But the ship had slowed considerably now and even as Fronto held his breath the prow began to come round, angling towards Caesar’s vessel and then away, bringing them out of range of the arrows.
A horn blast rang out from the trireme, calling the fleet to converge on the general’s position. Slowly, the Gallic vessel closed on Caesar’s ship, others turning as they approached. Fronto’s gaze slid back to the cliffs that were now slipping away on his left hand side. He’d be willing to swear that the number of small figures on the cliff tops had doubled since they’d arrived only a few minutes earlier.
Waiting patiently, Fronto watched the trireme as they closed on it, and finally identified Caesar standing at the rail, gesturing to him. As soon as he judged he was within shouting distance, Fronto cleared his throat and took a cold, deep and salty breath.
“A warm reception, general.”
He couldn’t quite make out the expression on the general’s face.
“What…. landing…. bay….. think?” called Caesar. Fronto waggled his finger in his ear, cupped his hand around it meaningfully and shrugged. Behind him, the ship’s crew slowed the vessel as it approached the trireme, careful to avoid interfering with the oars that drove it.
“I said” yelled the general, “what are our chances of landing in that bay intact, do you think, Fronto?”
“Virtually nil!” he shouted back. “If they could hit us out at sea with those arrows, they could just as easily hit us on the beach. We’d be cut down like wheat before we could move inland.”
“Agreed!” Caesar bellowed as the figure of Brutus appeared alongside him.
“We have time to decide, sir” the legate of the Eighth called. “It will be a few hours yet before all the stragglers reach us. Besides, we could do with waiting for the afternoon tide, to avoid falling foul of rocks on the coast.”
The general paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Very well. Can you still hear me Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll gather here and let the fleet assemble out of missile range. Then we’ll move up the coast to the northeast, looking for a better landing spot. We need somewhere gentle enough to land safely, and wide enough that we cannot be prey for archers as we are here.”
Fronto gave the general a sour look. “Or we could just turn around. Volusenus sailed this coast for five days and found it inhospitable enough to not even try to land.”
He could sense the general’s irritation, even without being close enough to make out his expression. “If you’d studied the map, Fronto, you would have seen that there are long stretches of lower coastline in both directions. We will find a suitable spot this afternoon.”
“I only hope half of Britannia isn’t waiting for us by then” Fronto yelled. “The population up on those cliffs is growing all the time, and I think I can see horsemen up there now.”
“The entire population of Britannia would hardly be a worry for my veteran Tenth, eh, Fronto?”
Grimacing at the general, Fronto reached up and caressed the bandy-legged figure hanging around his neck, his eyes straying to the growing force arrayed on the cliff top and awaiting them.
* * * * *
The fleet had gradually assembled over the morning and into the early afternoon and by the time the cool sun had passed an hour beyond its zenith the sea to the south was clear of shapes. Shouted reports and commands from ship to ship had come up with a roll-call figure that was only four ships short of the fleet that had left Gesoriacum, though whether those four were safely back in port or decorating Neptune’s triclinium remained to be seen. The very thought sent a chilly shudder through Fronto every time he considered it.
At some time part way through the afternoon, Brutus and his captains had announced that the tide was suitable and would remain so for a while, and the fleet began to move again, calls going out from musicians aboard Caesar’s vessel. The mass flotilla turned slowly and proceeded up the channel, keeping the forbidding cliffs on their left and staying safely out of arrow shot. Fronto had lost count of the number of times he’d thanked the Gods that the Celts seemed to have no interest in the development of artillery. The idea of a stone-throwing onager up there just didn’t bear thinking about.
Regardless, the mass of Britons at the top of the cliffs had grown constantly during the wait, to the point where it could now only be considered an army. As well as the large number of horsemen that had slowly gathered, there were also fast moving shapes that could only be chariots. It looked to Fronto as though the tribes of Britannia were gathering to prevent the Roman ships landing, as was almost certainly the case. So much for Caesar’s allies, hostages and so on.
Though the weather remained dry and relatively bright, the sky was still scattered with scudding and drifting grey cloud, the sun providing little heat to take the chill from the sea air. A nervous tension had begun to set in among the men that Fronto could feel without seeing or hearing anything specific. The men were growing increasingly unhappy.
Nervous eyes had fallen on the cliff as the ships ploughed their way up the channel in search of a safe harbour in which to land. The force of barbarians moved swiftly and easily along the coastline, following the cliff tops and dipping down into each narrow bay, keeping pace with the Roman fleet with little difficulty, a worryingly large force of cavalry and chariots leading the way.
No matter how easy the landing place Caesar chose, the Roman forces would encounter strong resistance in setting up a beach head.
Fronto’s own nervousness began to increase alongside his men as the miles slipped by until, after perhaps two hours further sailing, shadowed by the growing army of Celts, a call went out from Caesar’s trireme and the fleet began to converge again.
The cliffs had been gradually falling away for the last twenty minutes and, ahead, they finally descended to a low, flat beachy area. Beyond, nothing but dunes and low hillocks marred the easy ground as far as the eye could see. Even Fronto, whose nerves were beginning to twang they were so taut, could see the sense in reaching this terrain before attempting a landing.
Another call rang out: the order to beach and, as the ships of the fleet angled towards land, Fronto’s eyes flicked repeatedly to the shore, as did those of many of the ship’s occupants. A large force of native warriors had begun to assemble at the rear of the wide beach, with more arriving on the scene all the time.
The Tenth’s legate leaned on the rail at the bow and watched as the land came ever closer, Caesar’s trireme closing up on their right as another big merchant vessel moved into position on their left. The noise became cacophonous: a crescendo of shouting, horn calls, whistles, cries of alarm and more. The sailors of every ship bellowed their commands, keeping the fleet in line as it approached. The commanders of the troops aboard shouted orders to their men, falling in each century ready to make landing. Somewhere below, Galronus’ horse neighed and cried nervously.
On land, the chariots had come forward and were now racing up and down the beach, daring the Roman invaders to land. Each vehicle was drawn by a pair of horses, harnessed with sturdy leathers to a lightweight chariot that was little more than a wood-and-wicker wheeled fighting platform. Each chariot was driven by a half-naked warrior, his body painted with whorls and designs, his wild hair whipping about in the wind as he rode the traces, reins clutched tightly in each hand. The sheer skill and dexterity of these men as they leapt about between the horses while controlling the chariot would put to shame any professional at the circus in Rome. But despite the phenomenal sight of such activity, Fronto’s eyes were drawn to the figures on the chariots themselves. Each vehicle carried but one man alongside the driver and each man was clearly a leader or a powerful warrior. They were all fully clothed, mostly armoured with mail shirts or bronze plated chest-pieces, and helmeted in the most elaborate way, with plumes atop many. Some warriors carried a shield visibly similar to those held by the legionaries – if a little smaller – painted with bright designs and sometimes the images of wild anim
als. Most carried a long, gleaming sword, held aloft in a triumphant fashion, and all gripped spears in their off-or-shield hand.
There were enough of them to fill the beach and endanger each other as they passed and turned, churning up the sand and throwing sheets of it into the air to the whoops of the crowd of warriors and cavalry behind them.
More and more detail became visible as the ships of the Roman fleet closed on the sand.
Fronto gritted his teeth and watched.
The legate’s first indication that there was a problem was when he received a dazing blow to the forehead from the heavy timber hull at the ship’s bow. Shaking his head in confusion, he untangled his legs and hauled himself back to his feet to a background of calls of alarm and the crash of dozens of mailed men in chaos.
The ship had come to a dead halt, the sudden loss of momentum catapulting those at the rail into the solid timbers and sweeping almost every other man on board from his feet. Hauling himself up and ignoring all the shouts and hollers around him, Fronto peered over the rail. Concentrating hard, occasionally, though the foam and the distortions of the waves, he could see pebbles.
“We’ve run aground!” he shouted, immediately aware of how obvious the statement was. The triremes around them were still ghosting forward, but the Celtic ships, with their deep hulls were all falling foul of the gentle submerged slope, slamming to a sudden halt and throwing the centuries of men to the deck in a tangle.
Whoops of delight and derision rose from the beach. A few enterprising archers among the Briton tribesmen rushed forward and released a shot over the heads of the charioteers. While none of the missiles actually reached the ships, odd ones hissed into the water close enough to cause alarm.
With the swift reactions one would expect from the experienced commanders of the Roman vessels, the triremes slowed their advance toward land and began back-oaring to the same distance as the beached Celtic vessels. Galronus frowned at the manoeuver and looked across at Fronto next to him.
“Why are they pulling back?”
“Two thirds of the fleet are these big bastards that won’t get to the beach. If Caesar lands he’ll only have a third of his troops with him. It’d be suicide.”
Galronus shook his head in disbelief. “A landing thwarted by four feet of water? Someone’s going to lose their balls for misjudging the slope of the beach.”
“I don’t think so” Fronto shook his head. “It will have been Brutus and the trireme’s captain, but Caesar will have made the decision. The big question is: what do we do next?”
Almost as if to answer his question calls began to issue from the trireme, from the general’s personal cornicen, calls that were relayed by other musicians until the sequence of notes rang out across the fleet.
“That sounds like the advance!” Galronus blinked. “But not quite.”
“That” Fronto said flatly “is the order for the Seventh to advance.”
“But the Seventh are mostly in the same position as your Tenth.”
“Yes.”
The legate was suddenly aware of the presence of his primus pilus by his elbow. “Is the general losing his wits, sir?”
“No. He’s ordering the Seventh to attack the beach.”
“But there’s four or five feet of water down there if not more. And why not us? The Tenth are more damn use than the Seventh any day.”
“But the Seventh are dispensable as far as he’s concerned. He won’t risk losing the Tenth, but the Seventh are full of the former Pompeians, dissidents and anyone who rings a warning bell. That’s why they were chosen for this campaign. The Seventh are here to take the shit thrown at us and the Tenth are here to mop it all up and support the general.”
Galronus lowered his voice and leaned closer to Fronto. “You realise this is the perfect trigger to kick off a row between Cicero and Caesar?”
“If Cicero’s nearby, yes. But look at the circumstances. The wrong call here could cost us hundreds of lives; thousands even. Hardly worth the risk, I’d say.”
“Oh crap.” Though the shout came from one of the soldiers back across the deck, and was immediately followed by the crack of an officer’s stick across him for speaking out of turn, the call drew Fronto’s eyes inexorably back to the beach and the waiting Celtic horde.
The archers among the force were moving between the chariots and towards the edge of the water, nocking arrows as they ran.
“If they start to fire and we’re still beached, we’re in real trouble.”
“Where are the Seventh then?” asked Galronus, his eyes playing across the many vessels drawn up opposite the beach. “I can’t see anyone advancing.”
“They’re not” said Carbo. “It looks like their officers and men are refusing the order to advance.”
“Someone’s got to do something” Galronus frowned. “If we just sit here the archers will start killing people any minute.”
A series of notes issued from a ship two vessels to their left and, glancing across, Fronto could see a trireme flying the vexillum of the Seventh legion. Cicero’s ship.
“That’s the rally call. What the hell is he up to?”
Rushing across the deck, Fronto leaned over the port rail. He could only just see Cicero’s trireme over the bulk of the Gallic ship between them. Certainly the likelihood of anyone hearing him was negligible.
“Cicero! You have to advance! Screw the general’s call; the Tenth will go with you!”
There was no acknowledgement of the call for a long moment and then suddenly a figure appeared at the rail of the ship between them. The transverse crest of his helmet marked him as a centurion.
“Legate Fronto?”
A cold stone sank into the pit of Fronto’s stomach as he recognised the voice of Furius.
“What?”
“Half the damn officers are encouraging their men to refuse the order!”
Fronto shook his head in disbelief. This was what came of an ‘all the bad eggs in one basket’ policy. “What about you?” he called, narrowing his eyes. There was something urgent and angry about the centurion’s manner.
“I’m not prepared to stay here and get shot at.”
“Good. All together, then?”
“Our eagle won’t go. He’s cowering on the command ship. Bad luck to charge without the eagle. You know that!”
Fronto looked around his own vessel urgently. Julius Pictor, the eagle-bearer of the Tenth crouched by the rail, keeping his head down as he watched the approaching archers.
“Sound the advance! Pictor… I want you first in the water. Make sure that eagle’s held high so that everyone can see it.”
The aquilifer turned and stared at him wide-eyed. Though he said nothing, his head began to shake almost involuntarily. Fronto glared at him. “In the water, Pictor. You’re one of the Tenth, not a street urchin!”
“Oh for the love of Mars!” snapped Petrosidius, the first century’s standard bearer, stepping away from his unit. Reaching down, he grasped Pictor by the crossed-and-tied paws of the wolf skin that covered his helmet and hauled him to his feet, and indeed almost off the ground. The eagle lurched in the man’s hand and nearly went overboard.
“Consider yourself demoted, piss-britches!” Petrosidius growled, ripping the shining silver eagle staff from the cowering man’s hand and thrusting his own bulky standard into the open grasp. “Follow on and try not to soil yourself.”
The standard bearer turned to Fronto and raised his brows in question. Fronto nodded.
“Tenth legion: on me!”
Without another word, Petrosidius placed a hand on the rail and vaulted over the side with the strength and agility of a man half his age, plummeting into the waves beside the ship.
With an audible moan of dismay, the men of the Tenth rushed over to the rail, where there was no sign of Petrosidius but the churning water where he had entered. There was a horrible pause and then suddenly, with an explosion of foam, the head and shoulders of the big standard bearer rose
from the sea, followed by the silver eagle that glittered and shone.
“Come on in, ladies. The water’s fine.”
Grinning, the wolf pelt over his helmet plastered down to the metal, Petrosidius began to move laboriously toward the beach with the difficulty of a man in chest-deep water. There was a splash nearby and Fronto glanced up to see centurion Furius rise from the sea’s surface, yelling encouragement to his men.
The dam broke.
With a roar, the men of the Tenth and the Seventh began to hurl themselves from the ships into the chest-deep water, many throwing their shields ahead and trying to jump on to them. Fronto turned to Galronus and grinned.
“I’m guessing the cavalry won’t be taking part!”
The Remi officer laughed. “I think not. The general will be irritated that you took the Tenth in, you know that?”
“Not as irritated as he’d be if we all stayed here and died on deck. ‘Scuse me. I’ve a battle to fight.” With a wicked grin, Fronto grasped the rail and threw himself over.
Chapter 14
(South east coast of Britannia)
Fronto’s world was an explosion of baffling sensory input as he burst through the water’s surface and heaved in a deep breath. His ears had filled with water and, though he was aware of the din going on around him, it was all buried beneath a sloshing sound that made him feel dangerously unbalanced. His eyes stung with the brine and all he could see were occasional flashes of red or silver ahead of him as he continually blinked, trying to bring his sight back into line.
Slowly his eyes adjusted and he was aware of dozens and dozens of men around him, only their heads and shoulders above the waves, heaving towards the beach, their swords and shields held aloft as high as possible to prevent too much drag.
There was a wet pop and one of his ears suddenly cleared, shocking him with the sheer scale of the noise that suddenly assailed his eardrum.
“What are you doing?” called a voice. Fronto looked around in confusion to see Carbo addressing a legionary who was turning slowly in confusion.
4.Conspiracy of Eagles Page 31
