Fronto was shaking his head as he looked out across the flow. “I’ve seen bridges built across currents like that. Even across a narrow river, the pressure on the piles will be immense. Given the length of a bridge across this, the whole thing will just disappear like a pile of kindling before you can even get near the far bank.”
“I had no idea you had such a grasp of engineering, Fronto” Mamurra smiled.
“I don’t. I have a fear of bridges folding up underneath me and plunging me into deadly rivers. You surely can’t be considering this? I get seasick, you know.”
Mamurra had already turned his attention back to the water.
“It will require the piles to be driven in deeper than anything I’ve ever attempted, and they will have to be driven in at an angle to counteract the current. The structure will have to be built in sections, one trunk-length at a time, each section consolidated and completed before moving on to the next. We will slowly inch our way across the river.”
“Not slowly” Caesar said quietly.
“Turn of phrase, Caesar. Two weeks should be sufficient.”
“A week.”
“With respect, Caesar, remember my stand on feasibility? One week: unfeasible. Two weeks: feasible.”
“In a week I want to be on that far bank ravaging the enemy and earning the thanks of the Ubii. Bend your will to it and drive the legions as hard as you must.”
“The first time a drifting tree trunk comes down that flow from upriver and hits one of your piles, the whole damn thing is going to collapse” Fronto grumbled. “I don’t care how much you angle them, it won’t help.”
“A fair point, Fronto. So we need a separate set of piles a few yards upstream, driven in just as heavily, but only just protruding from the surface. They will be more secure and solid and should stop any drifting debris from striking the piles of the bridge.”
The engineer’s face took on a happy glow.
“Such a structure will be the envy of the civilised world. I wish we had the time and facilities to add concrete supports. But even in timber, if well-tended, it could stand for several lifetimes.”
“It will be torn down before winter” Caesar said quietly. Mamurra stared at him.
“Caesar?”
“We are on a punitive mission. I want a safe, secure, and speedy way of transporting the army across the Rhenus and back, and a simple route for resupply while we campaign on the far bank. But this is a temporary advance and I have no intention of leaving behind us a simple method for the enemy to cross the river and repeat their occupation. Once we have given them something to think about we will be tearing down the bridge.”
In other circumstances, Fronto would have laughed at the struggle and conflict in Mamurra’s expression; faced with the opportunity to build something unique and astounding, and the knowledge that it would later be torn down and vanish from history. Tetricus’ face would have been just the same.
“All things being equal, I think I’ll let a few dozen wagons and an ala of cavalry cross the finished work before I test it with my own weight” Fronto grunted, seeing the emphatic nods from Labienus.
“The far bank” Caesar noted, gesturing with an extended finger, “is Ubii land. Theoretically their alliance with us should protect us from aggression by other more dangerous tribes until the army is fully marshalled on the eastern side. Theoretically.”
He turned to Labienus.
“Titus, I want you to take command of the Seventh and Fourteenth once the final section of the bridge is underway. Despite the Ubii’s alliance, we will take no chances. As soon as the last section is crossable, even before all the boards are in place, you will lead your two legions across, along with two alae of cavalry and two of the auxiliary missile units. You will set up a bridgehead and send out patrols while the rest of the army is marshalled.”
Labienus’ face fell and Fronto couldn’t help but notice how Caesar had saddled him with the ‘bad egg’ Seventh and the disfavoured Fourteenth.
“We will, of course, have to set up a general guard over the bridge to maintain security for our supply lines while we work on the far side. I think…”
He stopped mid-sentence and the rest of the officers turned to follow his gaze. A rider was cantering down the slope towards them, dust kicking up in clouds behind him.
Fronto watched as the man approached and slowed before reining in his horse. Despite the state of the rider, he looked oddly familiar. The man wore the broad-striped tunic of a senior tribune and the leather smock with the pteruges normally seen beneath a cuirass. A career soldier, then, and a senior officer.
“Pleuratus?” Caesar said in surprise as the man swung himself down from the beast’s back and stamped his feet for a moment, allowing his circulation to return. Fronto shuffled a few steps to his left to where Priscus was standing gazing out over the water with a thoughtful look.
“Pleuratus?” he whispered, leaning close.
Priscus looked round in surprise. “Senior tribune of the Ninth last year. Reassigned over the winter outside my jurisdiction.”
Fronto frowned for a moment, his mind furnishing him with a different picture of the dusty, tired-looking tribune. Neat and clean, well-shaven and clad in a toga. He was entirely unsurprised when the man spoke and his words carried the twang of a Greek-speaker.
“Apologies for my appearance, Caesar. I bear a missive from Rome for you.”
Caesar narrowed his eyes as Pleuratus proffered a sealed tablet. Taking it, he snapped the seal and opened the letter, his eyes running down the text as the tribune stood, breathing heavily and shaking slightly from what appeared to have been a long and fast ride.
An expert at reading Caesar’s moods, Fronto saw the tiny flicker of annoyance pass across the general’s eyes, while his countenance remained stony. Without a word, Fronto stepped behind Mamurra and Priscus, out of Caesar’s direct view.
“A Taurus emblem?” Caesar said, quietly and with cold anger. “A damn bull? Is the man an idiot? I should employ donkeys instead of men.”
Suddenly aware that his officers were standing in a half circle, silently waiting, Caesar took a deep breath. “Thank you, Pleuratus. Make your way back into camp and get yourself cleaned up and fed. I will have to ponder on my reply for some time before sending it.”
Pleuratus nodded, saluted, and reached up to the reins of his tired, placid steed that had been calmly munching on the rich grass. Turning the beast, he walked slowly and gratefully away towards the camp. Caesar frowned for a moment and then lowered his gaze and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I fear I have a headache coming on. Gentlemen, we will reconvene when Mamurra has all his measurements and plans. For now: dismissed.”
The officers began to scatter, going about their business, and Fronto watched for a moment before striding up the slope, passing the others and catching up with the tribune and his weary steed.
As he approached, the man looked round at the noise and, spotting Fronto, nodded a greeting. The legate fell in beside him and matched his tired pace.
“Pleuratus. I remember you. You came to my house last year from Illyricum with Caesar.”
“Yes. It was not the most friendly of meetings, if memory serves. I fear that we were over-haughty and unused to your ways, while you were not prepared for our uninvited intrusion.”
Fronto shrugged.
“I was probably having a bad day.”
“You were hung over. But then, after a year in Gaul, I have to admit to waking with a thumping head more often than used to be the case.”
Fronto paused for a moment, trying to work out whether he should be taking offence at the words. Deciding it was probably a gesture of equality rather than an insult, he smiled.
“You were assigned to the Ninth last year” Fronto said. “But not this year? Strikes me as a bit demeaning? A tribune on courier duty, I mean.”