“Sounds like they did head to Clodius’ house” he confirmed to the other three. “The rat has a large residence in the shadow of the circus. Like so many he considers the Aventine unlucky, so he carefully lives just below the hill, rather than on it. Cheap property, so he can live like a king for a low cost — gives him extra cash to spend on thugs and gladiators. If he’s taken Faleria there we’ll need a small army to dig her out.”
With a friendly smile, he turned back to the young lad.
“I’ve a new job for you, Ossus. It’s more dangerous, so I’ll double your pay. Find the house with the Bacchanal mural opposite the Circus and near the Neptune’s chariot street fountain. Keep an eye on the place and take note of all comings and goings again. If you see, or hear of, a lady in her thirties who looks like she might be there against her will… No — this is Clodius. If you see any lady at all — other than slaves — come and find me immediately. You got that?”
“Got it, sir.”
Balbus breathed deep again.
“We must move carefully, gentlemen.”
And yet time may well be running out for Faleria.
Chapter 18
(Caesar’s camp on the coast of Britannia)
Fronto stood on the rampart and peered out into the torrential rain as the winds battered him, threatening to knock him from the parapet and driving the downpour at an almost horizontal angle. The soldiers on the walls had taken to moving considerably slower than usual due to the extremely slippery nature of the timber walkway, which had already caused a number of minor accidents. Back down in the camp, what had begun as puddles a day and a half ago were now small lakes that reached up above men’s ankles and the grass across much of the site had now become a thick, cloying mud.
“There’s going to be too many of them. You know that?”
Caesar, standing beside him, tapped his chin thoughtfully with a finger. “How many was the estimate?”
“The scouts came up with various figures, but I’d safely average it out to about twenty thousand.”
“And we have less than ten thousand.”
“Precisely. And those men are undernourished, cold, tired and have the lowest morale I’ve seen in years. When the Tenth start to mutter and complain you know there’s something wrong.”
“Indeed, Marcus. But this could be our moment. We came here to chastise the Britons for their interference in Gallic campaigns and to make them think twice about doing so again. If we can smash their force here, we could perhaps break their spirit and consider our task complete. Then we could return to Gaul and think about wintering the troops.”
The legate of the Tenth nodded with little enthusiasm. “That’s reliant upon us actually winning, though, and I’d be dubious about wagering money even on a one-to-one basis right now, with the legions in the condition they’re in. Certainly two-to-one worries me.”
“We could still leave” Cicero muttered on the other side of Fronto, quietly enough that only his fellow legate could hear before the wind whipped the words away. Fronto ignored him, despite the sense he spoke. The two men had shared a strained relationship ever since the aftermath of the beach assault.
“We need an edge. We need to pull something out of our helmets to even the odds.”
Caesar nodded and tapped his foot irritably. “If we had the cavalry we could harry them from behind. That would make all the difference.”
“No use pondering on the ‘could-haves’, Caesar. Unless…”
A smile crept across Fronto’s face.
“What?”
“Maybe we could use their tactics against them?”
“What do you mean?” Cicero asked interestedly, leaning closer.
“These Britons are the same as the Germanic tribes we fought, and the Belgae and so on. All these Celtic peoples favour ambushes. The worst battles we’ve fought are the ones where they’ve fallen on us from the woods. Remember the Nervii at the SabisRiver? They very nearly put an end to your whole Gallic campaign. And only days ago the locals came out of the trees and surrounded a vexillation of the Seventh. But they feel safe attacking us, because word gets around. Everyone knows that Romans fight in the open ground. We like an empty field.”
“Go on” Caesar said thoughtfully.
“Horns of the bull. We array most of the army in the open before the camp, exactly as the Britons will be expecting. But they won’t notice two cohorts missing. Cicero can take his veteran first cohort out to the south, through the trees, and I’ll take mine north. We’ll get ourselves lined up in the cover of the woods to either side of the open fields and as soon as they engage your force, we’ll come out of the woods and fall on their flanks. We can do them so much damage it might even the odds for us.”
Cicero shrugged. “Why not two cohorts each? Why not come right round behind them and seal them in? After all, we need to stop them escaping like they have every time.”
“No” Fronto shook his head. “More than two cohorts makes enough of a difference in the army’s size that they might notice and suspect a trick. On top of that, on the off-chance we run into trouble in the woods, we only lose Caesar two cohorts and he can still make a try for victory with the remaining eighteen. If we risk four cohorts we risk leaving too few to succeed.”
Caesar nodded. “And while I would love nothing more than to stop them fleeing the field, it’s stupifyingly risky to trap a force twice your size with no means of egress. They are then forced to fight to the death and that makes any army twice as dangerous. If we wish to survive it ourselves, we have to leave them a way out when they break.”
He glanced around Fronto at the legate of the Seventh.
“Are your men up to it? The Seventh have had a difficult time of it so far. Perhaps Brutus can take Fronto’s second cohort?”
Cicero opened his mouth, a look of sheer disbelief on his face being quickly overcome by one of anger, but Fronto stepped forward to block the view between them and addressed the general.
“Caesar, Cicero is an able commander and his first cohort fought like lions the other day. They have a number of good veteran centurions. This is the way we need to move. We’ll be taking the primus pilus of each legion with us, so Brutus will need to take charge of the Seventh, on the assumption that you will command the Tenth, Caesar?”
He stepped back and allowed the air to crackle between the other two officers for a moment. Caesar seemed to be weighing up the situation in his head and finally nodded.
“Very well. Good luck to you both. You had best move now, before they arrive. They must be close.”
With a quick salute, Fronto gestured to Cicero and the pair slipped and clambered down the logs that formed the stairs to the ramparts, leaving Caesar to watch the tree line pensively.
“The old bastard goads me deliberately” Cicero snarled as the two legates strode through the siling rain and sloshed through the muddy pools. It was the first time he’d spoken to Fronto in many days without issuing a threat, an accusation or a curse of some kind. Perhaps it was time to bury the hatchet. If Fabius and Furius could do it for him, surely he could do it for Cicero. The army needed to pull closer together; not to continue fragmenting.
“You have to understand a certain level of uncertainty, though” Fronto said with a sigh. “Your brother is the general’s most outspoken opponent. He denounces Caesar at every turn of the wheel. The general’s bound to level a certain amount of mistrust at you.”
“I have been his loyal legate throughout the campaign!”
“And one of the most forthright in opposition to his decisions” Fronto declared, biting down on a reminder that this ‘loyal legate’ refused Caesar’s orders at the beach. “You do yourself no favours.”
Cicero looked around to discern just how alone they might be, but every man in camp was busy making preparations, waiting for the call, or huddling beneath their cloaks against the driving rain. None were paying any attention to the small talk of senior officers.
“Marcus, you have no idea. I am Caesa
r’s loyal man; always have been. But because I will not distance myself from my brother, and because I advocate a path of calm and sense, I am tarred with the brush of a traitor. And I’m not alone, either. Labienus cannot fall much further from favour without having to look up at the turf! Remember that you are not that far behind us, either.”
Fronto turned, ready to proclaim himself Caesar’s man, but a plethora of thoughts battered at him in that fraction of a second. Just how much was he Caesar’s man? Certainly his allegiance to his general had waned throughout the campaign. And given the vehemence of Cicero’s statement, it was more than possible that his fellow legate had, at a deep level, a more solid and anchored support for Caesar than he himself. Quailing at even the thought, he swallowed and broached a new subject — almost new, anyway.
“What of Menenius and Hortius? Why are they not in the Seventh with you if Caesar’s lumping all his potential dissidents in one legion?” It was blunt. Much blunter than he intended, but the conversation had taken a difficult turn that had hit him unexpectedly, and he felt ill-equipped to attempt subtlety.
“I’m sorry, Marcus?”
“The two tribunes from the Fourteenth. Make no mistake: whether they’re tied to you and Labienus or not — or whether they’re tied to your brother or even Pompey, I will deal with them for what they’ve done. But how did they escape the policy of ‘all Caesar’s opposition in one legion’?”
Cicero actually stopped walking for a moment in surprise, standing in a muddy puddle and apparently not even noticing as his boots started to saturate.
“Tied to me? What are you talking about, Fronto? What have they done?”
“They’ve been undermining the general, removing those with close links to him. I can appreciate a bit of opposition, such as you and Labienus — that’s healthy and keeps the general grounded, but taking action and killing officers is tantamount to treason and murder and I won’t have it — especially not with my friends.”
Cicero frowned as he started walking again. “I thought you landed that blame squarely with my centurions. Hell, you only started speaking to me civilly again since we found out we were in danger.”
“Fabius and Furius are innocent — martinets, but innocent. It’s the two tribunes, Menenius and Hortius.”
“You’re mistaken, Fronto.”
The legate of the Tenth glared at his counterpart.
“Don’t protect them, Cicero. I will have my time with them.”
“I’m not protecting them, you idiot.” Cicero grasped Fronto by the shoulders. “I’ve avoided every contact with those two. They’re Caesar’s pets.”
“Oh, please…”
“They are, Marcus. I’ve seen them in the general’s tent late at night when most of the army is asleep. They creep around and fawn to the general. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they’re certainly not killing Caesar’s favourites.” He lowered his tone, despite the fact that no one was remotely interested. “Menenius is so far into Caesar’s purse he would clean the general’s arse with his tongue if he asked. The Menenii were once Consuls but they’ve fallen so far, and now they’re living on farms in Illyricum. They’re but a spit from being plebs these days, Marcus, and Caesar’s the only thing upholding their ancient noble name. And as for Hortius — well the man may play a noble fop but his mother served in a brothel on the Esquiline and his father was… let’s say a regular visitor with solid mercantile wealth. He owes his current high position to the general.”
Fronto shook his head. “It’s them. I know it’s them.”
“I fear you’re mistaken, Marcus. The men would return to relative obscurity without Caesar. They’re his creatures. It’s why they’re assigned to the Fourteenth that’s always on supply train duty and safely out of the danger of combat. Speaking of which…”
Cicero gestured to Carbo, who stood beside Fronto’s neat little room at the end of a timber building. In the wide space beyond, his men were formed up ready for action.
The legate of the Tenth came to a stop. Cicero paused on his way to the Seventh and clasped hands with him. “Now is not the time for such talk or thoughts — we go to fight. Forget about your conspiracies, Fronto, and concentrate on the Britons.”
Fronto nodded and clasped the other legate’s hand. “Mars be your strength and Fortuna your protector. Come back safe, Cicero.”
“You too. I’ll meet you half way through the Celt army.”
Turning from his fellow legate, Fronto found the somewhat serious face of Carbo grimacing at him, pink and somewhat unhappy as the torrents poured down his face and soaked his tunic and armour.
“I know that look, sir. What sort of cockeyed insane plan have you cooked up now? With respect, the boys are near breaking point.”
Fronto nodded to him and strode on past to where the legion was assembled.
“Men of the Tenth” he shouted in his most inspiring voice, loud enough to be heard over the incessant roar of the rain battering on armour and helmets. “In order to give us an unfair advantage over the enemy, I am forced to split our legion.”
There was a groan from the men, though from no easily identifiable individual source.
“I and Carbo will be taking the first cohort into the woods to pounce on the enemy’s flanks. Cicero and his legion are pulling the same manoeuvre on the other side of the field. The rest of you… “he grinned. “The rest of you will create an impregnable wall. You’ll be serving under the direct command of the general.” He paused to let the fact sink in, during which there was silence, though whether a happy or a troubled one, he couldn’t tell.
“The general will allow the looting of the tribesmen when the battle is over and all the local settlements will be ours to pick over.” He grinned wickedly. “And despite your Roman origins, I know you’ve all grown quite fond of the native beers of Gaul. Well, guess what? These Celts brew the same stuff, though this beer is apparently strong enough to make the hairs on your chest stand up straight. And it’ll be ours for the taking when we finish. Just make sure you hold the line and stay alive long enough to enjoy it.”
A roar of approval greeted the statement.
“Now let’s get ready to kick them so hard they don’t wake up ‘til three weeks after they’re dead.”
“Shit shit shit shit shit!” Fronto hissed as he collapsed in an awkward heap, trying to remain as quiet as possible despite the agony that tore through his knee, having entangled his foot in a think gnarled tree root and twisted his leg on the way down.
“You alright sir?”
“Fine!” he snapped at Carbo. “Don’t worry about me.”
The primus pilus gave him a look that hovered somewhere between concern and disapproval and wiped the rain from his face. Here in the depths of the woodland, the rain was no longer a hail of watery shards, but a constant battering of heavy, bulbous droplets that formed on leaves and deposited themselves unerringly down the necks of the men.
“You sure you know where we are?” Fronto barked at his senior centurion.
“With respect, legate, finding north in a forest is a very easy task. We’ve already turned back south and we’re heading towards the field.”
“I hope you’re right” Fronto grumbled, using the rough surface of the tree to haul himself to his feet. “I’m remembering now why no famous general has ever led a campaign in a forest.” He glanced around to see the four hundred and twenty seven men who currently comprised the slightly under-strength first cohort, spread out in the woods, glinting in the sunlight between the trees, unable to hold to a formation. “If they anticipate this and come at us in…”
“Shh!” Fronto blinked as Carbo stopped dead and put the finger to his lips. Behind Fronto, the entire cohort came to a halt, the noise of the battering raindrops once more taking the place of the steady movement of soldiers.
“What?” He hissed.
In reply, and frowning at Fronto’s volume, Carbo cupped a hand around his ear. Fronto fell silent, trying to hear over his
own laboured breathing and the downpour. As the thumping of his pulse and the wheezing of his lungs died down, he could now just make out the sounds of fighting.
“They’re already engaged!” Fronto hissed in surprise. Carbo nodded and Fronto shook his head in disbelief. The cohort had been ready to move by the time Fronto and Cicero had returned from their wall meeting with Caesar and they had been heading out of camp toward the forest’s edge before the encamped legions had even put out the call for assembly. How long had they been in this damned dripping sylvan nightmare?
“Fully engaged, too” whispered Carbo. “That’s not the opening roar of two lines; that’s the sound of ongoing fighting. We’d best move.”
Fronto nodded as his centurion made several hand gestures that began the cohort moving again, as quietly as they could through the woods, trying not to spook wildlife or snap large twigs. Inevitably, the noise level was louder than any officer would wish it — and certainly a different matter entirely to the surprisingly stealthy Celts — but with the din of battle growing louder with every cautious step and the background roar of the rain, there was little chance of the cohort being heard on the battlefield.
Carefully, slowly, Fronto approached the growing white-green ribbon of light that heralded the tree line and the field of battle. It would be overestimating their contribution to things to say that everything rode on their little manoeuvre, but certainly it would make a vast difference to the way the fight went, and might mean the saving of — or the death of — a great many men. Fronto found himself seething that they hadn’t thought of this earlier. He could have been moving through the forest with his men as soon as the scouts had even finished estimating their numbers. Then they’d have been ready. Now…
The whole plan had been based on the notion that both his and Cicero’s cohorts would be in position at the forest’s edge and ready to pounce when the Britons arrived. Now they were playing ‘catch-up’ and had to commit as soon as they were reasonably able. Would Cicero be there? Had he already arrived and committed his men, cursing Fronto for his absence? Was he still wandering around these cursed Britannic forests getting wet and angry and unaware that the fight was already on? Or was he too creeping through the undergrowth worrying about what might happen?
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