(East bank of the Rhine)
Fronto walked across the grass toward the approaching men, legionaries looming out of the mist like some sort of demon horde, grinning maniacally at having survived such an insane charge. Many of them, he noted, carried some trophy of their kills, the Gallic legionaries of the Fourteenth tending toward the more grisly. It was not something that Fronto particularly approved of in the aftermath of battle but it was hardly unknown, particularly among the Celtic peoples, and he could hardly chide them for such a petty thing after their brave sacrifices.
“Any officers among you?”
Two figures stepped out ahead of the men returning from the east, a centurion and, Fronto was pleased to note, the optio who had saved his life at the farmstead. Behind them, a cornicen and a signifer came striding forth, the standard bearer dragging a wounded leg.
“Over here” called a voice from behind, and Fronto turned gratefully, to see the figure of Atenos appearing from the mist in the direction of the river.
“Anyone seen Cantorix or Menenius?”
No one spoke, and Fronto felt the leaden certainty in his gut that the centurion had not made it. The front man of a wedge never did. Rarely did the front third, in fact. Menenius, on the other hand, was in the press of safer men at the back. They would turn up soon enough, whatever had happened to them.
“Right. I want pickets stationed all around the edge of the forest. The men with the best eyesight and hearing, and those who can whistle loud enough to be heard half a mile away. Atenos? I want you and this musician and standard bearer down by the water. Get the duty centurion’s attention on the far bank. When you can get him onto the bridge to speak, let me know and I’ll come talk to him.”
Atenos nodded and, the two signallers falling in at his shoulders, jogged off to the river.
“You” Fronto pointed to the centurion he didn’t know. “Set up the pickets.” The man saluted and began scouring the surviving legionaries for the best men, hooking them out with a beckoning finger.
“And you” he gestured to the optio. “I want a work party to gather every last Roman body they can find, as well as the casualties, and bring them down to the river bank, and then I want a full headcount of who we have left. How many men, officers, signallers and so on.”
The optio saluted and Fronto gave him a weary smile. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Vitiris, sir. Chosen man of the…”
“Centurion, I think” Fronto interrupted. “Just make sure you live long enough to requisition the crest from the quartermaster.”
As the men moved off, assigned to either work parties or picket duty appropriately, Fronto limped wearily down toward the river bank, making for the call of the Roman cornu he could hear. Now that the rush of battle-induced adrenaline had worn off, the ache in his knee was becoming unbearable. Pausing and reaching down, he ran his hands over the joint and was momentarily taken aback by just how swollen it was compared with the right knee.
Grumbling and muttering about the effects of age, he limped across the grass, wincing occasionally.
Here, the river bank rose above the flow with a drop of some four or five feet into the roiling, seething waters; a good height for the bridge to make landfall. As he approached the bank, he could see the figures of Atenos and the signallers on the turf.
Once more brushing the excess water from his hair and shaking his head to clear as much as possible, Fronto limped over to them.
“Any luck?”
The big Gaul turned and smiled, pointing across the water. Fronto followed his gesturing finger and squinted into the sheeting rain, picking out the image of human shapes approaching on the bridge. The small party of half a dozen men reached the truncated bridge end and gathered there. Fronto half expected to see Caesar, but the general hadn’t come yet. These were the officers currently on duty at the bridge site. The legate stepped as close as he dared to the drop into the water and cleared his throat.
“Centurion? Can you hear me?”
The distance-and-rain-muffled voice of the officer called back “Just about. That legate Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“Thank Juno. We were starting to worry.”
Fronto, his voice hoarse from shouting into the rain, took a deep breath. “We’ve destroyed the archers and routed another force, but we’re still in danger and poorly equipped. Can you send over some equipment for us?”
“Of course, sir. We’ll fire a rope over by arrow and set up a ferry from the bridge. What do you need?”
“Everything. Have someone fetch our helmets, shields, pila and everything else. It’s all stockpiled ready. We could also do with a few archers if they feel up to hand-over-hand-ing it across a rope?”
The centurion let out a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do sir. You sit tight while we get the ball rolling.”
Fronto turned and breathed deeply.
“Soon as it all arrives, can you get it distributed appropriately?”
Atenos nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“I’ll be sat on a rock somewhere hoping the bottom half of my leg’s not about to fall off.”
Atenos grinned. “If he’s still alive, there was a capsarius in my century. I’ll look into it and if he’s here, I’ll send him to find you.”
Fronto nodded and wobbled off across the grass in search of somewhere solid to sit down that wouldn’t churn with mud. Men were beginning to make their way into the clearing, carrying the bodies of the fallen and supporting those too wounded to walk on their own. It was somewhat disheartening to ponder on the numbers, but then the assault had apparently been anticipated, which had rendered their mission considerably more dangerous and costly than expected. Exactly how the enemy had known they were coming was still a mystery, but the more he thought on the ambush at the farmstead, the more he was convinced that someone had tipped them off. Presumably the Ubii.
Fronto’s eyes widened as a familiar shape loomed out of the seething white rain-mist.
Cantorix could hardly stand, and was being gently carried along by two legionaries. Fronto noted without surprise the stumps of arrow shafts jutting from his right shoulder, left hip, right arm, and both legs, apparently all broken off when he fell to the ground, driving them deeper in. He was deathly pale but grinning through a mouthful of blood.
“Looks… looks like we got ‘em, legate Fronto.”
Fronto tried to stand, but the strength had left his knee.
“You look in a sorry state, Cantorix.”
“Didn’t have time to shave, sir” the centurion grinned, spitting a wad of clotted blood to the turf.
“Don’t you dare die on me now, centurion.” He said, smiling back, but only half-jokingly.
“I have no intention of dying, sir. I’m owed a couple of weeks’ leave.”
Fronto sighed and stood slowly and awkwardly, favouring his right leg, as the legionary ran across the sodden grass towards him, splashing up crowns of water with each heavy step.
“What’s happening?”
The legionary came to a stop and saluted. “The outer pickets to the east have spotted movement in the woods and confirmed a sizeable force, sir.”
Fronto nodded and stretched wearily. “Tell them to fall back to the inner line at the woods’ edge. The inner pickets can come in now. As soon as they’re visible from the inner line, they’re to pull back too.”
As the legionary ran off again, Fronto turned and peered into the incessant downpour, trying to spot Atenos. The towering Gaul was organising things near the water’s edge, gesturing to groups of men who were dashing around with piles of equipment or digging the trench.
Hobbling over toward them, Fronto was impressed at how quickly things had progressed. The pickets had been in position for only two hours, but already two rope lines had been slung from the construction to ferry goods and support to the bridgehead. While the engineers and their work parties carried on the work at an impressive forced pace, Atenos had groups of legionaries preparing what resembled a tiny marching camp on this bank.
The headcount had come in and, of the four hundred or so men who had crossed the Rhenus, Fronto’s command now numbered ninety-seven, including himself and the two remaining Ubii scouts, who remained under close scrutiny on the suspicion that it was they who had warned the enemy about the mission. One mystery that niggled was the continuing absence of tribune Menenius, last seen when forming up for the wedge assault.
Of those ninety four officers and men, thirty two were posted to picket duties in four-man groups, the rest rushing around and carrying out Atenos’ commands. A ditch, currently three feet deep and three wide surrounded the site in a ‘U’ shape, seventy yards in length and almost completed was being excavated, while four men sharpened cut branches and planted them in the hollow, angled toward the enemy approach. The upcast, forming a three foot mound within the perimeter formed by the ditch, protected a scene of organised chaos within.
The capsarius who, wounded himself, had set up a small field hospital and was working manically to treat those who stood a chance of survival, had been joined by a fellow medic from the camp who had shown the gumption to hand-over-hand it along one of the ropes, and the two men dealt with a constant supply of wounds. A peremptory and none-too-gentle prod of Fronto’s knee had elicited little sympathy from either medic. Cantorix lay wrapped in a blanket, pale grey and sweating, delirious with the compounds the capsarii had forced into him. When pressed on whether the centurion would make it, both men had looked doubtful and shrugged.
Two men worked a pulley and bag on one rope, retrieving rations, weapons, entrenching equipment and, on the legate’s orders, a few jars of watered wine, and distributing them among the men as required. The other rope delivered a slow but growing supply of Cretan auxiliary archers, none of whom looked particularly enchanted with their method of arrival, but who were starting to take positions behind the low rampart, jamming their arrows point first into the ground for quick retrieval.
Even as Fronto made for the newly-promoted centurion, he spotted a familiar, if bedraggled face, clambering down from the rope: Titus Decius Quadratus, the prefect of the auxiliary unit and a man who, despite the gulf between their commands, Fronto had held in high esteem ever since the defence of the Bibrax oppidum two years previously. Decius spotted Fronto lurching towards him as he nodded a greeting to Atenos and his face broke into a wide grin.
“When I heard that the legate of the Tenth had holed up in enemy land and needed archers, I said to myself ‘just how long is Fronto going to hold out without me?’ When I answered the question, I came running.”
“Decius, it’s damn good to see you. I hope your men are ready quickly. The enemy are on the move.”
The auxiliary prefect scratched his stubbly chin and gestured back at the rope, where two figures were crossing at once, very slowly and carefully.
“It’s a slow job. I’ve got maybe twenty or so men here now and more coming across but the rain’s making that rope treacherous. I’ve lost two men into the river already and only one made it to the bank. Hell, I nearly went in myself. The big thing is: my lads are really unhappy about taking their bows out in this weather. They’ve each got a spare string, but just the one.”
Fronto sighed and sank to the rampart, rubbing his swollen knee.
“They’ll just have to deal with it. If I could turn this rain off, believe me I would! And I’d have liked to get a palisade up but we just don’t have time. To be honest I’m surprised we’ve had this long without being assaulted. The staked ditch and mound will just have to do the job. At least we’ve got shields, pila and archers now. We’d have lasted about two minutes without all this.”
“What have you done to your knee?”
“Just a bad twist. The capsarius says to stay off it, as if that were a remote possibility. Here.” Unceremoniously, he thrust one of the wine jars he’d commandeered at the prefect. Decius took it without comment and swigged gratefully, brushing the rain from his forehead.
“It’s been a noble effort, Decius, despite our horrible losses, and they’re working like madmen on the bridge, but I can’t see much hope of us holding off the entire Germanic people until they get to this bank. It’s going to be a day yet, even if they work through dark.”
“I swear, Fronto, that if you get any more negative, you’ll change colour. It’s not about holding off an entire nation.”
“No?”
“No. It’s about dealing with the first attack so brutally that they daren’t try again.”
Fronto perked up, his eyes narrowing. “You think we can hit them hard enough to make them withdraw?”
“You and me? The defenders of Bibrax? Ha!”
The legate stood, slowly and painfully, and grinned. “What have you in mind?”
The first assault came less than an hour later. The pickets had withdrawn to the fortified boundary and the defenders had watched the barbarians moving around just inside the shadow of the woods, their numbers uncertain.
It began as a roar somewhere inside the treeline, followed by a crash as the Germanic warriors slammed their weapons against shields, other weapons, or just tree trunks, raising a noise that shook the world. Then, half a dozen heartbeats later, the enemy poured out of the forest, yelling their guttural battle cries, mostly unarmoured, often unclothed, but with every weapon honed to a killing edge.
Fronto, standing on the low embankment, was pleased to note the lack of enemy archers. Not a surprise, really, given the utter devastation their wedge-formation charge had wrought on the lightly armed missile troops. Very few bowmen had escaped alive into the woods, and those that did would be in no hurry to return. These men were very likely the remaining warriors of that first ambush at the farm. If that were the case, then it suggested to Fronto that perhaps the rest of the tribes were staying safely back in their own territory, watching the Roman advance carefully. If that was the case then Decius could be right. If they broke this attack, they might survive until the bridge was complete.
“It all sounds a bit unlikely to me” he muttered to Decius. “Are you really sure they’re that good? They look a bit shaky to me.”
The prefect grinned. “They’re just still recovering from that rope trip. But remember Bibrax? And we’ve been training on small target shooting since then, so watch and learn.”
Fronto cast a distinctly uncertain look at the archers, but nodded. They all looked worried and shaky. Not that he blamed them. If he’d had to cross that wet rope above the churning currents of the Rhenus, he’d probably have lost control of his bowels by now.
“Legionaries prepare! Front rank ready! Rear rank ready!”
As he glanced along the rampart, the sixty-five men forming the front rank stood with their shields forming a defensive ‘U’ within the defences of the tiny fort. Swords were held poised, ready to flash out each time the shields parted a couple of inches. The rear rank of twenty five men stood five yards back, each holding a pilum ready, five more jammed into the ground, ready to throw.
Decius waited until Fronto’s voice had echoed away and straightened. The forty archers who had crossed knelt on the embankment, arrows jammed into the earth.
“Remember the range. Only fire when you’re certain of a hit. Mark your targets carefully. Section one, you’re looking for the largest, least armoured men. Section two fire at will, but be selective and mean!”
Fronto looked along the line of archers and then glanced back and watched with regret as the two ropes splashed down into the water and were withdrawn to the bridge, a precaution against giving the enemy any advantage should the bridgehead fall.
It quickly became clear as the barbarians swarmed across the open grass that their numbers had been somewhat bolstered since the ambush at the farm. Even as the lead warriors — bloodlust filling their eyes and minds, swords raised for a first blow — closed on the small, hopelessly inadequate fortlet, more were still pouring from the woods in a seemingly endless supply.
“Steady” called Decius in a calm voice. Fronto glanced nervously across. Surely they were close enough now. He could almost smell them. In return, the tanned prefect grinned at him and, producing one of the wineskins, took a quick pull from it and winked.
“Fire!” he bellowed.
Fronto felt his eyes drawn back to the enemy by the arcing of the missiles. The initial volley seemed to have failed in its intended effect for a moment and Fronto was about to order the archers back, when he watched the results unfold with interest.
The nine archers of ‘section one’ were Decius’ best shots. The most accurate and consistent archers to be found in the whole unit of Cretans, most of whom were still trapped on the far side of the Rhenus.
Now Fronto could see how they’d earned the blue scarf that marked them out as double-pay men. Each of the nine arrows sailed straight and true and only one missed the intended mark, by a tiny enough margin that the effect was the same.
The result was impressive. Each missile had been aimed for the knee of one of the largest and most powerful barbarians and had struck home with impressive accuracy. The bulky warriors had floundered with the crippling blows and fallen sideways in the direction of the damaged joint, bringing down several of the other charging barbarians in the mess.
The rest of the archers were firing and nocking, firing and nocking, firing and nocking at a rate that Fronto simply couldn’t believe, their victims collapsing to the wet ground with cries of agony. Precious few arrows went astray, and even those that did caused some damage due to the press of the enemy.
The effect of the targeted knee shots was remarkable. Where a moment earlier a solid row of howling barbarians had been running, trying to out-sprint one another, now few pockets of men were still running, while most of the front five or six ranks’ worth of warriors were down, floundering in the churning mud while the mass behind them tried to leap over or clamber across them in their lust to get to the enemy.
Fronto had a momentary image of that hillside at Bibrax two years ago, the slope wet and muddy, churning and becoming more slippery and treacherous with every fallen struggling man. The same was now happening on the field before him. The floundering ranks of attackers were churning the mud and creating a mire that made it increasingly difficult to gain a footing and stand again.
As the entire attack ground to a comical, messy halt, the chosen men of the unit joined their compatriots in the simple nock-release-nock-release that was having a devastating effect on them.
Finally the warriors from the bulk of the enemy force managed to make headway, clambering across their fallen countrymen, using the wounded or dead as a walkway to cross the roiling mud.
“Your turn!” Decius shouted with a grin, even as his men continued their impressive rate of fire.
Fronto nodded and raised his voice. “Second rank, throw at will!”
As the barbarians continued to fall to the fletched hell that Decius had unleashed, the men of Fronto’s legionary force began to cast their javelins. They could not see their targets with the men of the first rank, the mound and the archers in front, but they cast their missiles high and hard, the pila falling somewhere deep in the mass of barbarians where they were almost guaranteed a kill.
And for more than a minute the battle seemed frozen in time; a constant repeat of actions. Arrows flew from the rampart, plunging with astounding precision into the nearest barbarians, holding back the surge, while pilum after pilum arced up and over, falling into the press of flesh.
Fronto stood on the mound watching the tableau with a professional eye, noting the slowing of the enemy force — not due purely to the damage being done them by the constant barrage of missiles, but also showing a growing uncertainty about their attack. Their enthusiasm was waning, their sureness of victory drained with every death and wound.
It would be a close thing.
There were still enough warriors in that field to completely swamp the hundred and thirty or so men defending the bank. If they could be pushed a little harder, the resolve that weakened with every minute might break completely and, if that happened, his small force had won. The barbarians would rout and leave the field and the bridgehead would hold, while fresh supplies and more men could be brought across.
But even as Fronto felt his breath come and his tension ease, his gaze took in the arrows jammed into the turf along the defensive line. Few archers had more than two or three shots remaining. In the moment he registered the change in the situation, the last few pila arced up and over, signalling the end of that particular advantage.
Decius was grinning as he turned to Fronto.
“That’s us. Your turn now!”
The last few arrows whirred into the enemy, picking off the closest and biggest of them. As the final missile flew, Fronto took a deep breath. “Ranks part!” he bellowed.
All along the defence, the line of legionaries shuffled to create gaps through which the archers could move to the relative safety of the camp. Decius ran along the mound to Fronto and gestured. “We’ll do what we can from behind. Good luck!”
Fronto nodded, casting a last glance at the enemy. Perhaps two or three hundred men had fallen in that brutal assault — more than a third of the enemy force. The rest came on slower, a little more carefully, watching the defenders suspiciously, with the blood lust gone from their eyes. With a deep breath and a murmured prayer to Fortuna, he dropped down the slope and moved between the parted ranks where he collected a shield and fell in with the second rank.
“Front line, close ranks to shieldwall!”
As the shields slammed together, the legate closed his eyes for a moment, willing the enemy to break fast. The second rank, himself included, would be ready to plug any holes in the shieldwall, but until a gap opened, all he could see of the enemy was a general mass of howling flesh in the tiny openings between legionaries.
“Ready?” came a voice from behind and Fronto turned to see Decius and his archers gathered in small groups, hefting hammers, mattocks and stakes that had been brought over to help with the work — even a few empty and discarded wine jars. Even as he frowned at the prefect, the first man swung hard and released a heavy-headed mallet, which arced up over the defenders, falling somewhere among the enemy.
Decius caught his glance and grinned.
“Anything that might help, eh?”
A mattock, heavy and sharp, thrummed overhead, plunging into the mass of the enemy, barely making it over the heads of the legionaries and causing a brief bladder release in the soldier who’d almost lost his head to a flying spade.
“Careful!” Decius snapped. “High and far… high and far.”
He turned his grin back on Fronto, who shook his head but could not help but join in with a disbelieving smile.
The crash of close combat drew his attention back. The enemy had finally reached the shieldwall, though from the screaming and gurgling more were still falling foul of the sharpened branches jutting up from the ditch.
From his position in the rear rank, Fronto watched the men of the Tenth and Fourteenth going to work, their shields changing angle every few seconds in a single movement that opened up a foot-wide gap through which every gladius in the line lanced out, biting into flesh before twisting and withdrawing behind shields that closed once again.
It was an almost mechanical process and the enemy began to pile up on the far side of the rampart, several of them falling foul once again of the slippery conditions underfoot, the combat ripping the turf and earth beneath and churning it into a soup of treacherous mud. Here and there a legionary slipped, but managed to maintain his footing due to the heavy hob-nailed sandals they wore. The barbarians, largely unshod or clad in flat-soled boots, were less lucky, every slip bringing them down into the sucking mire, where they floundered as their own tribesmen clambered across them desperately.
Fronto counted almost a minute before the first legionary went down, an overhead blow cutting him almost in two. The gruesome corpse slopped backwards and splattered into the pool of watery grass behind, staining it with a spreading pink tint. The legate opened his mouth to give the order, but a man was already moving forward to fill the gap.
That was the moment in every battle, though.
The legions fought their mechanical fight with a feeling of invincibility until that breaking point. The first death seemed to trigger it, and Fronto prepared himself as first one and then two, then three men fell, some slumping forwards onto the earth bank, their heads smashed and slashed, their bodies opened and spilling their vitals to the wet ground, others tumbling backwards.
Each time, one of the second rank ran forward, stepping into the gap and slamming his shield into place, continuing the butchery.
The legate watched with held breath as his small force of reserves dwindled more and more, twenty five men now down to fourteen. Now thirteen. Now twelve.
Even as he realised he was about to run out of reserves, Fronto blinked in surprise. Three of the auxiliary archers had joined the line of men, armoured in their light mail shirts, less than half as protective as a legionary version, but gripping spare legionary shields and hefting their backup blades ready to join the fight. Decius fell in beside him, grinning, as more Cretan archers armed up and joined in.
“Ran out of things to throw” he shrugged, hefting his sword.
Only seven legionaries were left and now eight auxiliary reserves. Fronto took another deep breath. “Think we might be in the shit, Decius.”
“Seems that’s the only place I ever meet you!”
Fronto laughed a hollow laugh and turned back as a man howled in front of him, falling back with a spear impaling his chest, snapped off near the solar plexus. “My turn!” he shouted and shuffled forwards, limping over the fallen, groaning man with difficulty. He barely got his shield into position before the next blow carved a small sliver off the curved corner of it.
“Bollocks, that was close!”
The legionary next to him grinned and thrust his sword into a man whose hands had risen for an overhead chop with a heavy axe. Even as the man fell away and Fronto stabbed at the nearest open flesh, his eyes strayed up and over the press of men.
“Mars be praised.” The field was largely empty of enemy warriors, more than two thirds of the Germanic attack now lying in heaps around the field or piled up like cordwood before the shieldwall.
“Nearly done ‘em, sir!” the legionary grinned.
“Why haven’t they broken? We must not have frightened them enough.”
“They know we can’t hold forever, sir. They’ll still win in the end.”
The legate turned a vicious smile on his men. “Not today.”
Withdrawing his sword and closing the shield gap again, he rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.
“Soldiers of Rome: advance!”
Despite the gasps of surprise around him, Fronto smashed forwards with his shield and then turned it slightly, lancing a speedy blow that cut through a man’s neck cord. The warrior fell away, shrieking in pain, his head lolling obscenely to one side, and Fronto took a step forward and then another, almost collapsing as his bad knee negotiated the slope.
Next to him, the other legionaries had reacted with professional discipline, despite the unexpectedness of the command, smashing the nearest enemies out of the way with their shields and stepping forward, reforming the line. Suddenly, Decius was there, pushing his way into the line, half a dozen men along.
“You’re not winning this one without me, Fronto!”
And the auxiliaries were there too, no longer plugging gaps, but forcing their way into the line, expanding it and extending it, following the lead of the legionaries on either side of them, learning the new tactics of legion fighting in the melting pot of battle itself. The men of the Tenth and Fourteenth reacted momentarily with the traditional distaste of legion men regarding the ‘inferior’ auxilia, but these men had proved themselves once and were doing it again, and within moments, the legionaries were giving their new compatriots enough space to work and yelling encouragement.
The barbarians, until a moment ago throwing themselves against an ever-diminishing line of defenders, suddenly quailed in the face of the unexpectedly violent and enthusiastic advance. Across the field, shouts of consternation were raised in the guttural Germanic tongue and, through the periodic flashes of vision Fronto caught every time the shields parted for a sword blow, it was clear that the rear ranks of the remaining barbarians were now turning on their heels and plummeting into the forest in an effort to escape the scene.
The sudden change in the fortunes of the enemy caused a moan of dismay to ripple across their massed ranks and, as they began to pull back en masse, a cheer went up among the men of the Tenth, the Fourteenth and the Cretan auxiliaries, accompanied by a fresh push of energy.
The Roman line surged forward, each step accompanied by the smash of the shield boss, no longer a teeth-gritting, muscle-rippling heave against a wall of sweating flesh, the pressure easing as the enemy ranks thinned.
A legionary a few men down from Fronto roared and stepped out of the line, desperate to deliver a killing blow to the man with whom he’d been struggling and who had now pulled away and opened a gap between them.
Before Fronto could shout a warning or an order to return to the line, the man fell foul of three of the enemy who paused in their flight to dispatch the careless Roman. The legionary went down under the blows of two axes and a sword, hacking chunks from his upper body. The line surged a little faster again as the legionary’s compatriots made an attempt to reach his killers without making the same suicidal mistake themselves. The barbarians, though, were now intent on self-preservation, the attack having fallen apart around them, and were already out of reach and accelerating.
“What are your orders, legate?” Decius bellowed along the line as the Roman force moved across the soaking, body-strewn grass at a steady pace, the barbarians fleeing ahead of them.
Fronto peered off through the rain, which looked as though it might be finally lightening. “Hold ranks until we reach the woods. Then we’re going to split: I’m going to take half the men a few hundred yards inside the treeline just to be sure they’re not thinking of forming up for another performance. You’ll take the rest and return to the camp. Get the ropes going again and get the men resupplied and some more support brought across.”
Decius grinned as he stepped over the twisted body of a wiry barbarian, pinned to the wet, sludgy grass with the sharp blade of an entrenching tool where his head should have been.
Fronto took a deep breath and very carefully negotiated every grotesque obstacle with his swollen knee screaming at him. It was almost over. He couldn’t believe they’d done it with the few men and supplies they had, but Decius was almost certainly right: the barbarians wouldn’t be back. Everything that had happened on this side of the river had been the work of one tribe, while the rest seemed happy to sit back in their own lands and watch. The horrible defeat that had just been inflicted upon them by a tremendously inferior force would ensure that no further danger came Caesar’s way.
The shields had stopped opening and closing to allow strikes now. Not a single living barbarian faced the wall of steel, iron, bronze and flesh moving inexorably across the turf. Indeed, the last few of the enemy were even now being lost to sight among the boles of the trees, going to ground in an attempt to evade death or capture.
Decius’ voice rang out along the line. “Every second man withdraw to the defences!” Stepping back himself, he saluted Fronto as he took twenty three men back to the fortlet, leaving the remaining twenty four with the legate.
Without needing a command, those men closed ranks as they moved and, within moments they had reached the edge of the forest. There was no longer any sign of the stragglers, but Fronto knew from horrible experience how dangerous it was to assume all was clear. There would likely be a few barbarians, willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of revenge, who would be hidden in the undergrowth in the hope of taking a number of heads with them when they went to meet their dung-ridden Gods.
“Be wary now, lads. Stay within sight of one another and move carefully. Watch every bush and every tree for movement. Be aware of your surroundings and every noise. We move in for five minutes only and then turn and withdraw. No chasing any juicy Germanic women, no matter how naked they might be!”
A few laughs rippled out down the line as the soldiers moved into the woods, spreading out and forming a wide cordon to clear any hidden ambushes. Fronto realised very quickly that he was lagging, his knee was a serious impediment in the troublesome terrain of the forest, and he was grateful when Atenos and one of the other legionaries noticed. The centurion nodded at him and closed the gap, allowing the legate to fall back and leave the line.
Fronto watched as his men very ably and professionally stalked deeper into the woods, and stumbled over to a fallen tree trunk, onto which he sagged with great relief, examining his swollen knee and worrying about whether it should be turning the shade of mauve that it appeared to be.
He sighed with happiness and never noticed the heavy, shiny object descending before it smashed him over the head, obliterating all consciousness and driving him into darkness.
White light brought with it the sort of pain that Fronto usually only associated with heavy drinking bouts, though this was clearly not the result of any such activity. With a groan, he sat up, his hand going to his head to feel where the throbbing was coming from.
When he regained consciousness the second time, he was lying awkwardly and the smell of relatively fresh vomit assailed his nostrils. He opened an eye a fraction and then squeezed it tight shut against the terribly painful light. The vomit was apparently his and had seeped into his clothing, despite having been peremptorily wiped away with a cloth.
“He’s awake.”
“If you can call it that.”
“Did you bring the wine? Wine always heals Fronto” Even with his eyes closed and the fog of agonising unconsciousness still clinging to his senses, Fronto could almost hear the malicious grin on the face of Priscus, to whom he knew the voice belonged.
“Piss off.”
“It speaks!”
Fronto cracked an eye open again, but held it so narrow that his lashes formed a veil against the light. Above was a white leather roof. Too high to be his own tent, so it was clearly a hospital one. His wandering gaze took in the beaming faces of Priscus and Carbo, with Decius sat next to them, the only one wearing any sort of expression of concern. Fronto noted with interest, his professional eye taking over despite the circumstances, that Carbo sported a recent cut to his cheek that hadn’t been there last time they’d met, just before the river crossing. A suspicion began to form.
“How long have I been out?”
Priscus and Carbo exchanged glances and then looked across at Decius. “Not sure. Who are the consuls this year, prefect?”
Decius gave them a weary smile and focussed on Fronto. “A little over a week.”
“A week?”
“You took a bad blow to the head.”
Priscus laughed out loud. “It was a truly magnificent wound. One of your best yet. The medicus said he thought he could see your brain, but I assured him that was unlikely.”
The camp prefect burst out laughing and Carbo grinned evilly. “Actually, in all truthfulness, the medicus did say that you’ve got one of the thickest skulls he’s ever seen and that was probably what saved your life.”
Fronto frowned and the pain the muscle movement caused almost made him vomit again.
“What happened? I remember stopping because of my knee and then nothing.”
Decius shrugged. “We’re still not sure. It appears that Menenius saved you.”
“What?”
The auxiliary prefect gestured to the bed on the other side of the spacious partitioned room. “When we found you, you were together. You’d been brained and Menenius had two stab wounds and an arrow jutting from his chest. But there were three dead barbarians around you too, and the tribune’s sword was good and bloody.”
Fronto stared across at the still form of Menenius, whose chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “Is he…”
“He’s suffering a fever. Not been lucid yet and keeps dropping off for half a day at a time. The medicus said his arrow wound was infected. He should pull through, but nothing’s certain yet.”
The legate shook his head in disbelief. “I’m going to owe him a few drinks apparently, if he recovers well enough. Any news of Cantorix?”
“After a fashion. He’s lost his right arm at the shoulder, can’t feel a thing in his left leg, and swears every time anyone touches the right. But, somehow, the big Gaulish bastard seems to be getting stronger. It’s the end of his soldiering career, of course, but it’s impressive nonetheless.”
A resounding crash made Fronto start and he almost sat bolt upright. “What in Hades was that?”
“That was the bridge coming down” Priscus shrugged. “It’s nearly done now.”
“Down? It’s only been a week!”
“A week’s been enough” the camp prefect shrugged. “Looks like the bridge and your little party on the bank have put the shits up even the hardest bastards out there. We hardly had the legions across the bridge before we started getting ambassadors and tribute, hostages, promises and so on. Most of the tribes have capitulated and agreed terms with the general.”
“And the rest?”
“That’s what took the week.” Carbo leaned forward. “The dangerous tribes — even the Suevi — all abandoned their conquests and territories and melted away into the forests to the east. Doesn’t look like they’ll be coming back in the near future… especially given that we burned all their settlements, harvested their crops, slaughtered their livestock and poisoned the wells. Caesar’s declared the Germanic threat nullified and now we’re consolidating while the bridge comes down.”
Fronto sank back to the comfortable surface.
“Then it’s over. Any word on when we move out? Are the legions wintering here or do they get to come south this year?”
The three officers looked at one another uncomfortably.
“Not south, Marcus” Priscus said with a sigh. “West. To the coast.”
When the legate frowned in confusion, the camp prefect sat back and squared his shoulders. “Caesar has it in mind to do to the tribes of Britain what we’ve done to Germania.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He claims to still be smarting over their support for the Veneti last year, but the general consensus is that he wants to double the glory and tribute we’ve taken so far before returning to Rome. I’m not sure I disagree, mind. Cartloads of gold and a long chain of slaves. Every man in the army’s going to be quite well off this winter.”
Fronto allowed his eyes to close as his mind formed a fantastic and somewhat worrying image of the strange and unknown island full of monsters and evils that lay across the ocean to the north.
Fabulous.
Just wonderful.
An image of a smiling Lucilia that he hadn’t even been aware was in his head until now started to fade, replaced by a screaming horde of yet more Celts.
“Think I’d better rest again.”
ROME
Lucilia smiled. “Father has such old-fashioned tastes. I tried to get him to buy a statue of Priapus or ‘Pan and a goat’ for the atrium, but he refused. So we’re stuck with a bust of my great grandfather who, to be quite honest, does not appear to have been a particularly handsome man. Who wants a party in such surroundings, I ask you?”
Faleria laughed lightly.
“Such statues as you favour might well lead to the kind of party that you’d be well advised to avoid, while your husband-to-be is still absent fighting the enemies of the Republic. Let us concentrate on the important things. The wine is already taken care of, but we need to order the meats, cheeses and fruit at least this afternoon. And before we head back, we should see what musicians are for hire. No offence to your father’s household, but if I have to listen to that wailing cat of a piper again I shall stuff his pipes with his own innards.”
Lucilia grinned. “Perhaps we should head onto the Aventine and see how your house is coming on? Most of the roof should have been replaced this week.”
The older of the two shrugged. “If there’s time. The work will go on whether observed or not.”
The pair turned into the side street, the noise of the forum fading a little behind them as the buildings muffled the din. Faleria frowned as she glanced back over her shoulder.
“Where’s that useless Thracian? If he’s gone off on his own your father will have him flogged!”
Lucilia turned to look and her shriek was cut off sharply as a sack fell over her head and tightened around her neck, a pair of strong hands grasping her wrists and yanking them up painfully behind her. She tried desperately to call out to Faleria from the suffocating, blinding confines of the sack, but was instantly aware of the cries of anger and pain from her friend, apparently being similarly manhandled.
More hands grasped her shoulders and elbows and pushed her, almost knocking her from her feet. She was vaguely aware of the distinctive sounds of Faleria struggling and cursing their attackers and bit down on the fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm her, concentrating instead on yanking an elbow free from someone’s grip and then landing it in someone’s stomach. She was rewarded with a rush of air and a groan, but then the hands tightened around her and she found herself totally restricted and all-but carried, her toes brushing the ground as she moved.
The only indications that the pair had been dragged and carried inside a building were the oppressive heat of an unventilated room and the further muffling of the background city noises. The sudden change in environment also allowed Lucilia to pay better attention to the more intimate sounds as they were shuffled along corridors, through rooms and, towards the end, down a short flight of stairs.
She could identify at least five sets of footsteps and there were three voices, not speaking, but grunting or swearing, all in accents local to Latium or at least the central regions of Italia. Not pirates, then, and unlikely to be slavers. Thugs. And thugs always answered to a boss.
“If you had any idea who it is you’ve just accosted, you’d release us straight away and pray to whatever lowlife deities would have you that we say nothing more about this.”
Two deep, guttural laughs greeted her statement and she found her arms released as she was pushed from her feet and fell in a heap painfully on a cobbled floor. Stretching her shoulders and making sure there was no serious damage, she reached up and pulled the bag from her head just as Faleria landed by her side. Reaching over gingerly, she helped Faleria remove the sack from her head and they both looked around at their location and captors.
They were clearly in a cellar, from the construction and the lack of windows. There was the sound of water rushing somewhere beneath them and just beyond one of the walls. The room was dim, lit only by two small oil lamps, though an orange flare added more detail as one of the thugs lit a torch.
The room was less than five yards across each direction. Square and featureless apart from…
Lucilia’s heart lurched and she swallowed nervously as her eyes took in the meat hooks on the ceiling and the iron rings in two walls. A meat storage cellar. In fact, now that she knew, she could definitely smell the long-faded iron tang of blood. She was grateful at least that the cellar appeared to have been cleaned at some point since its original use.
Six men stood between the women and the doorway, beyond which they could see a second room and a flight of stairs rising to the ground floor. The men were all bulky and ugly, with an assortment of misshapen noses and bulbous ears; fighters all. Two men, standing at the edges and with less leery passion in their gazes, had the distinctive look of professional soldiers, something both Lucilia and Faleria could spot a mile away, after years with Fronto and Balbus.
“I am Faleria, daughter of the senator Lucius Falerius Fronto, a citizen of Rome, and this is Lucilia, daughter of Quintus Lucilius Balbus, former commander of the Eighth legion. If any harm should come to us, I’m sure you can picture the trouble that will befall you?”
The men remained silent and Lucilia was suddenly aware of the tip-tap of light leather shoes on the flagstones beyond the door. It came as no surprise to either woman when the slender, graceful figure of Publius Clodius Pulcher stepped through the archway, his glossy black hair shining in the torchlight, his pronounced cheekbones and handsome face split in a less than handsome smile.
“Dear ladies, how remiss of me. I have offered neither of you refreshment.”
“Clodius, you hog-breath’d son of a Thracian whore!” Faleria spat with such venom that even Lucilia looked around in surprise. The thugs took an involuntary step back from this bile-ridden woman, but Clodius simply smiled and stepped forward, in front of his men.
“Dearest Faleria, but we are old friends, are we not? Let us not stand on ceremony.”
Without warning and like a coiled snake striking, Faleria was suddenly up and lunging for their captor. With neat economy of movement, one of the two professional ex-legionaries swept a cavalry long-sword out and rested it on her throat, bringing her to an abrupt halt four feet from Clodius.
“Tut tut, Faleria. An unwise move in this company, and one that could result in something very unfortunate happening.”
“What do you intend to do with us?” Lucilia snapped, glaring at the legionary who held Faleria still with his sword.
“We know you serve Caesar now” Faleria snarled. “He is a friend of my brother and our family and will gut you and string you up for the crows when he finds out about this.”
Something about Clodius’ smile suddenly unnerved Lucilia and she realised she was less than convinced of that fact.
“Faleria…”
But Clodius simply reached out and took the spatha sword from the soldier and slid it back into its sheath. Faleria made no move further forward despite the impediment having gone.
“I have Caesar’s utmost confidence, my dear ladies, and an open remit to do what I must to prevent anything getting in the way. You see I have very specific goals and a limited timescale and opportunity to carry them out.”
“Caesar will take exception to…”
“I suspect not. Things move apace for the general and he has more on his mind than continually bothering himself with the minutiae. However, I will grant you your wish.”
“You’ll release us?” Lucilia asked in suspicious surprise.
“Gods, no. Apologies, you charming young lady, but that is quite impossible at this time. I will, however, send word to Caesar and request his instructions on how to proceed with you.”
Lucilia blanched. “But that will take months!”
“Yes. Even with fast couriers, it will not be quick. But you see, I am bound to obey the commands of my patron, and to release you without permission would be to countermand Caesar’s own orders.”
Lucilia narrowed her eyes. “And, of course, word will no doubt reach my father that something unpleasant might happen to us unless he loses all interest in your activities?”
“I think not, I’m afraid. Your father shares certain traits with your betrothed, and I suspect that, should he have any confirmation of our involvement, an entire mercenary army would be knocking on my door in a matter of hours. Sit tight ladies. I will have the room made more comfortable for you and make sure you are well looked after until I have word from Caesar.”
Lucilia and Faleria watched with acerbic glares as Clodius and his thugs left the room, the last man placing one of the two lamps on a niche near the door to keep the room lit before closing the door and locking it from without.
The older of the two women waited until all was quiet and then turned to her friend.
“It’s all down to us, Lucilia. Tell me everything you noticed on the way here.”
Lucilia frowned. “Let’s not do anything potentially dangerous, Faleria. Father will look for us anyway and he’ll know who’s to blame. And even if the worst comes to the worst, Caesar will order him to release us.”
“I doubt that word will ever reach Caesar. There is no courier and no message. Clodius gives us that hope to help keep us quiet and malleable. We cannot look to Caesar for help, and your father may well find us, but Clodius would as quickly slit our throats as let him find us alive and able to testify against him.”
She sighed. “No. It is up to us to find our way out of this. I memorised the journey through the building, I think. Find me a loose stone and we’ll scratch a map on the wall before the memories fade.”
Lucilia stared at her friend. Courage, ingenuity and indomitability apparently ran strong in the line of the Falerii. She just hoped it would be enough to save them.
Never had Fronto’s arms felt so far away from her as now.