Caesar nodded again.
“Do it. Next?”
“Dams.”
The general turned his head to the voice off in the recess of the command tent. Mamurra, the engineer who had joined the staff in the spring, stepped into the circle of light.
“We know how deep the tide comes in over these causeways. It’s not deep; just enough to prevent any kind of land attack. If, as you say, the apertures to the sea to either side are relatively narrow, we can dam them enough to hold back the tide and that would give you the freedom to work your attack any way you wish.”
Caesar frowned and leaned forward across the table, the stylus in his hand tapping on the surface.
“Wouldn’t that take a long time?”
Mamurra shook his head.
“Not with, what, four legions available to us. Given complete control, along with a few good engineers and perhaps a legion of men, I can have serviceable dams in position in an hour or two. It’ll take longer than that to flatten the walls, so we should have the time.”
Caesar frowned at the engineer for a while and then nodded and faced the others again.
“Surprise, artillery prepared in advance, a fleet anchored in the bay beyond, the sea held back with dams. Anything else we can do?”
There was an uncomfortable silence and, after a pause, the general smiled and sat back.
“Then at least it’s an improvement on the last attack. We’ll move out in the morning. Have the word given to the officers. The eighth, ninth and tenth cohorts from each legion are hereby assigned to Mamurra to construct his dams. They can separate out now, excused all other duties, and start quarrying the stone and loading it into carts to save time when we arrive.”
“General?”
Caesar turned again to see the interim camp prefect wearing a quizzical expression. Fronto glowered at the Illyrian officer. The man had kept carefully quiet and out of Fronto’s way since the day they had spoken in Fronto’s own house, which was just as well, since the mere sight of him was enough to make the legate want to break the man’s nose.
“Yes?” Caesar said quietly.
“General, the tenth cohort is currently assigned to camp construction, maintenance and deconstruction. How will I take down the camp and prepare to move?”
Caesar rolled his eyes.
“Good grief, man. The assignments to camp are all transitory. Any cohort can do the job. You have the authority; just draw some other men and get the job done.”
The man shrank back out of sight and Fronto smiled menacingly to himself as the general stood and stretched.
“Then everything is settled. Let’s get prepared and put and end to this uprising.”
“Respectfully, legate, I’m going to have to request that you get your arse to the back and take up the traditional role of looking good and urging the men on.”
Fronto blinked at Carbo.
“Sod off.”
“Now, now, sir. I know that Priscus let you charge into the enemy next to him, and I’m slighting neither your ability nor your bravery, but it’s my job to lead these buggers into a fight, and not yours.”
“Fine. Your request has been duly noted and declined. Care to disobey your commanding officer?”
The pink faced centurion next him smiled and winked.
“Then don’t get in the way, eh, sir?”
Fronto opened his mouth to bark a sharp reply, but the primus pilus turned his head away and shouted across to the signifer some twenty yards away.
“As soon as you see the Eighth move, signal the advance.”
Petrosidius nodded, keeping his gaze on the standards of the Eighth off to their right. Ten yards behind the officers, the Tenth legion shuffled their feet in agitation, itching to be off. Fronto faced forward once more, looking at the path before them.
It had certainly been a whirlwind preparation. Only two hours ago had the first Roman scout crested the hill in sight of the Veneti stronghold and in that short time Mamurra’s men had constructed what looked, to Fronto, like a very unstable dam on either side of the headland, holding the sea back from the causeway. Certainly they appeared to have the odd small leak, rivulets of seawater trickling down the inner face. The plan had extra merit that had occurred to them after the meeting. With the tide in, when the legions attacked, Brutus’ fleet would be able to get closer to land.
Fronto’s gaze passed across the mass of artillery on the headland keeping up a constant barrage, though having now shifted from the ruined walls to pounding the interior. This fortress was smaller and less well defended than Corsicum and had succumbed to the assault remarkably quickly.
His eyes followed the missiles as they arced up from the onagers and once again he focused on the brooding sky. He just hoped in the name of every God he could think of that the weather would hold off until after the attack. The grass underfoot was faintly damp, but ‘faintly damp’ was as dry as it had been in weeks. The sky above, however, boiled with black, grey and white clouds, promising storm conditions and torrential rain, likely with lightning and thunder. Not, he grumbled to himself, good conditions to be marching up a slope and wearing bronze.
A buccina call rang out from the Eighth, and Petrosidius waved the standard, triggering calls from the Tenth’s own musicians.
The legions moved off and a grin split Fronto’s face. It felt good to be marching into a fight again.
The three officers slowed their pace slightly until the first cohort reached them and then slid in among the men, taking their place in the front line. The smile on Fronto’s face widened for only a moment, and was then rudely removed as the men around him pushed, shoved and jostled suddenly, falling back into military precision seconds later and leaving the legate two rows back from the front.
Fronto issued a low growl, glaring ahead, and an apologetic voice spoke up from next to him.
“Sorry sir. Orders of the primus pilus.”
For a moment the legate was tempted to argue, but knew it would be fruitless. The Tenth respected their commander, Fronto knew, as much as
Settling into his position in the third line, Fronto continued with the steady march as they descended the slope and reached the causeway at the bottom. His eyes strayed to his left, where he could see one of Mamurra’s dams, the other out of sight beyond the promontory. His mind immediately furnished him with vivid images of a dam exploding inwards, rocks tumbling this way and that, releasing the structural internal timber beams to rush toward the panicked Tenth legion on the crest of a deadly wave. Fronto squeezed his eyes shut and forced the picture away but, when he opened them again, he couldn’t look too closely at the dam without his knees taking on a very unmanly tremble.
The legions marched on across the causeway. By this time, the ground they trod would normally by under at least six feet of water.
Pictures in his mind again.
Damn it.
Or Dam it, anyway…
Fronto smiled to himself. The ground beneath his feet squelched unpleasantly and he sank an inch or two into the murk with each step.
The moments passed with the unpleasant sound of thousands of squelching feet and the dull clunk of armour and weapons that were becoming a martyr to rust in the conditions this summer.
The legate sighed with relief as his feet confirmed they had finally reached the upward slope that led to the walls and almost smiled until he realised that the rumbling he was hearing was not now the constant barrage of
