As the general entered, with Fronto and Cicero at his shoulders, the others behind and Ingenuus’ troopers creating a protective cordon outside the tent, the occupants turned to see who had entered and came suddenly to attention. Brutus, poring over the map, looked up and straightened wearily, saluting the general.
Caesar waved aside the pleasantries and Fronto noted with concern the pale, haggard look of the young staff officer and the dark circles beneath his eyes that told of stress, overwork and lack of good sleep.
“The army is here and ready to set up camp” the general stated. “I don’t mean to rush you, Decimus, but I need to know the status of the fleet before I can plan our first move. We’ll call a full meeting in the morning when the legions are settled, but what can you tell me quickly?”
Brutus sighed and stood back from the table, flicking one of the little model triremes onto its side.
“I’m afraid it’s not good, general. We’ve got a lot of good sailors and some experienced officers who’ve taken part in naval battles and after six days of training and manoeuvres they have uniformly come to the opinion that the Veneti could trounce us in the blink of an eye.”
Caesar frowned.
“What is the problem? You have a good number of solid triremes and quinqueremes; perhaps a hundred of them, with fresh sailors and experienced officers and marines.”
Brutus nodded.
“Yes, general. But conditions out there are nothing like anything they’ve ever dealt with before. We’re used to the Mare Nostrum. No Roman fleet has ever operated beyond the Pillars of Hercules and we just had no idea what to expect. The Atlantic Ocean is, if you’ll pardon the pun, a whole different pot of fish.”
“The sea is different?” Caesar asked dubiously.
Brutus sighed.
“The Mare Nostrum is like a still, glassy pond compared with this. We’ve lost one quinquereme and two triremes in the last three days and all we’ve been doing is practicing. The waves and currents out there could capsize an island if it were small enough. We strike out forward but, despite the best efforts of the oarsmen and the captains, most of the time the ships go more sideways than forwards. We keep having very unpleasant collisions. And with the weather the way it is, there’s simply no way we can rely on the wind. The first attempt to unfurl the sails almost lost us a quarter of the fleet as they were thrown around the bay.”
He waved his hand dismissively at the map on the table.
“I can’t see how the Veneti can manage in these conditions. Their ships must be totally different to ours. I feel like the first Roman sailor to meet the Carthaginian navy.”
Caesar frowned.
“How could they be so different?”
Brutus shrugged unhappily.
“Well for a start, they have to be a lot stronger and heavier. Out there it feels like we’ve been thrown into the cloaca maxima on a leaf. We’ve little control over the ships and only stronger construction and a lot more weight would counteract that. Then they must have a much shallower hull. I don’t know whether you’ve seen the rocks around this coast, but there are shelves of them hidden just below the waves most of the time. We can’t even get within striking distance of the coast in most places.”
To illustrate his displeasure, he leaned across the table, gathered the small models of the fleet and put them in a pile in the mouth of the Loire on the map.
“That’s the operational ability of the fleet, general. We could use them as a bridge I suppose?”
“Are you telling me that the fleet is effectively useless?”
Brutus sighed again and rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Not exactly, but we are totally at the mercy of conditions beyond our control, Caesar. The weather… well frankly, the weather is shit, sir, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. If the wind would die down and the sun would come out, then the sea would calm and we might have a totally different situation. Once summer actually arrives, we might be able to do something, but until the weather changes, I wouldn’t give a bent denarius for the chances of any ship making it as far up the coast as the next navigable harbour.”
The general grumbled and rubbed his face irritably.
“The Veneti are a people that are heavily dependant upon the sea. I need to take the legions against them and put them in their place, but my ability to do that is greatly hampered without support from your ships. I have been working on my next move based on the principle that we would have naval support.”
Brutus shook his head, exasperated.
“I know, general. I had been labouring under the same illusion, but we simply could not have prepared for this. No Roman ship has ever tried to operate in these waters and we could not have known. All I can say is that as soon as the weather breaks, we can try again, but every time I send a ship out more than a few hundred yards I’m putting it in danger of sinking.”
Again the general grumbled before straightening.
“Very well. We’ll have to go back to relying on the legions. But I want you to stay here and keep working at this, Decimus. Practice. Try to change things. Try new ideas and non-traditional tactics. Quite simply, find a way to make this work and get the fleet involved as soon as possible.”
Brutus sighed.
“It raises logistical issues too, Caesar. If we suddenly find we have a nice day and can sail, how will we know where you are?”
Fronto leaned forward.
“Signals.”
“Sorry?”
The legate looked at the general and shrugged.
“The Veneti have retreated to their coastal fortresses, right? So that means the army is only going to be operating close to the coast anyway. We have no reason to go inland. So we set up a number of small scout units that stay on the cliffs and beaches near the army who can signal the fleet if Brutus arrives. They can pass messages back and forth and, well let’s face it, we’re going to need scouts on the coast keeping an eye on any moves the Veneti make at sea anyway.”
Caesar nodded, still clearly unsatisfied by the situation.
“I suppose that’s workable. Brutus? Keep working here and get this fleet operational. As soon as you can move, travel up the coast and watch for the signals.”
Brutus nodded and Fronto smiled at him.
“And for the love of Fortuna, get some sleep. You’re exhausted.”
Brutus smiled a weak smile back at him and gave a half-hearted nod.
“Well, Caesar” Fronto said, straightening, “it looks like the legions are going to have to march on the Veneti. Perhaps we should call a meeting of the legates, tribunes and senior centurions. And we need to get some scouts out there to locate the fortresses and check the terrain and situation for us.”
Caesar nodded and turned back to the door.
“Cicero? Gather the officers and prepare a meeting. Send me a message when they’re ready. We’ll meet in the command tent once it’s up.”
As the staff officer nodded and turned to leave, Caesar turned to Fronto.
“Marcus, I am tired and somewhat peeved and I may need someone to vent at. Come with me.”
Fronto nodded, rolling his eyes as the general turned away, making a silent motion to the praetorian trooper at the door, suggesting that the delivery of an amphora of wine to Caesar’s tent in the immediate future might be a good career move.
As they left the tent, Jupiter and Neptune met with a resounding crash and the downpour began in earnest.
Chapter 6
(Maius: The Veneti fortress of Corsicum on the west coast of Gaul)
Tetricus shook his head.
“It’s a joke. He can’t be serious?”
Fronto nodded glumly.
“He’s very serious. This whole situation has him wound tighter than a ballista. I honestly think that at this point he’d sacrifice a legion to get his hands on Corsicum.”
The tribune and artillery engineer continued to shake his head in disbelief. Just as they’d expected since they left Brutus and his fleet wall
owing in both waves and misery, traipsing through the torrential rain and accompanied by regular storms, every settlement they reached had been abandoned and anything of use or value had been stripped and taken away. They had wandered a few miles inland, examining the situation, but had returned to the coast the next day and finally located, only ten miles or so from Brutus’ anchorage, the first major stronghold of the tribe.
He just couldn’t stop shaking his head.
The fortress of Corsicum stood on a huge rock that jutted out into the sea, like a lesser copy of one of the Pillars of Hercules. The only land approach was a causeway perhaps two hundred and fifty yards wide that stood almost at sea level and was swampy and treacherous. Above the approach loomed the heavy walls of the stronghold, the towers topped with Gauls watching intently as the might of Rome began an orderly descent of the opposite slope toward the causeway.
Fronto had tried to argue Caesar out of launching a full attack, given the obviously strong defensive capability of the Veneti. He had no doubt, given the mettle of the men in the four legions that accompanied them, that they would take the fortress at the end of the day, but the casualties could be appalling.
Tetricus swung his gaze out past the high cliffs of Corsicum to the roiling sea beyond, trying to think of a solution. The rocks out there formed a platform just beneath the waves that would make it impossible for the fleet to approach, even were they here.
He ran his hands through his hair, brushing the excess water from his head.
“At the very least we could have pounded the walls first?”
Fronto grumbled next to him.
“We’ve got limited time to get across that causeway before the tide cuts the place off. Caesar’s determined to take the fortress without having to camp and perform a protracted siege. I have to admit the idea of sitting here in the pouring rain for days battering at the place is not entirely appealing, but I don’t think throwing men away is a valid solution.”
The young engineer sighed and shivered in the cold, wet air, pulling his cloak around him and totally failing to produce any extra warmth. He turned to look at his handiwork. On the promontory facing the fortress, a ‘dolmen’, as the locals called it, had been dismantled by the engineers. They had been dubious about doing so, through some strange Gallic superstitions, but the site was just too useful to leave for the dead of millennia past, and the stones had been taken down and rearranged to form a perfect artillery platform where, even now, the engineers were beginning to set up their machines. Caesar had not given the order, but Tetricus had consulted Fronto and they’d decided that the time would come when it was needed.
“In about a half hour the artillery will be ready to start firing” Tetricus said, flatly.
“In about a half hour the ground down there will be thick with dead Romans.”
The pair stood glumly watching as the ranks of marching soldiers reached the bottom of the slope and began to trudge their way through the marshy ground toward the well-defended Veneti fortress ahead.
“This is going to be a massacre. I can’t believe the general ordered it.” Tetricus turned back to Fronto. “And I can’t believe that you agreed to put the Tenth in the front line of the attack. Wouldn’t it have been fairer to march the legions in columns, so that the front line is evenly distributed?”
Fronto turned his head slightly and winked.
“Thinking ahead, that’s all.”
“What?” Tetricus frowned.
“When it all goes to shit and the legions are stopped, someone is going to have to call for the army to fall back. The order won’t come from command, since Caesar’s adamant, but there are a dozen or more veteran centurions down there who’ll decide it’s too much of a waste and will put their own head on the block to save the men.”
Tetricus nodded slowly.
“And you want that to be the Tenth?”
“Carbo knows what he’s doing, and I can argue Caesar into letting it slide, given the absurdity of the whole thing. I’d rather that came down to me than some other poor sod who’s not expecting it.”
Tetricus nodded as he watched the legions sloshing along the approach.
Down below, Servius Fabricius Carbo glanced left and right at the advancing ranks of the Tenth. From perhaps fifty yards behind him he heard his optio yelling in a parade ground voice:
“Get your arse back into that line, Falco, or I will stick my foot so far up it you can taste the boot!”
Carbo smiled to himself. For the first month or so since he’d taken over as primus pilus, the optio had treated him with care, as though he had to protect this new commander from his own men. Time, however, had brought him the respect of the first century and the optio had fallen back into his accustomed role, making the life of his men troublesome wherever needed.
Turning back to look ahead, he sized up the approach.
“Prepare to receive missile fire. Shields ready.”
Two of the men close by shared a nervous glance and Carbo smiled at them.
“They’re not Apollo with his bow, lads; they’re just a few dozen hairy misfits with rocks. Don’t let ‘em get to you.”
But the truth was entirely different, and Carbo knew it. The Veneti up there on the walls would have slings, spears, probably bows and maybe even fire arrows, since he was sure he’d seen smoke being suppressed by the incessant rain. The next minute was going to be a march into sheer hell and their only hope was to keep themselves as covered as possible and pray fervently. At least, until he’d had enough, anyway.
“Incoming! Raise shields.”
Next to him, one of the soldiers frowned.
“I don’t see anything, sir?”
“Get your shield up.”
As the soldier lifted his shield into the most protective position, covering most of his front, his eyes peering over the top, a sling shot rapped on the wood and leather and fell to the floor in front of him.
And then, suddenly, hell broke loose.
The Veneti launched everything they had as individuals rather than in ordered units, and sling stones, lead bullets, arrows, rocks and spears fell from the walls in a hail. Carbo gritted his teeth, listening to the shouts and shrieks of the men who were too slow, too unprotected, or just too plain unlucky, and were felled by the onslaught.
The ground began to slope upward as they battled on against the constant hail of missiles, men toppling out of the line, only to be replaced by the soldier from the rank behind. Despite the change of terrain and the difficulty of maintaining a solid line while marching up a slope, Carbo still welcomed the end of the wet, sloshy ground below as his boots finally found dry land.
There was a deep and loud groan from above and the primus pilus frowned for a moment, cocking his head to one side and listening intently. A clunk and another groan.
“First cohort: Form two columns on the flanks!”
Without comment or question, nearly a thousand men forming the advancing ranks of the legions split into two groups, angling away from each other, so that the single line of two hundred men became two columns, each with a front line of fifty, a wide gap opening in the centre. Carbo just had to hope that the other cohorts and legions had realised what was up.
Just as the trap was sprung, Carbo glanced back to note with satisfaction that the other senior centurions had followed suit and that the front ranks of the Eighth behind then were copying the manoeuvre.
A cry of angry disappointment rose from the walls above as a huge tree trunk rolled through the now-open gate in the walls and hurtled down the slope toward the attackers, neatly descending into the gap between the two advancing columns and rolling inoffensively to a halt in the marshy ground below without having touched a single man.
Carbo nodded in satisfaction. If they’d oiled the hinges on those gates, that could have been so much worse. In his early days with the military, he’d acquired the nickname ‘the augur’ due to his innate sense of self preservation and his uncanny knack of being prepared jus
t ahead of any unexpected event. Carbo himself knew that it came entirely down to using the senses the gods had gifted him with, combined with experience and a sprinkling of common sense.
And common sense and acute hearing had just saved the first cohort. Above, the gates were shut once more, hurriedly, and the missile fire increased, accompanied by savage cries.
“Single line… lock shields!”
In a perfect reverse of their earlier manoeuvre, the Tenth legion closed ranks once more, though the formation would be no help in taking those walls in the circumstances. The time was almost upon them, now.
As the legion trudged slowly up the slope, men occasionally falling out of the line with a squawk, Carbo narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze across the ranks of men. There were very few places in the cohort where the line was five men thick, and as often as not it had thinned to three rather than four. He’d lost a fifth of his men already, and they were still two hundred yards from the walls up an ever increasing gradient. The first cohort would be gone before a Roman hand touched the wall.
“Pass the word back. Sound the retreat! Orderly, mind you…”
The signifer, Petrosidius, three men along from him, grinned and waved the standard as somewhere back by the optio the buccina called out the retreat order. Carbo could almost feel the relief, not just from the men around him, but also from the legions following them up, who took up and relayed the call with telling speed.
The first cohort slowed to a halt, their shields still up against the battering missiles falling on them from above, and began carefully to step back down the slope, maintaining the forward defensive wall.
“We’re going to get bollocked, sir.”
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