“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 mo
od 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 the 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.
The cavalry officer grinned at him and tucked into a platter of bread, cheese and pilchards. Fronto fought the urge to stand at the rail and empty his stomach contents again. He’d already done so twice since boarding, and the ship hadn’t even slipped the mooring yet. He’d glared at the men nearby, but the smirks had continued nonetheless, increasing with every colour change his face had undergone.
“Remember, whatever happens while we’re over there — on the assumption we even make the crossing — not to get yourself in a position where you’re alone and anywhere near those two centurions from the Seventh. They’ve found it easy enough to attack people even with the whole army present. Over there, you could easily find yourself cut off and surrounded by the Seventh. Be alert at all times.”
“Marcus, stop fussing over us like a mother hen” Galronus grinned. “We’re all grown men and warriors.”
“Aye” Carbo laughed, looking up from his cup of watered wine. “And stop worritting about the journey, sir. It’s only thirty miles. Two more cups of this and I could piss that far!”
Again, Fronto looked around the deck of the high-sided Gallic beast in which they would cross. Such was its size that the officers had managed to secure themselves a fairly private area of deck toward the stern some distance from the groups of men sitting cross legged, rolling dice, singing songs and telling ribald jokes. They had even managed to obtain a shelter of leather tent sections that could hold off the rain that Fronto felt sure was coming.
Even as he glanced across at the steersman and the ship’s captain, the hooded lamp with which they had been signalling the other ships in the fleet caught the wind from the wrong direction and went black with a hiss, plummeting the entire stern of the ship into stygian gloom.
“Whose genius idea was it to sail at night?”
“Apparently it was the best choice” Carbo chattered conversationally. “The tide is right, the omens are good, and all the locals are predicting inclement weather in the next day or two. If we don’t go on this tide, we might not go at all.”
“Sounds just fine to me” grumbled Fronto, feeling another heave of his churning guts on the way.
“Did you have any of that ginger and mint?” Galronus asked lightly.
“Like I could keep it down if I did” snapped Fronto.
“Your sister said it was the only real remedy. You should at least try it.”
“Piss off. And could you all stop eating stinking fish near me. Can’t you naff off down the bow with the grunts to eat that muck?”
“This?” enquired Galronus with a grin, waving a lightly-cooked headless fish at Fronto, who immediately leaped to the rail to empty his stomach yet again.
“Anyway” Carbo said in his light, happy tone, “if I’ve got my timings right, setting off now means we should arrive at dawn. We’ll surprise the goat-humpers and give ‘em no time to prepare.”
Fronto wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and heaved in half a dozen deep breaths before turning and collapsing to the deck again with his friends. As well as Galronus and Carbo, Petrosidius, the chief standard bearer of the Tenth, and Atenos, the huge training centurion, sat in the small circle, wrapped in their cloaks against the chilling wind.
Glancing around to make sure they had as much privacy as the ship’s deck allowed, Fronto leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. The rest of the ship’s occupants were native Gauls or members of the trusted Tenth, but some things needed to be kept quiet, regardless of company.
“I’ve been thinking about our two centurion friends in the Seventh.”
“You do surprise me” muttered Galronus.
“No, I mean I think I see a way to bring something good out of this situation.”
Carbo and Atenos leaned forwards. Petrosidius continued to listen, with his head up, watching the other men nearby. “Go on” Galronus grinned.
“Well until now I’ve been thinking we need to be wary of Furius and Fabius; to keep ourselves away from them and not get caught where we can find ourselves in trouble. Problem is: if we keep doing that, we’re never going to be able to nail them for anything. Perhaps it would be better to play this entirely the other way.”
“Draw them out, you mean?”
“Precisely. With only the Tenth and the Seventh present, they might get bold enough to do something stupid. We should be encouraging that, rather than preventing it.”
“What have you in mind?” Atenos asked, frowning.
“We need to goad them… to push them to breaking point so that they snap and go for it.”
&n
bsp; “But how?”
Galronus grinned. “Just be yourself, Marcus. It appears that your very existence annoys them deeply.”
The legate shot the cavalry officer a sour look, but he found himself nodding anyway.
“Irritatingly, you might be right. I am the only one who could maybe wind them up enough to break them; and they already have it in for me anyway. I’m fairly sure they’ll relish the chance to get another crack at me. So the question remains: just how do I wind them up to that extent?”
“That’s easy” Petrosidius shrugged. The signifer, sitting bareheaded with his wolf-pelt on his knees, had been so quiet that Fronto had almost forgotten he was there.
“Go on.”
“Well the Seventh’s eagle bearer, Sepunius, happens to be an old friend of mine, and he tells me that Furius and Fabius have pretty much taken it upon themselves to act as Cicero’s personal guard and escort. Apparently his tribunes are a bit put out that two centurions seem to have more influence than them, but the pair have such a brutal reputation that no one’ll confront them about it.”
“I’ve noticed this.”
“Well, Cicero is fairly outspoken against Caesar at times. A clever man shouldn’t find it too hard to start an argument between the two commanders, especially one of Caesar’s top men. And once you have the two commanders at each other, Cicero’s pet centurions will start straining at their leash and snapping. Should be a walk in the park for you.”
A slow smile spread across Fronto’s face as he pictured the scene. It really wouldn’t be difficult. Hell, he’d already seen it happen several times over the summer.
“It’ll have to be when we land at the other side, of course.”
“So you have long enough to argue between hurling over the rail, you mean?” Galronus needled with a grin.
“Oh piss off.”
“You’re right though” Carbo said quietly. “But that’s only half the battle, as it were. Once you’ve wound them up far enough to make them want to take you down again, you’ll have to give them the opportunity. But play it carefully. Remember that these two are both veterans with as long a record as you or I; both strong and fearless, and they’ve managed several sneaky attacks so far. How do you plan to play it?”
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