“We know how deep the tide comes in over these causeways. It’s not deep; just enough to prevent any kind of land attack. If, as you say, the apertures to the sea to either side are relatively narrow, we can dam them enough to hold back the tide and that would give you the freedom to work your attack any way you wish.”
Caesar frowned and leaned forward across the table, the stylus in his hand tapping on the surface.
“Wouldn’t that take a long time?”
Mamurra shook his head.
“Not with, what, four legions available to us. Given complete control, along with a few good engineers and perhaps a legion of men, I can have serviceable dams in position in an hour or two. It’ll take longer than that to flatten the walls, so we should have the time.”
Caesar frowned at the engineer for a while and then nodded and faced the others again.
“Surprise, artillery prepared in advance, a fleet anchored in the bay beyond, the sea held back with dams. Anything else we can do?”
There was an uncomfortable silence and, after a pause, the general smiled and sat back.
“Then at least it’s an improvement on the last attack. We’ll move out in the morning. Have the word given to the officers. The eighth, ninth and tenth cohorts from each legion are hereby assigned to Mamurra to construct his dams. They can separate out now, excused all other duties, and start quarrying the stone and loading it into carts to save time when we arrive.”
“General?”
Caesar turned again to see the interim camp prefect wearing a quizzical expression. Fronto glowered at the Illyrian officer. The man had kept carefully quiet and out of Fronto’s way since the day they had spoken in Fronto’s own house, which was just as well, since the mere sight of him was enough to make the legate want to break the man’s nose.
“Yes?” Caesar said quietly.
“General, the tenth cohort is currently assigned to camp construction, maintenance and deconstruction. How will I take down the camp and prepare to move?”
Caesar rolled his eyes.
“Good grief, man. The assignments to camp are all transitory. Any cohort can do the job. You have the authority; just draw some other men and get the job done.”
The man shrank back out of sight and Fronto smiled menacingly to himself as the general stood and stretched.
“Then everything is settled. Let’s get prepared and put and end to this uprising.”
“Respectfully, legate, I’m going to have to request that you get your arse to the back and take up the traditional role of looking good and urging the men on.”
Fronto blinked at Carbo.
“Sod off.”
“Now, now, sir. I know that Priscus let you charge into the enemy next to him, and I’m slighting neither your ability nor your bravery, but it’s my job to lead these buggers into a fight, and not yours.”
“Fine. Your request has been duly noted and declined. Care to disobey your commanding officer?”
The pink faced centurion next him smiled and winked.
“Then don’t get in the way, eh, sir?”
Fronto opened his mouth to bark a sharp reply, but the primus pilus turned his head away and shouted across to the signifer some twenty yards away.
“As soon as you see the Eighth move, signal the advance.”
Petrosidius nodded, keeping his gaze on the standards of the Eighth off to their right. Ten yards behind the officers, the Tenth legion shuffled their feet in agitation, itching to be off. Fronto faced forward once more, looking at the path before them.
It had certainly been a whirlwind preparation. Only two hours ago had the first Roman scout crested the hill in sight of the Veneti stronghold and in that short time Mamurra’s men had constructed what looked, to Fronto, like a very unstable dam on either side of the headland, holding the sea back from the causeway. Certainly they appeared to have the odd small leak, rivulets of seawater trickling down the inner face. The plan had extra merit that had occurred to them after the meeting. With the tide in, when the legions attacked, Brutus’ fleet would be able to get closer to land.
Fronto’s gaze passed across the mass of artillery on the headland keeping up a constant barrage, though having now shifted from the ruined walls to pounding the interior. This fortress was smaller and less well defended than Corsicum and had succumbed to the assault remarkably quickly.
His eyes followed the missiles as they arced up from the onagers and once again he focused on the brooding sky. He just hoped in the name of every God he could think of that the weather would hold off until after the attack. The grass underfoot was faintly damp, but ‘faintly damp’ was as dry as it had been in weeks. The sky above, however, boiled with black, grey and white clouds, promising storm conditions and torrential rain, likely with lightning and thunder. Not, he grumbled to himself, good conditions to be marching up a slope and wearing bronze.
A buccina call rang out from the Eighth, and Petrosidius waved the standard, triggering calls from the Tenth’s own musicians.
The legions moved off and a grin split Fronto’s face. It felt good to be marching into a fight again.
The three officers slowed their pace slightly until the first cohort reached them and then slid in among the men, taking their place in the front line. The smile on Fronto’s face widened for only a moment, and was then rudely removed as the men around him pushed, shoved and jostled suddenly, falling back into military precision seconds later and leaving the legate two rows back from the front.
Fronto issued a low growl, glaring ahead, and an apologetic voice spoke up from next to him.
“Sorry sir. Orders of the primus pilus.”
For a moment the legate was tempted to argue, but knew it would be fruitless. The Tenth respected their commander, Fronto knew, as much as he respected them, but the legate was often just a voice from high up, whereas a senior centurion was the man that put you to digging in shit for months at a time when he was unhappy with you. Fronto had no chance against that kind of threat.
Settling into his position in the third line, Fronto continued with the steady march as they descended the slope and reached the causeway at the bottom. His eyes strayed to his left, where he could see one of Mamurra’s dams, the other out of sight beyond the promontory. His mind immediately furnished him with vivid images of a dam exploding inwards, rocks tumbling this way and that, releasing the structural internal timber beams to rush toward the panicked Tenth legion on the crest of a deadly wave. Fronto squeezed his eyes shut and forced the picture away but, when he opened them again, he couldn’t look too closely at the dam without his knees taking on a very unmanly tremble.
The legions marched on across the causeway. By this time, the ground they trod would normally by under at least six feet of water.
Pictures in his mind again.
Damn it.
Or Dam it, anyway…
Fronto smiled to himself. The ground beneath his feet squelched unpleasantly and he sank an inch or two into the murk with each step.
The moments passed with the unpleasant sound of thousands of squelching feet and the dull clunk of armour and weapons that were becoming a martyr to rust in the conditions this summer.
The legate sighed with relief as his feet confirmed they had finally reached the upward slope that led to the walls and almost smiled until he realised that the rumbling he was hearing was not now the constant barrage of the artillery. The shooting had ceased to allow the legions room to manoeuvre, and so the low grumble he could now hear was thunder.
“Shit.”
“Problem, sir?”
Fronto glanced at the man next to him. He’d not meant to say it out loud.
“Just the weather.”
“I always try to stand next to someone taller if it’s thundering and I’m wearing armour, sir” the man replied with a grin. Fronto laughed for a moment and scanned the ranks around him, noting with wry humour that he stood half a head taller than any man close to him.
“Great. Just g
reat!”
The slope ahead was much easier than that of Corsicum. Just as the stronghold was only perhaps a quarter of the size, with less powerful walls, so the cliffs were lower and the promontory less pronounced. Wearily the men of the Tenth slogged up the incline toward the smashed walls that had protected the fortress proper.
Carbo, ahead and to his right, barked out commands as they moved.
“We take the left. First century, peel off as we reach the walls and secure to the left before working your way round the edge of the cliffs. Once we near the crest, I want the rest of the first cohort to start spreading down the hill and then swing round at higher speed, like a closing gate, making sure we clear the whole surface. I don’t want to miss anyone.”
There were shouts of acknowledgement from the appropriate centurions and Fronto grinned. It was this that granted command ability. Oh, some of it was natural talent, such as in the case of the general, but far too many legates and tribunes stood at the back, slapping each other on the shoulder and watching happily as their men fought the battle. Only when you understood the men themselves, the abilities and responsibilities of the centurionate, and how everything fitted together in the actual fight, could you hope to direct a legion effectively. It was his appreciation of the situation his men were in that had given Fronto all his experience. He and the Tenth had made a name for themselves together.
His attention was brought back to the immediate situation as there was a shriek from ahead.
He focused, startled, as the line staggered to a halt, a figure missing.
“Lilia?”
Sure enough, as the legion began to move again, more cautiously, Fronto looked down with sympathy at the man who, two rows ahead of him, had discovered the first hidden pit with its sharpened stake.
The man writhed in the hole, the point of the stake through his thigh, the bone shattered. Once the legions were ahead and out of the way, the capsarii following up would find him and take him back to the makeshift camp, but the man’s leg was ruined, along with his career. Fronto swallowed sadly and raised his eyes again.
Then, thankfully, they were past and the man was out of sight, though the occasional shriek from left and right announced the location of another deadly trap. Fronto grimaced as he kept his gaze straight ahead, locked on the walls. For just a moment, he wondered how a tribe they’d never fought had adopted Roman defensive methods, but it hadn’t taken him long to realise that Crassus had spent last summer suppressing these people. They had picked up Crassus’ tricks.
A minute later the front ranks reached the line of the fallen walls, slowing once more as they stumbled over the rubble and into the stronghold itself. The first century set off along the line of jagged stone, only to discover that the deep grass here had been left deliberately long to hide the brambles and thorns that had been left there in a tangled mass.
Moments later the rest of the attacking force encountered the same conditions. The defending Veneti had clearly, as they left the walls, traversed narrow channels through the brambles, before disappearing into the interior.
Fronto gave an involuntary yelp as a thorn wrenched a long jagged cut across his shin, raking through his breeches with little trouble. Fortunately, the entire advancing Roman force, which had slowed to a virtual crawl, were mostly grumbling or shouting at the tearing and jabbing brambles.
If seemed like hours, dragging, wading and stomping through the painful undergrowth before the legions reached short grass and heaved a sigh of relief, examining their arms, legs and feet. To a man, the Eighth and Tenth legions had been scratched and raked, drawing blood in dozens of places. Hardly a great defensive measure by the standards of the Roman army but, Fronto had to admit, innovative and simple. The thorns had irritated and pained the legions and slowed their advance considerably.
Setting their sights on the square at the top of the gentle slope, the Tenth moved on, men fanning out down the hill and searching out any hiding places. The eerie quiet was all too familiar to Fronto and his spirits fell.
The Tenth reached the top of the hill to find, just as he’d expected, a deserted square, surrounded by apparently empty buildings. Irritably, he wrestled with his chin strap and removed his helmet, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.
“These people are seriously starting to piss me off.”
He spotted the heavy figure of Balbus, legate of the Eighth, striding across the square toward him from the right. The older officer, bald and tired-looking, had also removed his helmet and carried it under his arm.
A rumble of thunder announced the coming storm just as the first swathe of pounding rain began to fall, battering Fronto’s scalp and further darkening his mood.
“Campaigning in this bloody place is like drowning in depression. I am starting to take an intense dislike to the Veneti.”
Balbus shrugged.
“It is irritating, I’ll grant you, but you can hardly blame them, really. What would you do?”
“I’d migrate to a country with better bloody weather for a start.”
The older man laughed and pulled his crimson scarf tighter around his neck.
“Come on. Let’s go see what’s happening.”
Knowing exactly what he was going to find, Fronto nodded irritably, leaving his discarded helmet where it had fallen, and strode off with his opposite number toward the sea. The slope was gentler than at Corsicum and the cliffs lower and they were but a few seconds from the top when Fronto blinked as he took in the situation.
“Bloody hell, Quintus! We’re still in with a chance!”
Below, Brutus’ fleet sat like a dreadful wall of timber in a wide crescent out in the bay, safely away from the rocky shelf, but close enough to cut off any route to the open sea and close enough to flee to their safe harbour at short notice when the storm began to churn the sea too much.
The Veneti fleet wallowed close to the cliff below, almost close enough to drop rocks on.
“They must still be boarding.”
Balbus nodded, his brow furrowed.
“But how did they get down there? The cliffs are too steep. There can’t be a path!”
Fronto swung his head this way and that and spotted the primus pilus directing some of his men.
“Carbo! Spread the men out. Start looking for hidden paths or tunnel entrances or some such. There’s a secret way down to the water.”
Carbo turned with a grin and saluted, marching away with his men, while Fronto turned his own grin on Balbus.
“We might just have them by the short and curlies, Quintus.”
The older legate nodded and turned back toward the gathered structures at the crest.
“I’ll get Balventius to search the buildings thoroughly. Could be there.”
Fronto nodded and punched one hand into the flat of the other with deep satisfaction.
“Got you, you bastards.”
“Here, sir!”
Fronto’s head whipped round at the shout. A legionary was gesticulating from a rock near the grassy cliff edge. Slapping Balbus on the shoulder to get his attention, he jogged off down the slope.
“You got something?”
“Think so, sir. Looks like a tunnel.”
Fronto hurried down to the rock, blinking the water out of his eyes. The smooth boulder rose from the grass some ten feet from the edge of the cliff and the far side concealed what did appear to be an entrance to a passageway some five feet tall and just wide enough for a man.
“If this is the way they left, they couldn’t have taken all their gear through there.”
Balbus, behind him, nodded.
“But if they were prepared with enough time to spare, they could have lowered everything down the cliff before they left. Balventius has put out the call. The Eighth are on the way across.”
Fronto nodded, but was already levering his way down into the gap.
“Then they can follow us down. No time to waste.”
Balbus grinned.
Stepping into the tunnel and straightening as much as he could, Fronto drew his sword and gestured to the legionary.
“You’re not one of mine?”
“No sir. Legionary Capito, sir, of the Eleventh legion, third cohort, century of Pictor.”
“Well, legionary Capito” Fronto grinned “time to lead the charge. Come on, but you’ll have to leave your shield; I don’t think there’s room.”
Balbus examined the entrance speculatively.
“I’m not sure I’m going to fit through there either. I can only assume there are no fat Veneti!”
Fronto laughed.
“Stay there, Quintus, and send your men down behind us once they’re ready.”
Even as he stepped into the passageway, Fronto could hear the men marching across the hill toward them. He examined the passageway ahead, descending steeply into the darkness. As the legionary clambered into the tunnel behind him, Fronto clicked his tongue irritably.
“No time to get torches and light them. We’re going to have to go down in the dark.”
The legionary shuddered.
“Best watch your head, sir.”
Fronto nodded and turned back to the tunnel.
The first half dozen steps were easy enough, despite the wet and slippery rock beneath his feet, as there was a touch of daylight still filtering through from behind. As they descended though, the light faded, leaving an oppressive gloom. No matter how hard he squinted, Fronto could hardly make out the passageway ahead and had to move at a ridiculously slow pace, feeling his way as he went.
Ten more steps. A scraping of his cuirass on the wall and a grazed elbow. Yes, it would have been almost impossible to get down here with helmet and shield.
Eight more steps…
Thump.
Fronto almost struck out with his sword before he realised that what he had bumped into was solid rock. Capito walked into the back of him and apologised profusely.
“Shh.”
Feeling around, Fronto tried to determine where the passage went from here. This couldn’t be a dead end, could it? It could just be for storage? It…”
Gallia Invicta mm-3 Page 16
