, when he felt someone slap him on the shoulder. Turning in surprise, he saw Sabinus standing next to him.
‘You took your time.’
‘You’re welcome’ the staff officer replied with a weary smile. ‘I’ll catch up with you properly after a debrief, but we visited Nemetocenna on our circuit and there was a courier there looking for you. I told him I’d pass the message on.’
Fronto looked down at Sabinus’ outstretched hand, in which lay a small ivory scroll case. The seal of Balbus was clearly recognisable in the wax.
‘Thanks. I’ll have a read as soon as I get a moment’s peace. I’m looking for two of Plancus’ tribunes. Did you lose them in battle?’
Sabinus glanced up at the empty horses as they passed.
‘Those two? Hardly! I don’t think Menenius or Hortius would last ten heeartbeats in a real fight. They requested to be released of their commission in Nemetocenna so they could use the courier system to head home quickly. Plancus nearly spat teeth but I overrode him. The army will be better off without them, don’t you think?’
Fronto turned a slow, disbelieving gaze on Sabinus.
‘You did what?’
‘Well they’re hardly a blessing to a military unit, are they? I’d say they can be less harm in Rome. So I let them go.’
‘You idiot!’
Sabinus blinked at the venom in Fronto’s voice, but already the legate of the Tenth was stomping away angrily. His thoughts in turmoil, Fronto strode purposefully though without true purpose until he reached the empty granary at the centre of the fort, where he slowed and leaned against the timber wall, breathing heavily.
The pair had gone.
He’d blamed Sabinus, but somewhat unfairly. From a command perspective, it really did make sense, and it certainly removed a threat to Caesar that he was not even aware of. But where did it leave Fronto? He’d been determined to deal with the pair for what they had done, and military life would probably have presented him with half a dozen opportunities. Would he have those chances in Rome? Would he even be able to find them and get to them?
Angrily, he ground his teeth and finally looked down at the message in his hands. What did Balbus have to say? Perhaps he’d finally agreed the arrangements with Faleria. Despite the reluctance he’d once felt to think of the coming betrothal, he now found himself almost eagerly awaiting news. His thoughts slid happily to Lucilia and he felt himself beginning to calm and relax. Perhaps this was for the best. He would bring the vengeance of Nemesis down on the two tribunes in good time, but there were more important things in life…
He snapped the wax seal and was about to remove the contents when he spotted Fabius and Furius striding toward him, grinning like devils.
‘Tullus here worried that Neptune had dragged you to his depths when you got separated from the fleet’ Fabius laughed. ‘I personally doubt that even Neptune has the patience to deal with you!’
Fronto sighed and smiled weakly.
‘Sorry. Caught me at a bad time.’
‘So I see’ Furius frowned, gesturing at the liberal coating of grime and blood across Fronto’s armour.
‘No. It’s not that. Menenius and Hortius have left for Rome. Sabinus released them from duty.’
‘They won’t hide from you there. You’re a native of the place, right?’
‘Puteoli actually, but I know Rome well.’
‘Then track them down and let us know when you’re ready. I daresay we’ll be due a furlough.’
Fronto smiled again, this time more genuinely.
‘First thing’s first, though: Caesar wants to see me.’
Furius and Fabius nodded and turned to their own business, leaving Fronto staring into space again. With a deep breath, he pushed himself away from the granary wall and began to stroll toward the headquarters, tipping the contents of the scroll case into his free hand as he walked. Trying not to get the expensive parchment too grubby with the mess from his blood-and-mud-stained hands, he gingerly unrolled it and began to read, making sure he was on a clear course across the grass to prevent embarrassing falls while not paying attention.
He was only four paces from the granary when he came to a complete halt.
Three heartbeats later his fingers punched through the delicate parchment as his hand tightened in response to his clenching jaw.
His eyes burning, he was suddenly striding with furious gait toward the command tent, damaged parchment hanging from his hand.
To Marcus Falerius Fronto
I hope this finds you in good health and in a position to hand your command to another and return to us with all possible speed. I shall not waste words with too much periphery.
The villain Clodius has had the audacity to abduct both your sister and my daughter from the streets of Rome in broad daylight. Through the unbelievable bravery and resourcefulness of Faleria, Lucilia managed to escape her imprisonment and has returned to me to deliver the news. I have to admit to having almost broken at the disappearance of my daughter, though my joy at her return was soured by the knowledge that your sister bought Lucilia’s freedom with her own return to captivity.
From her description, it appears that Clodius’ actions were entirely his own. Whether or not he has spoken to Caesar about the matter I cannot confirm, though I doubt it. Despite my opinion of the general’s motives, I do not believe he would order harm to our womenfolk. I have attempted to speak to Clodius, but he is no longer at the house of the Julii woman. I believe him to be secure and walled up inside his veritable fortress of a house with a small army. I too have arranged a private force and would like nothing more than to reduce his residence to rubble and pick over the corpses, but I fear for the safety of Faleria if I try and so I bide my time, fretting about her safety.
I know that your first thought will be to come to Rome and help, and I pray that you do, but I also urge you to visit Caesar first and secure his aid in bringing the beast Clodius to heel. Only his master’s command will likely speed our cause.
Know that I continue to watch the house and as soon as anything happens I and my men will be on the bastard’s back.
Hurry home and do not tarry.
Good travels.
Quintus Lucilius Balbus.
Fronto burst into the headquarters building, the door slamming against the wall and shaking dust from the rafters, two of the cavalry guard of Aulus Ingenuus trying to restrain him.
‘Caesar!’
Rounding the corner to the main room of the headquarters, the chapel next door glinting with the eagles, flags and standards of eight legions, Fronto came to a halt, the two cavalrymen still grasping his arms.
‘Caesar, call these pricks off!’
The general, his eyebrow raised in surprise, waved the two guards away nonchalantly. He had removed his cloak, cuirass, helmet and sword, and slouched back gratefully in his chair wearing only his tunic and breeches, a slave unfastening his boots. Brutus and Rufus stood to one side, Cotta and Varus the other, the latter leaning against the wall and rubbing his splinted arm.
‘You seem fraught, Marcus. I realise you’ve had a bad…’
‘What have you got your weasel Clodius doing?’ Fronto demanded.
‘I’m sorry?’ replied the general, a dangerous edge entering his voice.
‘Clodius. You’ll no doubt be interested to hear that Lucilia Balba escaped and told her father all about it. But not so my sister. Oh, no. Faleria’s still missing. But then you know that, don’t you?’
‘Marcus, calm yourself and breathe. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do’ snarled Fronto, storming across the room and slamming a blood-stained fist on the table, letting the parchment skitter across the surface to the general, who picked it up with a frown. ‘I knew when I was talking to you in Britannia that you were holding something back from me; something you knew I wouldn’t like. Were you ever planning to release her? I mean, surely it would have been better to just cut her throat and bury her, so that I never found out about it?’
‘Fronto…’
‘No, no, no, no, no. You delayed didn’t you. Because you hate to waste a commodity that might be of use later. And you waited too long, because Lucilia escaped and now she’s a liability rather than a prize. You cocked up, Caesar, and I heard about it. I found out!’
Caesar stood slowly and slid the parchment across to him.
‘I will state again, Marcus, and swear to Venus Genetrix herself that I was not aware of her captivity, as your friend seems to suggest in his letter. I hold both your sister and the family of Quintus Balbus in very high esteem. Had I been aware of their abduction, I would have released them and been the one to break the news to you myself.’
Fronto was shaking his head. ‘You can’t hide your secrets from me. I knew you were up to something. I can read your expressions, Caesar; I’ve known you a long time.’
The general gestured to the others to leave, and Varus, Rufus and Brutus filed out of the room, their faces a mix of shock and embarrassment. As soon as the door clicked shut, Caesar sat once more and picked up a tablet and stylus, beginning to write furiously.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m writing you three messages. The first is to Publius Clodius Pulcher ordering him to release your sister and warning him that I will be returning to Rome very soon to deal with him. The second is an authorisation that will give you access to every resource in my army’s supply and courier train between here and Massilia, so that you can use as many horses as you need to travel home at speed and have the best accommodation en route. The last is to the captain of my trireme in the port of Massilia, granting you full use. Get home, Fronto and sort this out.’
Fronto stood for a moment, wreathed in anger, concern, confusion and gratitude, hardly able to figure which way to turn.
‘But you’re not telling me something!’
‘Marcus, there’s a lot I’m not telling you. Some of it is for your own good, and some of it is for mine. Rest assured though that I am not party to this abhorrent act. Now stop wasting time spitting in my face and go and help your sister. I will be a week behind you at most.’
Fronto stood staring helplessly at the general for a moment, not quite sure what to believe, and finally nodded, grasping the three tablets carefully as Caesar sealed them one by one, wiped his signet ring clean and then sat back.
‘What the hell was that about?’ Brutus said quietly as Fronto emerged from the building. Varus and Rufus had moved off, but the young legate stood with his arms crossed, waiting.
‘I need to get back to Rome. Make sure the Tenth is looked after; they’ve fought hard this autumn.’
Brutus nodded and turned as his fellow legate strode on past. ‘Good luck, Marcus.’
Fronto, barely hearing him, fixed his eyes on the dirty figure of Galronus staggering wearily across the road toward the building that served as a mess hall, a gesticulating Priscus at his side. The cavalryman dragged his feet and looked like he had not slept for several days and was waving away the busy figure of the camp prefect as he walked.
‘Galronus?’
The two men paused at the sound and sight of Fronto and the Remi noble broke into an exhausted smile.
‘Marcus! I’m so pleased to see you.’
‘No time to rest. Get back to your horse; we need to be in Rome before I even have time to shit.’
Galronus blinked at him in surprise.
‘Marcus?’
‘Clodius has abducted Faleria. Come on!’
Instantly, the cavalryman shook off his fatigue, his eyes flashing with the same anger present in Fronto’s. The two men nodded at Priscus and ran off toward the stables of the cavalry as though freshly awoken.
Priscus stood silent for a moment. Should he go with them? There was nothing he’d prefer, and certainly Marcus would welcome his help. But the camp prefect’s place was here, particularly at this stage of the year’s campaigning.
Scratching his head irritably, he caught a legionary running past and hauled him to a stop.
‘Sir?’ the legionary saluted in a panic.
‘I have a job for you lad. I want you to find someone for me.’