(Roman beachhead, south east coast of Britannia)
“So you’re all pally with the pair of them now?”
“Don’t make it sound so stupid, Galronus.”
“But you are on good terms with them?”
“I wouldn’t say I’d invite them to dine with my family, if that’s what you’re implying, but the simple fact is that I’ve been wrong about them. Gods, when did it become so hard to admit you were wrong about something? I was wrong, alright. They’re maybe a little harsh as centurions go, and I certainly wouldn’t want to serve under them and forget to polish my mail, that’s for sure, but they’re solid centurions. They clearly don’t harbour any anti-Caesarean designs like I thought. And they’re starting to despise the failings in their own legate. They may very well be the only thing currently keeping the Seventh together as a military unit.”
“So,” Galronus glanced around to make sure they were not in easy earshot of anyone, “I assume that means that you’ve removed them from the picture in respect of the deaths?”
Fronto’s pace faltered as they strode across the grass for just a moment as he nodded slowly. “To be honest, I’d not given that much thought yet. The dangerous situation we’re in at the moment has sort of pushed it from the front of my mind. Well, it had, anyway.” He took a deep breath and rubbed a tired eye. “I still won’t rule them out until I can prove it either way, but I really can’t see it now. I think I was trying to make it all fit with them because I’d already decided they’d done it. Oh, they had the opportunity, but I have the suspicion that a knife in the dark isn’t really their way.”
“You know what that means though, Marcus?”
“That we’re back to square one?”
Galronus shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Hardly. It leaves you with an inescapable conclusion.”
Fronto frowned as they approached their destination. “Hang on.” Caesar’s command tent stood some forty yards ahead, two guards standing by the open flap and checking on the officers as they filed inside. “What conclusion?” he said sharply as they came to a halt still safely out of audible distance.
Galronus sighed and tapped his temple. “Think, Marcus. Who passed through Massilia?”
“Us. And the centurions, and Caesar’s nephew. Oh, and…” The frown on the legate’s face creased deeper. “Surely you don’t think…”
“Barring the discovery that someone else with a grudge was travelling north into the war-zone from Massilia, if you rule out us, and Furius and Fabius, what other conclusion can you draw?”
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. “But those two tribunes are as wet as a duck’s ringpiece! They could no more…” but his mind was already furnishing him with a mental image of Menenius standing by a farm house, his sword running with blood as he issued orders like a man born to the task. He’d saved a tough centurion’s life!
“Fast as a bloody snake.”
“What?”
“When Menenius saved Cantorix across the Rhenus, he claimed he’d been lucky, but the centurion thought otherwise. And then he saved me from three…” Fronto felt his spine tingle.
“He didn’t, did he?”
“Marcus, you’re not finishing sentences. I may sound like a native Latin speaker, but you’re becoming hard for me to follow.”
“Menenius!” Fronto said quietly. “They found him wounded. He’d beaten off three barbarians and saved me, they said. You were there in the hospital. But that’s not what happened, was it? Bloody Menenius didn’t run and hide like a coward, did he? He lurked like a murderer. And as soon as he saw his opportunity, he tried to do for me, but three barbarians interrupted him.”
Fronto shook his head in amazement. “Three bloody Germanic thugs saved my life. Saved me from a pissing Roman tribune!”
Galronus nodded slowly. “Then Menenius has done an exceptional job of making himself appear ineffective and effeminate. The guise fooled everyone.”
“Even Caesar.”
“So he had the opportunity and the ability? He could certainly have been in Vienna when Caesar’s nephew was there. The Fourteenth were in the front lines of the battle in the Germanic camp when Tetricus was attacked. And they were in our camp at the time he was murdered, and when Caesar’s courier was done away with. The opportunity was there.”
“And that brings Hortius into the equation too” muttered Fronto. “The pair of them are as thick as thieves. I doubt Menenius could pull any of this off without Hortius knowing about it. Besides, the medicus reckoned it would have taken two people to do what was done in the hospital.”
“But, the motive?”
Fronto shrugged. “The same, I guess. What connection Menenius and Hortius could have to Pompey I don’t know, but it still seems likely that they’re trying to remove Caesar’s supporters. At the first opportunity I’m going to have to have a little word with Caesar and, when we get back to Gaul, I’m going to have another quiet word with a pair of tribunes while they’re held down and at the tip of my sword.”
Galronus gestured towards the tent, where the last of the officers had disappeared. “Best get inside before they begin.”
“I’m sure Caesar will forgive me later when I explain my reasons to him, but you’re right. It’s starting to rain and I’d rather be under leather when that happens.”
As the first patter of drizzle scattered into the hard earth and springy grass, the two officers picked up the pace and strode hurriedly across the path and into the general’s tent, the praetorian cavalry guards nodding their recognition and approval as they passed.
The tent was warm and smelled slightly of the charcoal braziers but mostly of sweat and armour oil. The legates and tribunes of both legions as well as Brutus and Volusenus stood patiently as Caesar ran a finger down a list on a wood sheet on the table before him. Fronto and Galronus fell in by the entrance and the guards closed the tent flap behind them. The dim interior gradually resolved itself in the absence of the damp morning light.
“You’re late” Caesar said flatly, his eyes not even rising from the list.
“Yes, general. Apologies, but the delay was unavoidable.”
“Is it a matter of urgency?”
“Not urgency, as such, Caesar.”
“Then it should not preclude your punctual attendance, Fronto. Or yours, commander. You are learning bad habits from the Tenth’s legate, I fear.”
Fronto bridled impotently. The general hadn’t even looked at him yet. “I will take the opportunity to explain in due course, Caesar.”
“You overstep sometimes, Fronto. I fear that I have allowed you to rush to the gate and snap and bark at passers-by too often. Legates and officers serve in this army at my convenience. You have been with me since the early days and I indulge you perhaps more than I should, but if you continue to treat this command as though you were the praetor and I your adjutant I may have to haul on your leash from time to time.”
Fronto’s angry step forward was rendered impossible as Galronus trod heavily on his foot, the hobnails in the Remi officer’s own boot digging painfully into Fronto’s foot and causing him to take an involuntary sharp breath. Caesar still hadn’t looked up and Fronto glanced angrily at his friend to see a warning glint in Galronus’ eye. Slowly, he let his rage out with a measured breath.
He glanced around the tent to see every other officer’s gaze lowered carefully except for Cicero. He half expected to see the man grinning, but instead, the legate of the Seventh was giving him a speculative, even slightly sympathetic look. For some reason that angered him almost as much as being spoken to in this way by the general.
“Good. At least you know when to stay silent” the general said, looking up. Galronus’ hobnails pressed into Fronto’s foot again as he opened his mouth to reply. Wincing at the pain, the legate clamped his lips shut.
“We have had visitors, gentlemen. A number of the local tribes have sent their ambassadors to offer me hostages and treaties. I have unilaterally accepted their offers, placing the hostages aboard one of the Gallic ships for safekeeping at this time.”
“Are these the same tribes who tried to stop us landing, general?” Cicero took a step forward. “Because if they are, I’m not really sure how far our hospitality should extend.”
Caesar nodded. “For once I agree with you, Cicero. We have no confirmation of the identity of those who attacked us. Quite simply our intelligence on the tribes of Britannia is not complete enough for us to make any solid guess as to who we were dealing with. Barring a few coins with unfamiliar names found upon the bodies, they could easily be from any tribe. All those who have entreated me claim to have had nothing to do with the clash at the beach, though it seems unlikely that they are all quite innocent. We have accepted their offerings, but I want this encampment fortified, regardless. I want the army on constant, full alert, and the ships under guard.”
“They’re probably trying to buy time” Fronto said, trying to keep the anger and resentment from his tone.
“Possibly” the general acknowledged. “Without a sizeable cavalry force we are effectively blind and relying on the few patrols commander Galronus can manage, and otherwise on the word of potentially treacherous natives and simple hearsay. The entire island of Britannia could be forming into an army over the next hill with a thousand druids for all we know. Thus I want the alert high and maintained.”
Cicero swallowed and took a deep breath. “Forgive me for reiterating, Caesar, but I can still only advise that we return to Gaul. You said it yourself: we’re effectively blind. We have no idea what’s coming. And while we sit here and wish the cavalry would arrive, the weather is turning inclement. I can appreciate that a chastisement of the tribes that supported the Veneti against us would be a good way to instil a respect for Rome, but we can hardly punish the wayward tribes of Britannia in these conditions. Returning is the only sensible course of action.”
The general’s gaze rose slowly to Cicero and came to rest there, carrying the full force of Caesar’s scorn.
“For the very last time, Cicero, there will be no return to Gaul until I am satisfied that we have achieved what we came to do. If you so much as mention this again, I will consider confining you to the ships with the Briton hostages. Am I understood?”
Fronto glanced across at his fellow legate to see Cicero’s speculative look being flashed back at him again. Damn it! He’s still sounding me out against the general and… Fronto ground his teeth, horribly aware that he was starting to find Cicero’s stand somewhat seductive.
“Very well” the general said quietly. “The two legions will set about fortifying the camp. We have rations with us for today and tomorrow only. So tomorrow we will have to examine the situation and look at foraging for more supplies. For now, though, we concentrate on consolidation and defence.”
Caesar’s eyes passed around the tent and fell upon Galronus.
“All with the exception of your good self, commander.”
The Remi officer remained silent as the general leaned over the table before him, unrolling the map that had been amended by Volusenus. Further detail had recently been added, charcoal marks and text scribbled across it. Pinning the rolled edges down with wax tablets, Caesar pointed to a place deep in the heart of the island, almost at the far edge of the map from the marked landing site.
The officers all took a few steps forward to peer at the map.
“This chart has been given some extra detail by our hostages. We appear to be largely surrounded by tribes that I consider untrustworthy and that historically have links with the Veneti and other Gallic troublemakers. There are one or two tribes in the island that have long been supporters of Rome, at least since the subjugation of the Belgae.”
Fronto noticed Galronus’ hands clench irritably at that last phrase and felt sympathy for his friend. Now was not the time for confrontation, however, and Galronus clearly recognised it.
“With respect, Caesar, I have become very familiar with your language, but I am still a relative novice with your written words.”
Caesar nodded and tapped his finger on the word ‘ATREBATE’.
“These are the Atrebates. They are a Belgic tribe within the heart of Britannia, closely tied with their namesake around Nemetocenna. They are one of the very few peoples on this island in whom I have any confidence of support and this is the supposed site of their main oppidum, called Calleva. They will supply us with the cavalry that we are lacking, I am certain.”
“That’s a hundred miles away, Caesar” Brutus said quietly.
“Yes. A long way, and through potentially dangerous lands. No Roman would make it there, I’m sure. Perhaps one of the Belgae, though…”
Galronus nodded slowly.
“It is possible, Caesar. We would have to travel fast and light.”
“Agreed. How long do you think it would take?”
Galronus tapped his lip, glancing across the map. “Four days each way. Plus allow a day for errors. We are entirely unfamiliar with this land and could easily find ourselves off course.”
“And that is catering for the safety and wellbeing of your horses?”
“Yes, general. Four days and the horses will be comfortable.”
“Then push them a little. Make it three days each way. And I will allow the Atrebates two days to assemble their forces for me. That is a week in total. Can you do that?”
“The horses will be strained, but it is possible, Caesar.”
“Do it. As soon as we adjourn here, I want you to take most of your turma of cavalry and bring me the Atrebates. Leave us only half a dozen horsemen for scouting duties.”
Galronus saluted and stepped back. Fronto could see the strain in his friend’s face as the Remi officer had bitten off his argument over the safety of the horses.
“Alright, gentlemen. Let us get down to the detailed planning.”
Fronto started awake at the call for the dawn watch, his uncomfortable cot almost folding up beneath him as he rolled across to sit on the edge and rub his knee, blinking bleary eyes. Four days had passed since Galronus had taken his riders and disappeared to the west to track down the Atrebates. In that time he’d spent most of his free time alone. Carbo and Atenos were almost constantly busy with their duties and, despite recent revelations and attitude changes, he still felt uncomfortable with the idea of inviting Furius and Fabius to socialise with him. Besides, they would likely be as busy as his own centurions. And Brutus was the almost continual companion of the general.
The next morning he’d geared up to visit Caesar and discuss the matter of the tribunes with him, but had come to the conclusion that he really did not feel well enough disposed toward the general at the moment to visit his on personal terms.
And so he’d busied himself with the daily routine of a legate, such as it was in a time of tense uncertainty. The Seventh had been given the task of foraging for food in the area and were not making a bad job of it, while the Tenth had been tasked with the cutting and retrieval of timber and the construction of extra defences and a few timber buildings.
The drumming of heavy rain on the leather roof of the tent soured his mood as it had done each of the past three mornings.
The weather had gradually worsened since the rains began. There had been but a few hours of dry here and there; not even long enough for the ground to dry out. The sun had hardly shown its face at all and when it had, it had been a pale white watery thing behind a veil of grey.
Yesterday, though, had seen a turn for the worse. A storm had hit in the late afternoon and had continued to ravage the coast into the night as Fronto had wrapped up tight in his wool blankets and eventually fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, dreaming of warm afternoons in the lush vineyards near the family’s estate at Puteoli.
This morning sounded little different from last night’s unpleasantness, apart from the notable absence of the thunder.
While the half dozen timber and wattle structures that had been hastily constructed had been put aside for the food, wool and linen supplies, and for the armoury, Fronto was starting to consider moving his cot in there and sleeping among the grain or the armour.
Yawning, he stood and stretched, crossing to the tent flap, his bare feet cold on the rush mat that served as a floor and kept away the worst of the moisture. It was only as he neared the doorway, fastened with ties, that he became aware of another noise behind the constant hammering of the rain.
Shouting.
Panicked shouting.
Fronto felt his pulse quicken. Battle? Had the Britons come again? No. It couldn’t be that. He’d heard the multitude of horns blowing the first watch, but no call to arms or any such message. So what was going on?
Quickly, he undid three of the door ties and ducked out into the pale, unpleasant dawn. The sun was barely up and the morning still had a faint purple look to it. Men were rushing around the camp, their centurions bellowing, the optios hurrying the men along with an occasional wallop of their stick. The sheets of diagonal rain were so heavy and fast that it was difficult to see more than half a dozen tents away through the camp.
Aware that he was already getting drenched with only his top half poking out of the tent, Fronto spotted the transverse crest of a centurion and shouted at him, waving an arm. The man, commander of one of the centuries in the fifth cohort if Fronto remembered correctly, hurried over as soon as he heard the yelling above the insistent rain.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s the ships, sir.”
“What about them?”
“They’re sinking, sir.”
“Piss!”
The centurion paused for only a moment after Fronto disappeared inside again, dropping the tent flap, and then turned and ran on, back to his business. Inside, Fronto hurriedly pulled on his socks — doubling them over and wishing they weren’t still cold and soggy from the previous day — and slipped on his soft leather boots, noting with irritation the discolouration where the expensive leather had been ruined by the water. No matter how many times he’d intended to speak to Cita about new boots, for some reason he’d never got round to it. Damn Lucilia and her need to rearrange him! His old boots would have kept him nice and dry.
Deciding against armour, he quickly threw his baldric over his shoulder, letting the gladius fall into place at his side, and grabbed his cloak, wincing at the chilly dampness of the wet wool. Choosing not to enfold himself too tightly in the unpleasant garment, he held it over his head to shield the worst of the downpour and, taking a deep breath, ducked through the entrance again and out into the pelting rain.
Now, parties of men had been organised, running down toward the beach and the landing site with tools or carrying armfuls of pre-planed timber. Having crossed the water with only the lightest of supplies, there were far fewer tools and nails among the legions than would normally be the case.
Centurions were yelling at their men and Fronto spotted Brutus in the downpour also making for the beach.
“Trouble with the ships?”
Brutus glanced around in the rain, finally recognising the figure of Fronto cowled beneath the sodden cloak. The young legate of the Eighth shook the excess water from his hair and ran a hand down his face and neck in a futile attempt to dry them a little.
“So I hear. Come on.”
The two officers jogged down the grassy path toward the beach, out through the gate of the twin-legion fort that had been constructed, across the short no-man’s land, and then in through the separate fortified enclosure that surrounded the fleet’s landing site.
Such was the limited visibility in the torrents of water that it was not until they had reached the pebbled surface of the beach that the two men began to make out the shadowy bulks of the ships protruding from the seething waters. Legionaries were hard at work, waist deep in the sea, while centurions and optios bellowed orders from the beach. A contubernium of eight men held a huge leather sheet up as a shelter while others crouched beneath with tinder, kindling and the least soaked wood they could find, totally failing to start a fire over which they could melt tar for the caulking of seams.
It took Fronto only a moment to spot Furius and Fabius standing close together on the shingle. The former was bellowing at a soldier so loudly and so close that it looked as though the legionary might fall over under the blast of abuse. Fabius was frowning and scratching his head. As Fronto gestured to Brutus and strode over to them, the legionary scurried off to correct whatever he’d done.
“What’s happening?”
The centurions looked up in unison and saluted the two senior officers.
“Problems with the ships.”
“Like what?”
“All sorts. A lot of those Gallic ships that hit ground first have sprung a few leaks. They must have been damaged when they hit, but we’ve only found out about it now because the storm’s wrenched them free and they’ve started to fill with water.” Furius shook his head in exasperation. “Should have seen that coming.”
Fabius pointed out to the north and Fronto could just make out a mess that looked like a ship-collision. “Several of the triremes were also damaged in the storm. They were ripped free of their anchors and smashed into each other.”
Brutus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sounds like a disaster. Will we salvage everything?”
“Too soon to tell yet, sir. Maybe half the ships in total are letting in water to some extent, though some are worse than others, of course. We’re working to secure the better ones first in case we have to cut our losses.”
“Bloody wonderful” Fronto raged. “That’s our ride home compromised. I’m really beginning to side with Cicero on this. The man might be defying Caesar at every turn but on this matter, I think he’s right. This entire campaign was a fool’s errand.”
Brutus turned to his fellow legate. “How cramped would you say we were on the way over?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted many more on our ship…” he caught Brutus’ serious and worried gaze and thought hard. “Space-wise we could probably fit half as many again, though it would be very cramped.”
Brutus nodded. “I was picturing a similar figure. And we can bear in mind that on the return journey we won’t be carrying the supplies we did on the way here. Also, and I know it sounds callous, but we lost about sixty men in the landing. That’s almost half a ship’s worth of passengers. So by my reckoning we could just about manage to ship the whole army back with two thirds of the vessels.”
“I suppose so” Fronto admitted unhappily, remembering the unpleasant crossing and trying to imagine how it would feel with crowded conditions added. “Don’t like it, though.”
“Would you prefer to winter in Britannia?”
“Shit, no. I’ll swim back if I have to.”
Brutus cast a glance up and down the beach, trying to take stock of the grey bulks rising from the waves, some of which were clearly moving far too freely for comfort. Wiping the dripping water from the end of his nose, he turned to the two centurions.
“Find Marcinus. He’s a centurion in your legion who served with Pompey against the pirates. I’ve spoken to him and he’s got a remarkable grasp of naval matters. Get him to survey the ships as quickly as he can with some help and separate out those that can be saved and those that can’t. Then get to work tearing apart those that are lost and use their timbers, pegs and caulking to repair the rest. It’ll be ten times as fast as cutting and planing the timber to fit and manufacturing the caulk. We sacrifice the bad to save the good, like a surgeon.”
Furius and Fabius saluted and turned to go about the work as the young legate smiled at Fronto, rubbing the back of his neck and shuddering at the cold rivulets of water running down inside his tunic.
“That ought to save enough to carry the army at a push.”
Fronto nodded unhappily, unable to shake the image of two hundred men pressed almost back to back in a small vessel among the buffeting waves — horrible.
This campaign was rapidly turning into Fronto’s least favourite military action of all time. He was willing to face any human or even animal enemy in the world, but when their enemy appeared to be a combination of the elements, the Gods and their own leaders’ bad decisions, what army stood a chance?
“Let me know what happens. I will be in my tent.” Glancing back at the roiling, heaving waves and the broken ribs of some of the ships he shuddered.
“And drunk” he added.
Rufus peered out from the timber-floored walkway above the gate in the new defences that surrounded Gesoriacum. The legion had done itself proud, digging a good ditch and raising a mound and palisade, clearing the woodland for almost half a mile around the settlement to provide the necessary timber. Despite the unpleasant conditions, visibility was reasonable now. No enemy could easily get near the defences without plenty of warning.
Not for the first time in the past few days he wished word would arrive from the other legions out there under the command of Sabinus and Cotta. It was almost as if that unpleasant ground mist that had resulted from the inclement weather had swallowed whole anything that left Gesoriacum. Not only had there been no word from the other legions, but the cohort he’d sent off to track down the missing supply train had now been gone long enough to be worrying. At a forced march, which was what they were intending, they should have reached Nemetocenna and returned by now with news.
So no sister legions. No news of the supplies and now no news from a vanished cohort. Add to that the mysterious disappearance of the cavalry’s fleet and it was starting to feel very nerve-wracking indeed. Moreover, two days ago, Varus had ridden east with half of his cavalry wing in an attempt to locate and bring back the missing legions.
It had reached a point where Rufus was baulking at the thought of even sending out short patrols in case they disappeared into the mist and never returned.
The optio commanding the gate’s guard gave him a nervous look and he hadn’t the heart to admonish the man for showing his worry in front of the men. Every man in Gesoriacum felt the same, and Rufus was very aware of the fact. A wary, nervous silence covered the entire town, including the civilian settlement, as though they knew something was coming. Rarely was a local face even to be seen in the streets now.
“Carry on. Send word the instant there’s any news” he commanded, somewhat redundantly — there was little doubt that word would come at a run if anything changed. The men patrolling the walls were a little too thinly-spread around the civilian town’s defences for Rufus’ liking, but it couldn’t be helped. He had committed as many men to that line as he was willing to spare. The harbour was slightly better defended, with men in tall timber watchtowers with signal fires to warn of any seaborne trouble. But most of the troops, including a large number of dismounted cavalry, were concentrated in the fort on the hill above Gesoriacum.
Nodding to the legionaries by the gate, he strode down the slope of the embankment on the wooden log steps, alighting on the muddy thoroughfare that had somehow — perhaps mistakenly — been termed a street rather than merely a muddy stream. Sighing and wishing that the locals had adopted a good flagged-or-cobbled road surface, he sloshed and squelched back towards the main ‘road’ that led through the town from the harbour up to the fort on the hill.
His boots began to leak almost instantly, and he felt the cold, wet muck oozing into the holes in the leather, gritting his teeth against the unpleasantness. What he wouldn’t give for a bath house, rather than a horse trough of cold water and a wool blanket.
Miserably, he trudged back into the centre of the town, pausing at the junction and wondering whether he should visit the harbour before returning to the fort. He glanced to his left, up the slope, trying not to notice the slurry slipping down the incline with the water that still seemed to be flowing from last night’s torrential downpour. He shuddered, but welcomed the sight of the burning torches on the timber walls of the fort — mere spots of light at this distance; fireflies in the mist. For all its discomfort, the fort was essentially home at the moment. His gaze then turned the other way, down the main street, also filled with running brown and lumpy water. Behind and above the squat stone and timber shops and houses of the natives he could just make out the tops of the harbour watchtowers, their torches also burning in the grey.
No. The harbour could wait until tomorrow. Now it was time to get indoors and warm up if such a thing were remotely possible.
His gaze swept around again to face up the slope to his destination, but lingered for a moment on the side-street that ran down into the backwaters of the native settlement directly opposite. Three figures had rounded a corner at the far end and were making their way toward the junction. The very presence of human life in the street was now a rare enough occurrence as to attract attention, but there was something about the figures that somehow caught his gaze and held it.
Squinting into the dismal grey, he could just discern that the three were wearing heavy wool cloaks and it took only a moment before he realised they were military cloaks. The three men were soldiers.
Blinking, he strained to see better and was suddenly rewarded with a flash of white. The man in the middle was a tribune. Cilo, then: still trying to squeeze supplies out of an uncooperative and reticent town. His results had been poor, though Rufus was under no illusions that anyone else would have fared any better. For some reason the townsfolk were less willing to help than he’d even expected.
He tutted to himself at the man’s short-sightedness. He’d told Cilo to just take a small bodyguard, but he’d really meant more than two men. A contubernium of eight would have been more sensible. He’d have to have a word with the man.
His heart skipped a beat.
While the three men moved hurriedly up the street toward the junction, another cloaked soldier had just rounded the corner from whence they’d just come.
“What the hell?”
His heart began to hammer out an urgent tattoo in his chest as he watched the newly-visible legionary stumble out across the street, a sword glinting in his hand, before falling face first into the murk, shaking with agony. Rufus’ heart sank as his gaze refocused on the three men approaching and he realised for the first time that the two legionaries were not just escorting the tribune up the street — they were carrying him, dragging him by the shoulders, his toes bouncing off jutting stones among the muck. One of the soldiers was also limping badly, and the other had a naked blade in his hand.
“Oh, shit!”
As if to confirm his worst fears, a sudden roar split the silent miasma as a huge crowd of natives rounded that same corner at a run, brandishing weapons and bellowing war-cries.
Rufus felt the first wave of panic wrenching at his mind as he turned to check the other streets. Though he could see no further sign of an uprising, a distant roar echoed up the main street just as two beacons sprang to life atop the harbour watch towers. Cold fear gripping him, Rufus spun again at the sound of a scream and then the clash of steel at the east gate that he had just left.
Cursing under his breath, he turned back to the three men rushing towards him and beckoned desperately.
Damn it! He’d known something was wrong and he’d taken every precaution he could think of to protect Gesoriacum. No officer would have done it better, and few would have managed what he had, given his resources. But he’d been wrong-footed in the worst possible way. He’d given Gesoriacum adequate protection against anything except its own citizens.
A local uprising hadn’t even occurred to him.
The Morini had risen.
As the three soldiers reached him, the legionaries turned the corner, dragging the limp figure of Cilo. Rufus’ heart jumped again as he realised how close the mob was. The four of them would quite clearly never make it back to the fort in time like this.
Falling in next to them, he glanced at the tribune. Now that he was closer he could see the extent of the officer’s wound between the flapping folds of cloak. The man’s white tunic was soaked crimson with his blood, centred around a wide slash that had cut the man’s gut almost from side to side. Even as he moved, Rufus saw a hint of purple intestine through the blood-soaked tunic.
Reaching across, he put two of his fingers to Cilo’s neck just beneath the jaw line. The pulse was hardly there at all.
“Leave him!”
“Sir?” One of the legionaries stared at him in disbelief.
“He’s a dead man; as we’ll be if we don’t leave him.”
“He’s alive, sir.”
Rufus reached across and jerked Cilo’s arm from the legionary’s shoulder. The dying tribune slumped between them.
“He’ll be dead before we reach the gate. Leave him; that’s an order!”
The other legionary released his grip on the tribune’s right arm and the officer collapsed to the floor, too far gone to even groan at the agony. The body slapped into the mud and shit, one leg shaking involuntarily.
“Come on!” Rufus bellowed, already breaking into a run. Next to him, the two legionaries sprang to life, racing after him. A count of five heartbeats later, half the population of Gesoriacum rounded the corner, yelling and waving swords, spears, axes and even tree branches.
“We’re in the shit, sir!”
“Not if we can reach the fort. We can last a siege for at least a month there.”
Up the slope they pounded, trying not to lose their footing in the slippery muck that flowed down the hill into the town. With a cry in familiar Latin, three legionaries suddenly dropped over a side wall from a garden to their left — some of the defenders of the town’s new walls, no doubt. From their urgency and curses it was clear that they also ran from pursuing natives.
“Report!” he bellowed between laboured breaths as they came alongside the new arrivals, one of whom was clutching a wounded, bloody arm, all three held swords, their shields abandoned in the rush to clamber over the walls.
The legionary glanced at the speaker in surprise and realised that it was his senior commander. Between wheezing breaths, he shouted as they ran.
“The wall’s over… overrun, sir. Dozens of ‘em… they… they came from every… everywhere inside the town… The lads on the… wall and down at the port…. are screwed, sir.”
“They control… the town now…. then?”
“Yessir. And… and I think there’s… more coming out… of the woods.”
“The whole… damned tribe, then!”
Rufus fell silent, saving his breath for the run, grateful for the fact that his military boots with their hobnailed soles gave him a better grip on the mucky slope than civilian wear would. It also gave them the edge over the mob that chased them up the hill who were struggling to keep their feet at speed, several going over in the mud and crap.
Ahead, the fort walls loomed ever closer and finally, in the murky grey, the shapes of individual men resolved themselves on the parapet. Finally the alarm went up inside; the poor visibility must have prevented the fort’s soldiers from spotting the warning beacons at the harbour.
It was a disaster all round.
“Open the damn gate” Rufus bellowed at the top of his voice. Figures were moving around the gate now, and more and more heads and torches began to appear along the wall, backed by the bellow of numerous buccinae and cornu.
The din was growing detestable as the six men closed on the fort, the cacophony of a legion preparing itself for action mixing with the unintelligible cries and curses of the Morini mob behind them.
A loud tortured groan arose from the walls ahead of them and, despite expecting it, Rufus flinched as the scorpion released with a ‘crack’, sending a foot-long bolt down the slope. Despite the skills of the artillerists, the bolt whipped over the heads of the mob and disappeared down into the town harmlessly.
“Angle it down more, you idiots!” Rufus snapped as he bore down on the gate, whose left hand leaf was now swinging open.
In response a second scorpion from the other side of the gate released with a ‘crack’, the bolt whistling over the heads of the six soldiers with only two or three feet to spare. Rufus felt his bowels clench involuntarily at the shot as the passage of the bolt actually ruffled his hair. He was about to snap out a curse at the firer when a shriek of pain and the sound of falling behind them confirmed the perfect accuracy of the shot.
Rufus clamped his mouth shut and hurtled through the gate, the others close at his heel.
“Close it!” he cried, somewhat unnecessarily, given the fact that the portal had already begun to swing shut as they passed through it.
Above, an unseen centurion bellowed out the order for pilum fire and there was the distinctive noise of dozens of missiles arcing out into the air, followed by the thud and rip of the javelins falling into a mass of men, then the screams of the wounded and dying.
The duty centurion stomped towards the six men as they variously bent double, clutching their knees and spitting or leaned heavily against timber and coughed painfully, heaving in breaths.
“Anyone else likely to come back, sir?”
Rufus blinked away the sweat and focused on the centurion.
“I very much doubt it. They’ve got the town’s defences under their control, as well as the port. Watch those two points where the walls meet the fort very carefully and get a good force there. As soon as you’re sure it’s safe enough, get some men out there and tear down a five yard section of the new town walls. I want plenty of open ground around the fort. We don’t know how many of them there are or what they want.”
He straightened. “But they’ve clearly planned this for a while, and there are other Morini coming from nearby to their aid, so I think we have to assume we’re here for a while. I’m hoping it’s just a small rabble of local civilians that we can draw out into open battle and flatten, but I have the horrible feeling that we’re looking at a sizeable uprising that we’re woefully ill-equipped to deal with until one of the other legions makes contact.”
The centurion nodded professionally.
“Then we’d best settle in and hope we can get control of the situation before the general returns, sir.”
Rufus felt his heart sink again. They’d lost the port and there was no way to warn Caesar. Where was Fortuna when she was really needed?