“See? You can’t even put me in my place.” Furius took a deep breath. “Now I have duties, like most centurions. I have things that need doing. You don’t like me. I don’t trust you. But we serve in different legions and we’d never even have to cross paths if you didn’t make it your life’s work to pester and accuse me. So why don’t we agree never to speak again, and I’ll just wait patiently until the end of the year when, if rumour in the Seventh is to be believed, you will lose your commission through your constant disobedience, and piss off back to Rome to swagger around the gutters there.”
Without waiting for a reply, which Fronto, almost shocked with anger, appeared totally unable to supply, Furius turned and strode away, vine staff jammed beneath his arm.
The legate stood and watched him go, turning over everything that had been said in his mind.
Rumour was that he was going to be decommissioned? Why?
Somehow, that small unpleasant revelation almost obliterated everything else the man had said. Should he speak to Caesar?
He stood still in the warm night air for a moment, listening to the general murmur of a camp at rest and the distant sounds of the civilian settlement going about its life.
A deep breath totally failed to calm him or settle the twitch he seemed to have suddenly acquired beneath his right eye. Grumbling quietly, he strode off back toward the praetorium.
The cavalry officers of Aulus Ingenuus, Caesar’s bodyguard, were positioned around the command section of the main camp, by the important tents as well as in a general perimeter, their backs ramrod straight, eyes alert. Two of them twitched for a moment as Fronto approached, preparing to block his path but, recognising him as one of the staff officers at the last moment, they saluted.
“Password, legate?”
Fronto had to pause for a moment and dredge his memory. “Artaxata. Why Priscus needs to keep dredging up the names of eastern shitholes for passwords is beyond me. I think he just does it to annoy me because he knows I’m bad with geography.”
The two cavalrymen smiled and thumbed over their shoulder.
“In you go, sir.”
“Is the camp prefect in?”
“He’s in his tent, sir.”
Nodding his thanks, Fronto strode off towards Priscus’ tent, gesturing at the guard standing beside that doorway. The legate himself had never bothered with a personal guard around his command as most senior officers did, but the praetorian cavalrymen had extended their remit from the general himself to the entire command section. Against all expectations, Priscus seemed to like it.
“Fronto, from the Tenth” he said to the cavalry trooper.
The man saluted, rapped on the tent’s doorframe and ducked inside. Fronto heard his name being announced in a muffled voice within, and the barked command to let him in. Priscus sounded in a worse mood than usual.
Thanking the soldier, Fronto ducked inside. Priscus stood behind his large desk, leaning on it with his left hand, his right curled around a solid wooden wine cup. He looked up at the new arrival and Fronto caught the look of desperate aggravation within his friend’s eyes.
“Bad day?”
Priscus nodded and slumped back down to his seat, the wine slopping in the cup. “You have no idea. And you?”
“Bet mine beats yours.”
Priscus’ brow rose and Fronto strode across and dropped into one of the two rickety wooden chairs opposite the prefect. “I’ve discovered that I was saved from gruesome death by a wet little coward with no experience who still somehow fights better than me. I’ve been told I’m useless, drunken and old — more or less — by a centurion who, while he may be a prick, could just be right. And now I hear there’s a rumour that I’m to be sent back to Rome at the end of the year. Top that.”
Priscus grinned.
“Good. Well, the tribune saved you and, whatever you think of him, you have to be grateful for that. You are old. You’re older than me and I feel damned ancient these days. And you do drink considerably more than the others — myself excluded of course. Did you know that Cita keeps an emergency stock of amphorae that he calls his ‘Fronto’? ‘Useless’ I’d be tempted to argue with, though I’ve seen you trying to ride a horse, so I might not. And I can squash that rumour for you. I have the list of officers whose tour is up by winter, and your name’s not on it.”
“Good. But it’s still been a bad day. What’s got you so bothered, then?”
“Other than the standard camp crap, added to all the extra work provided by the presence of a civilian population? Caesar’s got me handling all the bloody merchants that he’s called in, and setting everything up for Volusenus.”
“What merchants? Who’s Volusenus?”
Priscus slid the jug of wine across the table, indicating the three spare cups at the side. Fronto eyed it suspiciously for a moment, wondering how much of Furius’ invective stream he’d be proving right if he poured that drink and in the end giving up and doing so anyway. As if to cheat the centurion, he gave it an unusually healthy dose of water.
“Go on.”
“It’s not general knowledge, but Caesar’s had the call out for merchants who have knowledge of Britannia. He had local scouts sent out before we even left the Rhenus to gather information. Most of them, and the scouts, will be waiting for us at Gesoriacum, but a couple of the more enterprising ones have come here and met the column, hoping to get the choicest reward for their help.”
“So you’ve been collating all their information?”
Priscus’ look was rather sour. “It didn’t take much collating. They’ve given us some scant knowledge of the tribes and the geography, but they all seem to disagree on everything but the most basic points. And on the one thing they’ve all emphatically stated.”
“What?”
“That it’s too late in the season for safe sailing to Britannia. That if we attempt to cross after this month we risk the fleet being torn apart and sent all over the ocean with the army drowned. Apparently the autumn currents here are bloody awful. They all think we should wait for spring.”
“But Caesar doesn’t?”
“Correct. Unless we get a lot more useful information at Gesoriacum — and that looks exceedingly unlikely if this lot are any indication — the general’s going to send a scout across to check it out. Hence: Volusenus.”
“Still don’t know him.”
“He’s senior tribune of the Twelfth. Distinguished himself at Octodurus apparently. Anyway, he’s apparently got history with ships, so Caesar’s planning to send him across to Britannia in a bireme to fill in the gaps in the knowledge and clear up any points that we’re not certain of. Can’t say I envy the poor sod. But I’ve had to have everything ready for him on the assumption that, as soon as we reach Gesoriacum, he’ll be off to explore.”
Fronto glanced down at the desk and noticed for the first time the hastily drawn map of the Gaulish coastline, marked out in charcoal on a piece of expensive vellum. A short distance from the town marked ‘GESORIACVM’ a wavering line of grey denoted the coast of the land of the druids: Britannia. A shudder ran through Fronto which chilled him to the bone.
“No. Can’t say I envy him either. But then we’ll all get the chance soon enough. In three days we’ll be at the coast. Then we’ll just have time to recover and shave before Neptune gets to drag everything I’ve eaten for the last two weeks out of my face and make my life a living Hades.”
As Priscus took another pull on his drink, Fronto gazed across the map, trying to decide what would be worse: the journey or the destination.
Gesoriacum was everything that Fronto feared it would be: maritime-obsessive. Absolutely everything about the place was centred about its mercantile shipping, its port and its fishing industry. The whole place smelled of dead, landed fish and brine — a fact that had caused Fronto’s first vomiting session before they’d even clapped eyes on the rolling waves. He could remember a time when he’d enjoyed fish as a meal and slathered the ‘garum’ fish sauc
e from Hispania over everything he ate — not so now.
The population seemed to consist almost entirely of fishermen, fish-sellers, fisher-wives, retired fishermen relying on their fisherman families, and inns with names like ‘Drunken Codfish’, ‘Thundering Barnacle’ or ‘Jolly Fisherman’. It was almost as though the Gods had set out to create a native settlement perfectly designed to keep Fronto at maximum smelling distance.
The army had camped on the high point at the landward side of the town, forming a solid fortification that loomed over the native settlement, with a commanding view. The increased altitude and distance from the docks were the only reason that Fronto had remained a pale grey-pink colour for the last week, rather than tipping into the grey-green tone he’d gone whenever he’d had cause to visit the waterfront. At least on one such visit he’d managed to secure a new ‘Fortuna’ pendant from a merchant. It looked decidedly like a bandy-legged Gallic fishwife to Fronto, but the merchant had been insistent that it was the Goddess of luck. Somehow he’d rested a little easier wearing it, for all its misshapen ugliness.
Barely had the legions begun the ditches and ramparts before the veritable army of native fishermen, traders and opportunists had descended on the camp, drawn by promises of a healthy reward for any pertinent information they could supply concerning the land of the druids across the ocean. Their idea of pertinent had apparently differed greatly from Caesar’s, and many had left the camp with a scowl of discontent and empty pockets, glowering at the newly arrived and heavily armoured soldiers that reminded them so heavily of the armies that had passed by this way a year before, ‘pacifying’ the north coast.
A few interesting titbits had floated to the surface though, two of which had helped mollify the dreadfully unhappy Fronto: Firstly, three different men, all of whom had good credentials, had confirmed that the centre of druidic power in that horrible island was more than a fortnight’s travel to the northwest. This was welcome news to every man in the army. The druids had caused enough trouble in Gaul; their religion, power and practices were still largely unknown and frightening, and Britannia was the home of that power. To know that the chances of an encounter were so distance-dimmed was a great consolation.
Secondly, the most warlike of the native tribes all lived in the north of the land. While those tribes to the south could be expected to be every bit as dangerous and duplicitous as the Gallic, Belgic or Aquitanian tribes; the talk had always been that the worst tribes of Celts had lived in Britannia. Nine-foot-tall cannibals with painted bodies, supposedly — reports delivered by enough trustworthy scholars that it was hard to refute. But to know that these tribes of monsters lived far in the north made a southern coast landing a little less worrying. Even Caesar, who had denounced such descriptions as preposterous, had donated generously to those visitors who had confirmed the vast distances between the south coast and these awful dangers.
Other details had come out too: the nature of the coast, with its intermittent areas of unassailable cliff and the location of several strong rivers; the swampy areas that lay along the coast to the north, and the names of a number of local tribes.
All in all, the information had been interesting and some of it of use, but little was detailed enough to warrant adding to the map of which Caesar and Priscus kept tight control.
And so, within half a day of their arrival and at the most favourable tide, tribune Volusenus, whom Fronto had finally exchanged a few words with — largely ones of sympathy — had boarded a small, fast bireme that had come up the coast from the anchor point of the Gallic fleet, and had sailed off into the endless waters and the unknown.
Two days later the rest of the Roman fleet that had been raised the previous year on the orders of Brutus hove into view and anchored at the southern end of the town.
Since then the army had settled in to wait. Fronto had deliberately moderated his drinking — a move made all the easier by the fact that not a day passed without his having to find a quiet corner in which to be sick — and had very carefully avoided any possibility of bumping into either centurion Furius or tribune Menenius, though each for entirely different reasons.
And now, with a week of misery under his belt, Fronto stood leaning on the fence of a horse corral, breathing deeply; the cavalry pens and the latrines were the only places outside mealtimes where the stink of fish disappeared beneath something else.
“Fronto!”
Taking a deep breath of horse sweat and dung to keep him going, Fronto turned at the familiar voice. Priscus stood in the main road between pens, his hands on his hips.
“Whassup?”
“Time to come and get involved.”
Fronto shook his head. He’d been ordered to attend the first two of the general’s interminable meetings but after putting out a flaming brazier with a stomach full of bile last time, he’d been excused further attendance. He simply could not understand how the rest of the army endured the constant stench of brine and dead fish.
“I’m not required” he replied.
“You’ll want to be there. Volusenus is back.”
“What?”
“Landed ten minutes ago. He just came into camp to give his report. I’m gathering all officers.”
Fronto nodded and heaved himself away from the railing and the smell of horses, bracing himself for the fresh waves of fish he caught as soon as the wind brought it wafting up. While he could still get away with not attending, to hear a first-hand account of their destination was an invaluable opportunity.
“Lead on.”
Caesar’s headquarters tent was already thronging with officers when Priscus and Fronto fell in at the back. The Tenth’s commander took a deep breath of sweat and body odour combined with the fumes from the four braziers and coughed.
Tribune Volusenus had already arrived and was busy adding marks and lines to the map on the table as the assembled officers stood around the periphery impatiently, tapping their fingers or stretching unobtrusively in the press. Gradually, over the next few minutes, other members of the staff and senior field commanders filed in to take their positions, leaving Fronto smiling at the fact that he was, for once, not the last man to arrive. After a tense wait, Volusenus stepped back and admired his handiwork, frowned, added a couple more lines and adjusted the position of some splodge or other, and then stepped back again with a nod, dropping the charcoal stick to the table and folding his arms.
“That’s all of it?” Caesar asked quietly.
“That’s it sir.”
“Well it seems as though everyone’s here. Why don’t you fill us in, tribune? I am sure that every man in this tent is just as tense and expectant as I.”
Volusenus nodded again and cleared his throat, unfolding his arms long enough to rub tired eyes.
“Everything the merchants have told you is true, concerning the passage of the sea. My aide confirmed my estimate that the journey from here to the nearest land is a little over thirty miles. It sounds like a stone’s throw, but this channel is like a giant version of the Pillars of Hercules. The currents that run beneath the surface are strong, while the winds whip the surface into large, ship-threatening waves. It bears no resemblance to the Mare Nostrum.”
He scanned the crowd of officers and picked out Brutus. “You will know the western ocean from the naval campaign against the Veneti last year. I’m sure you will know how roiling and treacherous the surface can be and how the weather can change it from glass to deep furrows in a matter of minutes?”
Brutus nodded seriously. The weather and the sea had almost brought disaster last year, preventing the naval force from performing its assigned tasks until the last minute.
“Imagine the power and unpredictability of that, forced into a channel only twenty-some miles wide. The locals have a knack with it, but even they avoid crossing any later in the year than this.”
Caesar waved the concern aside as though it mattered little. “What else, Tribune?”
“Our ships will be pretty much u
seless. My bireme was thrown about like a child’s leaf-boat on a full drain. We are exceedingly lucky to be here, and I vowed three altars and a dozen offerings to Fortuna, Neptune and Salacia just to make it back. An attempt to cross that in a bireme in any worse weather than we had is nothing short of suicidal. Even the triremes we have will be woefully inadequate.”
“Fortunately” Caesar interjected with a steady tone and a reassuring smile, “I anticipated the unworthiness of our fleet and have already put out the order to commandeer or purchase as many suitable vessels from the Morini and the other local tribes as we can manage. The fleet will consist of at least half Gallic vessels by the time we are ready to leave. As for your worries over the weather, I intend to embark as soon as the fleet is assembled, hopefully this very week, so fear not too much over a few breezes and squalls.”
Volusenus gave his commander a look that conveyed every ounce of his uncertainty and fear as he waited to be sure that he should go on. Caesar gave him an encouraging nod.
“I have seen little of the tribes of Britannia, for in all five days of my journey, I never once set foot upon the land.”
Caesar frowned and the tribune anticipated the next question. “With respect, general, the bireme was unsuitable for approaching the land and even the local sailors we had on board to advise and guide us advised against any attempt to make landfall. Almost the entire length of the coast consists of cliffs of a magnificent height or of dips, shingle beaches or bays that, while looking like pleasant anchorages, also appeared to my military mind to be the absolutely perfect place for an ambush or attack. In all that time, I saw little of the people of the land, only a few fishermen in their boats or farmers and riders on the shoreline and cliff tops.”
“So your grand sum of intelligence from five days aboard ship is the shape and height of the coastline and a confirmation that the locals fish and farm. Am I correct?”
Volusenus lowered his gaze. “There was little else we could achieve, Caesar.”
The general straightened.
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