these tribes of monsters lived far in the north made a southern coast landing a little less worrying. Even Caesar, who had denounced such descriptions as preposterous, had donated generously to those visitors who had confirmed the vast distances between the south coast and these awful dangers.
Other details had come out too: the nature of the coast, with its intermittent areas of unassailable cliff and the location of several strong rivers; the swampy areas that lay along the coast to the north, and the names of a number of local tribes.
All in all, the information had been interesting and some of it of use, but little was detailed enough to warrant adding to the map of which Caesar and Priscus kept tight control.
And so, within half a day of their arrival and at the most favourable tide, tribune Volusenus, whom Fronto had finally exchanged a few words with — largely ones of sympathy — had boarded a small, fast bireme that had come up the coast from the anchor point of the Gallic fleet, and had sailed off into the endless waters and the unknown.
Two days later the rest of the Roman fleet that had been raised the previous year on the orders of Brutus hove into view and anchored at the southern end of the town.
Since then the army had settled in to wait. Fronto had deliberately moderated his drinking — a move made all the easier by the fact that not a day passed without his having to find a quiet corner in which to be sick — and had very carefully avoided any possibility of bumping into either centurion Furius or tribune Menenius, though each for entirely different reasons.
And now, with a week of misery under his belt, Fronto stood leaning on the fence of a horse corral, breathing deeply; the cavalry pens and the latrines were the only places outside mealtimes where the stink of fish disappeared beneath something else.
“Fronto!”
Taking a deep breath of horse sweat and dung to keep him going, Fronto turned at the familiar voice. Priscus stood in the main road between pens, his hands on his hips.
“Whassup?”
“Time to come and get involved.”
Fronto shook his head. He’d been ordered to attend the first two of the general’s interminable meetings but after putting out a flaming brazier with a stomach full of bile last time, he’d been excused further attendance. He simply could not understand how the rest of the army endured the constant stench of brine and dead fish.
“I’m not required” he replied.
“You’ll want to be there. Volusenus is back.”
“What?”
“Landed ten minutes ago. He just came into camp to give his report. I’m gathering all officers.”
Fronto nodded and heaved himself away from the railing and the smell of horses, bracing himself for the fresh waves of fish he caught as soon as the wind brought it wafting up. While he could still get away with not attending, to hear a first-hand account of their destination was an invaluable opportunity.
“Lead on.”
Caesar’s headquarters tent was already thronging with officers when Priscus and Fronto fell in at the back. The Tenth’s commander took a deep breath of sweat and body odour combined with the fumes from the four braziers and coughed.
Tribune Volusenus had already arrived and was busy adding marks and lines to the map on the table as the assembled officers stood around the periphery impatiently, tapping their fingers or stretching unobtrusively in the press. Gradually, over the next few minutes, other members of the staff and senior field commanders filed in to take their positions, leaving Fronto smiling at the fact that he was, for once, not the last man to arrive. After a tense wait, Volusenus stepped back and admired his handiwork, frowned, added a couple more lines and adjusted the position of some splodge or other, and then stepped back again with a nod, dropping the charcoal stick to the table and folding his arms.
“That’s all of it?” Caesar asked quietly.
“That’s it sir.”
“Well it seems as though everyone’s here. Why don’t you fill us in, tribune? I am sure that every man in this tent is just as tense and expectant as I.”
Volusenus nodded again and cleared his throat, unfolding his arms long enough to rub tired eyes.
“Everything the merchants have told you is true, concerning the passage of the sea. My aide confirmed my estimate that the journey from here to the nearest land is a little over thirty miles. It sounds like a stone’s throw, but this channel is like a giant version of the Pillars of Hercules. The currents that run beneath the surface are strong, while the winds whip the surface into large, ship-threatening waves. It bears no resemblance to the Mare Nostrum.”
He scanned the crowd of officers and picked out Brutus. “You will know the western ocean from the naval campaign against the Veneti last year. I’m sure you will know how roiling and treacherous the surface can be and how the weather can change it from glass to deep furrows in a matter of minutes?”
Brutus nodded seriously. The weather and the sea had almost brought disaster last year, preventing the naval force from performing its assigned tasks until the last minute.
“Imagine the power and unpredictability of that, forced into a channel only twenty-some miles wide. The locals have a knack with it, but even
Caesar waved the concern aside as though it mattered little. “What else, Tribune?”
“Our ships will be pretty much useless. My bireme was thrown about like a child’s leaf-boat on a full drain. We are exceedingly lucky to be here, and I vowed three altars and a dozen offerings to Fortuna, Neptune and Salacia just to make it back. An attempt to cross that in a bireme in any worse weather than we had is nothing short of suicidal. Even the triremes we have will be woefully inadequate.”
“Fortunately” Caesar interjected with a steady tone and a reassuring smile, “I anticipated the unworthiness of our fleet and have already put out the order to commandeer or purchase as many suitable vessels from the Morini and the other local tribes as we can manage. The fleet will consist of at least half Gallic vessels by the time we are ready to leave. As for your worries over the weather, I intend to embark as soon as the fleet is assembled, hopefully this very week, so fear not too much over a few breezes and squalls.”
Volusenus gave his commander a look that conveyed every ounce of his uncertainty and fear as he waited to be sure that he should go on. Caesar gave him an encouraging nod.
“I have seen little of the tribes of Britannia, for in all five days of my journey, I never once set foot upon the land.”
Caesar frowned and the tribune anticipated the next question. “With respect, general, the bireme was unsuitable for approaching the land and even the local sailors we had on board to advise and guide us advised against any attempt to make landfall. Almost the entire length of the coast consists of cliffs of a magnificent height or of dips, shingle beaches or bays that, while looking like pleasant anchorages, also appeared to my military mind to be the absolutely perfect place for an ambush or attack. In all that time, I saw little of the people of the land, only a few fishermen in their boats or farmers and riders on the shoreline and cliff tops.”
“So your grand sum of intelligence from five days aboard ship is the shape and height of the coastline and a confirmation that the locals fish and farm. Am I correct?”
Volusenus lowered his gaze. “There was little else we could achieve, Caesar.”
The general straightened.
“Very well. Due to the restriction in fleet size and the number of troops we must move, combined with the swift and punitive nature of the campaign, I will be committing only two legions to Britannia, along with a little cavalry support and my own command group.”
As a palpable wave of relief swept through the tent, Caesar eyed his officers, each of whom was busy throwing up small silent prayers that they would not be required.
“The Seventh will take part under Cicero.” The legate of the Seventh nodded wearily, clearly having expected this. Fronto’s mind raced back to what Priscus had told him of the Seventh at the start of the year. All Caesar’s bad eggs in one basket, led by a man of uncertain loyalty. Caesar had told him that he had something in mind for them: an isle of monsters full of cannibals, blood-crazed druids and treacherous swamps, apparently. Despite that the
