Tetricus nodded as he watched the legions sloshing along the approach.
Down below, Servius Fabricius Carbo glanced left and right at the advancing ranks of the Tenth. From perhaps fifty paces behind him he heard his optio yelling in a parade ground voice:
‘Get your arse back into that line, Falco, or I will stick my foot so far up it you can taste the boot!’
Carbo smiled to himself. For the first month or so since he’d taken over as primus pilus, the optio had treated him with care, as though he had to protect this new commander from his own men. Time, however, had brought him the respect of the first century and the optio had fallen back into his accustomed role, making the life of his men troublesome wherever needed.
Turning back to look ahead, he sized up the approach.
‘Prepare to receive missiles. Shields ready.’
Two of the men close by shared a nervous glance and Carbo smiled at them.
‘They’re not Apollo with his bow, lads; they’re just a few dozen hairy misfits with rocks. Don’t let ‘em get to you.’
But the truth was entirely different, and Carbo knew it. The Veneti up there on the walls would have slings, spears, probably bows and maybe even fire arrows, since he was sure he’d seen smoke being suppressed by the incessant rain. The next few moments were going to be a march into sheer hell, and their only hope was to keep themselves as covered as possible and pray fervently. At least, until he’d had enough, anyway.
‘Incoming! Raise shields.’
Next to him, one of the soldiers frowned.
‘I don’t see anything, sir?’
‘Get your shield up.’
As the soldier lifted his shield into the most protective position, covering most of his front, his eyes peering over the top, a sling shot rapped on the wood and leather and fell to the floor in front of him.
And then, suddenly, hell broke loose.
The Veneti launched everything they had as individuals rather than in ordered units, and sling stones, lead bullets, arrows, rocks and spears fell from the walls in a hail. Carbo gritted his teeth, listening to the shouts and shrieks of the men who were too slow, too unprotected, or just too plain unlucky, and were felled by the onslaught.
The ground began to slope upward as they battled on against the constant hail of missiles, men toppling out of the line, only to be replaced by the soldier from the rank behind. Despite the change of terrain and the difficulty of maintaining a solid line while marching up a slope, Carbo still welcomed the end of the wet, sloshy ground below as his boots finally found dry land.
There was a deep and loud groan from above and the primus pilus frowned for a moment, cocking his head to one side and listening intently. A clunk and another groan.
‘First Cohort: Form two columns on the flanks!’
Without comment or question, nearly a thousand men forming the advancing ranks of the legions split into two groups, angling away from each other, so that the single line of two hundred men became two columns, each with a front line of fifty, a wide gap opening in the centre. Carbo just had to hope that the other cohorts and legions had realised what was up.
Just as the trap was sprung, Carbo glanced back to note with satisfaction that the other senior centurions had followed suit and that the front ranks of the Eighth behind then were copying the manoeuvre.
A cry of angry disappointment rose from the walls above as a huge tree trunk rolled through the now-open gate in the walls and hurtled down the slope toward the attackers, neatly descending into the gap between the two advancing columns and rolling inoffensively to a halt in the marshy ground below without having touched a single man.
Carbo nodded in satisfaction. If they had oiled the hinges on those gates, that could have been so much worse. In his early days with the military, he’d acquired the nickname ‘the augur’ due to his innate sense of self preservation and his uncanny knack of being prepared just ahead of any unexpected event. Carbo himself knew that it came entirely down to using the senses the Gods had gifted him with, combined with experience and a sprinkling of common sense.
And common sense and acute hearing had just saved the First Cohort. Above, the gates were shut once more, hurriedly, and the missile shots increased, accompanied by savage cries.
‘Single line… lock shields!’
In a perfect reverse of their earlier manoeuvre, the Tenth Legion closed ranks once more, though the formation would be no help in taking those walls in the circumstances. The time was almost upon them, now.
As the legion trudged slowly up the slope, men occasionally falling out of the line with a squawk, Carbo narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze across the ranks of men. There were very few places in the cohort where the line was five men thick, and as often as not it had thinned to three rather than four. He’d lost a fifth of his men already, and they were still two hundred paces from the walls up an ever increasing gradient. The First Cohort would be gone before a Roman hand touched the wall.
‘Pass the word back. Sound the retreat! Orderly, mind you…’
The signifer, Petrosidius, three men along from him, grinned and waved the standard as somewhere back by the optio the buccina called out the retreat order. Carbo could almost feel the relief, not just from the men around him, but also from the legions following them up, who took up and relayed the call with telling speed.
The First Cohort slowed to a halt, their shields still up against the battering missiles falling on them from above, and began carefully to step back down the slope, maintaining the forward defensive wall.
‘We’re going to get bollocked, sir.’
Carbo smiled at the man who had spoken.
‘I don’t think you need worry, lad. The legate’ll look after us.’
Fronto, high on the promontory above, watched and nodded with satisfaction. Shame they’d had to waste so many damn men before retreating, but at least they could show Caesar how stupid the idea was. Tetricus laughed.
‘You were right, Marcus.’
‘I know. I’m going to see Caesar. You get that artillery up and running. As soon as I’ve talked some sense into the old man, I’ll get the other legions’ engineers up to join in.’
Tetricus nodded and jogged off toward the makeshift artillery platform while Fronto turned and set his sights on the hastily-erected headquarters tent that held a commanding view of the enemy stronghold. The general emerged from the tent as he watched, waving his arms angrily at three of the staff officers that lurked outside in the torrential rain.
The hawk-nosed general was still laying into the innocent officers a short while later as Fronto approached, and one of the men meekly raised his finger and pointed at Fronto. Caesar turned to him, his face red and angry, his eye flickering dangerously.
‘I want the man who ordered that call to be stripped naked and flung down onto the rocks, and the musician who made it will follow him.’
Fronto shook his head.
‘No you don’t.’
‘What?’ The eye flickered faster.
‘With respect, Caesar, those two men just saved you thousands of men. Remember last year? Plancus marching on the walls of Noviodunum? Throwing men away like mad until you relented and let us do it properly? Don’t turn into a Plancus, general.’
‘I…’
The flickering in his eye stopped, and the general’s face took on a strange and almost frightened look.
‘Fronto… the tent…’
The legate frowned and stepped forward, grabbing the general’s arm, just as his legs started to give way. The officers stared at them.
‘Don’t read anything into it, lads. He’s exhausted.’
Without sparing them another glance, he steered the general toward the command tent and entered without ceremony. The tent was empty other than a table and seat.
‘What’s happened?’
The general was starting to shake slightly, his brow pallid and sweaty.
‘I’m fine… Fronto.’
He l
eaned over the table, his face hidden in the darkness.
‘Just… exhausted, like you said.’
Fronto narrowed his eyes.
‘You’re ill.’
‘No. I’m fine... Get out. You deal with it how… however you feel.’
Fronto’s frown deepened as he watched Caesar slump slightly.
‘Get out!’
With a shrug, Fronto turned his back on the general and strode from the tent. The old man had looked like death was closing in on him, and the expression on his face had only added to the impression. The legate had this nagging feeling that he would deal with the retreat and go back in only to find the great Caesar dead on the floor in a pool of his own bile.
Perhaps the world would breathe a sigh of relief if that happened.
Fronto gritted his teeth as he emerged into the rain and looked at the three officers, their faces full of concern.
‘As soon as the legions are back, send the officers to me and have the engineers report to Tetricus.’
One of the officers opened his mouth to object to this clear command from a man who was, in theory, at most a peer, if not a lesser officer, but his throat dried up as he saw Fronto’s face.
‘At once, legate.’
* * * * *
‘Caesar?’
‘Fronto? Come in.’
The legate shrugged, casting a quick look around at the view outside the tent. The rain had died down to an intermittent drizzle that was almost worse than the downpour, but the change had made the work of the engineers easier and visibility was greatly improved. Straightening his shoulders, he ducked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back behind him.
The general sat at his table in the cavernous, largely empty tent, a studious look on his face; no sign of his recent indisposition showing.
‘I’d offer you a seat, Fronto, but I only have the one, for now. I’m rather hoping not to have to unpack. What is the news?’
The legate shook his head.
‘Oh no. I’ll give you a full report in a moment, but first I want you to level with me. There’s something wrong, and I don’t want to come in to report one morning to find you draped over your table bleeding out. I wouldn’t know how to proceed.’
Caesar gave a knowing smile.
‘I rather think you know exactly how you’d proceed. In fact, I’ll be most surprised if you haven’t already planned for the eventuality. But no… I’m in no danger of dropping dead.’
‘Then what’s wrong?’
Caesar fixed him with a searching glare and sagged in the chair.
‘Just an illness, Fronto. I caught something in Illyricum that’s taking a little more shaking off than normal.’
‘With respect, Caesar, that’s a pile of crap. I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve never seen you do that. You were in the middle of building up a real argument with me, and I know how much we both enjoy that… and then you petered out and almost collapsed. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that you’re trying to hide it, even from those closest to you.’
The general glared at him.
‘This subject is not open for discussion, Marcus. Leave it be.’
Fronto gave a vicious grin.
‘Well we were headed for an argument about the attack, so let’s just have an argument about this instead.’
He ignored the warning glance again.
‘Whatever it is, we’re in wet, boring, north west Gaul, a long way from the jackals in the senate that are always sniffing around you for a weakness. Out here it’s just you and your army. You need to be straight with me, ‘cause it worries me. I’ve not seen you…’
The legate paused and frowned thoughtfully.
‘But that’s not true, is it? I have seen you like that before.’
The general still had not spoken, and Fronto nodded as his thoughts stretched back.
‘Vesontio last year… before we moved against the Belgae. You virtually pushed me away and disappeared on your own, complaining about the smell or something. That was the same thing, wasn’t it?’
‘Fronto, you might sometimes be too bright for your own good. How can you have recall like that when you pickle your brain so often?’
Fronto brushed the comment aside, frowning.
‘It’s a preservative. Come on… you’ve got to trust me. I know something’s up, and you’d be better off giving me the truth than letting me speculate.’
Caesar sighed and sagged again.
‘I do have an affliction that strikes from time to time. It’s not lethal; just inconvenient and I would rather like to keep it from the rest of the men. You and I know that it’s men, not strange forces, that control the future of the world, but there are a lot of intelligent men out there who cling to ridiculous superstitions, let alone the average soldier.’
Fronto nodded.
‘They could see it as some sort of curse?’
‘Exactly. A mark of divine disfavour or some such.
‘How many people know about this?’
Caesar shrugged.
‘My body slave, some select few of my family… and a merchant in the forum holitorium who will die a very wealthy man so long as he keeps his mouth shut.’
The general smiled.
‘But since you now know, I may need your help from time to time in keeping this quiet.’
‘Does it happen often?’
Caesar frowned.
‘Rarely more than a couple of times a year, really.’
Fronto sighed and leaned against the leather of the tent wall.
‘So what is it? Give me the details and I’ll know what to do the next time that happens, rather than making feeble excuses to the men and leaving you on your own in the tent to ride it through.’
The general nodded quietly.
‘I’m not entirely sure, Marcus. It only started a couple of years ago, about the time we first left for Gaul. I’ve discounted the possibility of a connection; men like you and I look at plain fact, rather than superstition, as I said.’
Fronto pursed his lips.
‘And you’ve not seen a physician?’
Caesar smiled.
‘In fact I have seen several, Marcus. One of the main reasons for my wintering in Illyricum this year was to be safely away from Rome for a while, somewhere where I could investigate this without my enemies getting wind. Illyricum is home to a number of physicians who follow the Greek medical traditions; very smart men. Unfortunately, just like their democracies, the medical profession are plagued by differing opinions and the inability to reach a unified conclusion.’
‘And?’ Fronto prompted.
‘The most common theory is that I have what they call the ‘falling sickness’. That’s the worst case, I suspect, since the stigma it carries means that revealing it could be political suicide. But even if that is the case, it needn’t be a real problem. I’ve heard it said, after all, that Alexander of Macedon had the same problem, and he built a vast empire.’
‘And died very young if I remember rightly’ Fronto added flatly.
‘Something from which, I fear, I am quite safe.’
Fronto sighed.
‘There are other possibilities?’
Caesar nodded. ‘I will not speculate, Marcus. Whatever it is, it appears to be periodically debilitating rather than life threatening. But if you see me starting to get hazy and confused, or if I appear to be hearing or seeing things that aren’t there, find an excuse and get me somewhere private urgently.’
‘Then what?’ Fronto asked with genuine concern.
‘I may lose consciousness. I may shake and spasm for a while. The symptoms, I understand, are quite varied and interesting…’ the general smiled ‘…though I am never in the right frame of mind at the time to record what it is that’s happening. It might be very useful the next time it happens if you could note the progression, so that I can approach the physicians with the details the next time I return to Salona.’
Fronto nodded seriously.
/> ‘Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you share traits with Alexander. Alright, general. I’ll keep this quiet and my eyes open. In the meantime, we need to deal with the current situation. I realise that I overstepped my bounds by allowing the Tenth to call the retreat but, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve always considered it more important to do what you needed done than what you wanted done.’
Caesar shook his head slowly.
‘You were, of course, quite correct, and I would normally recognise that myself. You’ve known me since my earlier commands, Fronto. You know I’m not the sort of man to throw troops away on foolish errands.’
Fronto nodded. ‘That’s what took everyone by surprise, sir. Is it the illness?’
Caesar shook his head sadly.
‘Nothing to blame this on but lack of adequate thought. The past few months have been extremely draining and aggravating, Marcus. Those in Rome who have influence are beginning to array themselves against me; the senate and even the people, who have ever been my greatest advocates, are beginning to question my actions, since Gaul will not accept the eagle; the elder Crassus seems to be genuinely affectionate toward me while his son undermines everything I do here; Pompey keeps placing minor obstacles in my way and even Cicero is starting to speak out against me. Everything feels like it is pressing on me and I’m on the verge of snapping under it all.’
Fronto smiled sympathetically. He could understand the weight of politics. It was a contributory factor to his own avoidance of it.
‘You need the campaign over as fast as possible. We all know that, general, but cutting corners will only cause you trouble in the end. Let the legions do their jobs properly, and we’ll have this over in no time.’
‘I hope you’re right, Marcus. I really do. Alright, then; let’s have the update.’
Fronto stepped away from the tent wall and stood before the table.
‘Alright. Well I’ve sorted things outside. We lost maybe four hundred men, but it could have been a lot worse. I’m allowing tents to be set up, but nothing else. No fortifications or suchlike. We don’t want to get involved in a protracted siege, as you said, but the men need to keep dry when they’re off duty, or the whole army’s going to come down with something.’
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 113