He watched as Numisius carefully hauled in the rope so that it trailed along the river’s surface in a straight line, neither sinking too deep nor rising taut in the air, and then tied it off to the tree opposite. Once he had tested the weight and given an affirmative gesture, Fronto nodded and stepped to the edge. With a deep breath, he jumped in, hands coming up and grasping for the rope slung across the river.
The cold was mind-shattering. He hadn’t realised how warm the air had actually become with the advent of spring until the chilling water brought it home to him. It felt as though his blood ran with ice, and in moments he was beginning to lose the feeling in his extremities. Concentrating on the task at hand, he kept his grip tight on the rope as he hauled himself across, slowly but steadily traversing the river. He felt the rope jerk sharply and almost lost his grip for a moment, glancing back in panic to see that Masgava had jumped in and grabbed the line. Fronto wished he had a free hand to grip the figurine of Fortuna around his neck, praying to his patron goddess that the rope would hold their combined weight as he hauled himself onwards.
The journey seemed to take an hour, though it had actually been a quick crossing, Numisius assured him, as the soldier leaned down and helped him from the current, scrambling up the bank and onto the grassy slope. He stood shaking like a leaf for a long moment before he could control his limbs enough to make sure his sword and dagger - not to mention his fingers, toes and ears - were still present and correct.
Stamping his feet to bring life back into them, he watched Masgava clamber up to join them, hardly puffing with the effort, testing his reflexes and unfastening his sword.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know, sir?’ the big Numidian reminded him.
‘Just concentrate on making sure none of them get away.’
The pair watched as the rest of the singulares crossed. Once Palmatus had come over, Carbo, the last of the party standing on the far bank, unhooked the rope and fastened it to a sheaf of pila that had already been tightly bound together. As he gave a nod, Masgava started to pull in the rope, dragging the sheaf of javelins across the river and finally up the bank and onto the grass with them.
‘How many were there again?’ Fronto shivered.
‘Pila?’
‘Gauls.’
Masgava undid the knot and began to separate the weapons. ‘I counted thirteen. There might be one or two more, mind. It was hard to be sure with all the foliage.’
‘Typical Gauls. They can never do anything in sensible numerical divisions like a Roman. What kind of unit numbers thirteen?’
‘That one,’ Palmatus jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the small knot of horsemen the enemy army had left behind to watch the bridge site.
‘I hate this weather. Miserable weather to fight in.’
Masgava smiled. ‘The enemy will be almost as wet as us. Besides, we should be thanking the gods for this rain, not blaming them.’
‘Oh? How’s that?’
‘It if was sunny and dry, those thirteen Gauls would be lounging out on the open grass and sunning themselves. They would see us coming a mile off and ride out to Vercingetorix, telling him what we were up to. But the rain has driven them to shelter in that small copse, and that will allow us to close on them unseen.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Fronto conceded, ‘but I’ll still be glad to dry off later.’
Fronto waited sodden and impatient as Masgava distributed the pila to the other ten men and kept back two for himself. Fronto gripped the pair of weapons uncertainly. It had been a very long time since he’d thrown one, and even a couple of years ago back in Rome, when Masgava had set him on a very gladiatorial training regime, there had been little work with javelins. Plus, despite Masgava’s insistence they bring them, he couldn’t see pila being much use in woodland. Perhaps he might find a reason to discard them yet…
Shuddering in his freezing wet tunic once more, he scrambled up the last few paces of the slope and leaned carefully around the edge of a bushy juniper. The small copse in which the scouts had taken shelter from the weather was perhaps two hundred paces from the river, but Palmatus had chosen the site well. Between here and there lay a low hedge, crossed by a rough track that ran from an abandoned and burned farmstead down to the ruined bridge. So long as they kept low and moved quietly, only a truly alert scout would stand much chance of spotting their approach.
‘Ready?’ he asked the singulares. Each of them nodded or murmured their assent.
Palmatus stepped up to the juniper and with a quick glance at their target, ducked out into the rain and made the ten-pace dash through the open to the hedgerow, disappearing behind it. Numisius followed on, vanishing behind the bushy vegetation after the officer, and Fronto took his chance to sprint ahead of the next man. Despite the shortness of the run, the distance from the enemy, and the added obfuscation of the heavy downpour, Fronto felt the familiar thrill of nerves as he passed the open stretch.
As he reached the cover of the hedge, the men in front were already moving along it at pace, keeping slightly bent to prevent their heads showing over the top. Breathing steadily, Fronto ran on, stooped, along the edge of the burned-out field, keeping his eyes locked on Palmatus at the front, his ears straining to hear anything of the enemy through the battering of the rain.
A quick dash across the gateway in the hedge and over the rutted, worn, farm track, and then back into the hedge’s cover, closing on the copse. Then, quicker than he’d expected, they were there. Palmatus had stopped at the end of the hedge, where it gave way to a ramshackle fence that separated the farmland from the trees. It was a low, partially broken affair that would present no obstacle to the Romans, but it was not for the fence that Palmatus had paused. As the rest of the men caught up, the former legionary used hand signals to silently relay what he saw, given the proximity of the enemy. Fronto concentrated. Thirteen men, all huddled close together and trying to light a fire in the relative shelter of the pines. The forest floor would be largely clear due to the season, but would still be sodden and unpleasant.
Palmatus was now motioning something else: the corral of horses, off to the other side of the copse, away from the river. Fronto nodded. That was at least as prime a concern as the men themselves. If the horses were secured, none of the Gauls could ride for the rebel army and warn them. Fronto turned to see Quietus looming behind, and gestured for the man to come with him. Quietus nodded and Fronto turned back to Palmatus, making horse gestures with his hand and then pointing to himself and Quietus. Palmatus nodded and then lifted his hand, ready for the signal. As he confirmed that everyone was here and watching, he tensed and drew his blade as slowly and quietly as he could, the other ten men following suit.
As Fronto drew his sword, he smiled gratefully and jabbed his pila down into the ground, leaving them behind. Masgava may consider them useful against the men, but they would be of little advantage in dealing with horses. Quietus followed suit.
Palmatus waited until all were ready and poised, and his hand came down in a chopping motion. Fronto moved in the wake of the two men in front, using his free hand to vault the fence, wincing as his knee, still troubled by the wet weather, jarred upon landing, but not allowing it to slow him. And he was running, Quietus keeping pace at his heel. Now, he could see the horses through the trunks, eating the lush grass close to the trees. They had been tethered by thin ropes attached to the harnesses and variously tied off on branches or to pitons in the ground.
By the time they were closing on the beasts, which were whickering and stamping nervously at the sudden commotion nearby, the sounds of battle rang out deeper in the copse, where the rest of the singulares were dealing with the thirteen scouts. Fronto burst from the trees and the rain came back with a force once out in the open, smacking him in the face like a slap. Blinking away the water, he ran to the nearest horse and brought his blade down on the thin rope, freeing the animal, which trotted a few paces away from him and hovered nervously. Quietus arrived and
freed a second horse, and Fronto crossed to the next, slashing through the rope.
Again and again, the two men cut bonds and shooed the horses, which invariably danced out of their way and the legate rose from his latest rope, looking around for the next tether. Quietus was nearby, busily sawing through a rope that was thicker and hardier than the rest and had resisted his initial cut. Fronto blinked out the rain once more and opened his mouth to shout a warning.
He was too late.
A Gaul, hitherto unseen at the edge of the woods and presumably set to guard the horses, was on Quietus from behind, that long Gallic blade sweeping out and down onto the big Roman’s neck, where it hacked through the tendon holding neck to shoulder and through muscle, lodging itself in the bone. Quietus gasped, his head tipping involuntarily to the side as his body began to register the fact that he was dying, the spinal cord snapped and blood fountaining from his severed artery.
The legionary’s sword fell from loose fingers as he collapsed to the ground, still spraying lifeblood and gurgling a blood-filled scream.
Fronto drew his pugio with his free hand and advanced on the Gaul, but the man was both big and quick, wrenching his long sword from the dying Roman’s neck with a horrible cracking sound and bringing it up ready. The warrior had a body shield, a mail shirt and a killer’s blade. The only thing he lacked was a helmet, which no doubt rested somewhere nearby where he had been crouched. Fronto, conversely, wore a fine quality russet woollen tunic and held two short blades. He felt woefully inadequate and eyed the long blade nervously.
Memories of his many training sessions with Masgava flashed into his mind. ‘If a man has a long sword,’ the big Numidian had explained, ‘he is limited at close range. Do not be afraid to close on him. The closer you are, the harder it will be for him to use his blade, and he will be limited to using body parts against you.’
Instead of hesitating and keeping out of reach of the long blade, Fronto picked up his pace, throwing himself at the Gaul and praying that the man didn’t have time to hold the sword forth to impale him.
Sure enough, the unwieldy size of the blade prevented the warrior from bringing it to bear in time, and Fronto hit the man as hard as he could, putting all his weight into the charge. The man recoiled only slightly, his foot pushed back to brace himself as he hunched behind the shield. Fronto felt the collision as though he’d been sideswiped by a chariot at full speed, the shield’s rib, which ran down its length, bulging out to a metal boss at the centre, cracking a rib and bruising him instantly.
He had no time to recover. Although the Gaul had been barely shaken by a charge which had already hurt Fronto, the legate knew it had given him a brief advantage, making the man’s sword effectively useless until he could back-step out of the press. He allowed his gladius to fall from his right hand and reached up in a fluid move, gripping the top of the man’s painted blue shield and dragging it down with every ounce of strength he could muster, ignoring the throbbing of his ribs and hip.
Gods, but the man was strong. Fronto felt the shield coming down, but the Gaul was fighting him every inch of the way, the big sword seemingly forgotten as the struggle for the shield raged.
But gradually, finger-width by finger-width, the shield dropped, revealing the chest and shoulder of the warrior behind, the doubling of the man’s mail shirt at the shoulder giving him extra bulk. Up came Fronto’s other hand, gripping the pugio.
The warrior was not done yet, though. Seeing the knife approaching, he ducked his head to the side, away from the weapon, simultaneously bringing up his right hand. As they had struggled, the man had somehow reversed his grip on the sword and now brought it up pommel first, smashing it at Fronto’s face. The legate saw the blow coming and tried to dip his face out of the way but, without releasing the shield, he was limited. The blow landed, not centrally on the bridge of his nose as intended, but on his cheek. He felt the heavy pommel smash into his back teeth and scrape up his cheek bone, drawing blood. Waves of agony washed through him and he felt blood and tooth fragments on his tongue as his mouth opened in a cry.
But he was not the only one yelling out. Just as the Gaul’s pommel had smashed into his cheek, so Fronto’s other hand had found its mark, the dagger driving into the warrior’s neck just above the mail shirt’s collar and driving down above the collar bone into unprotected soft flesh. Through the pain, Fronto could barely see what he was doing, but even blinded by the agony and the rain, he raked the blade and twisted it, ripping it back up through what felt like a tendon.
He faltered and almost fell as the Gaul collapsed, Fronto’s fingers still clamped around the shield rim, and he staggered back, shaking, the rain still blurring his eyes as much as the pain in his mouth. Taking a ragged breath, he spat and felt pieces of tooth come out with the saliva and blood.
Shaking like a leaf, he reached up, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he did so, and wiped the rain from his eyes.
The Gaul was still alive, but was convulsing and jerking as blood pumped from a wide, savage and ragged hole above his clavicle. Fronto stared down at him. The warrior was younger than he’d thought, seventeen or eighteen summers old at most. Ridiculous. When Fronto had been in Spain with Caesar, standing at that statue of Alexander the Great, this man who’d nearly killed him today had been a howling babe! When the Tenth had first followed the Helvetii into this land, the dying Gaul here had probably been running around the fields and playing war games with his friends, using sticks and wicker shields. How long had they been in Gaul now?
He felt very old all of a sudden.
Taking care to knock the sword away from the Gaul’s twitching hand he crouched, turning his head to spit out another gobbet of blood. He looked down into the young warrior’s eyes with an empathy that surprised him, given what had just happened. The young man wore a perplexed expression, as though he simply could not fathom what had happened. Not the defiant dying gaze of a seasoned warrior, but the innocent bewilderment of a boy.
‘I know,’ Fronto said quietly, wincing at the pain in his jaw as he spoke. ‘It’sh all shuch a damn washte.’
He sighed, the last of his aggression ebbing away at this sight. At Cenabum he had released all the tension that had built up for months - years, even, and since then it was becoming harder to find the heart for such killing with every fight. This campaign could not be over soon enough.
The boy tried to speak, but the pain was too much, and he gritted his teeth against it.
For the first time since winter, Fronto actually found himself thinking about that agreement he’d made with Lucilia. Retirement. No more blood and pain. No more living like this. Most importantly, no more watching the light go out in the eyes of mere children.
‘I’m shorry,’ he added, and reached down, quickly and expertly slicing the young warrior’s throat, putting him out of his misery. The Gaul gasped for a moment, his eyes bulging as air and blood issued from the wound, and quickly the life fled from his gaze. Fronto reached down to his belt, felt for the leather pouch attached, and withdrew two small bronze coins, fastening it again. With care, he placed one on the Gaul’s tongue and pushed the mouth closed. Charon’s obol. The coin to pay the ferryman.
Rising, with the pain throbbing in his side, he staggered across to the still form of Quietus and repeated the act. The sounds of fighting back in the woods still echoed across the ground, but it was dying away. He had no doubt that the Romans had won the day - with Palmatus and Masgava in there, the Gauls stood no chance. And the horses were now wandering around the field, eating happily, keeping a distance from the bloodshed.
Straightening, he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and felt the rain washing his face clean. Two teeth. Possibly three. He yelped slightly as his tongue explored the damage.
Yes, this war could not be over soon enough, now.
* * * * *
Caesar peered down at the Tenth’s legate, who sat on a log with a skin of water, taking swigs to swill out his mouth and then spitting
it back out to the grass, tainted with the dark stain of blood in the mix.
‘You have looked better, Fronto.’
The legate looked up and winced. ‘I’m too old for thish.’
Caesar laughed mirthlessly. ‘Aren’t we all, Marcus. But soon it will be over. We have the rebels now. We’ll soon be on them. I’ve set the men about building the bridge, and the recall order has already gone out to Antonius and the rest of the army. By the time Vercingetorix knows we have crossed, two legions will be on this bank and well-entrenched, while the others file across to join us. As soon as we’re assembled west of the river, we can move against him. If he has any sense now, he’ll run for his walls at Gergovia, though I am still hoping he has the pride and guts to meet us on the plain.’
Wincing and grunting with the effort, Fronto rose. ‘He’ll make for the oppidum. Hish numbersh are not enough to enshure him victory in the field, sho he’ll retreat to the shafety of hish wallsh.’
‘I think you need to see my dentist, Marcus.’
‘I think I need a shtrong drink and a lie down.’
‘And you’ve earned them,’ the general smiled and looked around at Palmatus who stood nearby, blood running down from a cut on his brow and making him blink repeatedly. ‘Perhaps you should have the legate’s tent raised quickly and then all of you report to the medicus before you go off duty. Well done, all of you.’
As the general moved on with his praetorians at his heel, and the coterie of staff officers hurrying alongside, Rufio appeared, looming over them with an impish grin.
The Great Revolt Page 26
