He was about to begin shouting, giving the order to call off the attack, when he realised that there were still Veneti standing at the rails of the ships. Why would they leave their own men?
Brutus was without answer as the quinqueremes on the flanks closed on the two outer enemy vessels that remained, drifting alone as the rest of the fleet swept away from them.
Unable to find a convincing reason to halt the attack, he watched, mystified, as the engagement, such as it was, began. The quinquereme on the left flank; the Celerimus, he believed, swept forth with a final surge and a roar from the ranks of rowers, and ploughed into the side of their target vessel.
Brutus shook his head, realising what had happened before the scene fully unfolded. The trierarch of the Roman vessel had done nothing wrong, but the Veneti had allowed their ship to drift just slightly, putting it at a slight angle. The ram on the Roman vessel slammed into the heavy oak hull but, rather than punching through and disabling the enemy, the ships came to a mutual halt with a resounding crash and men and goods were thrown around the decks. The ram had broken timbers, but had then glanced off and slid along the hull harmlessly, leaving the boarding bridge pointing out to open sea.
The enemy crew were laughing at them, Brutus realised, as the Gauls raised their sail and began to gather the wind to move away. Silently, he willed the captain of the Celerimus to pull the disaster around and, as he watched, the quinquereme changed angle and tried to face the enemy ship long enough to drop the corvus, which was already manned. There was, he realised, no chance of this happening successfully. The oarsmen had begun to row, trying to manoeuvre the heavy Roman vessel, but it just took too long to pick up speed in the circumstances, while the swift Veneti ship that had been their target began to open the distance between them, disappearing toward the land with a bulging sail and laughing crew.
Brutus felt the pain behind his eyes coming back and pinched the bridge of his nose again.
‘Signal the fleet to break off.’
He opened his eyes again, already knowing what he was going to see and dreading it.
Sure enough, two other Roman vessels had closed on the enemy, one on the opposite flank and one close by in the centre of the formation. As they lunged forward, trying to ram and with the corvus swinging and ready to drop, the Veneti ships shifted their sails, caught the wind, and swiftly moved out of the way.
There was no trap. Quite simply, the Veneti had known from the start that they were safe from the Roman fleet, but were testing not only the tactics of their hated oppressors, but also their abilities. The answer was almost embarrassing. Without something new, nothing in the arsenal of Roman naval experience was going to be able to make a dent on the Veneti fleet. The Gauls were toying with them, batting them on the nose and then dancing out of reach.
He turned to catch the accusing glare of the trierarch.
‘Yes, I know. Signal the fleet to follow them. When they put to shore, we need to find a useable harbour somewhere nearby and keep a squadron at a time out there, making sure the Veneti stay still. As soon as they’re ashore and we’ve got them under surveillance, I’m heading back to the general to report.’
The captain nodded quietly, and Brutus ground his teeth. Caesar was unlikely to be sympathetic.
* * * * *
Brutus sighed as the general let his glare slip slowly away. Caesar had said nothing, but his expression had said more than the harshest words.
‘Very well… We are in the same position as we were before we marched on Corsicum. The only advantages we have this time are that we know what their tactics are likely to be, and the fleet is there and will be able to at least try and hold the enemy fleet in.
‘Weather allowing’ Brutus added quietly, unwilling to raise his eyes to meet the general’s sharp glance.
‘Solutions, gentlemen. We now know the situation of this next fortress. It is similar to the last, but with narrower coves opening to the sea on either side of the headland. Is there some way we can speed up the whole procedure and not be at the mercy of nature and her damn tides?’
Tetricus cleared his throat next to Fronto.
‘We can stop the legions out of sight of the fortress, general; assemble as much of the artillery as possible so that it will require considerably less time to put them in position and find the range. If we then send scouts ahead as we start to move, they can locate a good place for an artillery platform and direct the engineers there. If we do it right, we can have the artillery pounding the enemy in a fraction of the normal time. The surprise could give us an edge and buy us time.’
The general nodded slowly and appreciatively.
‘Surprise is clearly important. If they have too much time to plan, we could end up with a repeat of Corsicum, or worse. We shall keep the legions from moving into sight until we are ready. Let’s keep them guessing and off guard. What else?’
Balbus frowned.
‘Tetricus? Can you split your attack when you’re set up and drop some of your shots into the centre of the fortress?’
‘I can, but won’t it be a waste of shots we could be directing against the walls?’
Balbus smiled and scratched his bald head.
‘If we’re trying to prevent them from having too much time and leisure to plan, the confusion created by being under random shots across the place could be useful.’
Caesar nodded again.
‘Do it. Next?’
‘Dams.’
The general turned his head to the voice off in the recess of the command tent. Mamurra, the engineer who had joined the staff in the spring, stepped into the circle of light.
‘We know how deep the tide comes in over these causeways. It’s not deep; just enough to prevent any kind of land attack. If, as you say, the apertures to the sea to either side are relatively narrow, we can dam them enough to hold back the tide, and that would give you the freedom to work your attack any way you wish.’
Caesar frowned and leaned forward across the table, the stylus in his hand tapping on the surface.
‘Wouldn’t that take a long time?’
Mamurra shook his head.
‘Not with, what, four legions available to us. Given complete control, along with a few good engineers and perhaps a legion of men, I can have serviceable dams in position in an hour or two. It’ll take longer than that to flatten the walls, so we should have the time.’
Caesar frowned at the engineer for a while and then nodded and faced the others again.
‘Surprise, artillery prepared in advance, a fleet anchored in the bay beyond, the sea held back with dams. Anything else we can do?’
There was an uncomfortable silence and, after a pause, the general smiled and sat back.
‘Then at least it’s an improvement on the last attack. We’ll move out in the morning. Have the word given to the officers. The Eighth, Ninth and Tenth cohorts from each legion are hereby assigned to Mamurra to construct his dams. They can separate out now, excused all other duties, and start quarrying the stone and loading it into carts to save time when we arrive.’
‘General?’
Caesar turned again to see the interim camp prefect wearing a quizzical expression. Fronto glowered at the Illyrian officer. The man had kept carefully quiet and out of Fronto’s way since the day they had spoken in Fronto’s own house, which was just as well, since the mere sight of him was enough to make the legate want to break the man’s nose.
‘Yes?’ Caesar said quietly.
‘General, the Tenth cohort is currently assigned to camp construction, maintenance and deconstruction. How will I take down the camp and prepare to move?’
Caesar rolled his eyes.
‘Good grief, man. The assignments to camp are all transitory. Any cohort can do the job. You have the authority; just draw some other men and get the job done.’
The man shrank back out of sight, and Fronto smiled menacingly to himself as the general stood and stretched.
‘Then everything is se
ttled. Let’s get prepared and put and end to this uprising.’
* * * * *
‘Respectfully, legate, I’m going to have to request that you get your arse to the back and take up the traditional role of looking good and urging the men on.’
Fronto blinked at Carbo.
‘Sod off.’
‘Now, now, sir. I know that Priscus let you charge into the enemy next to him, and I’m slighting neither your ability nor your bravery, but it’s my job to lead these buggers into a fight, and not yours.’
‘Fine. Your request has been duly noted and declined. Care to disobey your commanding officer?’
The pink faced centurion next him smiled and winked.
‘Then don’t get in the way, eh, sir?’
Fronto opened his mouth to bark a sharp reply, but the primus pilus turned his head away and shouted across to the signifer some twenty paces away.
‘As soon as you see the Eighth move, signal the advance.’
Petrosidius nodded, keeping his gaze on the standards of the Eighth off to their right. Ten paces behind the officers, the Tenth Legion shuffled their feet in agitation, itching to be off. Fronto faced forward once more, looking at the path before them.
It had certainly been a whirlwind preparation. Only two hours ago had the first Roman scout crested the hill in sight of the Veneti stronghold and in that short time Mamurra’s men had constructed what looked, to Fronto, like a very unstable dam on either side of the headland, holding the sea back from the causeway. Certainly they appeared to have the odd small leak, rivulets of seawater trickling down the inner face. The plan had extra merit that had occurred to them after the meeting. With the tide in, when the legions attacked, Brutus’ fleet would be able to get closer to land.
Fronto’s gaze passed across the mass of artillery on the headland keeping up a constant barrage, though having now shifted from the ruined walls to pounding the interior. This fortress was smaller and less well-defended than Corsicum and had succumbed to the assault remarkably quickly.
His eyes followed the missiles as they arced up from the onagers and once again he focused on the brooding sky. He just hoped in the name of every god he could think of that the weather would hold off until after the attack. The grass underfoot was faintly damp, but ‘faintly damp’ was as dry as it had been in weeks. The sky above, however, boiled with black, grey and white clouds, promising storm conditions and torrential rain, likely with lightning and thunder. Not, he grumbled to himself, good conditions to be marching up a slope and wearing bronze.
A buccina call rang out from the Eighth, and Petrosidius waved the standard, triggering calls from the Tenth’s own musicians.
The legions moved off and a grin split Fronto’s face. It felt good to be marching into a fight again.
The three officers slowed their pace slightly until the First Cohort reached them and then slid in among the men, taking their place in the front line. The smile on Fronto’s face widened for only a moment, and was then rudely removed as the men around him pushed, shoved and jostled suddenly, falling back into military precision moments later and leaving the legate two rows back from the front.
Fronto issued a low growl, glaring ahead, and an apologetic voice spoke up from next to him.
‘Sorry sir. Orders of the primus pilus.’
For a moment the legate was tempted to argue, but knew it would be fruitless. The Tenth respected their commander, Fronto knew, as much as he respected them, but the legate was often just a voice from high up, whereas a senior centurion was the man that put you to digging in shit for months at a time when he was unhappy with you. Fronto had no chance against that kind of threat.
Settling into his position in the third line, Fronto continued with the steady march as they descended the slope and reached the causeway at the bottom. His eyes strayed to his left, where he could see one of Mamurra’s dams, the other out of sight beyond the promontory. His mind immediately furnished him with vivid images of a dam exploding inwards, rocks tumbling this way and that, releasing the structural internal timber beams to rush toward the panicked Tenth Legion on the crest of a deadly wave. Fronto squeezed his eyes shut and forced the picture away but, when he opened them again, he could not look too closely at the dam without his knees taking on a very unmanly tremble.
The legions marched on across the causeway. By this time, the ground they trod would normally by under at least six feet of water.
Pictures in his mind again.
Damn it.
Or dam it, anyway…
Fronto smiled to himself. The ground beneath his feet squelched unpleasantly, and he sank a fingerwidth or two into the murk with each step.
The moments passed with the unpleasant sound of thousands of squelching feet and the dull clunk of armour and weapons that were becoming a martyr to rust in the conditions this summer.
The legate sighed with relief as his feet confirmed they had finally reached the upward slope that led to the walls and almost smiled until he realised that the rumbling he was hearing was not now the constant barrage of the artillery. The shooting had ceased to allow the legions room to manoeuvre, and so the low grumble he could now hear was thunder.
‘Shit.’
‘Problem, sir?’
Fronto glanced at the man next to him. He’d not meant to say it out loud.
‘Just the weather.’
‘I always try to stand next to someone taller if it’s thundering and I’m wearing armour, sir’ the man replied with a grin. Fronto laughed for a moment and scanned the ranks around him, noting with wry humour that he stood half a head taller than any man close to him.
‘Great. Just great!’
The slope ahead was much easier than that of Corsicum. Just as the stronghold was only perhaps a quarter of the size, with less powerful walls, so the cliffs were lower and the promontory less pronounced. Wearily the men of the Tenth slogged up the incline toward the smashed walls that had protected the fortress proper.
Carbo, ahead and to his right, barked out commands as they moved.
‘We take the left. First century: peel off as we reach the walls and secure to the left before working your way round the edge of the cliffs. Once we near the crest, I want the rest of the First Cohort to start spreading down the hill and then swing round at higher speed, like a closing gate, making sure we clear the whole surface. I don’t want to miss anyone.’
There were shouts of acknowledgement from the appropriate centurions and Fronto grinned. It was this that granted command ability. Oh, some of it was natural talent, such as in the case of the general, but far too many legates and tribunes stood at the back, slapping each other on the shoulder and watching happily as their men fought the battle. Only when you understood the men themselves, the abilities and responsibilities of the centurionate, and how everything fitted together in the actual fight, could you hope to direct a legion effectively. It was his appreciation of the situation his men were in that had given Fronto all his experience. He and the Tenth had made a name for themselves together.
His attention was brought back to the immediate situation as there was a shriek from ahead.
He focused, startled, as the line staggered to a halt, a figure missing.
‘Lilia?’
Sure enough, as the legion began to move again, more cautiously, Fronto looked down with sympathy at the man who, two rows ahead of him, had discovered the first hidden pit with its sharpened stake.
The man writhed in the hole, the point of the stake through his thigh, the bone shattered. Once the legions were ahead and out of the way, the capsarii following up would find him and take him back to the makeshift camp, but the man’s leg was ruined, along with his career. Fronto swallowed sadly and raised his eyes again.
Then, thankfully, they were past and the man was out of sight, though the occasional shriek from left and right announced the location of another deadly trap. Fronto grimaced as he kept his gaze straight ahead, locked on the walls. For just a moment, he w
ondered how a tribe they had never fought had adopted Roman defensive methods, but it had not taken him long to realise that Crassus had spent last summer suppressing these people. They had picked up Crassus’ tricks.
A moment later the front ranks reached the line of the fallen walls, slowing once more as they stumbled over the rubble and into the stronghold itself. The first century set off along the line of jagged stone, only to discover that the deep grass here had been left deliberately long to hide the brambles and thorns that had been left there in a tangled mass.
Moments later the rest of the attacking force encountered the same conditions. The defending Veneti had clearly, as they left the walls, traversed narrow channels through the brambles, before disappearing into the interior.
Fronto gave an involuntary yelp as a thorn wrenched a long jagged cut across his shin, raking through his breeches with little trouble. Fortunately, the entire advancing Roman force, which had slowed to a virtual crawl, were mostly grumbling or shouting at the tearing and jabbing brambles.
If seemed like hours, dragging, wading and stomping through the painful undergrowth before the legions reached short grass and heaved a sigh of relief, examining their arms, legs and feet. To a man, the Eighth and Tenth legions had been scratched and raked, drawing blood in dozens of places. Hardly a great defensive measure by the standards of the Roman army but, Fronto had to admit, innovative and simple. The thorns had irritated and pained the legions and slowed their advance considerably.
Setting their sights on the square at the top of the gentle slope, the Tenth moved on, men fanning out down the hill and searching out any hiding places. The eerie quiet was all too familiar to Fronto and his spirits fell.
The Tenth reached the top of the hill to find, just as he’d expected, a deserted square, surrounded by apparently empty buildings. Irritably, he wrestled with his chin strap and removed his helmet, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 115