he’d intended to speak to Cita about new boots, for some reason he’d never got round to it. Damn Lucilia and her need to rearrange him! His old boots would have kept him nice and dry.
Deciding against armour, he quickly threw his baldric over his shoulder, letting the gladius fall into place at his side, and grabbed his cloak, wincing at the chilly dampness of the wet wool. Choosing not to enfold himself too tightly in the unpleasant garment, he held it over his head to shield the worst of the downpour and, taking a deep breath, ducked through the entrance again and out into the pelting rain.
Now, parties of men had been organised, running down toward the beach and the landing site with tools or carrying armfuls of pre-planed timber. Having crossed the water with only the lightest of supplies, there were far fewer tools and nails among the legions than would normally be the case.
Centurions were yelling at their men and Fronto spotted Brutus in the downpour also making for the beach.
“Trouble with the ships?”
Brutus glanced around in the rain, finally recognising the figure of Fronto cowled beneath the sodden cloak. The young legate of the Eighth shook the excess water from his hair and ran a hand down his face and neck in a futile attempt to dry them a little.
“So I hear. Come on.”
The two officers jogged down the grassy path toward the beach, out through the gate of the twin-legion fort that had been constructed, across the short no-man’s land, and then in through the separate fortified enclosure that surrounded the fleet’s landing site.
Such was the limited visibility in the torrents of water that it was not until they had reached the pebbled surface of the beach that the two men began to make out the shadowy bulks of the ships protruding from the seething waters. Legionaries were hard at work, waist deep in the sea, while centurions and optios bellowed orders from the beach. A contubernium of eight men held a huge leather sheet up as a shelter while others crouched beneath with tinder, kindling and the least soaked wood they could find, totally failing to start a fire over which they could melt tar for the caulking of seams.
It took Fronto only a moment to spot Furius and Fabius standing close together on the shingle. The former was bellowing at a soldier so loudly and so close that it looked as though the legionary might fall over under the blast of abuse. Fabius was frowning and scratching his head. As Fronto gestured to Brutus and strode over to them, the legionary scurried off to correct whatever he’d done.
“What’s happening?”
The centurions looked up in unison and saluted the two senior officers.
“Problems with the ships.”
“Like what?”
“All sorts. A lot of those Gallic ships that hit ground first have sprung a few leaks. They must have been damaged when they hit, but we’ve only found out about it now because the storm’s wrenched them free and they’ve started to fill with water.” Furius shook his head in exasperation. “Should have seen that coming.”
Fabius pointed out to the north and Fronto could just make out a mess that looked like a ship-collision. “Several of the triremes were also damaged in the storm. They were ripped free of their anchors and smashed into each other.”
Brutus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sounds like a disaster. Will we salvage everything?”
“Too soon to tell yet, sir. Maybe half the ships in total are letting in water to some extent, though some are worse than others, of course. We’re working to secure the better ones first in case we have to cut our losses.”
“Bloody wonderful” Fronto raged. “That’s our ride home compromised. I’m really beginning to side with Cicero on this. The man might be defying Caesar at every turn but on this matter, I think he’s right. This entire campaign was a fool’s errand.”
Brutus turned to his fellow legate. “How cramped would you say we were on the way over?”
“I wouldn’t have wanted many more on our ship…” he caught Brutus’ serious and worried gaze and thought hard. “Space-wise we could probably fit half as many again, though it would be very cramped.”
Brutus nodded. “I was picturing a similar figure. And we can bear in mind that on the return journey we won’t be carrying the supplies we did on the way here. Also, and I know it sounds callous, but we lost about sixty men in the landing. That’s almost half a ship’s worth of passengers. So by my reckoning we could just about manage to ship the whole army back with two thirds of the vessels.”
“I suppose so” Fronto admitted unhappily, remembering the unpleasant crossing and trying to imagine how it would feel with crowded conditions added. “Don’t like it, though.”
“Would you prefer to winter in Britannia?”
“Shit, no. I’ll
Brutus cast a glance up and down the beach, trying to take stock of the grey bulks rising from the waves, some of which were clearly moving far too freely for comfort. Wiping the dripping water from the end of his nose, he turned to the two centurions.
“Find Marcinus. He’s a centurion in your legion who served with Pompey against the pirates. I’ve spoken to him and he’s got a remarkable grasp of naval matters. Get him to survey the ships as quickly as he can with some help and separate out those that can be saved and those that can’t. Then get to work tearing apart those that are lost and use their timbers, pegs and caulking to repair the rest. It’ll be ten times as fast as cutting and planing the timber to fit and manufacturing the caulk. We sacrifice the bad to save the good, like a surgeon.”
Furius and Fabius saluted and turned to go about the work as the young legate smiled at Fronto, rubbing the back of his neck and shuddering at the cold rivulets of water running down inside his tunic.
“That ought to save enough to carry the army at a push.”
Fronto nodded unhappily, unable to shake the image of two hundred men pressed almost back to back in a small vessel among the buffeting waves — horrible.
This campaign was rapidly turning into Fronto’s least favourite military action of all time. He was willing to face any human or even animal enemy in the world, but when their enemy appeared to be a combination of the elements, the Gods and their own leaders’ bad decisions, what army stood a chance?
“Let me know what happens. I will be in my tent.” Glancing back at the roiling, heaving waves and the broken ribs of some of the ships he shuddered.
“And drunk” he added.
Rufus peered out from the timber-floored walkway above the gate in the new defences that surrounded Gesoriacum. The legion had done itself proud, digging a good ditch and raising a mound and palisade, clearing the woodland for almost half a mile around the settlement to provide the necessary timber. Despite the unpleasant conditions, visibility was reasonable now. No enemy could easily get near the defences without plenty of warning.
Not for the first time in the past few days he wished word would arrive from the other legions out there under the command of Sabinus and Cotta. It was almost as if that unpleasant ground mist that had resulted from the inclement weather had swallowed whole anything that left Gesoriacum. Not only had there been no word from the other legions, but the cohort he’d sent off to track down the missing supply train had now been gone long enough to be worrying. At a forced march, which was what they were intending, they should have reached Nemetocenna and returned by now with news.
So no sister legions. No news of the supplies and now no news from a vanished cohort. Add to that the mysterious disappearance of the cavalry’s fleet and it was starting to feel very nerve-wracking indeed. Moreover, two days ago, Varus had ridden east with half of his cavalry wing in an attempt to locate and bring back the missing legions.
It had reached a point where Rufus was baulking at the thought of even sending out short patrols in case they disappeared into the mist and never returned.
The optio commanding the gate’s guard gave him a nervous look and he hadn’t the heart to admonish the man for showing his worry in front of the men. Every man in Gesoriacum felt the same, and Rufus was very aware of the fact. A wary, nervous silence covered the entire town, including the civilian settlement, as though they knew something was coming. Rarely was a local face even to be seen in the streets now.
“Carry on. Send word the instant there’s any news” he commanded, somewhat redundantly — there was little doubt that word would come at a run if anything changed. The men patrolling the walls were a little too thinly-
