One thing nagged at him, though: the absence of locals. The officers and men had been full of the stories of last year's landing, when half the population of the island had apparently arrived atop those cliffs and shadowed them round to their landing place in order to launch into the invader and drive them back into the sea. Despite keeping his eyes peeled, Priscus had seen a grand total of four figures in all the miles of coast they had followed, and each of those had been a shepherd or a child who had paid the massive fleet below no attention whatsoever, totally unconcerned. Surely these lunatics could not be so blind to the Roman threat that they thought they had sent Caesar packing for good last year? Or worse still, that they could easily do again what they had done last year?
This army was a different proposition to that of the previous year. Treble the size, for a start, and with cavalry support.
And yet the five legions were unimpeded as they moved from their ships up onto the beach and assembled by cohort and century, the cavalry contingent forming up to the northern edge as the ships constantly arrived, unloaded and then backed away in rotation.
No sign of a welcome party.
"Make sure the entire legion's properly turned out and ready, and then have three centuries of the best veterans picked out - men who remember this beach and its surroundings well. Have them pass their pack to the rest and be ready for action. I'll be back shortly, after I've seen the general.
Caesar stood as an island of collected authority in a constant stream of men, animals and equipment, the flood of disembarking soldiers flowing past, yet allowing a respectful six paces of calm around the general and his officers. Cicero had also left his legion under the capable command of his primus pilus, Pullo, while he addressed the commander, as had Trebonius - the newly assigned legate of the Ninth. Trebonius had already impressed Priscus with the ease with which he had assumed command, as though born to it. Tall and almost skeletally thin, the man had sharp cheekbones, pale grey eyes and almost white-blond hair in a severe cut. The overall impression was on the disconcerting side of striking, but he had an easy humour that seemed at odds with his appearance, and a good way with his officers and men.
Cotta, one of the longer-serving though less 'hands-on' of Caesar's staff, and currently filling in as legate of the Eleventh following the demise of Crispus, stood beside the group, running down a list on a tablet in his hand. Priscus strode through the tide of men, still displaying the slight limp from the almost lame leg that had earned him the nickname 'lefty' - the men thought he didn't know. The steady flow of legionaries parted respectfully for the veteran officer and Priscus came to a halt before the general, saluting crisply.
"Ah, Gnaeus. The Tenth appear to be in good shape."
"Yes sir. With respect, general, the lack of a welcoming party is making me twitch."
Caesar nodded as he scratched his chin. "The same thought had occurred to all of us, Priscus, be sure of that. And because these Britons can be treacherous, I want the entire army disembarked and ready for anything before we run the risk of triggering any unpleasantness. The full force should be formed up within the half hour."
Priscus became aware that his hand was clenching and unclenching rhythmically in the way it did when he was waiting impatiently to get moving. With conscious control he flattened his hand by his side and held it there.
"The Tenth will be in position in moments, Caesar, but I beg leave to take a small detachment and check out the surroundings. I'd rather know what was going on before we're all stood in nice lines on this beach presenting a nice shiny target."
Caesar began to shake his head, but Trebonius cut in with his quiet, calm voice.
"The legate speaks sense, general. It will be a while before we can muster cavalry patrols - many of the horses are still nervous after the crossing and adjusting to land, but a few centuries of veterans could sweep a quarter of a mile of the surrounding forest in no time."
Caesar stood, looking back and forth between the two men, weighing his options, and then nodded. "Very well, but just a few hundred paces and stay within signalling distance of the beach. I don't want units being lost and butchered deep in the woods without us even knowing about it. Priscus, you can search out the left. Trebonius, your Ninth can cover the right. Cicero: send a few centuries out forwards to the edge of the beach. Let's check the lie of the land."
Priscus saluted the general and his fellow legates - Trebonius returned it with a smile, while Cicero looked less than impressed and Cotta barely looked up from his list - and then tramped back across the beach to the Tenth. Carbo had three centuries of veterans from the First cohort standing out front, armed and ready, their bulky equipment in the care of their fellows.
"We're to check out our surroundings." He gestured at the three centurions standing before their men. "Spread out in loose formation but every contubernium needs to stay in sight of the next and stop once you're far enough into the woods that you can't see the beach anymore - we go no further than that. Satrius: you have the left, from the shore to that big sycamore. Caecina: you cover from there to that little stream bed. Liberalis: from there to that earth bank. All got that?
The men nodded and Priscus turned to Carbo.
"Get the rest of the men as ready for action as you can without looking like it. Caesar seems to be of the opinion we have the time to organise and fortify before dealing with the locals. I'm less sure."
He squinted across the beach to a series of bumps in the ground ahead.
"That would be last year's defences, I take it?"
Carbo nodded. "They were fairly well deconstructed when we left, but the rudimentary ditch and mound are still there. It'll cut camp-setting times in half."
"Good. It was designed for two legions, and I can't imagine Caesar wanting to leave more than that here - probably Roscius' Thirteenth. The rest of us will be moving inland in due course, depending on what we find. Come on. Let's move out."
With a last nod to Carbo, Priscus crossed to the wiry, walnut-skinned form of centurion Liberalis. "Let's go."
"Sir, you should stay with the legion."
"And you should mind your tongue, Liberalis. Move out."
Moments later the three centuries were reforming as loose lines, moving towards the forest's edge. Priscus trod the gentle slope up towards the forest with the casual interest of a man entering a new land. The signs of last year's landing were here for anyone to see if they knew what they were looking for. Quite apart from the earthworks over to his right that marked last summer's camp, there were numerous other tiny signs: the lack of obstacles near the top of the landing area, for a start. Even in the barest beach there would be rocks here and there jutting from the ground, and saplings and scrub bushes. Not here. The stones had been removed, probably to be reshaped for catapults and ballistae. The scrub was new grown this spring, very low lying, confirming that it had all been stripped clear last year to give an excellent field of view from the camp. Everything was clear as far as the treeline.
Then, as the men approached the woods, there were the signs of deforestation on a legionary scale. The stumps left were not the work of local woodsmen, but the systematic removal of timber to construct palisades. Each stump displayed the tell-tale marks of Roman picks and mattocks. Even the roadway that stretched ahead through the forest had been widened and showed the ruts formed by traffic, long since grassed over.
With quiet commands and simple gestures, the centurions and their optios split the centuries into contubernia - tent parties of eight men - and moved in among the boles of the trees, stepping high above the undergrowth and moving carefully and as quietly as eighty armoured men in a forest could hope to.
Nothing.
Pace after pace they moved into the forest and Priscus was quite aware that there was no chance of hiding more than a small group of men in such a place - not enough to threaten five legions, anyway. Maybe in one of the clearings or back a mile or two, but not close enough to represent a present threat.
As if sensing his acceptance of the emptiness, the centurion gave the signals to halt and turn back, having come far enough from the beach.
Priscus amused himself on the return journey trying to count the different sounds made by a century of men trying to be quiet: the jingle of belt fittings and baldric attachments; the chink of mail shirts; the metallic scrapes of helms, shield rims and sword chapes rubbing other metal objects; the steady tramp of boots and heavy breaths of men working their muscles hard; the occasional indrawn breath as a bramble hooked bare skin, though no open cries - the men were well enough trained to avoid such dangerous behaviour. Other, smaller noises, too, and all above the general hum of nature: the rustle of leaves and the occasional patter of the impossible rain dancing off them. The crack and scrabble of low wildlife scurrying out of the way. The buzz of insects and the chittering of birds. The plaintive, quiet call of an owl…
Priscus stopped dead and a legionary almost knocked him over, coming up short in surprise.
The legate swept a hand in an arc, palm flat down, and the century of men stopped instantly. The Tenth were, and would always be, trained to perfection by its veteran centurions.
Three quarters of the sounds in the woodland died instantly with the cessation of movement, eighty highly-experienced soldiers suddenly clenching anything that might scrape, clang or jingle. The noises of nature went on, but the single owl hoot was not repeated. Surely…?
A distant 'twoo' called out from the deep woodland.
Priscus remembered his uncle teaching him about birds - mostly about trying to bring them down with an arrow so that they could be slow-boiled - but the man's almost encyclopaedic knowledge of avian life stretched beyond simple hunting and culinary techniques. Even now, decades after the old man had died, Priscus could still identify a bird's species from its call more often than not. He also knew that the traditional 'twit-twoo' of an owl was actually two owls calling and answering.
He couldn't identify the specific species from the sound, which might mean that it was a native breed, but it more likely meant that the native scout who was using the owl call to alert his fellows in the wood was not very good at mimicking it. Certainly not too bright, anyway. An owl just before noon? Not unheard of, but highly suspect.
Priscus' face turned slowly upwards and an evil smile reached his lips.
"If you understand Latin, then understand this: you have the count of ten to get down here and drop that blade or I will have you split open, stuffed and then put back up there as a warning to others!"
Glancing around the men with him, he frowned for a moment and then gestured as his eyes fell on a stocky legionary with an unsightly bulbous nose-wart.
"Pontius? You're from some piss-stained native town in Narbonensis if I remember rightly? You speak the language?"
"I speak the tongue of the Saluvii, sir. My granddad taught me."
"It's all the bloody same. Just sound threatening and repeat what I said."
As Pontius cleared his throat and began to work through the unfamiliar sounds, Priscus emphasised what he hoped were the right words with gutting and stuffing and hanging motions. Whether the man fully understood Pontius or not, he seemed to get the idea, as a heavy hunting blade dropped from the branches above, sticking into the loam with a thud. A moment later, the figure that had been holding it dropped and then rose to its feet proudly, stripped bare to the waist above the same sort of patterned wool trousers worn by the Gauls. His hair looked as though he'd had a fright, standing proud and spiky, hardened with pale mud.
Priscus rolled his eyes. The lad couldn't have been older than eight or nine summers, not a wisp of fluff on his chin. A scout? A spy? Did they set their children out as pickets?
"Pontius, tell this little shit to walk ahead of us back to camp and if I hear an owl hoot out of him, the sole of my boot will be the last thing he ever sees."
Falling alongside the legate, Pontius did his best to repeat the threat, using his fingers to make walking motions just in case. Without waiting for further instructions the boy strode back towards the beach.
"Good. He seems to understand you. Ask him who he was calling to."
Pontius repeated the question and, when greeted with silence, did so again, louder and more threatening. Again, no response.
"I don't think he understands me, sir. The Saluvii dialect's probably totally different to his tongue."
"He understands just fine. Let me help."
Reaching out, Priscus gave the boy a hard slap round the back of the head, making sure the two heavy shiny rings on his fingers connected with scalp. Without being bidden, Pontius repeated his question a third time.
Recovering with a scowl, the boy rattled off something in his unpleasant, barbaric tongue. Pontius concentrated hard, his head cocked to one side as he tried to unravel the unfamiliar words.
"It's hard to tell, sir. Remember, I'm not a native speaker. It's just me granddad was…"
"Just tell me."
"It sounds like there was a whole load of warriors watching when the fleet first showed up, but then they went away."
"And?"
"I don't know, sir. You need someone who speaks a closer dialect. Maybe one of the Belgae in the cavalry?"
Priscus nodded. "With the help of Blattius Secundus."
Pontius shivered at the mention of the Tenth's most infamous 'immune'. Secundus was a man skilled in the use of the knife, and not for any savoury purpose. He had started skinning coneys as a boy, but his talents for cutting, combined with his love of causing damage and pain had brought him to the attention of his commanders, who often turned to him when time-sensitive interrogation in the field was required.
"Listen, boy. I don't like hurting little children, but if you don't know where your warriors are, then whoever you were hooting to certainly does. By the time we get to the general I want a location, or a very unpleasant man with a razor-sharp knife will find it out for us." He turned to Pontius. "Translate it."
As the centuries stomped down toward the assembling Roman army on the beach, something Pontius said had struck home, as the boy began to rattle out a torrent of words like a stream in flood.
* * * * *
It was late in the day when the legions marched out from the beach - too late for the liking of several of the officers, who complained bitterly about leading their legions into unknown territory in the dark. The sun was little more than a pale purple glow among the trees ahead, and wild night-time winds tore at the leaves and branches around them as four legions and several hundred cavalry headed inland along the wide rutted path through the forest.
The native boy had been rather talkative even before Secundus had started playing idly with his skinning knife, and had been positively eager to help then. In the end, not a single jab had needed to be inflicted. Though Secundus had returned to his unit quietly, Priscus had the distinct feeling the man had been disappointed at the ease with which the scout had caved.
The local force the boy had estimated at some two thousand warriors, plus perhaps twenty chariots and a hundred horsemen. Even allowing for a fair margin of error in one so young, it was not a force to frighten the legions based here. Enough to cause serious damage if they were allowed the freedom to entrap and ambush the Romans, though awed by the sheer scale of the Roman force, the natives had decided against an attack and had withdrawn to some local fortification ten miles or so from the beach. The directions the boy had given had sounded vague to Priscus, but Furius and Fabius, who had fought in the area the previous year, apparently recognised some of the landmarks the boy referred to.
And so at sunset the bulk of the Roman force had marched west, leaving a caretaker garrison to guard the ships. Quintus Atius Varus had clearly been disappointed to be left commanding the beachhead, though he had not said as such. Caesar had assigned Roscius' Thirteenth and much of the cavalry to the beach head. The expanse of woodland in the region - attested from visits the previous year - rendered the use of cavalry less effective, and
so Varus' talents would be of little use. And so he and Roscius were charged with refortifying the camp and protecting the ships that bobbed about in the water, riding at anchor.
The journey since then, deep into the forest, had been both irritating and nerve-wracking.
Night fighting! Priscus' face took on an extra level of sourness. Next to him Carbo gave a legionary a crack round the back of the helmet with his vine cane, causing the bronze bowl to ring like a bell and half-deafen the soldier.
"Pick your feet up, Plotius. You fall over and you'll bring a dozen men down with you." Turning, he frowned at Priscus, his rosy face - usually given to a humorous good nature - full of concern. "You alright, sir? You've looked pained ever since we left."
A legionary in the column whispered something to his companion and Carbo delivered another ringing blow to the helmet of the transgressor without even looking around. More than a decade of experience as a centurion gave a man a sixth sense and an unerring accuracy with his vine staff.
Priscus nodded. "I'm fine. Not happy, though. Night campaigning's barbaric. Stupid. No one can see the standards move. People mistake calls and whistles and cornu blasts from other centuries' signallers. Soldiers get lost. Tree roots become snares and traps. It's unremittingly horrible. And the locals know this ground as well as they know their own pimply arses. We outnumber them about ten to one, but they're tucked up in a fort, so that changes the odds, and the dark and unfamiliarity halves it again. I reckon we'll effectively be at about a two to one advantage."
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 16
