(Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)
“Returning to Gaul is out of the question.” Caesar’s voice was flat and quiet — that particular flat and quiet that Fronto knew all too well to be a final word on any matter. Whether Cicero was not aware of that or whether he didn’t care, Fronto couldn’t say, but the man slapped a hand angrily down on the table.
“We have no cavalry. We have only two legions and no idea quite how many of the natives there are out there who will resist us. We have no supplies and not enough intelligence as to where the areas of farmland and settlements are. We can’t even chase down the army that we pushed back due to the lack of cavalry support. It’s a futile gesture, Caesar!”
Fronto smiled. The commander of the Seventh had begun to rant about the idiocy of the entire campaign the moment he had stepped into Caesar’s tent and the argument had not let up yet, despite the increasingly dangerous edge to the general’s tone. Brutus, Galronus and Volusenus stood quiet, staying clear of the matter. For his part, Fronto couldn’t wait to get started on Cicero, but for the time being it was too much fun just watching Caesar nearing his breaking point.
All in all, it would work nicely for him. Caesar would, at some point, draw Fronto up for his actions at the beach, but Cicero had nicely diverted the general’s anger onto himself. It would be ever so easy now to fall onto Caesar’s side and launch his own argument at his fellow legate. That, in turn, should nicely incense Furius and Fabius enough to get their blood up. The two centurions were standing not far from the general’s tent, as were Carbo and Atenos, and they would quickly become aware of the division and argument. Especially when Fronto carried the bile right to them.
“No, Cicero. Push me no further.” The general’s voice sounded like a blade being drawn.
To his credit, Cicero seemed to realise that he’d walked to the edge of a precipice, and fell silent for a second. Fronto almost laughed when, rather than stopping, the legate of the Seventh simply changed tack.
“Then I have an alternative suggestion, Caesar.”
The general’s eyes became flinty, daring the man to continue speaking.
“Perhaps we can send back the fleet and collect the Ninth legion from Gesoriacum? Possibly even one of the other legions as well, if Cotta and Sabinus are still local enough? Then we could check on the cavalry and find out what happened to them? Four legions with cavalry support and we could take proper control of the island.”
“No.”
“But…”
“No, Cicero.”
The legate of the Seventh subsided into silence, though his face was an interesting puce colour, and he almost vibrated with the urge to go on.
The general turned his withering glare on Fronto and the Tenth’s legate could feel Caesar forcing himself to stay calm as he prepared to deal with his other wayward legate. Fronto took a deep breath.
Now was his chance.
“I am aware that by leading two centuries of the Tenth into the water, I went against the general orders during the landing, Cicero” he said, deliberately avoiding Caesar’s eyes and instead locking his gaze on his fellow legate. “But I have to make it absolutely clear that I wouldn’t have had to take such drastic action had you not flagrantly disobeyed your own orders and kept your legion back. Even those men of the Seventh who wanted to fight wouldn’t do so without an eagle to follow. I hope it burns in your gut that I had to provide that eagle because yours cowered on that trireme.”
His face was coloured with fury, though inside, Fronto couldn’t help but feel a warm glow of satisfaction as the general turned his angry gaze on Cicero once more.
Nicely deflected, if I say so myself.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Fronto” Cicero snapped in return. “I tried to commit my men, but the Seventh is no longer a proper legion. It’s a joke. Whatever the general asked of him, your old friend Priscus saddled the Seventh with every coward, rebel, idiot and disobedient fool in the army. My legion refused to disembark into the face of Hades without the Tenth being equally committed.”
Somewhere deep inside, Fronto could see a certain sympathetic logic to that plight. Had he been in command, both legions would have been in the water together instantly. Still, the fool had just made his predicament that much worse by trying to kick the blame downwards. One of the perils of command was that, no matter how the legion acted, its commander took the ultimate brunt of any retribution for troubles caused.
“Don’t bad-mouth your men, Cicero; it’s unprofessional. What do they say? ‘It’s a poor workman who blames his tools for failure’. I fought alongside your ‘cowards, rebels and idiots’ in the water, and they did the eagle proud. And I heard only Caesar’s call committing the Seventh. Not once did I hear your musicians sound the advance until we were already wading ashore.”
“Fronto…”
“Don’t make me laugh. You’re supposed to be a senior officer. Caesar may not agree with my call, but I did what I had to do to take control of the field, and the general will tell you that’s just what any officer worth his salt does in that situation. If my eagle hadn’t dragged your boys into the water, we’d all have died on the ships.”
“So taking control of the army out from under the general — an act of mutiny to my mind — is preferable to taking your chances against a few enemy archers?”
“Don’t be a prick, Cicero.”
The legate of the seventh rolled his eyes. “Ever the gutter snipe, eh Fronto. If you can’t answer the question sensibly, you have to resort to name-calling. You’d do well as a senate back-seater.”
“Stick it up your arse. It doesn’t matter how you dress your actions up, even in a broad striped toga, failure is still failure. You disobeyed your orders, endangering the whole army, and I was forced to disobey mine just to clear up your mess. Doesn’t matter what you say, I know that, and you know that.” He pointed a finger at the general, an act that raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Caesar knows it too, as well as these others.”
Fronto grinned.
“Hell, even your pet apes know it. One of your precious psychopath centurions came with me into the water. How’s that suit you?”
Cicero sank into silent glaring anger.
Got him, Fronto thought with deep satisfaction. That hit a nerve.
Caesar was looking back and forth between his two legates as though trying to decide who to berate first as Brutus finally stepped forward into the middle of the seething fracas.
“If I may interject, this meeting was intended to decide how best we proceed from here, not as an arena to hurl insults and air our dirty undergarments. I would humbly suggest, Caesar, that we finish for now and reconvene in a few hours when frayed tempers have healed and we are all calmer and more reasonable. I cannot see this turning out any useful conclusions as it is.”
For a moment, Caesar’s gaze fell on the speaker and it looked as though he might unleash his pent-up rage on the young officer. Finally, though, he subsided with a sigh and sank into his chair.
“Agreed. Cicero? Go and think about what you want from your command. Fronto? Just go away. Reconvene here at the dusk watch and we will decide what to do. Commander Galronus? I would appreciate it if you could arrange some scout patrols from your turma of cavalry to see if we can locate farms or settlements within, say, a five mile radius?”
Galronus saluted as Fronto and Cicero continued to glare at one another.
“Very well. Dismissed, gentlemen.”
Fronto stood and glowered for a moment as Cicero tore away his gaze and, saluting briefly to the general, turned and strode from the tent. Preparing himself for the next barrage, Fronto followed on, Brutus, Volusenus and Galronus immediately behind. As they strode out into the fresh, cool air, Fronto turned and made small, subtle gestures to the three behind him to make themselves absent. As they did so, peeling off and going about their business, Fronto sped off to catch up with Cicero, who had paused next to his two veteran centurions, both of whom stood with scowls on their bristly faces. Carbo and Atenos fell in behind Fronto like bodyguards and the six men came together at the bottom of the hill, away from Caesar’s tent and close to the command quarters of the Seventh.
“That was damned unprofessional, Fronto!” Cicero snapped.
“It needed to be said.”
“If you have a personal issue with me, you should take it up with me in private, not in front of the general and fellow officers.”
Fronto only partially had to fake his wide-eyed expression of disbelief.
“You dick! This isn’t personal! I can take a bit of fear or cowardice in a senior officer!” As Cicero went purple in colour, Fronto shrugged. “You’re a politician doing this job as a step on the ladder. It’s nothing new, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re not all cut out to be soldiers.”
Cicero was starting to splutter angrily and Fronto was having a great deal of trouble not bursting out into a wide grin.
“No. Not fear. And it’s not even disobedience. Hell, I’ve had to flaunt the rules a few times as you’re well aware, in order to get the right results. Better to be shouted at by the general for disobeying orders than to be wandering around the broken remnants of a dead army, wondering how it got to this.”
Still, Cicero seemed unable to find voice through his rising fury.
“I never had issue with you over these past years. I’ve never had a reason to shout at you. It’s not personal. That’s why I brought it up in the headquarters in front of everyone. Because what you do personally is of no interest to me. And what you think of me doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is when your actions — or lack of them — directly endanger the entire army, including my legion. I take very great exception to that. And I will not back down from confrontation over something so serious. When you do things like that it makes you a bad commander and a dangerous one. So you can take your righteous indignation and you can stick it so far up your cushioned, senatorial behind that you can feel it in the back of your throat.”
Cicero wheezed out a whispered invective — the best his throat seemed able to manage.
“What?” asked Fronto, cupping an ear dramatically.
His fellow legate’s mouth clamped shut and Fronto could hear the teeth grinding even then.
“Well here’s a suggestion. When you can think of something to say that doesn’t just confirm that you’re a dick and a bad officer, come and find me and tell me. I’m going for a walk to cool down.”
Leaving the spluttering Cicero, Fronto turned and marched off toward the west gate in the temporary camp’s ramparts that were still being constructed.
The last thing he noticed, with some satisfaction, was the looks of silent anger on the faces of Fabius and Furius.
By the time he was past the first two rows of legionary tents, Carbo and Atenos were at his shoulders again.
“Jove’s arse, sir. I thought he was going to explode. You might have pushed him a bit too far there.”
“Knock off the ‘sir’s. No one’s listening.”
“Not while we’re in open camp, sir.”
Fronto shrugged. “Are they following?”
Carbo ‘accidentally’ let slip his vine staff and had to crouch to pick it up. A subtle glance around and he caught up with the other two.
“No, but they’re watching where we’re going.”
“Good. Galronus says there’s a clearing in the wood to the west. Just about every path into the trees leads to it. I’m going there. The ground’s muddy and soft and even a dunce should be able to track me there. You two had best slip off back to the tents. Find Brutus. Tell him I need his help and then wait till those two leave. Follow them and make sure you’re there when they find me.”
Carbo nodded and grinned.
“Let’s nail the bastards, sir.”
“Yup. Now go. They won’t follow if they see you two going with me.”
As Fronto strode on ahead toward the gate, his two centurions dipped to the side, into the ranks of the Tenth’s temporary camp. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he fought the urge to turn and look at Cicero and his men.
Near the command section, Cicero snapped a few commands at his centurions and Furius and Fabius exchanged hurried, urgent words before separating, the former strolling slowly down the road toward the west gate, the latter rushing off toward their tents.
Fronto kept his face forward as he strode into the woods, following a beaten path — presumably a hunter’s trail. Despite the fact that Galronus and his men had briefly scouted the immediate surroundings of the Roman camp, they had only had time for a quick scan and it now occurred to Fronto how potentially dangerous it was to stride off into the woodland where native warriors or hunters could be lurking in the bushes, even watching their enemy.
In the safe knowledge that, if he was being followed as he hoped, the pursuers were far enough behind to be out of earshot, he slowed so as not to blunder into any unfortunate situation. His hand reached down for the gladius at his side and he drew it, just in case, pacing along the path into the heart of the unknown forest.
Still, a thrill ran through him.
At last.
After months of watching friends and acquaintances fall prey to the murderers’ blades, he would have a chance to confront them. And if things went just right there would be no need for protracted trial and interrogation. They would prove their guilt in front of an independent witness. Execution would be guaranteed after that. Knowing that, of course, the pair would probably try and fight. But with Fronto, Carbo, Atenos and Brutus present, he really didn’t fancy their chances, no matter how good they were with a blade.
With very little warning, Fronto rounded the bole of a birch cluttered about the base with bushes and undergrowth and found himself looking into a clearing some twenty yards wide. All across it, the scattered stumps of trees in varying degrees of decay told of the reason for the clearing’s size. A dark, charred patch marked where the unnecessary foliage and thinner branches had been deposed of.
Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he began to pick his way among the stumps towards the centre. He couldn’t guarantee that Fabius and Furius would take exactly the same path and there was the possibility they could come across the clearing from any angle, so for safety he would need to be at the centre.
Finding a particularly large tree stump — a sycamore by the look of the remnants — he took a quick look around and sank gratefully to the time-and-weather-smoothed surface, taking care to fold his cloak beneath him first to keep the dampness away.
Reaching down, he began to rub his knee. While such an act was probably unnecessary in terms of explanation for his pause, the joint was still weak and giving him some difficulty after a long walk, so the massaging felt good.
A silence descended on the woodland, broken only by the occasional cawing of a crow or the faint rustling of a ground-dwelling forest creature, the latter making Fronto peer into the gloomy eaves each time. And in the background: muffled by distance and flora, the noise of ten thousand men making camp and settling in for the day.
It was so inordinately peaceful that he found himself involuntarily relaxing and almost forgetting why he was here. For some reason life was so busy and fraught that he never seemed to find the time to simply sit in the country and enjoy the peace. A rare image of his father flashed into his mind as the two of them had made the laborious climb up Vesuvius when he was eight years old. “Life is not worth living if you can’t make time occasionally to appreciate the bounty of what’s around you, Marcus” his father had said. Good words to live by which he’d not even thought about in years.
“You’d probably like it here, father” he said to the sky in general. “It’s a bit colder and wetter than home, but everything’s so green and lush. You’d have worn your gardening hat a lot more here.”
Another image flashed into his head: this time of his good friend Balbus, wearing just such a gardening hat, his face ruddy and healthy with an outdoor glow.
“Am I getting too old for this stuff? Oh, Quintus, you may have been right about Caesar, but you have no idea what the army has descended into since you left.”
“Talking to yourself, Fronto?”
He looked up at the interruption to see two figures at the edge of the clearing, beginning to move towards the centre. Fabius and Furius wore voluminous wool cloaks that billowed around them as they moved, their heads bare to the air. No sign of crested helmets. No obvious sign of vine staffs either. They had come without the trappings of office.
Of course. All the easier to disappear or slip by without being recognised. He wondered how they had left the camp without recognition, but remembered how easily he had crossed the half-built rampart without being questioned. Going out was always easier than getting back in.
Furius, the owner of the voice, was scratching his chin as he walked. Fabius kept both hands within the folds of his cloak.
“I have to say I’m not entirely surprised to see you” Fronto said lightly.
“I’m sure” Furius rumbled.
“Very dangerous business” Fabius added menacingly, “coming off into the woodland all on your own. Not even a shield, I see.”
“Nor you.”
Fabius shrugged and Fronto could see with the movement how something solid and held tightly within his hidden grip lifted the cloak slightly.
Casually, so as not to make it obvious, Fronto lifted his eyes to the clearing’s edge behind them. It took a moment for him to spot Carbo and Atenos in the undergrowth by the path from which they’d all entered. Beside and just behind them he could just make out the shape of Brutus and even from here, he got the feeling that the young officer was distinctly unimpressed and unhappy with the situation.
With irritation, it occurred to him that if the three of them were going to lurk in the scrub, he could very well be dead by the time they managed to get involved in any fight.
He would have to string things out so they could get close enough to help.
Ever closer Furius and Fabius moved. Finally, only five yards away, Furius removed his cloak and draped it over his shoulder, his hand falling to the pommel of his gladius where it sat comfortably.
“I’m not an easy target” Fronto said levelly.
“I imagine not” Furius shrugged, his face twisting into what he might have believed was a smile.
“And not an easy kill” the legate went on. “I’m no wounded officer on a medical bed or drunken fop in an inn.”
The two centurions came to a halt some seven or eight feet from Fronto and his hand dropped to the pommel of his own sword.
“Plainly” Furius replied, his eyebrow raising slightly.
Behind him, Fabius threw back his cloak, his hand lancing out with lightning speed. Fronto had drawn his gladius an inch from the scabbard before his racing, confused brain registered that the long, narrow object in Fabius’ hand and which he’d been concealing beneath his cloak was actually a long, narrow terracotta jar — a mini amphora.
“What…?”
“Call it a salute to the only man who would jump in the water with me” Furius shrugged. “The time has come, legate, to bury the hatchet, so to speak. A peace offering? What you did at the beach… well let’s just say I seem to have misjudged you.”
Fronto was suddenly aware that he had his sword partially drawn while Furius was unhooking a leather wine bag from his belt and Fabius began to heave the stopper out of the jar. With a frown, he slid the sword back as unobtrusively as he could manage.
The two centurions heard the rasp and caught the movement, sharing a tense look.
“I hope that the division between us has not widened to the extent that we’re unable to repair it” Furius said, leaning against a tall stump. “It would appear that we have thrown our weight and support behind a fool, while allowing rumour and hearsay to blind us to the real soldiers in this army.” As Fronto shook his head in confusion and eyed the wine suspiciously, Furius glanced at the leather container and shrugged. “I fear I may have been a little short-sighted in my accusations. Serving under some of these lunatics would drive anyone to dip into a jar every now and then.”
With a sigh of relief, Fabius sank to one of the nearby stumps and, gripping the jar’s handle and laying it across his forearm, he tilted the container and supped deeply of the wine within.
“I thought…” Fronto floundered for a moment.
“What?”
“I assumed you two would be…” he frowned. “You’re not pissed at me?”
“What for?”
“I called your legate a coward and a prick.”
“And in a very forthright and timely fashion, I’d say. We’ve done our damn best to keep him on the right path — it’s part of the job of a centurion to keep their senior officers out of trouble — but the man has the leadership skills of an Illyrian goat herd and will not listen to reason. He seems intent on leading his men to the very brink of destruction in his desire to defy Caesar.” Fabius made an exasperated sound, proffering the jar to Fronto as he wiped his mouth with his scarf.
“This is a whole different army from Pompey’s you know, Fronto.”
“Yes, I’m sure” Fronto replied weakly, wondering what in the name of Fortuna was going on.
“In Pompey’s legions there was no argument among the officers. What Pompey said was law and his officers just jumped about trying to please him. Of course, all the work was done by the centurions. The legates and tribunes were really just there to make up the numbers and to look impressive to the natives.”
Furius laughed. “You remember that knob from Antium? What was his name, Lucius?”
“Postumius Albinus. Cocked things up so often that, in the end, he stayed in his tent most of the time and just let us get on with it.”
Fronto couldn’t help but smile at the image. So many of the men who’d served on Caesar’s staff fell into a similar mould. An image of Plancus surfaced in his mind.
“Until the bastard turned on us” Furius added darkly.
Fronto frowned and the two centurions exchanged a look. With a shrug, Furius tugged his scarf aside to show the white scar above his collar bone. Fronto had entirely forgotten about the strange wound, but his curiosity swelled anew.
“Albinus had us up in front of the senior officers for ‘overstepping our authority’ and sentenced us without trial. I’d be under a mound in Anatolia with half a dozen others if Pompey hadn’t ordered the bloody disgrace stopped. I was about two seconds from the blade going through my heart. It’s a reminder never to step too far outside the boundaries when stylus-pushers are watching.”
Fabius nodded. “Pompey always had to keep a tight rein on his men.”
“But the thing is” Furius said, wagging a finger, “this army is different. Caesar’s a brilliant general, but he’s also bright enough to appreciate the opinions of his officers while not giving them enough room to cock it all up. I didn’t see that at first. All I saw was people arguing with him in a way that would have had Pompey calling for the executioner’s sword. But it works here. It actually works. When people like you disobey, you pull the old man’s chestnuts out of the fire when he’d have made a bloody awful mistake otherwise. Like at the beach.”
“At the beach…” repeated Fronto, still trying to wrap his mind around this unexpectedly convivial conversation.
“Caesar was foolish to commit only one legion. I know why he did it, mind: I’m not daft. But in the circumstances it was stupid and short sighted. And then Cicero — who we’ve tried to push into actually commanding his legion — well he compounds things by sitting back and refusing to act. If you and I hadn’t dropped into the water we’d all have been screwed over.”
Fronto nodded slowly.
“That,” Furius grinned, “was the most reckless, insubordinate, and almost unbelievably sensible thing I’ve seen in a long time. You’re an odd bugger as a legate, but you actually do the work, instead of relying on your centurions.”
Fronto’s eyes flicked up to the treeline and he realised that his centurions and Brutus had vanished. Perhaps they’d decided the situation was safe, or perhaps they had moved to better overhear the conversation. He couldn’t help hoping they were still there somewhere, though.
“But your loyalty to Caesar…” Fronto blurted. He’d been thinking it, but had had no intention of actually voicing his thoughts. He bit down on the words, but it was too late.
Furius shook his head sadly. “Is unquestionable. I’m a centurion, legate Fronto. Once I’ve taken the oath, I’m the general’s man. The soldier’s oath is sacred, you know that.” He grinned slyly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for the solution to your problem.”
With a sigh, Fronto sagged. “Half a dozen times these past months people have been telling me I’m letting my prejudices cloud my judgement. Sorry, but Pompey’s been a real arsehole in Rome, right down to putting my family in danger. I never used to have anything against him, but when his men set fire to my house, things changed. When I see a Pompeian shield, it gets my blood up.”
“All I can say is that he’s a good man to serve under in war” Fabius shrugged. “What he’s like in Rome I couldn’t guess, other than to state for the record that I’ve yet to find a straight politician. They’re all bent and dodgy. Comes with the territory.”
Fronto took another swig from the jar and then passed it over to the centurion, scratching his chin reflectively.
“It would appear that I’m back to square one with whoever killed Tetricus and the others, then.”
“He was a good man, your tribune?” Furius asked, taking another slug.
“One of the best. A promising career officer, I’d say.”
“Bad way to go. When you find out who did it, make sure to let us know and we’ll give you a hand peeling the bastard’s skin from his bones, eh?”
Fronto shook his head, not in rejection, but in confusion at the strange turns life had taken in Britannia.
“It’d be just my luck if half a dozen druids popped up out the undergrowth now and set fire to me.”
Furius laughed.
“Come on, legate. Let’s get back to the safety of camp.”
Publius Sulpicius Rufus, de facto commander of Gesoriacum port, rubbed his eyes wearily and looked down at the scattered reports on the desk.
“What’s holding up the supply train then?”
Casco, the cavalry prefect of the attached auxiliary unit, shrugged. “Without sending out a proper scout force we can’t be sure, sir. We’re running patrols for a three mile radius around the settlement and there’s no sign of anything. Whatever the hold-up is, it must be further back than that.
“We’re running out of time, gentlemen. The supplies we have may look impressive, and Cita informs me that the food stores will keep the Ninth for a month, but we need to bear in mind that Caesar will be bringing two hungry legions back from Britannia before winter, and that Cotta and Sabinus will be returning here to resupply at some point. We need to have a full granary and storehouse before they’re needed. Three days late is starting to become worrying.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the tent. Rufus looked across the faces of the six tribunes, single cavalry prefect, and the primus pilus of the Ninth and felt a nervousness he wasn’t used to. Three years ago he had been appointed to the high position of legate for the first time and he’d retained command of the veteran Ninth throughout Caesar’s campaign. He’d had little experience of war or of command before then, but had very quickly found his feet and carved out a niche for himself in the general’s army.
He was comfortable in charge of a legion, in or out of a combat situation.
What he was not used to, or comfortable with, was the awesome responsibility of being given a ‘carte-blanche’ command. Not only did he have responsibility for the Ninth now, but also for the wellbeing and safety of the Morini tribe in and around Gesoriacum, the port — to which Caesar would return, and the supply base upon which the entire army depended…
It was a mind-boggling nightmare of organisation. Cita, the army’s chief quartermaster, was if anything an impediment to the smooth running of the command and, while Priscus had remained here as camp prefect, he seemed to spend most of his time stomping around and complaining or arguing with Cita.
“Alright gentlemen. We cannot afford to go on like this. Tribune Acilius: I want you to take the third cohort, along with prefect Casco and half his cavalry. Follow the river road towards Nemetocenna and find that supply train. Caesar is still unconvinced of the absolute loyalty of some of the local tribes. It is possible that they’ve waylaid our supplies, and I’m not willing to risk a small cavalry scout unit out among them without solid infantry support.”
Taking his eyes from the senior tribune, he regarded the other five junior ones. All of them, unlike the competent Acilius, were hungry young politicians fresh from Rome, hoping to win Caesar’s praise before returning to the city in the winter. Not one of them could be trusted to do much more than tie his boots.
“Nautius and Rubellius: I want you to take the fourth and fifth cohorts and start constructing some defences around Gesoriacum itself and its harbour. You can link them up with this fort to save time. Something smells wrong to me. The supplies not turning up worries me, so let’s be prepared for any eventuality. When Caesar returns, I want him to be able to land safely in the harbour, even if the whole Belgae nation is hammering at the door.”
He breathed deeply. The pair would have no clue as to how to set up effective defences, but the legion’s chief engineer was in the fourth cohort and many of the best veterans in the fifth. A placebo command to keep the tribunes busy. He smiled in satisfaction as he pondered the remaining three tribunes and his eyes fell on a young, serious looking man with sandy hair, whose family had risen to prominence through their shrewdness as traders and negotiators.
“Cilo: I want you to take just a small bodyguard and head into the native settlement. Speak to every merchant you can find and secure us whatever supplies you can for the best price you can, in case our own train never arrives. We don’t have the funds here and now, though, so you’ll have to work it all on promises.”
The young man nodded, smiling at his assigned task.
“That leaves Murgus and Purpurio. You’ll be staying in camp with me. Murgus, I want you to get on to the readiness of the men. Make sure their centurions are on task. I want all drill and training doubled. Exercises and marches, though, are to be limited to a one mile radius. I don’t want a whole column of men out there in the wilds right now. Purpurio: Get on to manufacturing. I want the workshops turning out arms and armour, not pots and pans. I want extra scorpions constructed and then positioned on the defences.”
He leaned back.
“I think that covers everything.”
“Sir, do you really expect that much trouble? Isn’t it possible that the wagons have just been delayed by weather?”
Rufus’ eyes flicked to Murgus. “It is possible, but it’s also worth noting that at no time this year has a supply train been more than twenty four hours late. Three days is therefore a bit of an anomaly, especially given that we’re currently rooted in one very easy-to-find place. I’ll be happier when I hear from Sabinus or Cotta and we know they’ve encountered no trouble, but until we have an indication that everything is normal, we’re on a war footing just in case.”
He glanced once more around the camp. “Is that it? No more questions?”
Murgus opened his mouth again, but was interrupted by a respectful rap on the tent’s door frame.
“Come!”
One of the praetorian legionaries on guard outside stepped in and saluted. “Sir. Word from the south gate. A huge cavalry force is on the way in.”
Rufus frowned and, nodding, waved the legionary out.
“Get to work, gentlemen.”
The tribunes saluted, filed out of the tent and disappeared into the camp as Rufus fastened his cloak about his shoulders with the Mars Victor brooch his brother had given him last name-day and then strode out into the chilly morning air. Catching sight of Priscus hurrying across the open space before the command quarters, he made a course to intercept, falling in beside him.
“You heard, then?”
“Cavalry. Let’s just hope they’re allied ones. It’s bloody hard to tell the difference when they’re all Gauls anyway.”
Rufus smiled as the pair bore down on the south gate. The portals were firmly closed, a detachment of legionaries on guard above and beside it. The dust cloud and black massed shapes of an exceedingly large cavalry force were plainly visible on the flat grassy land only five or six hundred yards away. Rufus sagged with relief as he spotted a Roman cavalry flag amongst them.
“It’s Varus. What the hell is he doing here? I thought he was in Britannia with the general.”
The two officers stood pensively, watching the senior cavalry commander and his entire wing of cavalry approach, filling the open grassland. “Open the gate” Rufus shouted as the force closed on them. The veteran officer was riding out front, the reins of his horse gripped tightly in his good arm, the other still splinted and bound tightly to his torso.
As the column neared the gate, Varus gave a number of commands and the cavalry split into three groups, heading to the west and east gates, and the last, with the commander himself, slowing as they approached the south.
“What in the name of Juno’s flabby arse are you doing here?” Priscus demanded as Varus came to a stop and slid awkwardly down from the saddle, his slung arm and wounded hip more than a small hindrance. His men continued to ride past him and into camp.
“Bit of a change of plan, lads, I’m afraid. Looks like you’ve had reasonable weather here, but it’s been appalling down the coast. Time and again I gave the order to embark and the sailors told me the weather was too dangerous for any attempt at crossing. In their defence, it’s been stormy as all hell down there. But that’s not why we’re here. I think you might have trouble.”
Rufus felt a knot form in his stomach. “I’ve been suspecting as much. The supply train’s three days late. What else, then?”
“This morning the weather had cleared and we went down to the harbour in the hope that we might actually be able to board, but all the ships had gone. Rather than try and find out what was going on, I thought it prudent to return here and consolidate the forces.”
“I’m glad you did. Something is definitely wrong.”
Varus nodded and patted his horse’s sweaty flank. “Let’s get in the warm and you can tell me what’s happening here.”
The three men turned and strode back into the camp as a heavy black cloud rolled over from the east, threatening further storms.