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.
Chapter 13
(Gesoriacum, on the Gaulish coast, opposite Britannia)
Word of the impending campaign had already spread beyond the Roman forces and the civilian town; of that there could be absolutely no doubt. Only two days after the decision to sail had been confirmed, ambassadors from the tribes of Britannia had begun to appear. Caesar had greeted their arrival with his traditional grave expression, though Fronto couldn’t help noticing a lightening of the general’s mood with each new advocate.
Eight tribes had sent deputations, promising hostages, support, supplies and money to the Romans. Some had even gone so far as to submit themselves to Caesar’s governance. It appeared that the fate of the Belgae in previous years was still fresh in the mind of the tribes of Britannia, many of whom were related to the Belgae by blood and tradition. Rather than face the inevitable iron-shod boot of the Roman republic pressing down on their necks, it seemed that several of the nearer tribes were willing to submit.
Moreover, and much to Caesar’s pleasure, their arrival had supplied him with eight new, heavy Celtic ships with which to brave the crossing – ships that were designed for these waters and were capable of withstanding the tremendous pressures and strains.
After a few days, when it became apparent that no further ambassadors were likely, Caesar had taken the hostages offered and quartered them in Gesoriacum’s fort. He had then set the eight groups of men on board a single ship and released them to go back to their own land, along with promises of Roman support and peaceful relations, encouraging them to spread the word and their particular brand of ‘Pax Britannia’ among the more reticent tribes.
Now, only three days after the ambassadors’ ship had sailed off from Gesoriacum on a sea as calm as the impluvium pool of a Roman villa, the men of the Seventh and Tenth legions sat or stood on the decks of the motley collection of ships that made up the Gallo-Roman fleet in the town’s harbour, staring out at what appeared to be distinctly unfriendly waters.
Only an hour before th
e troops had begun to board on Caesar’s orders, a wind had whipped up the water’s surface and changed its appearance utterly. Moreover, dark grey clouds started to roll in from the northeast as the evening sky began to darken, threatening heavy rain and worse. Brutus and Volusenus had conferred with three of the captains, two native guides and even with Caesar but, much to Fronto’s dismay, had pronounced conditions acceptable.
Even the pure white lamb that had displayed a healthy liver and kidneys and clearly shown Neptune’s favour had not put his fears to rest. He’d spent a small fortune on food, wine and trinkets merely to leave them reverentially on any altar he could find – Roman or native – to try and appease whoever controlled that particular stretch of water and his passage over it. He’d become increasingly convinced that his bandy-legged amulet was an image of some fat Gallic fishwife with as much divine connection to Fortuna as a dead herring.
All in all, everything pointed to a complete disaster as far as Fronto was concerned.
Then there had been the news that the eighteen ships destined to convey the cavalry across the water had been trapped in the next port down the coast, due to the weather. That was hardly encouraging and Fronto had watched with bitter dismay as Varus and his cavalry wing had ridden off south to find their vessels. The senior cavalry commander still sported his splinted arm and a pained look, but had recently taken to riding again as often as possible. Fronto had wondered with idle depression whether he’d seen the last of his brave cavalry-officer friend.
The only bright spark had been the surprise addition to the fleet of Galronus and a single turma of thirty Gallic riders, their horses crammed in with the men and spread across the fleet. Caesar had apparently given the Remi officer permission to accompany the legions on the basis that he and his men shared a common heritage with the island’s inhabitants – a bond that could prove useful.
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