Gallia Invicta

that it came entirely down to using the senses the gods had gifted him with, combined with experience and a sprinkling of common sense.

And common sense and acute hearing had just saved the first cohort. Above, the gates were shut once more, hurriedly, and the missile fire increased, accompanied by savage cries.

“Single line… lock shields!”

In a perfect reverse of their earlier manoeuvre, the Tenth legion closed ranks once more, though the formation would be no help in taking those walls in the circumstances. The time was almost upon them, now.

As the legion trudged slowly up the slope, men occasionally falling out of the line with a squawk, Carbo narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze across the ranks of men. There were very few places in the cohort where the line was five men thick, and as often as not it had thinned to three rather than four. He’d lost a fifth of his men already, and they were still two hundred yards from the walls up an ever increasing gradient. The first cohort would be gone before a Roman hand touched the wall.

“Pass the word back. Sound the retreat! Orderly, mind you…”

The signifer, Petrosidius, three men along from him, grinned and waved the standard as somewhere back by the optio the buccina called out the retreat order. Carbo could almost feel the relief, not just from the men around him, but also from the legions following them up, who took up and relayed the call with telling speed.

The first cohort slowed to a halt, their shields still up against the battering missiles falling on them from above, and began carefully to step back down the slope, maintaining the forward defensive wall.

“We’re going to get bollocked, sir.”

Carbo smiled at the man who’d spoken.

“I don’t think you need worry, lad. The legate’ll look after us.”

Fronto, high on the promontory above, watched and nodded with satisfaction. Shame they’d had to waste so many damn men before retreating, but at least they could show Caesar how stupid the idea was. Tetricus laughed.

“You were right, Marcus.”

“I know. I’m going to see Caesar. You get that artillery up and running. As soon as I’ve talked some sense into the old man, I’ll get the other legions’ engineers up to join in.”

Tetricus nodded and jogged off towards the makeshift artillery platform while Fronto turned and set his sights on the hastily-erected headquarters tent that held a commanding view of the enemy stronghold. The general emerged from the tent as he watched, waving his arms angrily at three of the staff officers that lurked outside in the torrential rain.

The hawk-nosed general was still laying into the innocent officers several minutes later as Fronto approached, and one of the men meekly raised his finger and pointed at Fronto. Caesar turned to him, his face red and angry, his eye flickering dangerously.

“I want the man who ordered that call to be stripped naked and flung down onto the rocks, and the musician who made it will follow him.”

Fronto shook his head.

“No you don’t.”

“What?” The eye flickered faster.

“With respect, Caesar, those two men just saved you thousands of men. Remember last year? Plancus marching on the walls of Noviodunum? Throwing men away like mad until you relented and let us do it properly? Don’t turn into a Plancus, general.”

“I…”

The flickering in his eye stopped and the general’s face took on a strange and almost frightened look.

“Fronto… the tent…”

The legate frowned and stepped forward, grabbing the general’s arm, just as his legs started to give way. The officers stared at them.

“Don’t read anything into it, lads. He’s exhausted.”

Without sparing them another glance, he steered the general toward the command tent and entered without ceremony. The tent was empty other than a table and seat.

“What’s happened?”

The general was starting to shake slightly, his brow pallid and sweaty.

“I’m fine… Fronto.”

He leaned over the table, his face hidden in the darkness.

“Just… exhausted, like you said.”

Fronto narrowed his eyes.

“You’re ill.”

“No. I’m fine… Get out. You deal with it how… however you feel.”

Fronto’s frown deepened as he watched Caesar slump slightly.

“Get out!”

With a shrug, Fronto turned his back on the general and strode from the tent. The old man had looked like death was closing in on him, and the expression on his face had only added to the impression. The legate had this nagging feeling that he’d deal with the retreat and go back in only to find the great Caesar dead on the floor in a pool of his own bile.

Perhaps the world would breathe a sigh of relief if that happened.

Fronto gritted his teeth as he emerged into the rain and looked at the three officers, their faces full of concern.

“As soon as the legions are back, send the officers to me and have the engineers report to Tetricus.”

One of the officers opened his mouth to object to this clear command from a man who was, in theory, at most a peer, if not a lesser officer, but his throat dried up as he saw Fronto’s face.

“At once, legate.”

“Caesar?”

“Fronto? Come in.”

The legate shrugged, casting a quick look around at the view outside the tent. The rain had died down to an intermittent drizzle that was almost worse than the downpour, but the change had made the work of the engineers easier and visibility was greatly improved. Straightening his shoulders, he ducked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back behind him.

The general sat at his table in the cavernous, largely empty tent, a studious look on his face; no sign of his recent indisposition showing.

“I’d offer you a seat, Fronto, but I only have the one, for now. I’m rather hoping not to have to unpack. What is the news?”

The legate shook his head.

“Oh no. I’ll give you a full report in a minute, but first I want you to level with me. There’s something wrong, and I don’t want to come in to report one morning to find you draped over your table bleeding out. I wouldn’t know how to proceed.”

Caesar gave a knowing smile.

“I rather think you know exactly how you’d proceed. In fact, I’ll be most surprised if you haven’t already planned for the eventuality. But no… I’m in no danger of dropping dead.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Caesar fixed him with a searching glare and sagged in the chair.

“Just an illness, Fronto. I caught something in Illyricum that’s taking a little more shaking off than normal.”

“With respect, Caesar, that’s a pile of crap. I’ve known you a long time and I’ve never seen you do that. You were in the middle of building up a real argument with me, and I know how much we both enjoy that… and then you petered out and almost collapsed. Whatever this is, it’s big enough that you’re trying to hide it, even from those closest to you.”

The general glared at him.