Again, Fronto lapsed into silence for a few minutes, before nodding to himself a couple of times.
“Like what happened across the Rhenus, I think. I can let myself fall behind and get separated — perhaps because of my knee. Everyone knows about that now, so no one will be surprised if I have to stop and tend to it. We’ll be very unlikely to have the chance to prepare any trap in advance, so we’ll just have to be ready to spring it whenever the opportunity occurs. We’ll work out some signal. Then, at some point when I find myself near enough the pair of them, I’ll give the signal and stop to deal with my knee or whatever I need to do to get myself alone. At the signal, you lot need to disappear, but shadow Fabius and Furius wherever they go. As soon as they come at me, you can reveal yourselves and we’ll have them red-handed in the act of attempting to kill a senior officer.”
“We need an impartial witness” Carbo said quietly.
“No we don’t. The word of a legate, a signifer, two centurions and a cavalry commander carries enough weight to execute a man on the spot.”
“Not in the current circumstances” Atenos cautioned. “Bear in mind how well known your enmity toward them is. Whatever the truth, most of the army will think it was simply a setup by us. Legate Brutus and tribune Volusenus will both be present across the water. If either of them was to witness the attempt there could be no doubt over the truth, and no comeback.”
“Think we can arrange that?” asked Fronto quietly.
“I think we’ll manage.”
“Alright” the legate said, clapping his hands together purposefully and then pulling out his ‘Fortuna’ amulet and rubbing it between his fingers. “Now all we need to do is make it across thirty miles of Styx-water in an unfamiliar ship, at night, in a storm, with only the divine protection of a small Gaulish trout-woman with bandy legs.”
The sun had been up for perhaps fifteen minutes when the call issued from the bow of the ship. Fronto heaved himself up from his sodden blankets, crusty salt deposits giving a white sheen to the grey wool. The night had been the worst Fronto could remember. Fortunately, his memories of it were blurred, scant and confused, given the amount of time he’d spent wrapped in his blanket, shivering and trying to shut out the world.
Despite Carbo and Galronus’ assurance that the conditions, while foul, were not enough to capsize or wreck the ship, the legate had remained unconvinced and had shut himself away from all the horror around him.
There had been two rainstorms during the crossing, neither of which had apparently been particularly disastrous; not enough to cause concern among the sailors anyway. The officers had their leather shelter to retire to, but to Fronto it merely appeared to funnel the wet, salty wind into a bone-chilling draft that left the blankets almost as wet and cold as those of the troops laying wrapped up on the open deck.
The weather had seemingly broken sometime after Fronto had collapsed into a worried, exhausted sleep, and the shout of sighted land roused the legate to a world of bright skies, scudding clouds and calm sea, though the chill in the air and the faint aroma of damp belied the image of a summer morning. Gulls whirled overhead, shrieking and crying their welcome to this, the island of the Druids.
Galronus was already standing at the rail with Carbo and Atenos when Fronto staggered towards them, his legs weak and finding trouble with the rolling of the ship.
“For the love of Juno!”
Galronus turned to the approaching legate and nodded. “Impressive isn’t it? My father visited Britannia when I was a young boy and told us of this coast. I always thought he must have embellished a little. It would appear not.”
Fronto dropped his elbow to the rail in a space between the others and goggled at the white line approaching them. The cliffs must be three hundred feet or more in height for, even at this distance, more than a mile out, they could be seen to tower over the water, rising and falling as small bays opened up along the line. The morning sun caught the white chalky surface straight on, creating a blinding ribbon of white.
“I think I can see why Volusenus stayed on his ship.”
The three men around him nodded sagely.
“I take it we’re at the front of the fleet, then? I would have thought Caesar’s ship would have stayed ahead of us.”
Carbo pointed off to one side. A trireme rose and fell with the waves some quarter of a mile to their right, its shape distinctive even at that distance. Half a dozen other ships could be seen scattered across the water between and behind them. Dots on the horizon suggested that the rest of the fleet was some way back. The general had chosen to travel in one of the less stable Roman ships, rather than a Gallic trader, as befitted a praetor.
“The trireme is Caesar’s I can see the red banners.”
“You’ve got better eyes than mine.”
Carbo smiled. “I did a rough count of the ships within sight as soon as it was light enough. I could see roughly half the fleet. I’m very much hoping that the two storms separated us and slowed many vessels down. I’d hate to think that an entire legion’s worth of ships ended up turning back or, worse still, at the bottom of the sea.”
Fronto shuddered. He had trouble imagining a worse fate.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes according to the sailor I spoke to” confirmed Galronus. “Caesar’s ship seems to be angling towards us. I suspect we’re heading for that dip there.” Fronto followed Galronus’ pointing finger and spotted a bay, slightly wider than the others, nestled between two particularly high sections of cliff.
The legate leaned over the rail and smiled faintly. They were almost across. He’d not been sick since the previous evening, but then it was difficult to see how there could be anything left inside to bring up. A quick probe of his torso confirmed his suspicion: that he had eaten so little since arriving at Gesoriacum that his ribs were now quite prominent through his tunic. He resolved to eat like a horse — possibly even to eat a horse — once they were safely on land.
The calm water raced by along the hull of the strong Gallic ship, the low waves picking up a little in intensity as they neared the cliffs, though nothing compared to those they’d experienced during the night. Looking up and ahead once more, Fronto couldn’t help but be impressed by the wall-like cliffs that protected the Druids’ isle from the clutches of their enemies. Already, while contemplating his weight loss and the intensity of the waves, the ship had covered half the distance toward the sheltered bay and the cliffs that loomed ever higher.
“Well. Time for me to get to work” muttered Carbo, pushing himself back and smacking his vine staff against his bronze greaves. His face shone almost luminously pink, the morning cold and the sea air accentuating his already ruddy complexion. Turning, he began to bellow out orders to the other centurions, optios, signifers and men of the Tenth, calling the present centuries of the legion to stand to ready for disembarkation.
Fronto smiled at the efficiency of his men and then turned again, resting his chin on his folded arms upon the rail until the rocking motion threatened to set off his guts again. Caesar’s trireme was closing on them now, keeping pace, as was another Celtic ship to the far side. Those behind were doing their best to put on an extra turn of speed and catch up with the vanguard of the fleet.
Atenos grinned at him and left to attend to his duties. Galronus, on the other hand, had no duties yet; his cavalry turma was scattered around the fleet wherever there was room.
The cliffs rose sharply from the bay with a flat landing area not more than five hundred yards across between the slopes. Trees crowded in the dip and a wide expanse of woodland was visible stretching back behind, the forest starting only a few hundred yards from the edge of the water. As he watched, Fronto began to discern the trails of wood smoke from at least a dozen buildings somewhere close within the woodland. Clearly this bay housed a settlement, shrouded by the trees.
The heights, by comparison, seemed denuded, the white walls topped by a narrow line of green that suggested rolling grass above,
dotted with only the occasional struggling, wind-blown tree.
“Stand to. All hands stand to.”
Without need for the issuing of commands, the Gallic sailors began to haul on ropes and busy themselves with the sail. Calls were put out in the language of the Gauls, and the ship burst into a bustle of life. Fronto turned back to face their destination, ignoring the activity. He could hardly care less about the details that were required to make a ship work.
Something ahead drew his attention, though.
“Did you see that?”
Galronus frowned at him. “What?”
“On the cliff. Movement on the top. There it is again.”
The Belgic officer turned his furrowed brow to the coast and squinted. “I see it. On the right-hand cliff: scattered movement.”
“And on the left.”
Now the ships were coming close enough to land that Fronto found his head beginning to crane upwards gradually to see the occasional movement at the cliff tops.
“Shepherds?” muttered Galronus.
“Too many. And at this time of the morning, that many people up there can only have something to do with us. I think Carbo was wrong about us surprising them.”
As if to confirm his suspicions his attention was drawn back to their immediate surroundings as the water nearby made a ‘plopping’ sound.
“What was that?”
His question was answered instantly as an arrow disappeared into the water only twenty yards from the bow with another plop. Glancing up, Fronto could now see dozens of figures standing perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Even as he watched, more arrows began to arc out from the land and plummet toward the advancing ships. His eyes followed one of the shafts down and into the waves just off to the right. A moment later something small and heavy that could only be a sling shot plopped into the water.
“Back!” he yelled. “Err… reverse! Back! Retreat.”
Turning from the rail, he began to wave his arms, motioning the ship’s crew to pull the vessel back out of range.
“Get us out of range of those missiles. They could kill half of us before we land.”
The sailors were now rushing in a panic, trying to slow the momentum of the vessel, while turning her, ponderously. Fronto watched, his nerves twanging, aware with some irritation that Caesar’s trireme, which had encountered the same reception and had decided on the same course of action, simply reversed their stroke. It was a difficult task and took master sailors to pull it off as smoothly as they were doing, but the effect was to move the trireme out of danger considerably faster than the slow arc taken by this great cow of a ship.
A scream echoed across the morning water from the left. The other Gallic ship had begun to turn and slow a little later and had already come within range, some poor sod becoming the first casualty of Britannia before even touching its soil.
As if to remind Fronto of the more immediate danger to himself, another arrow scratched a line across the timber at the prow of the ship as it whizzed past and into the water.
“Faster, damnit! They’ve got our range.”
But the ship had slowed considerably now and even as Fronto held his breath the prow began to come round, angling towards Caesar’s vessel and then away, bringing them out of range of the arrows.
A horn blast rang out from the trireme, calling the fleet to converge on the general’s position. Slowly, the Gallic vessel closed on Caesar’s ship, others turning as they approached. Fronto’s gaze slid back to the cliffs that were now slipping away on his left hand side. He’d be willing to swear that the number of small figures on the cliff tops had doubled since they’d arrived only a few minutes earlier.
Waiting patiently, Fronto watched the trireme as they closed on it, and finally identified Caesar standing at the rail, gesturing to him. As soon as he judged he was within shouting distance, Fronto cleared his throat and took a cold, deep and salty breath.
“A warm reception, general.”
He couldn’t quite make out the expression on the general’s face.
“What…. landing…. bay….. think?” called Caesar. Fronto waggled his finger in his ear, cupped his hand around it meaningfully and shrugged. Behind him, the ship’s crew slowed the vessel as it approached the trireme, careful to avoid interfering with the oars that drove it.
“I said” yelled the general, “what are our chances of landing in that bay intact, do you think, Fronto?”
“Virtually nil!” he shouted back. “If they could hit us out at sea with those arrows, they could just as easily hit us on the beach. We’d be cut down like wheat before we could move inland.”
“Agreed!” Caesar bellowed as the figure of Brutus appeared alongside him.
“We have time to decide, sir” the legate of the Eighth called. “It will be a few hours yet before all the stragglers reach us. Besides, we could do with waiting for the afternoon tide, to avoid falling foul of rocks on the coast.”
The general paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Very well. Can you still hear me Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll gather here and let the fleet assemble out of missile range. Then we’ll move up the coast to the northeast, looking for a better landing spot. We need somewhere gentle enough to land safely, and wide enough that we cannot be prey for archers as we are here.”
Fronto gave the general a sour look. “Or we could just turn around. Volusenus sailed this coast for five days and found it inhospitable enough to not even try to land.”
He could sense the general’s irritation, even without being close enough to make out his expression. “If you’d studied the map, Fronto, you would have seen that there are long stretches of lower coastline in both directions. We will find a suitable spot this afternoon.”
“I only hope half of Britannia isn’t waiting for us by then” Fronto yelled. “The population up on those cliffs is growing all the time, and I think I can see horsemen up there now.”
“The entire population of Britannia would hardly be a worry for my veteran Tenth, eh, Fronto?”
Grimacing at the general, Fronto reached up and caressed the bandy-legged figure hanging around his neck, his eyes straying to the growing force arrayed on the cliff top and awaiting them.
The fleet had gradually assembled over the morning and into the early afternoon and by the time the cool sun had passed an hour beyond its zenith the sea to the south was clear of shapes. Shouted reports and commands from ship to ship had come up with a roll-call figure that was only four ships short of the fleet that had left Gesoriacum, though whether those four were safely back in port or decorating Neptune’s triclinium remained to be seen. The very thought sent a chilly shudder through Fronto every time he considered it.
At some time part way through the afternoon, Brutus and his captains had announced that the tide was suitable and would remain so for a while, and the fleet began to move again, calls going out from musicians aboard Caesar’s vessel. The mass flotilla turned slowly and proceeded up the channel, keeping the forbidding cliffs on their left and staying safely out of arrow shot. Fronto had lost count of the number of times he’d thanked the Gods that the Celts seemed to have no interest in the development of artillery. The idea of a stone-throwing onager up there just didn’t bear thinking about.
Regardless, the mass of Britons at the top of the cliffs had grown constantly during the wait, to the point where it could now only be considered an army. As well as the large number of horsemen that had slowly gathered, there were also fast moving shapes that could only be chariots. It looked to Fronto as though the tribes of Britannia were gathering to prevent the Roman ships landing, as was almost certainly the case. So much for Caesar’s allies, hostages and so on.
Though the weather remained dry and relatively bright, the sky was still scattered with scudding and drifting grey cloud, the sun providing little heat to take the chill from the sea air. A nervous tension had begun to set in among the men that Fronto could feel without seeing or hear
ing anything specific. The men were growing increasingly unhappy.
Nervous eyes had fallen on the cliff as the ships ploughed their way up the channel in search of a safe harbour in which to land. The force of barbarians moved swiftly and easily along the coastline, following the cliff tops and dipping down into each narrow bay, keeping pace with the Roman fleet with little difficulty, a worryingly large force of cavalry and chariots leading the way.
No matter how easy the landing place Caesar chose, the Roman forces would encounter strong resistance in setting up a beach head.
Fronto’s own nervousness began to increase alongside his men as the miles slipped by until, after perhaps two hours further sailing, shadowed by the growing army of Celts, a call went out from Caesar’s trireme and the fleet began to converge again.
The cliffs had been gradually falling away for the last twenty minutes and, ahead, they finally descended to a low, flat beachy area. Beyond, nothing but dunes and low hillocks marred the easy ground as far as the eye could see. Even Fronto, whose nerves were beginning to twang they were so taut, could see the sense in reaching this terrain before attempting a landing.
Another call rang out: the order to beach and, as the ships of the fleet angled towards land, Fronto’s eyes flicked repeatedly to the shore, as did those of many of the ship’s occupants. A large force of native warriors had begun to assemble at the rear of the wide beach, with more arriving on the scene all the time.
The Tenth’s legate leaned on the rail at the bow and watched as the land came ever closer, Caesar’s trireme closing up on their right as another big merchant vessel moved into position on their left. The noise became cacophonous: a crescendo of shouting, horn calls, whistles, cries of alarm and more. The sailors of every ship bellowed their commands, keeping the fleet in line as it approached. The commanders of the troops aboard shouted orders to their men, falling in each century ready to make landing. Somewhere below, Galronus’ horse neighed and cried nervously.
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