“Prepare yourselves for the next move!”
They didn’t have long to wait. Having lost, at Fabius’ estimation, some two hundred men just to an initial volley, the remaining legionaries had pulled back to the centre of the clearing, out of the reach of the arrows and spears, where many were hurriedly arming themselves and jamming on helmets. Only half of them wore their mail shirts, though, and a number were missing shields. Furius and Fabius shook their heads in disbelief as their two centuries, the only two in the Seventh to be fully equipped and fighting fit, backed up to join their comrades.
“Drop testudo. Form a defensive circle!” Furius shouted. “Everyone! Form a circle. Three lines deep, those with armour and shields on the outer line!”
Warriors were now beginning to step out of the woods, spears, axes and swords raised, some with shields or helmets, even some with mail shirts. Many of them were decorated with blue designs, and their hair was spiked long and white with dried mud. It hardly came as a surprise to note that the legion was completely surrounded, though it was with some dismay that the centurions recognised the shape and sound of both cavalry and chariots thundering down the numerous pathways and tracks into the wide bowl-shaped clearing.
They were trapped.
Having secured their prey and being wary of the shieldwall that had caused so much havoc at the beach, the native warriors advanced slowly, moving cautiously out into the open.
“Why didn’t they just keep peppering us with arrows?” shouted an optio nearby. Furius ground his teeth angrily. The men were nervous enough without officers giving them extra reasons to panic.
“Because, shit-streak, they’ve got us where they want us now. Their ‘noble’ warriors want a chance to carve us up themselves. It’s only noble to a Celt if they can look into your eyes when you die.”
Fabius forced a grin. “But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to give these native piss stains something to think about. For Rome!” he bellowed and started to smack his gladius blade against the shield edge of the man next to him, lacking one himself.
The battle cry had the desired effect, building the courage of the trapped men rapidly, and the crash of swords on shield rims slowly rose to a deafening crescendo.
Fabius was focusing on the warriors opposite him who blocked the track that led back toward the camp where the Tenth would be busy cutting timber and constructing buildings and palisades around the new annexe for the storehouses.
“Silence!” he bellowed, as he squinted at the mass of warriors. A slow, grim smile spread across his face. In the wide, grassy, rutted track, stood one of the carts of wheat, already fully laden. Two legionaries were waving from the top of the cart, as yet unseen by the Briton army that lay between them and their fellow legionaries.
“Get to camp” Fabius bellowed. “Go. Get help!”
For a moment, he worried that the cart was too far away for the men to hear, despite the fact that the legion had silenced immediately at his call, stilling their swords. He watched anxiously as the two figures apparently conferred. Taking the risk, Fabius waved his arms away, gesturing for them to leave.
One or two of the natives seemed to catch on to what the centurion was saying and turned, spotting the cart several hundred yards down the track and shouting to their friends. To Fabius’ relief, the cart suddenly lurched and started to move, the two men on top almost falling with the sudden jerk.
With a roar, a sizeable group from the army of Celts raced after the cart and Fabius watched tensely as the vehicle built up speed slowly. They would never make it. Why didn’t…
Even as the notion occurred to him, it seemed to have struck the men on the cart, who were hurling the sheaves of wheat from the vehicle to lose some weight and give it an extra turn of speed. The warriors closed on them, regardless, and the two desperate legionaries began to actually hurl the sheaves at the pursuers themselves, knocking aside the nearest of them.
Fabius’ gut soured as a thrown spear caught one of the cart-riders dead centre in the chest, impaling him and throwing him from the bouncing vehicle. The scene was becoming difficult to make out now, the retreating cart and pursuers shrinking with distance, but he was fairly certain he saw the vehicle continue to bounce off down the track as the warriors came to a tired halt, pushing and shoving each other as they tried to assign the blame for letting some legionaries escape.
Fabius nodded to himself.
“That’s it lads. Help will be coming soon enough. We’ve just got to hold them for a bit.”
Even as he said it, he wondered how many of the other officers and men of the Seventh realised that the ‘bit’ he was talking about would in all likelihood be an hour. It would take probably twenty minutes for the cart to reach camp – fifteen at even a dangerous speed. It would take twenty minutes for the Tenth to come to their aid, even at a run. And there would be at least ten minutes of getting the army ready in between, calling back the workers from the woods and so on. It was distinctly possible that this vexillation of the Seventh legion would be corpses picked over by crows by the time the Tenth came to relieve them.
But it was a chance; a hope. Moreover, it was something for the men to believe in; to cling on to.
“Every man that makes it out today will go down in my book and when we get back to Gaul, you’ll all get a bonus, an extra acetum ration, and a week off duties in rotation.”
From somewhere to the right, out of sight, he heard Furius’ raised voice. “Any man who distinguishes himself in the next hour earns himself ‘immune’ status!”
There was a roar of approval from the men of the Seventh and Fabius grinned. A dead man’s boots had just given his friend a field promotion and made him effective primus pilus and commander of the vexillation. And that made Fabius the second centurion of the legion.
“Alright men. I’ve just had a ‘blood promotion’ and I’m bollocksed if I’m going to die now and give it up straight away. Lock shields and ready yourself to kill as many of these blue-skinned goat-humpers you can. Any man who kills more of them than me gets an amphora of good wine.”
Another roar of approval from the men was almost drowned out by the matching roar of the Britons who burst into a charge.
“Come on, then. Time to die!”
* * * * *
Fronto stood on the raised parapet of the camp’s wall next to the west gate, watching the men of the first to fourth cohorts gradually widening the killing ground around the camp by reducing the treeline into the distance. They were bringing back an almost constant supply of good heavy, solid timber that had had the bark and any extraneous branches or nubs removed and had often also been cut down to rough planks. Behind him, in the main camp and in the new supplies annexe, the men of the seventh to tenth cohorts were busy planing the new timber and trimming it to shape, carrying it around the camp and using it to continue the construction of the buildings.
While the legions did not expect to be staying here longer than another month at the most – even the general had been insistent that this punitive campaign had to be complete before the dangers of winter crossings were upon them – the construction of timber buildings had been considered not only preferable, but even necessary.
Many of the men’s tents had become rickety and leaky. Normally, these would be patched and repaired, or even replaced from the supply train. Such was not possible with the ocean between them, and a good timber building would keep the inclement weather away from the men and give them the blessed opportunity to dry out and warm up overnight.
Trying not to swear, Fronto felt yet another spot of rain ‘plip’ onto his forehead. What was it with this island? How could the druids hold this place sacred? Were they part duck? Italia was hardly free from storms, but at least the place had the decency to give its population a break in between, and when the storms came they were often noteworthy.
But this place? This place was the physical incarnation of a bad mood. Not a single day since they’d struck the beach had pass
ed without at least a short shower to remind them that they were outsiders. Some days it never stopped raining from one dawn watch to the next. Most often it came in fits and starts, just giving the ground enough time to almost dry and deceptively clear away enough clouds to look hopeful. Then, as soon as you stepped outside, the next drizzle would begin. It was as though the Gods of Britannia were urinating on them from a great height. That was it, too: it wasn’t proper rain. Not like the torrents they’d had at the Rhenus, or the thunderstorms of Gaul or Hispania. Most of the time it was just a depressing, gentle, insistent, cloak-soaking drizzle.
It was the most disheartening climate he’d ever spent time in. For the first day or two, he’d revelled in how green and fresh everything was. But that was before he became truly aware of the price for the lush greenery. What he couldn’t understand is how it didn’t all drown!
Hopefully this would just be a short shower again and he wouldn’t have to give the order to down tools and get inside. It wasn’t that the men couldn’t work in the rain, but morale was already low enough on this side of the ocean, and making the soldiers plane wood in the pouring rain would hardly give it a welcome boost.
“Work proceeds apace.”
Fronto turned in a mixture of surprise and gloom. Caesar’s voice was very familiar and unwelcome; he’d managed to spend many days in a row now without exchanging a single word with the general. Ever since the man had launched into him concerning his perceived insubordination, Fronto had been harbouring a deep-felt grudge and avoiding the risk of pushing the beak-nosed old bastard’s face through the back of his head.
Fronto forced a smile that barely reached his face.
“We’ll have the food and cloth stores complete by the end of the day, if we work through twilight. If it’s straight down to the Tenth, two more days will see good timber accommodation for everyone. If the Seventh are done with their forays and can join in tomorrow, we should all be under a solid roof by tomorrow night.”
“Good.”
The two men fell silent and Fronto still resisted glancing at his commander. He could feel him though; feel the eyes boring into the side of his head; hear the click of the general’s knuckles as his hands rubbed and gripped one another behind his back. He’d been with Caesar long enough now to know every sign and every mood. The general was uncomfortable. Good. So he should be.
“Marcus?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let us not stay on such terms. I am aware you’ve been avoiding me. I may have gone beyond the pale in dressing you down the way I did in front of your peers.”
Fronto’s jawline hardened. “You think I care about it being in front of the others? You know me better than that, Caesar. You shouldn’t have done it at all. I was two minutes late for a non-time sensitive meeting.”
“I know, and…”
“And,” Fronto snapped, rounding on him with flashing eyes, “you should bear in mind that for four years in Gaul and before that in Spain and Rome I have supported you when others you relied on turned against you. You know damn well that the only times I have ever stood in opposition to you is when you were wrong, plain and simple. I know the world thinks you’re infallible, but you and I know that no man is infallible. You were in a bad mood, plain and simple, and you took it out on me, because you knew I’d take it, when it might break others.”
Caesar sighed and smiled weakly.
“I’d had another episode.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Marcus. I thought I was done with it. I’d not had trouble since Saturnalia, when I’d given a huge offering to Venus to try and stop it for good. All year I’d been clear and happy. And now: twice since we crossed the sea. Twice! The first time, I failed to clamp on the leather in time and took a piece out of the corner of my tongue.”
Fronto’s brow lowered and his nostrils flared.
“You have my sympathy, Caesar, but only children take it out on other people when they’re sick. And as you’ve pointed out before, you’re hardly a child. Neither of us is.”
“Can we not draw a line beneath this, Marcus? I’ve admitted I was in error. I offered not an excuse, but an explanation. I need my good officers around me.”
The legate took a deep breath and fought back every curse and argument that rose to mind, of which there were many. “I would like to think so, but I’m starting to become concerned with your judgement, Caesar.”
“How so?”
“Clodius?” Fronto raised an eyebrow in challenge, turning to face the woods again.
“Clodius is just a tool.”
“He certainly is. A great big, throbbing one. But I cannot condone you using him for any reason. Were I you, that man would be caught in the eddies and reeds at the side of the Tiber, fat faced and blue. Feeding the fishes, which would be about the most useful and positive thing he’s ever done.”
“Clodius’ usefulness will come to an end soon, and I’m convinced that so will he soon after. Can you not be satisfied with that?”
“Not really, no. And your re-formation of the Seventh using only people you don’t trust has shattered what was a veteran legion with pride and ability and turned it into a mess. If they can pull their pride out of the gutter – which will be partially served by shifting Cicero the hell out of there – then they could train back up into a good legion, given time. But it was a waste.”
“I had to be sure of where my opposition were.”
“They’re everywhere. And the more you use thugs and villains to further your political goals, the more enemies you’ll create.”
He frowned. “What was that look about?”
“I beg your pardon, Fronto?”
“That look. I know that look. That’s the guilty recollection of something I won’t like and that you’re not telling me. In my book of ‘Caesar’s facial tells’ that’s in my top ten warning signs. What is it?”
“You read too much into nothing, Marcus.” Caesar gave him an easy smile. You said, that day at the meeting, that your delay was unavoidable. I never asked why, and you don’t usually bother with an excuse, so it must have been important.”
“It was, but I’m not sure whether discussing it here or now is a good idea.” Fronto narrowed his eyes at the attempt to deflect the subject.
“If it’s important, Fronto, then it’s important. Tell me.”
“The murders.”
“Yes?”
“All of them. Pinarius, Tetricus, Pleuratus, and an attempt on me. I have reasonable suspicions as to the culprits now.”
Caesar rolled his shoulders, his cloak falling back down behind him. Several more spots of rain fell.
“I believe that your suspicions were centred on two centurions from the Seventh?”
“You’re apparently well informed, Caesar. And yes, for a time, I was sure Furius and Fabius were behind them. But I am now more or less convinced that they’re innocent of the attacks.”
“Really?” The general tapped his lip, an upward curl of humour twisting one side of his mouth in a manner that really annoyed Fronto.
“Yes. I haven’t the proof yet, but I suspect the tribunes Menenius and Hortius of the Fourteenth.”
Caesar burst into a short, explosive laugh. “I think you must have been eating the strange fungi from the forest. Neither of those men could effectively swat a fly.”
“Nevertheless, it was them. I’m fairly sure.”
“And their motive?”
“Removing your supporters: your courier, your nephew, me and Tetricus – two of your more loyal officers. And Tetricus threatened the pair of them once in a briefing, so there’s an additional motive.”
“Menenius is a client of mine, who owes me a great deal. He is hardly likely to be troubling me. He would be ‘biting the hand that feeds him’ so to speak. And Hortius? Hortius is in a similar situation. He’s expecting a position as an aedile next year, which he can only get with my support. No, Marcus; the two would have too muc
h to lose by kicking my legs out from under me. You should look elsewhere for your pro-Pompeian traitors.”
The legate continued to stare ahead, though his eyes flicked to Caesar again and he just caught another flash of that look. There was definitely something going on here that Caesar knew about and was keeping to himself.
“What on earth is that commotion?”
Fronto glanced across at Caesar’s exclamation and then followed his gaze to see that a number of the men of the Tenth had downed tools and were running towards a cart that was hurtling out from the woodland path to the west.
“Looks like a grain cart. One of Cicero’s I wonder?” the general mused.
“Looks like trouble, more like.”
Without waiting for further information, Fronto turned around and spotted the nearest centurion.
“Have your cornicen call the duty cohorts to order. Get ‘em lined up before the ramparts. We’re about to need them.”
As the centurion ran off, shouting for his musician and standard bearer, Fronto turned back to the approaching cart. It was now bouncing across the short, well-trodden grass beyond the multitude of stumps, only a hundred yards from the camp. Already a number of Caesar’s praetorian cavalry officers had fallen in behind him from where they had been lurking at a respectful distance.
The general stepped down the slope, with Fronto at his shoulder and passed through the gate towards the cart, which slewed to a halt some thirty feet from the rampart. Two men slid down from it. The driver looked harried and panicked, while the man who’d been clinging to the top of the load was clutching a wound in his side and staggered as his feet hit the ground.
“It would appear that you were correct, Fronto. Trouble it is.”
“Sir!” The legionary driver, wearing just his tunic, unarmed and unarmoured apart from the gladius at his waist, came to a sudden halt and saluted, his wounded mate attempting the same a few yards back, but failing as he slumped to the ground.
“Report, man.”
“Natives, sir. Thousands of ‘em. They came out of the trees…”
Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles Page 39
