“Practice, sir. Well…” he winked knowingly ”practice and a lack of underwear, anyway.”
“There are some things, Carbo, that you really don’t need to share with me. Are you sure you can’t spare just four men to help me get the command tent up. I could find a nice convincing military reason if you like.”
The centurion laughed.
“If you don’t tell the general, sir, I’ll spare the men.”
He turned to the group of four legionaries who were busy a few feet away, hacking away at the bole of an oak with their axes. He had opened his mouth to speak, but the smile slid from his face.
“To arms!” he bellowed, and, as the men turned to look at him, three arrows thudded into the timber, a fourth passing straight through a legionary’s neck and continuing merrily on its path as the surprised man grasped his throat with both hands, his eyes wide.
Fronto stared.
“Oh shit, shit, shit.”
Around them legionaries across the edge of the woods scrambled back to grab their weapons, helmets and shields that lay in bundles nearby. Here and there a screech announced that another arrow had found its target.
Carbo turned back to Fronto.
“Back to the camp, sir.”
“Sod off.”
The centurion glared at him.
“You’re unarmoured, a clear target, and being stupid, legate. Get back to camp.”
Fronto ignored the man and dived to the ground where a legionary had left his shield lying with his helmet, sword and other gear on it. Picking up the sword, he tipped the rest from the shield and slid his arm into the straps before jamming his helmet firmly back on his head.
“Sir” Carbo said again, his voice admonishing.
“Rally to me!” Fronto called.
As the men of the Tenth, along with a few stray workers from the Eighth and the Fourteenth, ran toward the officer’s call, Carbo glared at him and then collected his own shield.
Figures had appeared among the trees.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing?”
Fronto turned to see Atenos, the Tenth’s new training centurion, stomping across the grass toward him.
Carbo shrugged.
“He seems to think he’s invincible even without armour.”
“Form up!” the huge Gaulish centurion bellowed as he fell in to the other side of Fronto, his shoulder at the same height as the legate’s scalp. Soldiers began to form a line around them, raising their shields protectively as arrowed continued to whistle out of the woodland.
“Here they come” Fronto pointed.
Among the trees, the figures were clearer, more pronounced, as they neared the edge. The arrows stopped coming and suddenly warriors were pouring out of the forest, brandishing a variety of weapons and screaming guttural war cries as they bore down on the Romans, many of whom were still unarmoured, gathering their weapons or running to fall in.
“What’s going on?” Fronto barked as he was suddenly squeezed between the two centurions until he found himself pushed out past them and standing behind the defensive line.
“Stay back, sir.”
Fronto glared angrily at the men in front of him. He began to form a diatribe in his mind along the lines of how Priscus and Velius would never have dared to do such a thing, but realised with a strange fondness that this was exactly the sort of thing his old friends would have done. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. But just like those former veterans, these two had underestimated how headstrong their commander was.
Ducking to the side, avoiding the enormous looming bulk of Atenos, he gazed over Carbo’s shoulder. The enemy were almost on them. Legionaries were now falling in to either side of him, nodding respectfully as they took up their position in the second line. Fronto looked past them. Other soldiers had been less prepared or just less fortunate, and disappeared with a scream under the blows of axes and swords before they could reach their gear.
The legate concentrated for a moment, cocking his head and lifting the cheek-piece of his helmet. His fears were confirmed by the distant shouts and buccina calls: this was no small localised attack. The Menapii and their allies had waited just out of sight in the woods until their Roman pursuers had become complacent enough to drop their defensive line and go about the work of constructing the camp.
The surprise had paid off. Roman bodies littered the edge of the wood just within sight of Fronto, around the area the Tenth and Fourteenth worked. This could have been a disaster, but for the fact that the men were disciplined, trained, and prepared for just this sort of circumstance. This very tactic had almost obliterated the Twelfth last year and these days no work party went about their business without their weapons and armour close to hand.
The enemy rushed on, warriors approaching the rapidly-forming shield wall and slowing to a more cautious pace. Elsewhere the situation was different, the Celts swarming over small pockets of Romans fleeing the trees. Here, though, the centurions were forming a solid defence quickly and efficiently.
As the enemy came on, running through the bracken and high grass, their fur-clad or naked torsos rippling, their muscular arms hefting axes, swords and spears, a man sprang onto a large rock, directly opposite them. His bushy beard and flaxen braids were peppered and tangled with bones and feathers, his arms wrapped in gold bangles, a grey, stained robe hanging limp in the warm, damp air. He bellowed something unintelligible and raised a staff, surmounted by a huge bird’s skull, waving it in encouragement.
“Druid” said Atenos flatly.
“That’s a bloody druid?” Fronto stared. “I thought they were all quiet and grim. That bugger looks like a cannibal madman!”
Atenos crouched for a moment and stood once more as the druid spat out curses and yelled something in a shrill voice, pointing at the officers with his bird-staff.
“Same to you” yelled Atenos and cast the large stone he had collected from the ground with a tremendous force and a surprising accuracy. The boulder caught the druid full in the face with a very unpleasant noise, hurling him from the rock and back into the unseen undergrowth behind. The staff arced up through the air and disappeared into the grass.
Carbo grinned at his subordinate.
“You do a lot for Gallo-Roman relations, you know.”
“He was pissing me off.”
Fronto smiled as the two men continued to banter while the enemy finally reached the line and threw themselves at the shield wall. A sword was thrust toward them and Carbo casually turned it aside before flicking his blade back and driving it forward into the man’s bared chest.
Beside him, Atenos leaned back as a swung axe whistled past his nose before the big man leaned forward again, putting all his not-inconsiderable weight behind his shield and punching the bronzed boss into the man’s face, shattering bones.
The two men continued to hack, parry, stab and duck, occasionally sparing a moment to fire a snappy and sarcastic comment at each other. Fronto smiled as he backed out of the line, unnoticed by the two centurions. The legionaries shuffled to fill the gap.
Stretching, he tightened his grip on the gladius. Scanning left and right, he watched the fighting carefully.
To the right, sections of the Eighth legion had managed to create a solid shield wall, just like Carbo’s, and were bringing up the rest of their men to plug the gap where the worst of the fighting was going on and join up with the Tenth. The situation was very much under control there.
To the left, however, a group of soldiers from the Tenth and the Fourteenth were forming a small core defence, but were clearly beleaguered and outnumbered.
Fronto glanced over his shoulder to see a soldier, clutching an arm that ran with a river of crimson, jogging back toward the future site of the camp to find a capsarius.
“You!”
The soldier turned and tried to salute, but his arm was unresponsive.
“Sir?”
“Sorry, lad. Go see the doctor, but find the reserves
of the Tenth and the Eighth back there and tell them to stop digging and get down here.”
The soldier nodded, his teeth clenched against the pain, and ran on.
Fronto turned and took a deep breath. Carbo and Atenos and their growing force were beginning slowly to advance, pushing the desperately fighting Celts back toward the trees.
The combined units of the Tenth and Fourteenth were formed into some sort of mess of a war-band, rather than a solid shield wall. Hefting the sword and feeling a faint twang in his arm, the occasional reminder as to how close he’d come to losing it last year, he turned and ran off down the gentle slope toward the mess.
“Who’s in command here?”
The group, resembling a Belgic war band more than a Roman force, was fighting off enemies en masse and, miraculously, given the lack of defensive formation, seemed to be holding their own.
There was no answer but the constant grunting and crashing and battering noises as the legate stood at the relatively peaceful rear side of the group.
“I said: who’s in command here?”
“You are” a voice bellowed from the centre.
“Good. You’re about to be flanked. On my command, draw back three steps, keeping your shields to the enemy, and form a solid line.”
There was no response but the ongoing sounds of battle.
“Now!” he bellowed, and was gratified to hear a lessening of noise from the front as the soldiers disengaged.
“Now form second, third and fourth ranks.”
Pushing his way in among the men, he heaved his way through the bodies until he was only a few men from the front line, once more under severe pressure by the enemy warriors. Reaching out, he tapped a man on the shoulder.
“You’re the corner. Everyone to the right of you, swing back and form a side wall of shields.” Another man got a tap. “You’re the other corner. That’s it. Now form into a square and seal off the rear with another shield wall.”
He watched as best he could from amid the centre of the mass, wishing he had Atenos’ height advantage. The man must have the clearest view of what was going on around him in a fight. It appeared that the shapeless mob of men had, without having to bare its underbelly to the enemy, managed to reform into a good, defensive square.
He grinned as he hefted his sword again and shifted his grip on his shield.
Better still, he was involved in it, with no irritating underlings that knew him to force him back to dull safety. He leaned closer to the men in the second and first line in front of him.
“Are you lads going to be all good and deferential to a senior officer and make room for me? I’ve got an itch I need to scratch.”
Fronto gave a crazed grin as he lunged forward past the rim of his shield, plunging his sword into the mass of attacking barbarians and connecting with something soft and unseen. A squawk from somewhere among the pile of hairy, bellowing men announced his success. He withdrew the blade and shifted the shield slightly just in time to deflect the point of a spear, thrust from one of the warriors behind the front row.
It wasn’t that he had come to enjoy the killing, or at least he hoped not. It was a mix of two things: partially it was the sheer simplicity of an ‘us against them’ situation that took all the thought, complication and grey areas out of life and presented him with a very straightforward path and goal. But then there was also the incredibly cathartic release of pent up stress and anger.
The past months had brought so much pressure to bear on Fronto that he was almost weighed down to ground level. He hadn’t realised just how tense he’d been until these poor bastards had run out of the woods and directly into his path.
The situation in Rome was becoming worse all the time, with his family living in terror and having to be escorted to the market to buy food for fear that they might be attacked by the thugs of Clodius. Priscus was there, looking after them, but that was Fronto’s job, not his.
And then Priscus’ last letter had come and Fronto had almost torn himself to pieces, unable to decide how he felt about the knowledge that Paetus was alive, possibly a traitor to the army, certainly for some reason playing guardian spirit for Fronto’s family and friends, murdering noblewomen and likely with plans to deal harshly with Clodius and/or Caesar. He’d not shared that knowledge with anyone, least of all Caesar. If he were abiding by his loyalty to his patron, he should be telling the general about this potential danger, but for some reason he could not bring himself to do so.
And Priscus not being here still felt wrong, same as Velius. Carbo was an admirable man in the job, and clearly Atenos had fallen into place like the piece of a puzzle. They both fitted the Tenth seamlessly and the legion had moved on from the loss of their two senior centurions without issue, but not having Priscus around was like losing a limb. He’d known the man so long it was like losing family.
But of everything that had happened, and something that came as a surprise to Fronto, it was the strange hole left by the absence of Quintus Balbus, former legate of the Eighth, that most affected him. By now the ageing officer would be sitting on the veranda of his villa at Massilia, sipping wine and watching the sparkle of the waves on the Mare Nostrum, but the gap he left was surprisingly large. The Eighth were currently without a legate, under Balventius’ able control.
Three years he’d known Balbus; only three years, but it felt like a lifetime. The man had become something of a father-figure in a peculiar way. He had looked after Fronto and reined him in when necessary, preventing the worst of his potential outbursts and joining him in revels and excitement when appropriate. He had been a central character in Fronto’s military life for those three years and…
It had come as something of a shock to Fronto to realise that he was now the oldest serving legate or senior officer in Caesar’s command. He still thought of himself as a young man… hell, only recently passed his fortieth year, so he was hardly a shrivelled old prune, but to be the second oldest officer in Gaul after the general himself was a sudden worry.
Perhaps the most pressing thing that continued to weigh him down was that, despite everything, he could have coped with all of these problems and issues if he only had the opportunity, but the general could not let him go until the Gauls were finally settled. And they just would not stay settled.
What was it with these people? It wasn’t that they were stupid or backward; Galronus and Atenos were Gaulish and they were among the most impressive and intelligent men Fronto knew. He’d met leaders, warriors, innkeepers and more in their three years in Gaul and they were intelligent, quiet, productive people. Why then could they not just accept that Rome was here to stay, reap the benefits of it and settle? Why the annual explosion of revolts and rebellions?
He gritted his teeth angrily and stabbed out at the man before him.
The enemy had thinned out while he had been lost deep in his own thoughts, stabbing and parrying automatically without the need to concentrate too hard. The warrior before him was fighting desperately, the look of violent triumph that had been evident at the start of the attack gone and replaced by a look of panicked failure.
Fronto allowed his eyes to flick up and past the man. The Gauls were fleeing back into the woods all along the line.
The man in front of him lurched backwards, Fronto’s latest blow cutting a jagged rent along his ribs. Somewhere behind Fronto, a centurion yelled out “Melee!” and the line broke, soldiers bellowing and racing off after the fleeing Gauls, trying to kill or capture as many as possible before they melted into the trees and were gone.
The man before Fronto, his eyes wide and fearful, threw his arms up, allowing his sword to fall to the ground. He jabbered something unintelligible, but Fronto snarled.
“Why can’t you lot just bloody accept it?”
The Gaul frowned in incomprehension and Fronto threw down his sword, the blade landing point first and jamming into the turf. Without taking his eyes from the Gaul, the legate let his shield fall away and unfastened his helmet st
rap, pushing the brim so that it toppled to the ground and rolled away.
“Independent Gaul is gone… don’t you understand?”
The Gaul shook his head and emphasised his surrender with his hands.
“It’s no good just giving up and surrendering yourself, though, is it?”
The Gaul stared, unable to follow the words of this mad Roman.
Fronto cracked the knuckles of his right hand.
“Because when you do surrender, we smile and help you rebuild. We send you engineers and grain and we trade and buy your goods, but then as soon as the legion moves on, you just up and revolt and kill hostages and kill each other and shout for the Germans to come over and help you. But there is no helping you because you just don’t want to be helped!”
Snarling again, Fronto threw a punch at the man’s face so hard that he felt his little finger break as it connected with the jaw. The man hurtled backwards and crashed to the ground, desperately trying to scramble away, but Fronto was already stamping toward him, rubbing his hand, his face red and angry.
“Everything is falling apart here and at home but I don’t have time to try and hold it together or pick up the pieces because you lot can’t just keep yourselves civilised and out of trouble for ten damn minutes!”
The man pulled himself up to an almost seated position, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and Fronto roared, a noise filled with rage, impotence and frustration. His second blow caught the man on the cheek and sent him sprawling on his side.
“I could be going home to help my family, or to check on Balbus and see if he’s even still alive. I could be finding Paetus and trying to console him for what they did to him! I could be doing any bloody thing but stamping around Gaul continually putting out the little fires of rebellion!”
The Gaul had the good sense to stay down, cowering, and Fronto drew back his leg for a brutal kick to the man’s side, but suddenly found that hands were wrapping themselves around his arms and gently hauling him back. His head spun from side to side, but all he could see of the two men that were restraining him was the red tunic of legionaries.
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