Turning, he shuffled across to Brutus and the steering oar once more, grasping the end as he had a few minutes earlier.
“Even the damn Gods have turned their back on this campaign, Decimus.”
“Didn’t think you were that pious, Fronto.”
“I try not to actively defy them.”
“Well rub that bow-legged Goddess of yours, Fronto. Look.”
The legate peered off in the direction of Brutus’ pointing finger. It took him a moment to spot two flickering fires.
“That’ll be the beacons they were going to set up at Gesoriacum. They must have lit them to guide ships in through the storm. We’re nearly there; closer than I thought. A mile at most.”
Fronto gripped the beam tight, his eyes locked on the twin fires that twinkled in the darkness, intermittently vanishing as the waves reared or a particular gusting cloud obscured them. Suddenly another white flash lit the scene and Fronto finally felt relief wash over him at the regular shapes of a harbour and buildings, with the unmistakable outline of a Roman fortification on the hill behind.
Gesoriacum.
They’d made it.
* * * * *
The ‘Demeter’ bounced against the jetty of the Gesoriacum harbour and Fronto silently thanked every God and Goddess that rose to the surface of his mind. He’d almost swallowed his tongue in fright as Brutus steered them through the surprisingly narrow entrance to the river-mouth harbour, but the young man had proved more than equal to the task.
An even more welcome sight as they’d entered was that of another of the fleet’s triremes already in the harbour and scooting lazily towards the dock on their few remaining oars.
There was no sign of life down by the docks, though Fronto could hardly blame anyone for that, given the weather. He glanced across from the rail at the sister ship that was just docking at the far side of the jetty. The ‘Fides’ looked in worse shape than their own ship, but its crew and complement of troops were moving toward the rail gratefully.
Brutus had left the steering now to one of the sailors and strode across to where Fronto stood.
“Best get everyone disembarked and get up to the headquarters to report in.”
Fronto gestured to the beacons blazing on the towers and the new ramparts around the port’s periphery, barely visible in the dark and the rain, except when lit starkly by the lightning.
“Rufus has been busy in our absence. Look at those works. Think he was bored or expecting trouble?”
“Let’s go find out.”
Fronto nodded and called to the centurions of the two centuries on board.
“Get your men formed up on the jetty. Arms and armour only. We’ll come back and unload everything else in the morning when it’s light and hopefully drier.”
The centurions saluted and Fronto looked across to where the men were now disembarking from the Fides opposite. Two more centurions were bellowing at their men who were filing off and into tent-groups.
“Come on.”
As soon as the sailors had run out a plank, Fronto hurried down to the jetty with a profound sense of relief, Brutus hot on his heels. A few steps on the stable jetty were almost enough to allow him to adjust, though he still felt as though he was swaying gently. The two centurions on the wooden jetty were unknown to him, and apparently men of the Seventh, though they saluted him and his fellow legate readily as they approached.
“Have your men in two single lines on the jetty. I’ll form the other two up the same .That way all four centuries can march together back up to the fort.”
“Yes sir. What of the cargo, sir?”
“Leave it till morning.”
“But sir, we’ve got four of the cavalry horses – one of them may have to be put out of its misery, mind – and if we leave any of the loot here, it might be pillaged by the locals.”
Fronto shook his head. “Have the ship’s officer and men lead the horses ashore when we’ve left and take them to the nearest stable. No one’s going to steal your treasure, though, centurion. Look at those ramparts. The port’s under Roman control.”
The centurion managed to remain apparently unconvinced, but saluted and went about his business.
Having made the arrangements, Fronto stepped forward a few yards, giving the four officers the space to muster their men. Brutus followed him and stood tapping his lip thoughtfully.
“Have you noticed the lack of people?”
“It’s pissing down, Brutus.”
“Yes, but even on the walls.”
“Come on. Rufus only has one legion and he’s got the port, the town, the fort and who knows what else to deal with. There’ll only be a few of them down here and they’ll be keeping out of the rain. After all, who else would have lit the beacons?”
Brutus nodded uncertainly and glanced up at the town, with smoke rising from numerous roofs. The thought of getting somewhere he could huddle by a fire in the dry was overwhelmingly attractive.
It took less than a minute to get the four centuries lined up, the men moving as fast and efficiently as possible, each one feeling the urge to reach somewhere dry, warm and stable. As soon as the four centurions confirmed that their units were ready, Fronto issued the command and the small force marched out proudly into the heart of Gesoriacum.
Across the cobbled quay they strode, towards the main thoroughfare that ran up the hill to the looming shape of the fort, almost obscured behind the clouds of smoke rising from the cosy fires of the Morini townsfolk.
A constant river of brown liquid ran from the slope of the street, across the quay and down into the harbour. The men eyed it with distaste and a certain amount of unhappiness as they moved into it, preparing to slog up the street towards their objective.
At commands from the centurions, the four lines of men doubled out, splitting into eight columns of forty – give or take the few fallen in Britannia – and they began the trudge up the slope with the two legates out front.
Brutus turned to Fronto with a nervous frown.
“Can you feel it?”
“What?”
“Something’s wrong. The hair on the back of my neck’s standing up.”
Fronto glanced around and then ahead again and felt a chill run down his spine, terminating in his coccyx and causing him to shudder.
“No one. Not a sentry, not a guard, not a local. There’s no one.”
“Not quite” Brutus shook his head and pointed at a house as they passed. Fronto followed his gesture and saw the shutter on a window close hurriedly, leaving only the faint glow of firelight around the edge, but not before he saw the face of a young girl glaring at him.
“I think you’re right. Trouble.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing yet. Any move we make to ready the men is going to be seen by dozens of people and we don’t know what’s happening yet. We might make it up to the fort without trouble. Let’s not rock the boat, so to speak.”
Brutus nodded. “All the same…”
Turning to the centurion behind him as he walked, he hissed as quietly as he could “Be ready. Have your men on the alert as quietly as you can. No weapons drawn as yet.”
The centurion, clearly relieved that the two officers had also noticed the eerie emptiness, nodded and turned to pass on the word.
“What the hell’s happened here? We’ve been away, what, a month you think?”
“About that. I think Rufus might be in trouble.”
“Not just Rufus.”
“Maybe we should just get back down to the ships and head down the coast a way? At least wait until the rest of the fleet gets here?”
Fronto shook his head. “Quite apart from the fact that I don’t think they’re all that safe or seaworthy now, I’m not at all convinced what’ll happen if we turn around and start to walk away.”
Brutus nodded unhappily.
“Come on.”
Slowly they climbed the slope, the liquid mud running into boots and making the thoroughfare t
reacherous. They had almost reached the main crossroads when Brutus grabbed Fronto’s arm.
“Look!”
“What?” Fronto peered up the street into the pouring rain.
“The smoke.”
“It’s making it quite hard to make out the fort.”
“Fronto, it’s coming from the fort.”
“Oh shit.”
Fronto fought the rising alarm and resisted the urge to start shouting. Smoke could mean several things, even in those amounts. It could mean a larger force of men inside than the fort was designed for, sharing outdoor fires. It could mean the place had been ransacked. But it could also mean an ongoing siege. There was no way to tell without seeing it close to hand.
“We’ve got to pick up the pace.”
“You want to go there?” Brutus said incredulously.
“We’ve got to. Rufus could still be up there with his men.”
“Then let’s move.”
Fronto glanced back at the centurions behind him.
“Subtlety over, lads. Swords out. Double time to the fort.”
The officers saluted, shouting out the commands to their men, who drew their gladii with an enormous, collective rasp.
The shape of the fort was starting to resolve better now in the gloom as Fronto squinted ahead. His heart skipped a beat when he realised that the smoke was rising from the front gate, and apparently outside rather than inside.
“They haven’t fallen yet. We have to get inside!”
Without the need for a command, the four centuries put a little extra speed into their ascent.
“Fronto!”
The legate glanced across at Brutus’ shout just in time to see the opening shutters of windows all around them, silhouettes of men formed by the warm firelight within.
“Testudo!” he bellowed, dropping back several steps and grasping Brutus by the upper arm, yanking him back down the street. The legionaries raised their shields, moving into formation better than Fronto could have hoped, given the incline and the fact that they comprised men of two different legions unused to working together. Here and there were gaps that quickly closed up, while others lifted their shields to create a roof. The four centurions joined the two legates as they disappeared inside the relative protection of the ‘tortoise’ formation just as the first arrows, stones and spears started to strike.
The regular drum of the heavy rain on the shields joined the falling missiles to create an almost deafening noise.
“Piss!” shouted Fronto with feeling.
“Move forward” Brutus commanded. “We have to get to the fort.”
The testudo started to stumble up the slope under a constant hail of missiles and Fronto shared a look with his fellow legate. They were both horribly aware of the shrieks from further back down the testudo where gaps opened due to the near impossibility of holding to formation while climbing an uneven, slippery slope.
“This is going to fall apart soon” Brutus said.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that” replied Fronto with a grim expression. “Listen.”
Above the drumming of rain and missiles and the occasional yells of wounded men, they could now hear the roar of the natives rushing them from the side streets and the slope behind.
“Bollocks.”
Chapter 20
(Gesoriacum)
Fronto glanced left and right in the almost claustrophobic press of the testudo, his vision filled with mail-shirted torsos, dirt-streaked arms, sweat and dripping water. Brutus gave him an equally helpless look.
“We’ve got to take control of the street or we’re done for!” Fronto shouted.
“On the bright side, they’ll stop firing things at us once they’re carving us up!”
“We’ll have to break the testudo – get the men at the front to split off and deal with the ambushers. They can block the windows with their shields and maybe kill the bastards while they’re at it.”
Brutus nodded, taking a deep breath. “Then we can form a defensive retreat up the hill. You take the lead and I’ll form the rearguard.”
The two men held one another’s gaze for a moment and then Fronto returned the nod.
“At my command,” he bellowed “the front tent party in each line will break formation. Pick a target from the men shooting at us. Get to his window, take him out and block off any further attack with your shield. Hold that window until further orders.”
Pausing, he could hear the war cries of the Morini closing on their rear and steeled himself.
“Break!”
The men of the Tenth and Seventh legions that led the advancing ‘tortoise’ immediately scattered at the command, eight contubernia splitting off, their shields coming up directly in front as they ran to protect them from the inevitable fire pouring out of the open shutters of the low, squat Gaulish buildings, their swords gripped ready for action.
It was obvious to Fronto’s professional eye which legion was which even when scattered. The Tenth had been a proud unit with a strong bond among its men, well-trained and constantly drilled over years by some of the best officers the Republic had to offer. The Seventh was a recent hotchpotch of men from different legions as yet new to working together as a unit, lacking the focussed training of a veteran legion. Almost every man in the Tenth marked a window and ran for it, a contubernium of eight men held back for a moment, ready to take the place of any man who fell on the way. The men of the Seventh, however, moved in sporadic groups, often two or three men marking the same window.
Fabius and Furius would have their work cut out over winter if they survived all this.
An archer at one of the nearest windows managed to pick off his attacker as the legionary pelted across the street, the arrow taking him in the chest and knocking him back to the slippery, muddy road, tripping the next legionary so that they rolled down the gentle, messy slope in a tangle. Before Fronto could shout the order, two of the reserve party were moving. While one ran off up the street after a different target, the other raised his shield and charged the window where the archer was busy nocking another arrow as fast as he could. The legionary, two broken shafts already protruding from his shield from his time in the testudo, angled his shield slightly to lessen the chance of the arrow punching straight through as he ran. The archer proved to be both quick and surprisingly accurate as the arrow thrummed out of the window and punched into the wood and leather. A look of wide-eyed desperation fell across his face as he desperately fumbled another arrow from the sheaf on the timber in front of him and tried to bring it up in time to fire again at the legionary.
There was clearly no time and the Roman was upon him before he could draw the string back. As the soldier swatted the bow aside with an almost contemptuous and amazingly dextrous flick of his shield, the archer screamed, his arm broken by the bronze edging strip. He floundered, dropping the bow from useless fingers, and reached down for the hilt of the sword at his side. The legionary leapt up, leaning in through the window and driving his gladius though the man’s throat before twisting it and ripping it back out.
The archer fell away, gurgling and clutching his neck with his good hand, blood spraying up and around the window, while somewhere back in the dim interior lit only by the glow of the warming fire a woman screamed and threw a red clay bowl that skimmed the legionary’s helmet and crashed out into the street. A quick glance inside confirmed for the soldier that no other missile wielders occupied the room and he set his shield to block the aperture, keeping only enough space free to peer over the top and keep watch on the woman.
Similar stories were playing out along both sides of the street. Here and there a legionary had fallen foul of a well-aimed arrow or slingshot, or a sword or spear thrust from a better prepared defender. It seemed, though, that the ambushers had not expected such an efficient and organised reaction, and only one Gaul had taken position at each window. With only seven men down, the small Roman force had quickly taken control of the street’s edges, nullifying the d
angerous crossfire. The last few stones and arrows bounced down to the ground and allowed the hiss of the rain and the roar of the pursuing Morini to fill the air once more.
Brutus had pushed his way through the centre of the mass of legionaries, most of whom were still holding to an almost testudo formation until further orders came. Arriving at the rear of the small force, he strained his ears, listening out. After a few tense heartbeats, during which the Morini began to rain blows down upon the shields of the rearmost legionaries, he finally heard Fronto’s call that the missile fire had been nullified.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped his sword tight in his hand and looked about.
“On my command, everyone but the rear four ranks will turn and break towards the fort, taking further orders from legate Fronto when you reach him. The rest of you will hold with me until we have room to manoeuvre.”
Fixing his thoughts arbitrarily on a number that would give Fronto plenty of time to consolidate further up the hill, Brutus counted to ten and bellowed “Now!”
Almost two thirds of the force in the street, some two hundred men, broke from the party and began to hurtle up the incline toward the looming shape of the fort walls, their passage now safe, legionaries from Fronto’s vanguard holding the windows against further assaults.
“Right!” Brutus yelled. “On my next command, the entire force will take three quick steps back and reform as a solid shield wall three men deep that fills the street. Mark your position in advance. There cannot be any gaps!”
Even as he prepared to give the order, the legionary in front of him suddenly exploded like a ripe melon, a Morini axe finding its way over the top of the unfortunate soldier’s shield and cleaving both helmet and skull in its descent. Brutus spluttered for a second, stunned and coated in blood and brain matter as he saw the axe man withdraw his weapon with the grating of bone and a slopping sound, pulling it back for another blow. There was little room in the press to react with the sword which was held down by his side and he bore no shield.
4.Conspiracy of Eagles Page 45
