with which to brave the crossing — ships that were designed for these waters and were capable of withstanding the tremendous pressures and strains.
After a few days, when it became apparent that no further ambassadors were likely, Caesar had taken the hostages offered and quartered them in Gesoriacum’s fort. He had then set the eight groups of men on board a single ship and released them to go back to their own land, along with promises of Roman support and peaceful relations, encouraging them to spread the word and their particular brand of ‘Pax Britannia’ among the more reticent tribes.
Now, only three days after the ambassadors’ ship had sailed off from Gesoriacum on a sea as calm as the impluvium pool of a Roman villa, the men of the Seventh and Tenth legions sat or stood on the decks of the motley collection of ships that made up the Gallo-Roman fleet in the town’s harbour, staring out at what appeared to be distinctly unfriendly waters.
Only an hour before the troops had begun to board on Caesar’s orders, a wind had whipped up the water’s surface and changed its appearance utterly. Moreover, dark grey clouds started to roll in from the northeast as the evening sky began to darken, threatening heavy rain and worse. Brutus and Volusenus had conferred with three of the captains, two native guides and even with Caesar but, much to Fronto’s dismay, had pronounced conditions acceptable.
Even the pure white lamb that had displayed a healthy liver and kidneys and clearly shown Neptune’s favour had not put his fears to rest. He’d spent a small fortune on food, wine and trinkets merely to leave them reverentially on any altar he could find — Roman or native — to try and appease whoever controlled that particular stretch of water and his passage over it. He’d become increasingly convinced that his bandy-legged amulet was an image of some fat Gallic fishwife with as much divine connection to Fortuna as a dead herring.
All in all, everything pointed to a complete disaster as far as Fronto was concerned.
Then there had been the news that the eighteen ships destined to convey the cavalry across the water had been trapped in the next port down the coast, due to the weather. That was hardly encouraging and Fronto had watched with bitter dismay as Varus and his cavalry wing had ridden off south to find their vessels. The senior cavalry commander still sported his splinted arm and a pained look, but had recently taken to riding again as often as possible. Fronto had wondered with idle depression whether he’d seen the last of his brave cavalry-officer friend.
The only bright spark had been the surprise addition to the fleet of Galronus and a single turma of thirty Gallic riders, their horses crammed in with the men and spread across the fleet. Caesar had apparently given the Remi officer permission to accompany the legions on the basis that he and his men shared a common heritage with the island’s inhabitants — a bond that could prove useful.
The cavalry officer grinned at him and tucked into a platter of bread, cheese and pilchards. Fronto fought the urge to stand at the rail and empty his stomach contents again. He’d already done so twice since boarding, and the ship hadn’t even slipped the mooring yet. He’d glared at the men nearby, but the smirks had continued nonetheless, increasing with every colour change his face had undergone.
“Remember, whatever happens while we’re over there — on the assumption we even make the crossing — not to get yourself in a position where you’re alone and anywhere near those two centurions from the Seventh. They’ve found it easy enough to attack people even with the whole army present. Over there, you could easily find yourself cut off and surrounded by the Seventh. Be alert at all times.”
“Marcus, stop fussing over us like a mother hen” Galronus grinned. “We’re all grown men and warriors.”
“Aye” Carbo laughed, looking up from his cup of watered wine. “And stop worritting about the journey, sir. It’s only thirty miles. Two more cups of this and I could
Again, Fronto looked around the deck of the high-sided Gallic beast in which they would cross. Such was its size that the officers had managed to secure themselves a fairly private area of deck toward the stern some distance from the groups of men sitting cross legged, rolling dice, singing songs and telling ribald jokes. They had even managed to obtain a shelter of leather tent sections that could hold off the rain that Fronto felt sure was coming.
Even as he glanced across at the steersman and the ship’s captain, the hooded lamp with which they had been signalling the other ships in the fleet caught the wind from the wrong direction and went black with a hiss, plummeting the entire stern of the ship into stygian gloom.
“Whose genius idea was it to sail at night?”
“Apparently it was the best choice” Carbo chattered conversationally. “The tide is right, the omens are good, and all the locals are predicting inclement weather in the next day or two. If we don’t go on this tide, we might not go at all.”
“Sounds just fine to me” grumbled Fronto, feeling another heave of his churning guts on the way.
“Did you have any of that ginger and mint?” Galronus asked lightly.
“Like I could keep it down if I did” snapped Fronto.
“Your sister said it was the only real remedy. You should at least try it.”
“Piss off. And could you all stop eating stinking fish near me. Can’t you naff off down the bow with the grunts to eat that muck?”
“This?” enquired Galronus with a grin, waving a lightly-cooked headless fish at Fronto, who immediately leaped to the rail to empty his stomach yet again.
“Anyway” Carbo said in his light, happy tone, “if I’ve got my timings right, setting off now means we should arrive at dawn. We’ll surprise the goat-humpers and give ‘em no time to prepare.”
Fronto wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and heaved in half a dozen deep breaths before turning and collapsing to the deck again with his friends. As well as Galronus and Carbo, Petrosidius, the chief standard bearer of the Tenth, and Atenos, the huge training centurion, sat in the small circle, wrapped in their cloaks against the chilling wind.
Glancing around to make sure they had as much privacy as the ship’s deck allowed, Fronto leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. The rest of the ship’s occupants were native Gauls or members of the trusted Tenth, but some things needed to be kept quiet, regardless of company.
“I’ve been thinking about our two centurion friends in the Seventh.”
“You do surprise me” muttered Galronus.
“No, I mean I think I see a way to bring something good out of this situation.”
Carbo and Atenos leaned forwards. Petrosidius continued to listen, with his head up, watching the other men nearby. “Go on” Galronus grinned.
“Well until now I’ve been thinking we need to be wary of Furius and Fabius; to keep ourselves away from them and not get caught where we can find ourselves in trouble. Problem is: if we keep doing that, we’re never going to be able to nail them for anything. Perhaps it would be better to play this entirely the other way.”
“Draw them out, you mean?”
“Precisely. With only the Tenth and the Seventh present, they might get bold enough to do something stupid. We should be encouraging that, rather than preventing it.”
“What have you in mind?” Atenos asked, frowning.
“We need to goad them… to push them to breaking point so that they snap and go for it.”
“But how?”
Galronus grinned. “Just be yourself, Marcus. It appears that your very existence annoys them deeply.”
The legate shot the cavalry officer a sour look, but he found himself nodding anyway.
“Irritatingly, you might be right. I am the only one who could maybe wind them up enough to break them; and they already have it in for me anyway. I’m fairly sure they’ll relish the chance to get another crack at me. So the question remains: just how do I wind them up to that extent?”
“That’s easy” Petrosidius shrugged. The signifer, sitting bareheaded with his wolf-pelt on his knees, had been so quiet that Fronto had almost forgotten he was there.
“Go on.”
“Well the Seventh’s eagle bearer, Sepunius, happens to be an old friend of mine, and he tells me that Furius and Fabius have pretty much taken it upon themselves to act as Cicero’s personal guard and escort. Apparently his tribunes are a bit put out that two centurions seem to have more influence than them, but the pair have such a brutal reputation that no one’ll confront them about it.”
“I’ve noticed this.”
