Brutus set himself in the stance he’d seen Fronto take, preparing for the clash.
He was totally unprepared when the trierarch smashed a sword pommel into his bared head, driving the consciousness from him instantly. Morpheus enfolded him in his arms and together they sunk into blackness.
The trierarch halted the officer’s fall and gestured to the celeusta. The rowing officer nodded, dropping his sword and grabbing Brutus, hauling him easily up. Turning his back on the attacking Gauls, he heaved the officer over the rail and watched as the young man plummeted heavily into the water, the cuirass pulling him instantly beneath the waves.
Moments later, the celeusta hit the water, his buoyancy guaranteed by his lack of armour, and he kicked down into the cold deep until his hands touched the cold steel of the officer’s chest plate. Looping his arms beneath Brutus’ shoulders, he kicked for the surface.
As he broke into open air, gasping, he wrestled with difficulty with the man’s shoulder and side straps until the cuirass came away and disappeared into the deep. A small rivulet of blood bloomed on the officer’s head where he had been struck by the trierarch.
The celeusta looked back up toward the deck above. The sounds of violent melee were clearly audible, but his fight was over for now. His job was to get the commander to safety.
Turning his back on the Aurora as its last Roman occupant fell to a scything blow, the celeusta secured his grip on Brutus and began to swim for the shore.
Chapter 12
(Quintilis: Below the headlands at the entrance to the bay of Darioritum)
White light…
Painful white light…
The taste of bile and salt…
The roaring of unbearable noise…
A smiling face.
Brutus shook his head and stared.
“Is this really the time and the place to be going for a swim?” Fronto grinned.
“Whurr?”
The capsarius who was tending to the cut on his head tutted and pushed him back against the hard surface below. Brutus closed his eyes and tried to think back and organise his thoughts. Everything swam around rather unpleasantly when he closed his eyes.
“Whurr…”
Fronto’s grin took on a note of comprehension.
“We’re on the deck of the Excidium; on our way to shore.”
Brutus continued to shake his head in semi-confusion.
“Wha? Can’ think.”
The face of the Tenth’s legate took on a slightly more sombre look.
“No survivors, I’m afraid. Other than you and the man who dragged you to the Excidium, that is. Good man there… suspect he’ll be in line for a bonus, eh?”
“No survivors?”
“Not one. The Veneti were pretty ruthless with the crew of the Aurora. They were still sawing the bodies to pieces when the two relief crews arrived. I haven’t asked, but I somehow doubt there were any survivors on their side, either. I gather the captains of the Excidium and the Accipiter took the attack and the death of their colleague sort of personally.”
Brutus shook his head again and winced.
“But they were women and children, Marcus.”
Fronto allowed a certain unconcern to show on his face.
“They were an enemy who showed you no mercy. I won’t mourn them, and neither will you.”
Brutus sat up slowly with the aid of the capsarius, who nodded in satisfaction.
“Nothing a rest won’t sort out now, sir, but go slow til you find your strength.”
As the man hurried off to tend to other casualties, Fronto reached down and helped the bedraggled officer slowly to his feet. Brutus wobbled uncertainly and grasped the rail for support. For the first time, he took stock of their surroundings.
“Where are we now?”
“At the north side of the channel. Once the captain here found you and dealt with the remaining Veneti, he came across to pick me up. Now we’re on our way to collect Balbus and then he’s ferrying the three of us back to Darioritum to Caesar. I’m assuming that things are settled there.”
Brutus nodded uncertainly.
“They should be. We left enough ships to deal with the rest of their fleet and it looked as though Caesar’s forces had control of the city. Oooh…”
For a moment he wobbled forwards, sagging against the rail.
“I feel rather unwell.”
Fronto grinned.
“I feel like that on board most ships. But at least it’s nice and calm here, and in an hour we’ll be back among the lads and I can find Cita and requisition enough wine to half-drown you again.”
Brutus gave him a weak smile.
“Then it’s over. The Veneti are quashed.”
“Hopefully. Strangely, though, I’ve been hating this place since we returned, with all the wet and the wind and the storms. Now that it’s settled and becoming quite nice, I’m getting used to it again. We’re about to dock… hold tight.”
The trireme pulled slowly up to the small jetty that marched out into the bay below the fort. A small group of armoured men with red cloaks stood in a knot at the far end. Fronto watched with interest as the Excidium came to a stop and ropes were thrown ashore and then tied.
The small group began to move slowly down the jetty and Fronto’s face tightened. Something was wrong. A lump in his throat, he focused on the small knot of men as they strode toward the trireme. He didn’t know the centurions and optios of the Eighth that Balbus had taken with him, let alone the legionaries, but he could see the figure of the aging legate in the centre.
Fronto closed his eyes and threw a prayer out.
Balbus did not look good.
The legate was being helped along the jetty and, though fully armoured and on his feet after a fashion, he was paler than many corpses Fronto had seen. Paying no further heed to Brutus or the crew of the ship, Fronto leapt over the rail to the jetty and ran along the boards to the men.
Balbus smiled weakly at him.
“Hell.” Fronto’s voice was like lead.
The older legate’s face had a faintly blue tint and Fronto shook his head desperately.
“Stop, stop, stop!” he barked at the men.
Balbus sighed and Fronto noted how he winced and shuddered when he did so.
“Oh shit. Show me your hands!”
The legate of the Eighth, confused, but too weak and pained to argue, held out a hand, the other still being grasped for support. Fronto looked down at the pale blue hand. The finger nails were bulging and wide, to the point of being unsightly. The legate of the Tenth grasped Balbus and gently took the strain, brushing the soldiers aside as he gained sole support of his friend.
Pausing long enough to give the older legate a breather, though that breath was shallow and came in gasps, he took his arm across his shoulder and began to help him slowly along the jetty, waving the other soldiers away.
Balbus smiled at him again and opened his mouth to speak, but the effort was too much and he sighed.
Fronto grimaced and took a deep breath.
“Get those ropes in and prepare to sail as soon as we’re aboard. I want to get back to the army faster than Mercury himself.”
The trierarch of the Excidium took one look at the legate and his burden and nodded, barking out orders. As the two men closed on the rail, Brutus, now largely recovered from his bleariness, reached out and helped the older legate aboard.
As they planted their feet on the deck, the hammering of a fast rhythm began and the oars began to dip. Brutus helped Fronto support the legate of the Eighth across to a free rowing bench and lowered him to it. As Fronto held him steady, the young staff officer grabbed a barrel and moved it closer to serve as a back-rest.
“Is he…” Brutus tried to find a way to be circumspect in front of Balbus but, failing, gave up. ”Is he dying?”
Fronto gave him a sharp glance.
“Not as long as I’m here, he damn well isn’t! But I want to get him to a proper medicus as soon a
s possible.”
Brutus frowned as he examined the ailing man.
“I’m not sure, but I think he’s slowly getting his colour back.”
“Good. But that might not be the end of it.”
Brutus turned his frown on the legate of the Tenth.
“Don’t tell me you know medicine, Fronto?”
“Hardly. But I recognise this. Happened to my dad three times in a year and the third one took him from us for good.”
He ground his teeth and glared at Balbus before smashing his fist so hard on the bench he left a crack.
“I should have damn well seen it coming. I should have spotted it!”
Brutus shrugged.
“You couldn’t have.”
“Yes I bloody could. Three times he’s complained recently of heartburn. That’s how it starts. It’ll come to you as no surprise that my father was a lover of the vine. We thought nothing of his increased indigestion and heartburn, but then this started to happen: the collapsing; the blue skin and the fat fingers.”
“But he’s clearly recovering, Marcus. Look: his colour is returning rapidly and his breathing’s steadying.”
Fronto shook his head angrily.
“Yes, but this will have weakened him for good. Once it starts, it sets off a decline.”
He turned and grasped Balbus by the shoulders, pushing him a little more upright, and stared into the older man’s face.
“You mad old bastard. You knew something was wrong. You knew you weren’t well and you volunteer to go personally invading a fort at night? Are you crazy?”
Balbus blinked and shook his head gently. The blue had faded. He was pale as could be, but better than before. With a sad smile, he opened his mouth and took a deep breath.
“Marcus? Couldn’t let you have all the fun.”
“You mad old bastard. Don’t you dare do this to me. I lost Velius last year and Longinus the year before. I’m not losing anyone this year. Gaul’s had its last taste of my friends.”
Balbus chuckled quietly and wearily.
“I’m not dead, Marcus. Far from it… just over-exerted myself a little.”
Fronto continued to stare in saddened anger at him.
“Rest. Stop speaking and rest. The medicus will sort you out.”
Balbus nodded and sank gratefully back to lean against the barrel. Fronto shot a meaningful look at two sailors who stood nearby furling ropes and gestured to the older legate. The men nodded and, dropping the ropes, leaned down to take hold of the weakened officer, supporting him as he sagged into a relieved doze.
Fronto marched angrily across the deck to the far rail and smashed his fist on the wood once again, wincing at the pain. Brutus followed him over and placed his hand gingerly on the legate’s shoulder.
“He might be alright yet, Fronto? Just because it happened to your father more than once doesn’t mean it will to Balbus.”
Fronto shook his head.
“It will. Might be years before it happens again, but it will. And each time it’ll weaken him until he just can’t fight it anymore. After my father I… consulted several doctors. Balbus might be around for years yet, but not with us.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s the end of his military career. Can’t continue to command the Eighth. He’ll have to go back to Massilia for Corvinia to look after. She’ll be beside herself when she finds out.”
Brutus sighed and turned to lean on the railing, gazing out to sea.
“I can’t imagine the staff without his input. You know the younger officers and tribunes call him ‘granddad’? Not as an insult, mind you. He’s probably the most popular officer in the army. More so than you!”
Fronto snorted derisively.
“I’m not popular. I piss too many people off.”
Brutus laughed.
“I think you might be surprised. That’s one of the reasons you’re popular.”
Fronto fell into a sad silence and stared down at the water.
“I hope this is it. Hope this is the end of Gallic revolts. Time to turn this place into a province and go home. I think I might ask Caesar to relieve me and then I can go with Balbus. Someone needs to take him home and it should be someone Corvinia knows.”
Brutus shook his head.
“If there’s anything left to do, you know Caesar won’t let you go, especially if he’s already losing the legate of the Eighth.”
Fronto ignored the comment, staring into the churning water, his mind refusing to let him rest. Balbus couldn’t have looked different from Lucius Falerius Fronto, a tall man with speckled black and grey hair and a wide face with a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and yet whenever Fronto thought of the older legate now, he couldn’t help but draw a disturbing number of parallels between the two.
Balbus had been the first friendly and sympathetic person he’d met after leaving Cremona with the Tenth more than two years ago. He’d grown close to the man in that time and realised that Balbus was, in fact, the only man in Caesar’s army that he trusted implicitly and automatically deferred to the opinion of.
The conquest of Gaul was exerting a high price indeed.
He stared out across the bay toward where he presumed Darioritum to be and willed the trireme on as fast as he could.
Fronto paced and fretted.
“For Juno’s sake, sit down! You’re giving me a headache.”
Brutus pointed meaningfully at the bench next to him and raised an eyebrow at Fronto.
“Can’t relax until I hear the medicus’ opinion.”
“I know, but he’s not going to work any faster just because you’re wearing a rut in the turf.”
He watched as Fronto kicked at a tuft of grass in irritation and tried to identify a way to turn the legate’s mind to a different subject.
“I expected you to explode at Caesar. At least an argument.”
Fronto stopped pacing and glared at him.
“He’s the general. It’s his game, so let him choose his rules.”
Brutus was beginning to worry. Fronto being argumentative and out of sorts was normal Fronto. Fronto being acquiescent and submissive was a disturbing sight. They had arrived at Caesar’s hastily-erected headquarters tent less than an hour ago. The oppidum was being systematically cleared and searched by the Eleventh and Thirteenth legions prior to becoming a temporary encampment but in the meantime, Caesar had needed somewhere to debrief with his officers and the temporary camp prefect had responded by providing a tent near the docks.
As soon as they’d landed on the jetty, Balbus had been taken off his hands by one of the capsarius that was working nearby and escorted to another hastily-raised surgical tent where the chief medicus could check him over. Fronto had refused to attend Caesar and had gone with Balbus, only to find that the medicus would not admit him. Angrily, he had raged impotently for a few minutes and then rejoined the officers at the general’s tent.
There had been surprisingly few casualties at Darioritum, given the scale of the operation, and Caesar had been in an uncharacteristically good mood, offering a great deal of praise to most of those involved, and particularly to Fronto, Brutus and the absent Balbus. Fronto had all but ignored the compliment, staring glassily into a dark corner, his mind elsewhere.
The news of Caesar’s designs for the Veneti had met with varied responses. The execution of the leaders was to be expected, given the fact that they had risen in revolt against Rome after having accepted terms only the year before. Examples had to be made and every officer knew the value of that, but the decision to ship the rest of the tribe: men, women and children indiscriminately, off to Rome to the slave markets had been more of a surprise.
Given the current objective of Romanising the Gauls, depopulating an entire region was perhaps working against their goal. The idea had been popular in some circles, though. The profit from the mass slave sales would be passed down from the general to the officers and men of the army. A legionary with a cash bonus was a happy legionary, reg
ardless of the source of the money. Brutus had been less enthralled with the decision and had prepared for a huge outburst from Fronto. Indeed, he had not been alone. Most knowing eyes turned to the commander of the Tenth at the news, but Fronto nodded blankly, staring into the shadows.
The entire meeting had taken less than half an hour and then Brutus had accompanied the worried legate as he had left the command tent, striding across the grass while officers and men went about their assorted business, rank upon rank of Veneti captives being roped and penned ready for their long journey to permanent servitude. On the high walls of the oppidum, close to the main gate, the leaders of the Veneti were being crucified on ‘T’ shaped posts, where they would remain until exposure or carrion feeders took their last breath from them, or until Caesar relented and decided to grant them a quick death by the sword.
And now, for the last twenty minutes, they had stayed outside the tent of the chief medicus on Caesar’s staff, Brutus sitting in a gloom of his own while Fronto paced and grumbled.
“Fronto!”
The pair of them looked up at the call. Crispus, the young legate of the Eleventh, was making his way toward them alongside an officer Fronto didn’t recognise. The worried legate waved a hand half-heartedly in greeting.
“How’s he doing?” Crispus asked as they reached the bench, his voice full of concern.
“How the bloody hell would we know?” Fronto barked irritably. Crispus drew back in surprise, his companion’s face registering the same expression.
“Sorry” Brutus apologised for him. “The medicus won’t let him in.”
Fronto glared at them.
“Look,” Crispus said quietly, “I know that you’re vexed. As soon as you have seen the medicus, we are going to take you into the city and find a purveyor of alcohol where we can let you drown that sorrow.”
Fronto shook his head silently, still pacing.
“It wasn’t an offer, Fronto. It was a statement.”
Fronto rounded on him, a finger raised, and opened his mouth, just as the tent flap opened. The four men attending outside looked up apprehensively.
Gallia Invicta mm-3 Page 27
