(Nemetocenna in the lands of the Belgae)
The legions heaved a collective sigh of relief as they settled in for the night. The journey from the Rhenus had consisted of almost two weeks of interminable marching, scouting, constructing and deconstructing innumerable camps for each night. And so, when the walls of Belgic Nemetocenna — well known to many of the men — hove into view as the sun began its descent, each soldier in the army sagged with gratitude that semi-permanent military ramparts remained here from the past few years of wintering troops, saving them the effort of digging ditches and raising walls.
The huge, sprawling fort, with four separate and individually-ramparted sub-camps, had been fully constructed and thriving within half an hour of arrival. Sentries had been posted, pickets out, officers already in the settlement in deep discussion with the local leaders, negotiating the price for extra supplies to supplement those brought on the huge wagon train that was still arriving as an owl began to hoot. The Fourteenth legion, as usual drawing the short straw, began to file slowly into the camp, escorting the last of the carts and the siege engines.
Fronto stepped gingerly across the open ground, trying to avoid the areas that had been churned into glutinous mud by the endless pairs of nail-shod feet working to put up tents, stack pila and so on. He caught sight of the glittering armour of Plancus, the Fourteenth’s legate, glinting in the orange light of the torches and fires that dotted the enormous camp.
Plancus sat his horse like a statue, his face the image of the traditional Roman officer: proud — if somewhat vacant about the eyes — haughty and confident. The tribunes of his command followed on astride their own steeds, followed by the standards bearers, musicians and the rest. Fronto ignored the rest of the arriving column.
“Legate Fronto?” Plancus narrowed his eyes as though he might be mistaken. “Can we help you?”
“Could you spare me one of your tribunes for a while?”
Plancus shrugged carelessly. “They all have assigned duties. I will send a man over as soon as he has completed his tasks, if you like. Who is it you wish to see?”
Fronto fought the urge to grind his teeth. It was a habit he’d noticed on the increase when dealing with that particular breed of officer that took to military life like a fish to gravel.
“I doubt that’ll be necessary. I would like to see tribune Menenius. He’s not with the medical column that arrived, so I assume he’s back with his legion.”
A trace of irritation passed across Plancus’ eyes and he cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Menenius is travelling with my baggage train, in relative luxury. Despite my insistence, he continues to maintain that he cannot ride a horse.”
Fronto found that, despite his decision, his teeth were grating off one another already. Of course the damn man couldn’t ride a horse. Fronto had visited him in the hospital tent back at the Rhenus as soon as his head had cleared enough and stopped thumping. The Fourteenth’s tribune had taken an arrow wound to the shoulder that had become infected, as well as two sword wounds to the arm and the thigh. Fortunately, both had been light blows, drawing blood and a little muscular nicking, but with no real damage. The fever that came with the infected wound had kept the man on the bank of the Styx for six days and he’d still been in the care of the medical staff until yesterday. He certainly shouldn’t be riding a horse.
You prat.
“So if you can spare him?”
“He claims to be unfit for general duties and for some reason the medicus supports the malingering wastrel, so do as you see fit.”
Grind, grind, grind.
“Thank you for your consideration, Legate Plancus. I’ll just speak to him in the column, then.”
Without waiting for any sort of gesture of acknowledgement — which he felt he was unlikely to receive anyway — Fronto turned and strode slowly along the line toward the small group of wagons that carried Plancus’ mobile palace, with every comfort he could muster.
A jutting tuft of grass turned his step uncomfortably, and a lance of pain shot up from his knee, making him stumble. Though he’d already regained most of his leg strength, it was clear that a certain amount of knee weakness was here to stay. It had taken Carbo very little effort to persuade him to ride these past ten days rather than the march he generally preferred.
“Bollocks!” he snapped at the mauve evening sky, grasping his knee and rubbing it before he straightened.
Hobbling across to the rolling wagons, he hopped a few steps and then fell into a steady pace, grimacing with every other footfall.
Menenius sat in one of the carts, wedged into place with bundles and sacks. His armour had been stowed, and he travelled in his uniform only, with his cloak spread out beneath and around him, providing a clean surface upon which to recline.
Fronto was surprised at how pale the man still was, but had to remind himself that Menenius had always been fairly white, displaying that particular skin tone found on men who spent almost all of their time surrounded by scrolls and books and oil lamps, who only saw the bounty of nature through windows.
Twelve days had passed since he’d dropped in on the tribune, at which time the man had been in the throes of fever, lashing out and thrashing around, totally oblivious to any visitor. Since that time something had settled into Fronto — something that had killed off any further urge to visit. He’d not known exactly what it was, but something in his gut had continually turned him from visiting, even when Priscus had urged him to do so.
The man had clearly saved his life, but his stomach turned over at the thought of admitting that the fop, who had stated his own dislike of all things martial, had had the courage and wherewithal to step in and fight off three howling barbarians while the strong legate, veteran of a dozen wars, had dozed unconscious with a cracked skull and a trick knee.
It rankled badly.
And yet, on this last day of journeying, he had found his mind wandering and focusing on the events of that impressive and insane foray to the east bank of the Rhenus, and he had gradually come to the conclusion that he was being childish — a fact that needled him even more, given how often Lucilia and Faleria accused him of the same. The tribune may be a fop with a flowery personality and a weak chin, and he may have no desire to serve in an actual military environment, but the man had shown natural, innate talent, both with command and with direct swordplay.
It had soured Fronto all the more to discover that the root cause of his reticence to visit and acknowledge Menenius was plain jealousy. Here was a young man who was destined for high position in Rome, thrust into an environment for which he was hopelessly unprepared, and yet he’d excelled in the position. Meanwhile, Fronto, who had long been the most soldierly and martial of Caesar’s officers, was rapidly being forced to come to terms with the aches, pains and limitations that came with being the oldest of the serving commanders.
“Menenius?”
The tribune sat a little straighter and, Fronto noted, took a sharp intake of pained breath as he focused on the source of the call.
“Legate Fronto? Mayhap you are lost?”
Fronto fought the surge of irritation and jealousy that urged him to turn and leave, and shook his head as he approached the cart.
“No, it’s definitely you I’m here to see.”
“I feared…” Fronto was further irritated to realise that Menenius was blushing, “I thought that perhaps I had angered you or that you were disappointed with me. I would have come to see you, had not the medicus and my own legate been very restrictive with my movements.”
Fronto fell in alongside the wagon, his head level with the tribune’s elbow.
“Of course not!” he snapped, instantly regretting his tone. “Sorry. I should have come to see you sooner. How are you feeling?”
Menenius winced as he moved. “Somewhat pained. The medicus tells me that the wounds are not bad, but I have to admit to suffering with them. I have never been wounded before, barring a broken arm as a child. It hurts surprisingly more than I expected.”
Fronto nodded. “As the recipient of a hundred wounds in my time, I can tell you that they all hurt, and you never get used to it. Well, some do. Balventius in the Eighth seems to actually enjoy it.” He scratched his head. “I wanted to ask you what happened. How did you come to be there when… when whatever it was happened? It’s all so vague.”
The tribune’s face took on a surprisingly sheepish look that made Fronto frown.
“What’s up?”
“I… it’s not a tale of bravery, I’m afraid.”
“Results suggest otherwise.”
Menenius gave an embarrassed smile. “Sadly not. When you formed the wedge to attack the archers, my bowels almost gave way. I have never felt so terrified in my life. It is distinctly possible that I actually urinated in my breeches.”
“But you killed three barbarians. How? I mean, we thought you must have died in the assault.”
“I never took part in the attack, sir. To my eternal shame, I let our entire force charge the enemy, while I dropped to the ground behind and hid in the undergrowth by a tree.”
Fronto stared at the man. This was starting to sound more like the Menenius he had expected. Instead of the loathing he expected to feel for such cowardly activity, though, what he was surprised to experience was a surge of relief. The tribune wasn’t so damned perfect after all. Fronto still had the edge.
“But why didn’t you follow on when we’d taken the place? We searched for the fallen and couldn’t find you. I wondered whether the bastards had carried you off — there were a few missing men.”
Again, the tribune turned his embarrassed face away. “I’m afraid that I fled. As soon as you’d all gone and the screaming started, I ran deeper into the woods. I was in a blind panic. I don’t even know how long I ran or where to. I only stopped when I almost ran straight into the rest of the barbarians coming the other way.”
Fronto nodded to himself. “You ran into the enemy from the farm ambush?”
“Almost. I stopped short and began to make my way back towards you all as best I could. But I had to move slowly and quietly, and I was not entirely sure of the direction. Eventually, they were almost upon me, and I had to hide. I stayed in that hiding place for a while, shaking and terrified. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I think I slept for a while, but I woke when the barbarians came crashing back past me, running for their lives. I could hardly credit it. It seemed that Fortuna was sheltering me that day.”
Fronto smiled “And me, I suspect.”
“Well I waited until the Germanic thugs had fled, and I saw a few legionaries pass, and I was about to stand when I saw you approach and sit, rubbing your knee.”
The legate reflexively repeated the motion now, noting the gentle throb within.
“I stayed crouched for a moment. To be honest, I was less than sure whether I dared make myself known, after my cowardice. But while I tried to pluck up the courage to stand, I saw a few more of the barbarians rise up out of the undergrowth behind you. They must have been hidden just like me, and less than ten yards distant. Remarkable, really.”
“Very” Fronto nodded. “And one of them smashed me over the head from behind.”
Menenius blanched again. “I could have stopped that. I just do not know how I can apologise enough. Had I stood when I saw them or shouted a warning, you could have moved. But I stayed frozen. You fell heavily and I realised then that they would kill you.”
He lowered his eyes to the rattling boards of the cart beneath him. “Something happened. I’m not sure what. It’s all a bit of a blur, then. I think they spotted me before I stood, but possibly not. I drew my sword and… and… well it’s all a bit confused. Next thing I knew I was being lifted up by legionaries, and my eyes wouldn’t focus.”
Fronto nodded again. “It would appear that your courage comes in fits and starts, tribune. The man who turned the tide back at that farmstead is the same one as the man who saved my life. But that man seems to be locked away inside a gentler, more peaceable man. I can’t say I’m not grateful, mind.” He took a deep breath. “But that dichotomy is no use in command of a legion. I would heartily recommend that when the campaigning season ends, you do not push to retain your commission.”
Menenius smiled weakly. “I never had that intention, legate. I have already spent this summer planning my next step up the cursus honorum. My family wanted me to excel in the military. They pushed for me to repeat my year and try to shine, but it is time to resign. I know that now.”
“And don’t let that knob Plancus assign you to anything like that again. Stick to shouting at people and making lists. In the meantime” he glanced at the wagon’s driving seat, where the Gallic-born legionary was studiously examining the rump of the ox before him, “don’t repeat this story to anyone. Just tell them that you don’t recall what happened. It’ll do you no good in Rome if that story gets out.”
The tribune nodded gratefully. “Thank you, legate.”
“And thank you. It seems that I owe you a life somewhere down the line. Let’s pray to Mars that it’s not necessary to collect on it.”
Leaving a slightly relieved looking tribune, Fronto strode forward again at a faster pace. Slowing briefly, he caught the eye of the legionary driving the cart.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Catumandos, sir. Third century, seventh cohort.”
“Well, legionary Catumandos, if any hint of that conversation I just had with the tribune ever surfaces again, I will know exactly where to look. It’s not unknown for an unwary legionary to drown in a latrine trench. You get my drift?”
The soldier nodded, stony-faced. Fronto gave him a long moment of glare, just to push home the point, before strolling off back towards the tents of the settled legions.
Good. Cathartic. That was exactly what he’d needed to hear. So long as he never found himself sharing a command with the man again, everything would go swimmingly.
And now to address the other thing that had been filling his thoughts on the journey before dropping in on Cantorix at the medical section.
“Nice dagger.”
Centurion Furius turned to face Fronto, his face betraying no surprise, his eyes flinty and hard. The legate of the Tenth could hardly fail to notice the way Furius’ hand dropped to rest on the pommel of his gladius in an automatic reaction.
“Legate?”
“I said ‘nice dagger’. Shiny. New, is it?”
The centurion’s jaw firmed. “As it happens, yes. Can I help you in some way?
”Costs a couple of coins, doesn’t it. And Cita can be a bit stingy with replacements. Bet you had to shell out over the odds for that. Must irritate you.”
Furius squared his shoulders and looked the legate in the eye. “Is there a reason you’re keeping me from my duties, sir?”
“Just admiring the dagger. Lost your old pugio, did you?”
“If it’s of any great interest to you, it broke during the battle at the Germanic camp. I requisitioned a new one the same day. I don’t let any man attend duty with missing kit, let alone doing so myself. Are you quite happy now?”
“Tough luck, that” Fronto replied with a grin. He was starting to enjoy himself, and the more irritated Furius became, the more his own mood improved. “I mean, the pugio’s a strong weapon. Damn hard to break that blade. Tried to prise off a pilum head with it, did you?”
Furius simply glared at him and Fronto ploughed on, smiling.
“I mean, I’ve had my pugio since Caesar was a simple quaestor in Hispania and I was on his staff as a junior officer. Used it for the first time in a riot in Numantia, long before Caesar’s proprietorship and my command in the Ninth. I’d say I’ve used it more than a thousand times since then, and it’s still as strong as a vestal’s underwear and has a wicked edge.”
“If you really must know, legate, my pugio snapped because I punched the bloody thing through a chieftain’s bronze chest plate. I got it stuck in his breastbone and the tip snapped off while I was trying to remove it. I might have been able to free it, given time, but I was sort of busy fighting off two more of the bastards with just a gladius. Some of us fought like soldiers there, rather than poncing about on a horse.”
All the humour drained from Fronto in a breath. His eyes narrowed.
“I know your sort, Furius. You and that friend of yours. When I have proof of what you’re up to, you’ll wish you’d been cut down in battle.”
The centurion simply smiled coldly. “Permission to speak out of turn, man-to-man, sir?”
“Granted by all means.”
“Why don’t you just fuck off, Fronto? You spend all your time swanning around with a vine staff jammed up your arse, half-drunk and half-dazed. You’re just an impediment to proper military organisation. You’re too hard-arsed to support those liberal, girl-like officers who want Caesar to rein his army in and ‘talk it out’, but you’re too weak and disobedient to serve properly and carry out the orders given to you by your superior without questioning every angle and complaining at it all.”
Fronto opened his mouth angrily, but Furius jammed a finger into his chest, almost driving him back a step.
“No. You gave me the right to speak. Your sort makes me sick. You have the skills and the courage to be a bloody good officer and leader of men. You could be a Pompey. Or a Lucullus. Or even a Caesar. But you’re just too indecisive and wishy-washy. You have flashes of brilliance, I’ll admit. Your little stunt across the river was good and I’d have liked to have been there. But in between, you continually sod it all up and drink away your effectiveness.”
There was a pause — a moment’s silence — and yet Fronto, standing there with furrowed, angry brow and mouth open ready to retort, found himself somehow unable to speak, disarmed by words.
“See? You can’t even put me in my place.” Furius took a deep breath. “Now I have duties, like most centurions. I have things that need doing. You don’t like me. I don’t trust you. But we serve in different legions and we’d never even have to cross paths if you didn’t make it your life’s work to pester and accuse me. So why don’t we agree never to speak again, and I’ll just wait patiently until the end of the year when, if rumour in the Seventh is to be believed, you will lose your commission through your constant disobedience, and piss off back to Rome to swagger around the gutters there.”
Without waiting for a reply, which Fronto, almost shocked with anger, appeared totally unable to supply, Furius turned and strode away, vine staff jammed beneath his arm.
The legate stood and watched him go, turning over everything that had been said in his mind.
Rumour was that he was going to be decommissioned? Why?
Somehow, that small unpleasant revelation almost obliterated everything else the man had said. Should he speak to Caesar?
He stood still in the warm night air for a moment, listening to the general murmur of a camp at rest and the distant sounds of the civilian settlement going about its life.
A deep breath totally failed to calm him or settle the twitch he seemed to have suddenly acquired beneath his right eye. Grumbling quietly, he strode off back toward the praetorium.
The cavalry officers of Aulus Ingenuus, Caesar’s bodyguard, were positioned around the command section of the main camp, by the important tents as well as in a general perimeter, their backs ramrod straight, eyes alert. Two of them twitched for a moment as Fronto approached, preparing to block his path but, recognising him as one of the staff officers at the last moment, they saluted.
“Password, legate?”
Fronto had to pause for a moment and dredge his memory. “Artaxata. Why Priscus needs to keep dredging up the names of eastern shitholes for passwords is beyond me. I think he just does it to annoy me because he knows I’m bad with geography.”
The two cavalrymen smiled and thumbed over their shoulder.
“In you go, sir.”
“Is the camp prefect in?”
“He’s in his tent, sir.”
Nodding his thanks, Fronto strode off towards Priscus’ tent, gesturing at the guard standing beside that doorway. The legate himself had never bothered with a personal guard around his command as most senior officers did, but the praetorian cavalrymen had extended their remit from the general himself to the entire command section. Against all expectations, Priscus seemed to like it.
“Fronto, from the Tenth” he said to the cavalry trooper.
The man saluted, rapped on the tent’s doorframe and ducked inside. Fronto heard his name being announced in a muffled voice within, and the barked command to let him in. Priscus sounded in a worse mood than usual.
Thanking the soldier, Fronto ducked inside. Priscus stood behind his large desk, leaning on it with his left hand, his right curled around a solid wooden wine cup. He looked up at the new arrival and Fronto caught the look of desperate aggravation within his friend’s eyes.
“Bad day?”
Priscus nodded and slumped back down to his seat, the wine slopping in the cup. “You have no idea. And you?”
“Bet mine beats yours.”
Priscus’ brow rose and Fronto strode across and dropped into one of the two rickety wooden chairs opposite the prefect. “I’ve discovered that I was saved from gruesome death by a wet little coward with no experience who still somehow fights better than me. I’ve been told I’m useless, drunken and old — more or less — by a centurion who, while he may be a prick, could just be right. And now I hear there’s a rumour that I’m to be sent back to Rome at the end of the year. Top that.”
Priscus grinned.
“Good. Well, the tribune saved you and, whatever you think of him, you have to be grateful for that. You are old. You’re older than me and I feel damned ancient these days. And you do drink considerably more than the others — myself excluded of course. Did you know that Cita keeps an emergency stock of amphorae that he calls his ‘Fronto’? ‘Useless’ I’d be tempted to argue with, though I’ve seen you trying to ride a horse, so I might not. And I can squash that rumour for you. I have the list of officers whose tour is up by winter, and your name’s not on it.”
“Good. But it’s still been a bad day. What’s got you so bothered, then?”
“Other than the standard camp crap, added to all the extra work provided by the presence of a civilian population? Caesar’s got me handling all the bloody merchants that he’s called in, and setting everything up for Volusenus.”
“What merchants? Who’s Volusenus?”
Priscus slid the jug of wine across the table, indicating the three spare cups at the side. Fronto eyed it suspiciously for a moment, wondering how much of Furius’ invective stream he’d be proving right if he poured that drink and in the end giving up and doing so anyway. As if to cheat the centurion, he gave it an unusually healthy dose of water.
“Go on.”
“It’s not general knowledge, but Caesar’s had the call out for merchants who have knowledge of Britannia. He had local scouts sent out before we even left the Rhenus to gather information. Most of them, and the scouts, will be waiting for us at Gesoriacum, but a couple of the more enterprising ones have come here and met the column, hoping to get the choicest reward for their help.”
“So you’ve been collating all their information?”
Priscus’ look was rather sour. “It didn’t take much collating. They’ve given us some scant knowledge of the tribes and the geography, but they all seem to disagree on everything but the most basic points. And on the one thing they’ve all emphatically stated.”
“What?”
“That it’s too late in the season for safe sailing to Britannia. That if we attempt to cross after this month we risk the fleet being torn apart and sent all over the ocean with the army drowned. Apparently the autumn currents here are bloody awful. They all think we should wait for spring.”
“But Caesar doesn’t?”
“Correct. Unless we get a lot more useful information at Gesoriacum — and that looks exceedingly unlikely if this lot are any indication — the general’s going to send a scout across to check it out. Hence: Volusenus.”
“Still don’t know him.”
“He’s senior tribune of the Twelfth. Distinguished himself at Octodurus apparently. Anyway, he’s apparently got history with ships, so Caesar’s planning to send him across to Britannia in a bireme to fill in the gaps in the knowledge and clear up any points that we’re not certain of. Can’t say I envy the poor sod. But I’ve had to have everything ready for him on the assumption that, as soon as we reach Gesoriacum, he’ll be off to explore.”
Fronto glanced down at the desk and noticed for the first time the hastily drawn map of the Gaulish coastline, marked out in charcoal on a piece of expensive vellum. A short distance from the town marked ‘GESORIACVM’ a wavering line of grey denoted the coast of the land of the druids: Britannia. A shudder ran through Fronto which chilled him to the bone.
“No. Can’t say I envy him either. But then we’ll all get the chance soon enough. In three days we’ll be at the coast. Then we’ll just have time to recover and shave before Neptune gets to drag everything I’ve eaten for the last two weeks out of my face and make my life a living Hades.”
As Priscus took another pull on his drink, Fronto gazed across the map, trying to decide what would be worse: the journey or the destination.
Gesoriacum was everything that Fronto feared it would be: maritime-obsessive. Absolutely everything about the place was centred about its mercantile shipping, its port and its fishing industry. The whole place smelled of dead, landed fish and brine — a fact that had caused Fronto’s first vomiting session before they’d even clapped eyes on the rolling waves. He could remember a time when he’d enjoyed fish as a meal and slathered the ‘garum’ fish sauce from Hispania over everything he ate — not so now.
The population seemed to consist almost entirely of fishermen, fish-sellers, fisher-wives, retired fishermen relying on their fisherman families, and inns with names like ‘Drunken Codfish’, ‘Thundering Barnacle’ or ‘Jolly Fisherman’. It was almost as though the Gods had set out to create a native settlement perfectly designed to keep Fronto at maximum smelling distance.
The army had camped on the high point at the landward side of the town, forming a solid fortification that loomed over the native settlement, with a commanding view. The increased altitude and distance from the docks were the only reason that Fronto had remained a pale grey-pink colour for the last week, rather than tipping into the grey-green tone he’d gone whenever he’d had cause to visit the waterfront. At least on one such visit he’d managed to secure a new ‘Fortuna’ pendant from a merchant. It looked decidedly like a bandy-legged Gallic fishwife to Fronto, but the merchant had been insistent that it was the Goddess of luck. Somehow he’d rested a little easier wearing it, for all its misshapen ugliness.
Barely had the legions begun the ditches and ramparts before the veritable army of native fishermen, traders and opportunists had descended on the camp, drawn by promises of a healthy reward for any pertinent information they could supply concerning the land of the druids across the ocean. Their idea of pertinent had apparently differed greatly from Caesar’s, and many had left the camp with a scowl of discontent and empty pockets, glowering at the newly arrived and heavily armoured soldiers that reminded them so heavily of the armies that had passed by this way a year before, ‘pacifying’ the north coast.
A few interesting titbits had floated to the surface though, two of which had helped mollify the dreadfully unhappy Fronto: Firstly, three different men, all of whom had good credentials, had confirmed that the centre of druidic power in that horrible island was more than a fortnight’s travel to the northwest. This was welcome news to every man in the army. The druids had caused enough trouble in Gaul; their religion, power and practices were still largely unknown and frightening, and Britannia was the home of that power. To know that the chances of an encounter were so distance-dimmed was a great consolation.
Secondly, the most warlike of the native tribes all lived in the north of the land. While those tribes to the south could be expected to be every bit as dangerous and duplicitous as the Gallic, Belgic or Aquitanian tribes; the talk had always been that the worst tribes of Celts had lived in Britannia. Nine-foot-tall cannibals with painted bodies, supposedly — reports delivered by enough trustworthy scholars that it was hard to refute. But to know that these tribes of monsters lived far in the north made a southern coast landing a little less worrying. Even Caesar, who had denounced such descriptions as preposterous, had donated generously to those visitors who had confirmed the vast distances between the south coast and these awful dangers.
Other details had come out too: the nature of the coast, with its intermittent areas of unassailable cliff and the location of several strong rivers; the swampy areas that lay along the coast to the north, and the names of a number of local tribes.
All in all, the information had been interesting and some of it of use, but little was detailed enough to warrant adding to the map of which Caesar and Priscus kept tight control.
And so, within half a day of their arrival and at the most favourable tide, tribune Volusenus, whom Fronto had finally exchanged a few words with — largely ones of sympathy — had boarded a small, fast bireme that had come up the coast from the anchor point of the Gallic fleet, and had sailed off into the endless waters and the unknown.
Two days later the rest of the Roman fleet that had been raised the previous year on the orders of Brutus hove into view and anchored at the southern end of the town.
Since then the army had settled in to wait. Fronto had deliberately moderated his drinking — a move made all the easier by the fact that not a day passed without his having to find a quiet corner in which to be sick — and had very carefully avoided any possibility of bumping into either centurion Furius or tribune Menenius, though each for entirely different reasons.
And now, with a week of misery under his belt, Fronto stood leaning on the fence of a horse corral, breathing deeply; the cavalry pens and the latrines were the only places outside mealtimes where the stink of fish disappeared beneath something else.
“Fronto!”
Taking a deep breath of horse sweat and dung to keep him going, Fronto turned at the familiar voice. Priscus stood in the main road between pens, his hands on his hips.
“Whassup?”
“Time to come and get involved.”
Fronto shook his head. He’d been ordered to attend the first two of the general’s interminable meetings but after putting out a flaming brazier with a stomach full of bile last time, he’d been excused further attendance. He simply could not understand how the rest of the army endured the constant stench of brine and dead fish.
“I’m not required” he replied.
“You’ll want to be there. Volusenus is back.”
“What?”
“Landed ten minutes ago. He just came into camp to give his report. I’m gathering all officers.”
Fronto nodded and heaved himself away from the railing and the smell of horses, bracing himself for the fresh waves of fish he caught as soon as the wind brought it wafting up. While he could still get away with not attending, to hear a first-hand account of their destination was an invaluable opportunity.
“Lead on.”
Caesar’s headquarters tent was already thronging with officers when Priscus and Fronto fell in at the back. The Tenth’s commander took a deep breath of sweat and body odour combined with the fumes from the four braziers and coughed.
Tribune Volusenus had already arrived and was busy adding marks and lines to the map on the table as the assembled officers stood around the periphery impatiently, tapping their fingers or stretching unobtrusively in the press. Gradually, over the next few minutes, other members of the staff and senior field commanders filed in to take their positions, leaving Fronto smiling at the fact that he was, for once, not the last man to arrive. After a tense wait, Volusenus stepped back and admired his handiwork, frowned, added a couple more lines and adjusted the position of some splodge or other, and then stepped back again with a nod, dropping the charcoal stick to the table and folding his arms.
“That’s all of it?” Caesar asked quietly.
“That’s it sir.”
“Well it seems as though everyone’s here. Why don’t you fill us in, tribune? I am sure that every man in this tent is just as tense and expectant as I.”
Volusenus nodded again and cleared his throat, unfolding his arms long enough to rub tired eyes.
“Everything the merchants have told you is true, concerning the passage of the sea. My aide confirmed my estimate that the journey from here to the nearest land is a little over thirty miles. It sounds like a stone’s throw, but this channel is like a giant version of the Pillars of Hercules. The currents that run beneath the surface are strong, while the winds whip the surface into large, ship-threatening waves. It bears no resemblance to the Mare Nostrum.”
He scanned the crowd of officers and picked out Brutus. “You will know the western ocean from the naval campaign against the Veneti last year. I’m sure you will know how roiling and treacherous the surface can be and how the weather can change it from glass to deep furrows in a matter of minutes?”
Brutus nodded seriously. The weather and the sea had almost brought disaster last year, preventing the naval force from performing its assigned tasks until the last minute.
“Imagine the power and unpredictability of that, forced into a channel only twenty-some miles wide. The locals have a knack with it, but even they avoid crossing any later in the year than this.”
Caesar waved the concern aside as though it mattered little. “What else, Tribune?”
“Our ships will be pretty much useless. My bireme was thrown about like a child’s leaf-boat on a full drain. We are exceedingly lucky to be here, and I vowed three altars and a dozen offerings to Fortuna, Neptune and Salacia just to make it back. An attempt to cross that in a bireme in any worse weather than we had is nothing short of suicidal. Even the triremes we have will be woefully inadequate.”
“Fortunately” Caesar interjected with a steady tone and a reassuring smile, “I anticipated the unworthiness of our fleet and have already put out the order to commandeer or purchase as many suitable vessels from the Morini and the other local tribes as we can manage. The fleet will consist of at least half Gallic vessels by the time we are ready to leave. As for your worries over the weather, I intend to embark as soon as the fleet is assembled, hopefully this very week, so fear not too much over a few breezes and squalls.”
Volusenus gave his commander a look that conveyed every ounce of his uncertainty and fear as he waited to be sure that he should go on. Caesar gave him an encouraging nod.
“I have seen little of the tribes of Britannia, for in all five days of my journey, I never once set foot upon the land.”
Caesar frowned and the tribune anticipated the next question. “With respect, general, the bireme was unsuitable for approaching the land and even the local sailors we had on board to advise and guide us advised against any attempt to make landfall. Almost the entire length of the coast consists of cliffs of a magnificent height or of dips, shingle beaches or bays that, while looking like pleasant anchorages, also appeared to my military mind to be the absolutely perfect place for an ambush or attack. In all that time, I saw little of the people of the land, only a few fishermen in their boats or farmers and riders on the shoreline and cliff tops.”
“So your grand sum of intelligence from five days aboard ship is the shape and height of the coastline and a confirmation that the locals fish and farm. Am I correct?”
Volusenus lowered his gaze. “There was little else we could achieve, Caesar.”
The general straightened.
“Very well. Due to the restriction in fleet size and the number of troops we must move, combined with the swift and punitive nature of the campaign, I will be committing only two legions to Britannia, along with a little cavalry support and my own command group.”
As a palpable wave of relief swept through the tent, Caesar eyed his officers, each of whom was busy throwing up small silent prayers that they would not be required.
“The Seventh will take part under Cicero.” The legate of the Seventh nodded wearily, clearly having expected this. Fronto’s mind raced back to what Priscus had told him of the Seventh at the start of the year. All Caesar’s bad eggs in one basket, led by a man of uncertain loyalty. Caesar had told him that he had something in mind for them: an isle of monsters full of cannibals, blood-crazed druids and treacherous swamps, apparently. Despite that the Seventh consisted almost entirely of people Fronto did not know or did not like, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them.
“And the Tenth; my equestrian veterans, will accompany them.”
The bottom fell out of Fronto’s world. The very idea of trying to cross that thirty mile stretch of dangerous water brought a small involuntary mouthful of bile that he had to swallow while nodding seriously.
Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Clearly Caesar was committing the Tenth to babysit the Seventh and make sure they did what they were supposed to. Fronto was in no doubt that he would be called back at the end of the meeting and of what that private conversation would consist. The Seventh were to be committed first to any engagement with the Tenth at their rear to keep them in line — it was plain to him. He wondered whether it was as plain to Cicero. A quick glance at the Seventh’s legate left him in no doubt as to Cicero’s feelings on the matter. The man looked like he’d tasted a little bile himself.
“Gentlemen,” Caesar continued, “study this map carefully. Over the next few days the ships of our Gallic allies will be arriving in port to bolster our fleet. As soon as the ships are judged adequate, we will be sailing with the first good tide. Have your commands on constant alert and ready to move. When the order is given I want those two legions decamped in less than an hour. Varus, I want one wing of the cavalry committed too.”
Caesar leaned forward and turned the map upside down so that the coastline, marked in black smudges and looking, to Fronto, particularly craggy and unforgiving, faced the officers.
“We will be taking only the barest supplies, with rations for the journey and only three days’ extra. No siege equipment and no support train. This will be a fast and extremely mobile assault force. I intend to rely on pillage and forage to support the army in the field. Brutus? You have the most experience in these matters, so I am placing you and Volusenus in charge of preparing the fleet and arranging the crews, route and so on.”
One of the other officers cleared his throat meaningfully, though Fronto now kept his fretful gaze downcast.
“Speak.”
“What of the other legions, Caesar?”
“Rufus and the Ninth will remain in Gesoriacum to control the port and secure our point of return. The remaining five legions will be sent out into the surrounding tribes: just a subtle reminder of our presence. I have noted a certain reluctance in our ‘allies’ desire to supply information and guides. We wouldn’t wish them to start thinking too independently and undervaluing their Roman allies. Sabinus and Cotta? Split the force as you see fit. I will speak to you later about the tribes that I am concerned over.”
Once again, Fronto looked up in surprise. That task was the sort that Caesar traditionally passed on to Labienus. Throughout their time in Gaul, the tall staff officer had been Caesar’s senior lieutenant who took charge of multi-legion forces in the general’s absence. This sudden shift in policy would not have gone unnoticed and cast Labienus in a distinctly unfavourable light.
“Very well, gentlemen; you all have work to do: I suggest you get to it. Standard briefing at first light. Dismissed.”
Fronto sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his knee.
“Is that it, general?”
“I think so, Marcus. You’re fully briefed, and I’ll be with you anyway. Just be aware of the Seventh at all times and make sure you don’t commit the Tenth to dangerous action when the Seventh could do the job for you.”
Fronto nodded, trying not to resent the general’s dismissive attitude to a whole legion of men.
“Then…” he was interrupted by a rapping on the wooden tent frame.
“Come” barked Caesar.
The cavalry trooper on guard ducked in through the tent’s entrance, bearing a wax-sealed scroll case.
“This just arrived from Rome by fast courier for you, general.”
Caesar nodded and the man strode forward and delivered the ivory cylinder. Waving the trooper away, Caesar glanced at the seal, frowning at something he saw, and then broke it, tipping out the parchment sheet and unrolling it, discarding the case on the desk. Fronto watched with interest as Caesar’s expression underwent a number of blink-of-an-eye changes, despite his trying to maintain a straight face. Surprise, annoyance, anger, disappointment, decision, resignation.
“News from home, Caesar?”
The general glanced up in surprise, apparently having entirely forgotten Fronto’s presence in his studious attention to the letter.
“Mmh? Oh. Yes.”
“From your pet slug, Clodius, perchance?”
The veneer completely cracked for a moment, though Fronto was puzzled to see not anger on the general’s face, but almost panic.
“Yes, Fronto” he snapped, “from Clodius.”
“You’d do well to cut that one off, Caesar.”
“Dictating terms to your commander?” There was a dangerous edge to the general’s voice, but Fronto ignored it pointedly.
“We spent half a year cleansing Rome of his infection. The piece of shit tried to kill me and my family. Hell, he tried to kill you! And now you use him? Have you even the faintest idea how dangerous that is?”
Caesar’s gaze had strayed once more to the letter in his hands and he seemed to take control of himself with visible effort, rolling up the parchment and dropping it on the desk in front of him.
“Do not presume to lecture me on dangers, Fronto. Who was it who embraced his capture and then chastised the Cilician pirates? Who marched with Crassus against that slave-filth Spartacus? Who survived Sulla’s proscriptions? Who was hailed ‘Imperator’ in Hispania? I recognise that you will probably serve in the military until you die or are too old and feeble to do so, and will then likely retire to an easy life back in Puteoli. But should you ever dabble in the cess pool and viper pit all-in-one that is Rome, you will come to understand that even the most odious and untrustworthy of people can be a useful tool for some tasks.”
“So what has the sewer rat been up to this time?”
Again, Fronto was somewhat surprised to notice a flash of uncertainty — even panic? — flash across the general’s eyes.
“Nothing of consequence, Marcus. Nothing of consequence.”
An inexplicable shiver ran down Fronto’s spine and he sat silently for a moment until Caesar waved him away in dismissal. Standing, he turned and left the tent, pausing at the doorway to glance back at the general, only to see him tearing the parchment into small pieces and dropping them in one of the braziers.
Something peculiar and dangerous was going on with the evasive, taciturn Caesar, and Fronto had a horrible gut feeling that it somehow involved him.