Carbo smiled at the man who’d spoken.
“I don’t think you need worry, lad. The legate’ll look after us.”
Fronto, high on the promontory above, watched and nodded with satisfaction. Shame they’d had to waste so many damn men before retreating, but at least they could show Caesar how stupid the idea was. Tetricus laughed.
“You were right, Marcus.”
“I know. I’m going to see Caesar. You get that artillery up and running. As soon as I’ve talked some sense into the old man, I’ll get the other legions’ engineers up to join in.”
Tetricus nodded and jogged off towards the makeshift artillery platform while Fronto turned and set his sights on the hastily-erected headquarters tent that held a commanding view of the enemy stronghold. The general emerged from the tent as he watched, waving his arms angrily at three of the staff officers that lurked outside in the torrential rain.
The hawk-nosed general was still laying into the innocent officers several minutes later as Fronto approached, and one of the men meekly raised his finger and pointed at Fronto. Caesar turned to him, his face red and angry, his eye flickering dangerously.
“I want the man who ordered that call to be stripped naked and flung down onto the rocks, and the musician who made it will follow him.”
Fronto shook his head.
“No you don’t.”
“What?” The eye flickered faster.
“With respect, Caesar, those two men just saved you thousands of men. Remember last year? Plancus marching on the walls of Noviodunum? Throwing men away like mad until you relented and let us do it properly? Don’t turn into a Plancus, general.”
“I…”
The flickering in his eye stopped and the general’s face took on a strange and almost frightened look.
“Fronto… the tent…”
The legate frowned and stepped forward, grabbing the general’s arm, just as his legs started to give way. The officers stared at them.
“Don’t read anything into it, lads. He’s exhausted.”
Without sparing them another glance, he steered the general toward the command tent and entered without ceremony. The tent was empty other than a table and seat.
“What’s happened?”
The general was starting to shake slightly, his brow pallid and sweaty.
“I’m fine… Fronto.”
He leaned over the table, his face hidden in the darkness.
“Just… exhausted, like you said.”
Fronto narrowed his eyes.
“You’re ill.”
“No. I’m fine… Get out. You deal with it how… however you feel.”
Fronto’s frown deepened as he watched Caesar slump slightly.
“Get out!”
With a shrug, Fronto turned his back on the general and strode from the tent. The old man had looked like death was closing in on him, and the expression on his face had only added to the impression. The legate had this nagging feeling that he’d deal with the retreat and go back in only to find the great Caesar dead on the floor in a pool of his own bile.
Perhaps the world would breathe a sigh of relief if that happened.
Fronto gritted his teeth as he emerged into the rain and looked at the three officers, their faces full of concern.
“As soon as the legions are back, send the officers to me and have the engineers report to Tetricus.”
One of the officers opened his mouth to object to this clear command from a man who was, in theory, at most a peer, if not a lesser officer, but his throat dried up as he saw Fronto’s face.
“At once, legate.”
“Caesar?”
“Fronto? Come in.”
The legate shrugged, casting a quick look around at the view outside the tent. The rain had died down to an intermittent drizzle that was almost worse than the downpour, but the change had made the work of the engineers easier and visibility was greatly improved. Straightening his shoulders, he ducked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back behind him.
The general sat at his table in the cavernous, largely empty tent, a studious look on his face; no sign of his recent indisposition showing.
“I’d offer you a seat, Fronto, but I only have the one, for now. I’m rather hoping not to have to unpack. What is the news?”
The legate shook his head.
“Oh no. I’ll give you a full report in a minute, but first I want you to level with me. There’s something wrong, and I don’t want to come in to report one morning to find you draped over your table bleeding out. I wouldn’t know how to proceed.”
Caesar gave a knowing smile.
“I rather think you know exactly how you’d proceed. In fact, I’ll be most surprised if you haven’t already planned for the eventuality. But no… I’m in no danger of dropping dead.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Caesar fixed him with a searching glare and sagged in the chair.
“Just an illness, Fronto. I caught something in Illyricum that’s taking a little more shaking off than normal.”
“With respect, Caesar, that’s a pile of crap. I’ve known you a long time and I’ve never seen you do that. You were in the middle of building up a real argument with me, and I know how much we both enjoy that… and then you petered out and almost collapsed. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that you’re trying to hide it, even from those closest to you.”
The general glared at him.
“This subject is not open for discussion, Marcus. Leave it be.”
Fronto gave a vicious grin.
“Well we were headed for an argument about the attack, so let’s just have an argument about this instead.”
He ignored the warning glance again.
“Whatever it is, we’re in wet, boring, north west Gaul, a long way from the jackals in the senate that are always sniffing around you for a weakness. Out here it’s just you and your army. You need to be straight with me, ‘cause it worries me. I’ve not seen you…”
The legate paused and frowned thoughtfully.
“But that’s not true, is it? I have seen you like that before.”
The general still hadn’t spoken and Fronto nodded as his thoughts stretched back.
“Vesontio last year… before we moved against the Belgae. You virtually pushed me away and disappeared on your own, complaining about the smell or something. That was the same thing, wasn’t it?”
“Fronto, you might sometimes be too bright for your own good. How can you have recall like that when you pickle your brain so often?”
Fronto brushed the comment aside, frowning.
“It’s a preservative. Come on… you’ve got to trust me. I know something’s up and you’d be better off giving me the truth than letting me speculate.”
Caesar sighed and sagged again.
“I do have an affliction that strikes from time to time. It’s not lethal; just inconvenient and I would rather like to keep it from the rest of the men. You and I know that it’s men, not strange forces, that control the future of the world, but there are a lot of intelligent men out there who cling to ridiculous superstitions, let alone the average soldier.”
Fronto nodded.
“They could see it as some sort of curse?”
“Exactly. A mark of divine disfavour or some such.
“How many people know about this?”
Caesar shrugged.
“My body slave, some select few of my family… and a merchant in the forum holitorium who will die a very wealthy man so long as he keeps his mouth shut.”
The general smiled.
“But since you now know, I may need your help from time to time in keeping this quiet.”
“Does it happen often?”
Caesar frowned.
“Rarely more than a couple of times a year, really.”
Fronto sighed and leaned against the leather of the tent wall.
“So what is it? Give me the details and I’ll know what to do the next time that
happens, rather than making feeble excuses to the men and leaving you on your own in the tent to ride it through.”
The general nodded quietly.
“I’m not entirely sure, Marcus. It only started a couple of years ago, about the time we first left for Gaul. I’ve discounted the possibility of a connection; men like you and I look at plain fact, rather than superstition, as I said.”
Fronto pursed his lips.
“And you’ve not seen a doctor?”
Caesar smiled.
“In fact I have seen several, Marcus. One of the main reasons for my wintering in Illyricum this year was to be safely away from Rome for a while, somewhere where I could investigate this without my enemies getting wind. Illyricum is home to a number of doctors who follow the Greek medical traditions; very smart men. Unfortunately, just like their democracies, the medical profession are plagued by differing opinions and the inability to reach a unified conclusion.”
“And?” Fronto prompted.
“The most common theory is that I have what they call the ‘falling sickness’. That’s the worst case, I suspect, since the stigma it carries means that revealing it could be political suicide. But even if that is the case, it needn’t be a real problem. I’ve heard it said, after all, that Alexander of Macedon had the same problem, and he built a vast empire.”
“And died very young if I remember rightly” Fronto added flatly.
“Something from which, I fear, I am quite safe.”
Fronto sighed.
“There are other possibilities?”
Caesar nodded. “I will not speculate, Marcus. Whatever it is, it appears to be periodically debilitating rather than life threatening. But if you see me starting to get hazy and confused, or if I appear to be hearing or seeing things that aren’t there, find an excuse and get me somewhere private urgently.”
“Then what?” Fronto asked with genuine concern.
“I may lose consciousness. I may shake and spasm for a while. The symptoms, I understand, are quite varied and interesting…” the general smiled “…though I am never in the right frame of mind at the time to record what it is that’s happening. It might be very useful the next time it happens if you could note the progression, so that I can approach the doctors with the details the next time I return to Salona.”
Fronto nodded seriously.
“Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you share traits with Alexander. Alright, general. I’ll keep this quiet and my eyes open. In the meantime, we need to deal with the current situation. I realise that I overstepped my bounds by allowing the Tenth to call the retreat but, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve always considered it more important to do what you needed done than what you wanted done.”
Caesar shook his head slowly.
“You were, of course, quite correct, and I would normally recognise that myself. You’ve known me since my earlier commands, Fronto. You know I’m not the sort of man to throw troops away on foolish errands.”
Fronto nodded. “That’s what took everyone by surprise, sir. Is it the illness?”
Caesar shook his head sadly.
“Nothing to blame this on but lack of adequate thought. The past few months have been extremely draining and aggravating, Marcus. Those in Rome who have influence are beginning to array themselves against me; the senate and even the people, who have ever been my greatest advocates, are beginning to question my actions, since Gaul will not accept the eagle; the elder Crassus seems to be genuinely affectionate towards me while his son undermines everything I do here; Pompey keeps placing minor obstacles in my way and even Cicero is starting to speak out against me. Everything feels like it is pressing on me and I’m on the verge of snapping under it all.”
Fronto smiled sympathetically. He could understand the weight of politics. It was a contributory factor to his own avoidance of it.
“You need the campaign over as fast as possible. We all know that, general, but cutting corners will only cause you trouble in the end. Let the legions do their jobs properly and we’ll have this over in no time.”
“I hope you’re right, Marcus. I really do. Alright, then; let’s have the update.”
Fronto stepped away from the tent wall and stood before the table.
“Alright. Well I’ve sorted things outside. We lost maybe four hundred men, but it could have been a lot worse. I’m allowing tents to be set up, but nothing else. No fortifications or suchlike. We don’t want to get involved in a protracted siege, as you said, but the men need to keep dry when they’re off duty or the whole army’s going to come down with something.”
“You still expect to be able to resolve this quickly, then?”
Fronto shrugged.
“A lot of that depends on factors outside our control, Caesar, but we hope so. Tetricus has the artillery of four legions finding their range right now. If you listen hard, you can hear them.”
“I thought that was just my head” the general said with a small laugh.
“Tetricus reckons that he can topple those towers and flatten that gate in about half a day with the full weight of the artillery. And there’s free stone knocking around here for ammunition, so that’s no worry.”
The general nodded.
“So by the next low tide, we might be able to manage?”
Fronto nodded.
“I’d have hated to be down there when the tide came in. It’s not like standing on the beach at Antium and watching the line slowly licking towards you. With the storms and the choppy sea, the tide came in here in about ten minutes. It was like watching a dam burst.”
Caesar nodded wearily.
“We might need to repair the morale damage of that first attack. Perhaps if I march with the men? Always boosts morale when the officers take a risk.”
Fronto nodded.
“And you’ll also be pleased to hear that our scouts have reported sighting Brutus’ fleet a few miles away. Looks like he’s taken advantage of the lull and come out to meet us.”
“Very good. That could give us an edge.”
“Perhaps”. Fronto looked less certain.
The general sighed.
Fronto strode up the slope at the head of the army in the gentle drizzle. The Tenth, having led the first, abortive attack, had been given the honour of being the first legion through the breach. The walls had crumbled swiftly under Tetricus’ constant deadly barrage and the Gauls lining it had fled after the first few shots found their range. Despite the stone, timber and packed earth of the ramparts, the artillery of four legions made swift work of them, reducing the gate to rubble and toppling the towers more than an hour before the tide had receded enough to allow troops to cross the causeway.
As soon as the water level dropped, the general gave the order and the legions marched before even the artillery fire had ceased. The general, resplendent in his red cloak and gleaming cuirass, joined the vanguard as they crossed the gap and began to climb the incline toward the shattered walls.
The broken defences reached toward the boiling clouds like stumps of sawn trees, small sections of wall at full height, interspersed with yard after yard of rubble, spreading down the hill. As the legion approached the walls, Fronto glanced across in the other direction to Carbo, marching strong at the head of the Tenth. The man was already looking at him and, as the two men’s eyes met, Carbo nodded, sharing an unspoken thought, and addressed the legion in a steady voice.
“Be prepared, now, lads. Anything could await us up here.”
Fronto nodded quietly to himself, imagining the traps the Veneti could have set up behind the broken walls. It had been many hours now since the last figure had dared climb the walls to look at the attackers, and the quiet was eerie. He hefted his sword.
“Secure the walls” Carbo barked as they crossed the rubble, slowing their pace accordingly. Two centurions began shouting out orders and a century peeled off the column in either direction as they reached the line of the defences, rounding the shattered wall carefully, not
knowing what to expect. Fronto and Caesar continued alongside Carbo and the front line of the first cohort and passed between the remains of the gate and into the fortress of the Veneti. As the two centuries rushed along the line and into position, checking the defences for any traps or lurking Gauls, the bulk of the army marched on up the slope and into the centre of the large headland stronghold.
This was far from the usual Gaulish oppidum or settlement with which Fronto was familiar. Rather than the unplanned, rambling streets of a Gaulish town, with trees rising from the roadside for summer shade and gardens in front of each house, this was a utilitarian arrangement, designed purely to protect a people from harm. There was no subtlety or joy in the layout, with squat, dark buildings for shelter all gathered close around a square at the highest point, with bare, windowless facades facing the outside, one end of the central square given over to granaries and storehouses.
“So where the hell are they?” Fronto asked no one in particular as they crested the hill and approached the silent, strangely deserted-looking buildings.
The general, beside him, bore a puzzled frown.
“Perhaps they hide within?”
Fronto shook his head.
“I don’t think so, general. These people aren’t the sort to cower without even trying to fight. But the question does remain: where are they?”
Again, Carbo barked out orders to his men and two centuries split off the main group as they approached the square and began to check out the buildings surrounding it. Behind the Tenth, the Eighth crested the hill, Balbus leading his men fast to catch up with the front line. Farther back, Crispus had split the Eleventh and sent them in two groups around the lower edges of the headland, above the cliffs, to meet up at the far end. The fourteenth had played rearguard, remaining with the artillery for their protection.
Fronto and the general watched with growing unease as the legionaries of the first cohort entered and exited the buildings, shrugging, nonplussed at the strangely deserted fortress.
“Is it possible that we were mistaken?” Caesar frowned. “That this is not a principal fortress and there were only a few dozen men here on the walls after all and they’re hiding somewhere. A distraction? A decoy?”
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