all his might and, after a moment’s pause, there was a crack and a deep rumble.
The huge timber bole and the optio grasping it came away at the same time, falling back away from the beacon and tumbling down the slope. Fronto and his two companions stepped out of the way, still staring in astonishment as the entire beacon collapsed and rolled down the grassy artificial slope, the fire dissipating as the pyre disintegrated.
The legate blinked and leapt forward to the still form of Curtius on the grass. To his further amazement, as he reached sadly toward the prone, burning, figure, Curtius spun around onto his back and continued to roll for a moment until the flames on his tunic were out. As Fronto stared down at him, Curtius grinned through a blackened and blistered face, his white teeth a sharp contrast, and reached out.
“Mind helping me up, sir?”
Fronto stared and then burst out laughing as he reached down for the optio’s hand. As the junior officer rose to his feet, shakily, smoke rising from his burned hair and clothes, Fronto turned to the other two.
“Check that everything’s secure, then send for the artillery and make the signal to Balbus.”
He grinned.
“And find us a capsarius; preferably one who doesn’t flinch at a hog roast!”
Chapter 10
(Quintilis: Darioritum, on the Armorican coast)
Tetricus sat in the cold pre-dawn gloom astride his horse looking uncomfortable. The other tribunes had ridden back along the line of the Tenth, making their final checks before moving off. Tetricus glanced over his shoulder. The front line of the first cohort stood ready to march a few paces behind him; the primus pilus, next to the chief signifer, backed by the rest of the standard bearers, musicians and a few immunes with tasks of their own, the bulk of the men waiting patiently behind them all. The tribune waved a hand at the primus pilus in what he hoped was a good, commanding, beckoning motion. The centurion strode forward until he reached the mounted officer.
“
Carbo grinned at him.
“Your rank says otherwise, sir.”
Tetricus sighed and made a desperate gesture with his hands.
“Fronto always leaves the primus pilus in charge of the Tenth when he’s absent. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust tribunes, probably because they’re all politicians-in-waiting. Priscus used to command the Tenth on a semi- regular basis!”
That wide, infectious grin remained on the centurion’s face.
“I’m not Priscus, sir. My job is to direct the lads when we’re actually busy fighting, so I don’t have time to look all posh and official. Besides, the legate trusts
“And that’s another thing” Tetricus grumbled unhappily. “I’m the second most junior tribune and yet I’m commanding the others. I’m going to be as popular as a turd in a bathhouse!”
Carbo gave him an expression of fake sympathy.
“Just mimic Fronto. Drink too much, argue with everyone, disobey some orders and then launch yourself into a potentially fatal situation. Everything will be fine…” the grin widened even further. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve already got his grumbling down to a tee.”
Somewhere way off to their right a buccina rang out with a call that was picked up instantly by the musicians of each legion. Tetricus started slightly in his saddle as the call blared out close behind. Traditionally the tribunes rode at the front of the marching column with the legate, but Fronto was somewhat unconventional and Tetricus usually travelled by choice with the artillerists and engineers at the rear of the column.
Carbo nodded and then saluted.
“Ready to move at your command, sir.”
Tetricus grunted again and settled unhappily into his saddle. The sound of racing hooves announced the return of the other five tribunes.
“Everything’s ready, sir.”
Tetricus nodded, trying not to catch the eye of the senior tribune who had reported to him. He swallowed nervously, keeping his hands tight on the reins to prevent their shaking becoming too noticeable.
“Tenth Legion: advance!”
Slowly, he moved his horse into a walk. Behind him, the centurions bellowed their commands, the buccinas blaring out calls.
The Tenth Legion set off for battle and, keeping his gaze steadfastly ahead, trying not to look at the other five tribunes, Tetricus’ mind raced ahead of them.
He was woefully unprepared for this. The tribunes weren’t meant to command the legion. Oh, in the old days, they did. These days, though, the big decisions were all made by the legate and the actual running of the legion, even in battle, was the province of the centurionate. The tribunes were expected to ponce around doing whatever menial chores the legate had for them.
By Tetricus’ estimate, at least two thirds of the tribunes he had met across the whole army were a complete waste of time from a military point of view. Most of them were power-seeking members of the equites class from Rome who were desperately looking for a leg up in the political circles of Rome. The tribunate was a well- recognised step for that.
Tetricus, however, had taken his commission originally in the Seventh Legion not to climb the political ladder, but because even as a boy he had been fascinated by the great works of the army. At the age of five he had watched as the men of Strabo’s legions had carried out emergency repairs to the aqueduct of his home city of Firmum Picenum after tremors had brought down an arch and effectively halved the city’s water supply. Observation of three days of repair work had instilled in him a life-long love of all things engineering, though reading accounts of the siege of Syracuse and the great military works of Archimedes had clinched his desire to serve in the legions.
And despite inauspicious beginnings in the Seventh, his great love, and talent, for designing ingenious and complex defensive and offensive systems had been given full reign since the army had first marched into Geneva two and a half years ago. He’d achieved all he ever really wanted from the legions: a certain level of autonomy and the opportunity to turn his mind to overcoming amazing challenges with his engineering skill. He’d certainly never pictured this: sitting nobly astride a horse at the head of several thousand men, leading an army into battle.
“Sit up straight, for Minerva’s sake.”
Tetricus shot a glance in the direction of the hissed comment to see one of the other tribunes glaring at him. He opened his mouth to apologise and then realised how idiotic that would sound. Instead, he tried to stop wallowing in his own discomfort and to sit proud like a commander.
Slowly, interminably, the entire army moving at the lowest common speed, that of the ox carts, the legions of Julius Caesar began to cross the stretch of low ground toward the looming ramparts of Darioritum. The land here was decidedly flat, so the Veneti oppidum on the low rise by the water stood proud and impressive, though not as impressive as the walls, Tetricus suspected.
The general had decided that a show of force was needed. This whole attack was more about frightening the local tribes than the mere conquest of a city and to that end, all four legions, along with their cavalry and auxiliary support, backed by the wagon trains and the artillery that remained with them, would move together to bear down on the Gaulish city with standards raised and fanfares blaring.
The tribune squinted into the dim pre-dawn light, trying to pick out more detail on the oppidum and watched with relief as the first shaft of golden sunlight touched the tree tops high on the oppidum. The information they had on the oppidum itself was, to his mind, sadly lacking. The scouts had not come too close for fear of tipping the Veneti off about the coming attack and thus their knowledge of the defences came from long-distance and second-hand accounts.
