Gallia Invicta

the artillery. The shooting had ceased to allow the legions room to manoeuvre, and so the low grumble he could now hear was thunder.

“Shit.”

“Problem, sir?”

Fronto glanced at the man next to him. He’d not meant to say it out loud.

“Just the weather.”

“I always try to stand next to someone taller if it’s thundering and I’m wearing armour, sir” the man replied with a grin. Fronto laughed for a moment and scanned the ranks around him, noting with wry humour that he stood half a head taller than any man close to him.

“Great. Just great!”

The slope ahead was much easier than that of Corsicum. Just as the stronghold was only perhaps a quarter of the size, with less powerful walls, so the cliffs were lower and the promontory less pronounced. Wearily the men of the Tenth slogged up the incline toward the smashed walls that had protected the fortress proper.

Carbo, ahead and to his right, barked out commands as they moved.

“We take the left. First century, peel off as we reach the walls and secure to the left before working your way round the edge of the cliffs. Once we near the crest, I want the rest of the first cohort to start spreading down the hill and then swing round at higher speed, like a closing gate, making sure we clear the whole surface. I don’t want to miss anyone.”

There were shouts of acknowledgement from the appropriate centurions and Fronto grinned. It was this that granted command ability. Oh, some of it was natural talent, such as in the case of the general, but far too many legates and tribunes stood at the back, slapping each other on the shoulder and watching happily as their men fought the battle. Only when you understood the men themselves, the abilities and responsibilities of the centurionate, and how everything fitted together in the actual fight, could you hope to direct a legion effectively. It was his appreciation of the situation his men were in that had given Fronto all his experience. He and the Tenth had made a name for themselves together.

His attention was brought back to the immediate situation as there was a shriek from ahead.

He focused, startled, as the line staggered to a halt, a figure missing.

“Lilia?”

Sure enough, as the legion began to move again, more cautiously, Fronto looked down with sympathy at the man who, two rows ahead of him, had discovered the first hidden pit with its sharpened stake.

The man writhed in the hole, the point of the stake through his thigh, the bone shattered. Once the legions were ahead and out of the way, the capsarii following up would find him and take him back to the makeshift camp, but the man’s leg was ruined, along with his career. Fronto swallowed sadly and raised his eyes again.

Then, thankfully, they were past and the man was out of sight, though the occasional shriek from left and right announced the location of another deadly trap. Fronto grimaced as he kept his gaze straight ahead, locked on the walls. For just a moment, he wondered how a tribe they’d never fought had adopted Roman defensive methods, but it hadn’t taken him long to realise that Crassus had spent last summer suppressing these people. They had picked up Crassus’ tricks.

A minute later the front ranks reached the line of the fallen walls, slowing once more as they stumbled over the rubble and into the stronghold itself. The first century set off along the line of jagged stone, only to discover that the deep grass here had been left deliberately long to hide the brambles and thorns that had been left there in a tangled mass.

Moments later the rest of the attacking force encountered the same conditions. The defending Veneti had clearly, as they left the walls, traversed narrow channels through the brambles, before disappearing into the interior.

Fronto gave an involuntary yelp as a thorn wrenched a long jagged cut across his shin, raking through his breeches with little trouble. Fortunately, the entire advancing Roman force, which had slowed to a virtual crawl, were mostly grumbling or shouting at the tearing and jabbing brambles.

If seemed like hours, dragging, wading and stomping through the painful undergrowth before the legions reached short grass and heaved a sigh of relief, examining their arms, legs and feet. To a man, the Eighth and Tenth legions had been scratched and raked, drawing blood in dozens of places. Hardly a great defensive measure by the standards of the Roman army but, Fronto had to admit, innovative and simple. The thorns had irritated and pained the legions and slowed their advance considerably.

Setting their sights on the square at the top of the gentle slope, the Tenth moved on, men fanning out down the hill and searching out any hiding places. The eerie quiet was all too familiar to Fronto and his spirits fell.

The Tenth reached the top of the hill to find, just as he’d expected, a deserted square, surrounded by apparently empty buildings. Irritably, he wrestled with his chin strap and removed his helmet, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.

“These people are seriously starting to piss me off.”

He spotted the heavy figure of Balbus, legate of the Eighth, striding across the square toward him from the right. The older officer, bald and tired-looking, had also removed his helmet and carried it under his arm.

A rumble of thunder announced the coming storm just as the first swathe of pounding rain began to fall, battering Fronto’s scalp and further darkening his mood.

“Campaigning in this bloody place is like drowning in depression. I am starting to take an intense dislike to the Veneti.”

Balbus shrugged.

“It is irritating, I’ll grant you, but you can hardly blame them, really. What would you do?”

“I’d migrate to a country with better bloody weather for a start.”

The older man laughed and pulled his crimson scarf tighter around his neck.

“Come on. Let’s go see what’s happening.”

Knowing exactly what he was going to find, Fronto nodded irritably, leaving his discarded helmet where it had fallen, and strode off with his opposite number toward the sea. The slope was gentler than at Corsicum and the cliffs lower and they were but a few seconds from the top when Fronto blinked as he took in the situation.

“Bloody hell, Quintus! We’re still in with a chance!”

Below, Brutus’ fleet sat like a dreadful wall of timber in a wide crescent out in the bay, safely away from the rocky shelf, but close enough to cut off any route to the open sea and close enough to flee to their safe harbour at short notice when the storm began to churn the sea too much.

The Veneti fleet wallowed close to the cliff below, almost close enough to drop rocks on.

“They must still be boarding.”

Balbus nodded, his brow furrowed.

“But how did they get down there? The cliffs are too steep. There can’t be a path!”

Fronto swung his head this way and that and spotted the primus pilus directing some of his men.

“Carbo! Spread the men out. Start looking for hidden paths or tunnel entrances or some such. There’s a secret way down to the water.”

Carbo turned with a grin and saluted, marching away with his men, while Fronto turned his own grin on Balbus.

“We might just have them by the short and curlies, Quintus.”

The older legate nodded and turned back toward the gathered structures at the crest.

“I’ll get Balventius to search the buildings thoroughly. Could be there.”

Fronto nodded and punched one hand into the flat of the other with deep satisfaction.

“Got you, you bastards.”

“Here, sir!”

Fronto’s head whipped round at the shout. A legionary was gesticulating from a rock near the grassy cliff edge. Slapping Balbus on the shoulder to get his attention, he jogged off down the slope.

“You got something?”

“Think so, sir. Looks like a tunnel.”

Fronto hurried down to the rock, blinking the water out of his eyes. The smooth boulder rose from the grass