Cicero’s face fell stony and the man gave Baculus a hard look.
‘Tomorrow is the Kalends, centurion.’
‘Yes sir. And respectfully, today is not.’
Cicero bridled, but the senior, broad-striped tribune beside him looked distinctly uncomfortable and Baculus realised he had an ally there. The man cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, legate, for the sake of one day…?’
Cicero rounded on his officer.
‘Yes, tribune, we have the supplies to last ‘til the kalends. Possibly even an extra day or more. But think beyond today. The forest of Arduenna is huge. There is every likelihood that the army will be considerably delayed in returning… if they haven’t run into trouble and been slaughtered within its mass! We might be sitting here for weeks yet, awaiting their arrival. Just because the general said they’d be back tomorrow does not mean they will be. Anything might happen. And what do we do if we fail to replenish supplies and then we find ourselves under siege? What if the Belgae take exception to us and try to repeat their successes of last winter? How long do you think we will hold them off with enough supplies to feed the men four meals each?’
The tribune fell silent, though he was clearly still unhappy. Cicero turned to Baculus again.
‘And the sick, I might add, are a huge drain on supplies and resources.’
‘We’ll try to be less sick and wounded for you, sir.’
‘That’s enough of that kind of talk!’ snapped Cicero. ‘I have here Caesar’s baggage train and I will not let it or the wounded fall into enemy hands. It’s one day. We need to be fully stocked with vittles. What use is a supply train of weapons, equipment and booty if we starve protecting it. The forage party will only be going a few miles and will return before dark. Five cohorts can look after themselves without the walls for a few hours. Stop panicking, centurion, and get back to your cot, where you belong.’
Baculus’ eyes widened and his twitch jumped more and more below the left lid.
‘Five cohorts, sir? That’s half the bloody legion!’
‘Watch your tongue when you address me, centurion,’ snapped Cicero.
‘There’s always the civilian sutlers, sir,’ threw in the senior tribune, and shrunk back as the legate cast a look of daggers at him.
‘What?’ Baculus frowned.
‘The natives have set up outside the ditches in the hope of selling us the goods,’ Cicero sneered.
‘Then buy them from them!’ Baculus suggested in amazement.
‘Their prices are extortionate, and they are merchants from tribes we have already beaten this year in campaigns. I am not about to take the hard-won booty from Caesar’s wagons and give it back to the men from whom we took it in the first damn place.’
‘We could just take it from them, sir?’ suggested the junior tribune.
The other tribune, Cicero and Baculus all turned to the young man, shaking their heads. ‘It would violate Caesar’s peace agreements,’ Cicero said quietly. ‘But I won’t put coin in their pockets,’ he added, turning back to Baculus with a flinty gaze.’
‘I’ll stand the damned cost, sir,’ Baculus growled, ‘if you’ll just buy from them.’
‘You?’ Cicero laughed.
‘You might be surprised how much I could scrape up, legate.’
‘Get back to your sick bed, centurion,’ Cicero glowered at him. ‘If you are still here when I have counted to ten, I will give your cot to someone deserving and have you escorted instead to the stockade. That is a final order.’
‘Legate…’
‘One.’
‘This is endangering…’
‘Two.’
‘Caesar will…’
‘Three.’
Throwing a sour look at the legate, Baculus turned with a rough salute and marched off down the steps and around the gathering forces on the parade ground.
‘Moron!’ he grunted as he strode back to the barracks, wondering where his full kit was stored. He had the horrible feeling it might be needed soon.
* * * * *
Galronus reined in his horse and gestured for the cavalry prefects to join him. Among their number and wearing a bleak, sour face, was Basilus.
‘What do you make of that?’ he asked. The prefects peered off into the bright landscape.
‘Looks like cavalry,’ one of them said quietly. Galronus rolled his eyes at the man. ‘I too am capable of counting legs and dividing by four. I know what they are, but who are they, do you think?’
‘Natives,’ Basilus said quietly, his voice broken and lost.
Galronus nodded. ‘Belgae, I would say. But I think I can see Roman banners. Anyone confirm or deny that for me?’
One of the others, squinting, straightened with a nod. ‘That’s the vexillum of the Twelfth, sir.’
‘You’ve got damn sharp eyes,’ Galronus said with a smile. ‘But I think you’re right. Them or the Thirteenth, anyway. Let’s go see what’s happening with them.’
The cavalry raised their own Roman vexilla to display their allegiance and began to move down the slope at the woods’ edge, on a course to intercept the second column, which was perhaps half the size of Galronus’ force. As they descended, the other column paused, taking time to identify them, and then changed heading towards the slope.
Reining in a few hundred paces away, the commander of the second force saluted, and Galronus returned the gesture, coming to a halt alongside him.
‘Gaius Volusenus Quadratus, officer commanding cavalry of the Twelfth, Ninth and Thirteenth legions.
‘Galronus. Commander of the Second wing and various associated units. Where are you bound, Quadratus.’
‘Cicero’s camp,’ the Roman smiled wearily. ‘For the love of Venus, it’s good to see you.’
Galronus answered with a frown and an encouraging nod.
‘I know: we’re heading the wrong way. Problem is, we were heading north ahead of the infantry to let the legate know that the army was inbound, when our path was blocked by the biggest force of Germans I’ve seen in years, all heading north and singing battle songs. Too many for us to take on, so we skirted round them. I was hoping to get to Cicero and warn him they were coming, but they move fast, these buggers, and I’m sure they’ll be there well ahead of us.’
‘We’re on our way to hook up with the army, too,’ Galronus nodded. ‘Seems like our forces just joined. Let’s see if we can get to Cicero before the Germans. Hope his ditches are deep and his walls high.’
Quadratus nodded and turned to his musicians and signifers. ‘Send the orders. We move at speed for the camp.’
Chapter Eighteen
Camp of the Fourteenth Legion.
Lucius Primillus yawned and leaned on the palisade top, his eyes locked on the swathe of darkened grass that lay between the fort’s multiple ditches and the treeline and its array of dull, dun-coloured tents with braziers and flickering campfires. The intermittent moonlight, dusted by constant drifting shrouds in the night sky, and combined with the sutlers’ firelight, played tricks on the eyes. He had become sick of second-checking the shadows that appeared to be moving demons and flitting shapes, but were simply moon or fire light, interrupted and eerie.
He was tired.
By his reckoning, he was not fit for duty. Dragged from his sick cot by the watch centurion, he’d initially been grateful to be away from the miserable, sarcastic Primus Pilus who’d been convalescing next to him seemingly forever, but now he was standing at the wall, he realised just how weak he really still was. And his bowels ached…. Oh how his bowels ached!
The legate, Cicero, had sent out half the legion on foraging duty and, because of the manpower limits imposed upon him, had been through the hospital lists like… like… like whatever it was that had been going though Primillus’ guts for the past few weeks. He’d selected a large number of the convalescent — some said two thirds of the sick list — and overridden the medicus’ outrage, splitting the men into two groups to supplement both the forage party and the fort’s guards.