“We have to pull back. There are hundreds of them.”
“As soon as we have the bridge secured, sir.”
Fronto watched with desperate impatience as the men hurried about the business of nailing and roping the section down.
“They’d better be bloody quick. We’re going to lose a lot of men if we stay here.”
Even as he spoke another worker shrieked and vanished over the side into the roiling water, an arrow protruding from his neck. A grunt from the shieldwall announced a glancing blow.
“This is nothing, sir. You wait til we start the next section and we come into proper range.”
Fronto shook his head in anger. “We can’t have the men work under these conditions. It’s not viable. Can we maybe have a missile troop drawn up here to clear out the far bank?”
Two more screams sounded as men collapsed to the ground, writhing and groaning.
“No good, sir. We can’t fit an archery unit on here while the men work around them, and if you just put the archers up here and try and clear them out, they’ll just disappear into the woods and wait until an easy target turns up. They’re barbarians, but they’re not daft.”
Fronto reached out and pushed a man’s shield back into place.
“Stop paying attention to us talking and keep that bloody shield in place!” he snapped and, turning back to the centurion. “Well, we’ll have to do something. We’ve got to clear those archers out if we want to finish the bridge.”
One of the legionaries bellowed from the side that the section was secure and the centurion smiled grimly.
“Sound the defended retreat. Shields up until we’re at least twenty yards along the bridge. Then you can run!”
Fronto turned, feeling the slight give in the boards underfoot, and fell in with the legionaries as they beat an ordered retreat along the bridge, workers picking up their shields and blades as they moved, joining the defensive lines.
A dozen yards further and the last arrow fell a long way short of the men, the enemy fire ceasing and leaving just the eerie patter of rain on the timber. Fronto looked around the sullen century of men who stomped alongside him, five casualties being helped along and two dead carried by their companions. At least two more had disappeared beneath the surface of the Rhenus.
As the rain spattered his face, Fronto nodded in answer to his own silent question. There was only really one solution to the problem.
Chapter 10
(The Rhine)
Fronto held on for dear life as the wood clenched in his whitening fingers bucked and spun.
“Whose stupid shitty idea was this?”
“You really need an answer to that, sir?” Atenos grinned from the front of the low, flat boat where he stood boldly in a pose reminiscent of the great Colossus, seemingly uncaring of the lurching of the vessel with every churning trough or peak of the roiling surface. The rain, now a constant sheet of water, battered their forms, pinging off the metal of their armour and soaking into every inch of clothing.
“I shouldn’t have come, though. You could quite easily have done it without me.”
“I think it’s better that you did, sir, in the end.”
Fronto looked up from the rail and noticed the huge Gaulish centurion’s eyes flicking meaningfully past him to the rear of the boat. Trusting in Fortuna and releasing one claw-like hand from the boat’s hull, Fronto turned, his gaze taking in the dozen other boats in the small, scattered flotilla before coming to rest on the figure at the rear: the object of Atenos’ scornful look.
Tribune Menenius of the Fourteenth sat alone on the bench, the rest of the men keeping away from him — possibly out of respect for his rank, though Fronto somehow doubted it. The youthful, foppish tribune looked utterly dejected and a little frightened.
Once again, Fronto cursed his luck for ending up with the ineffectual little turd as a second in command. It would be easy to blame Plancus, the legate of the Fourteenth, but Fronto knew deep down it was a symptom of having lost his Fortuna pendant.
The plan had been simple enough: to take the boats the Ubii had donated and use them to ferry a small force across, downriver and out of sight, then to move stealthily up the east bank and fall on the archers that plagued the building work.
Simple.
So simple that anyone could have commanded it.
A dozen Ubii scouts had been brought into the force, but the bulk of the expedition would be made up of the men of the Fourteenth: Gauls themselves, who may be able to pass as locals along with the scouts during the stealthy approach. So simple.
Until Plancus had volunteered to lead the mission, given that it was his men who had been selected. Fronto had suffered a momentary premonition of how the attack might proceed under the cretinous direction of the unimaginative legate of the Fourteenth. So harrowing was his mental image that he had found himself standing forward and demanding that he lead the attack, it being his idea. Plancus had been so outraged he had almost spat teeth, but Fronto was adamant; his plan, his responsibility.
And so, having tricked himself into coming along, he had added a century of his own men from the Tenth into the force, troops upon whom he knew he could rely. Specifically the men of Atenos, the first century of the second cohort, a number of whom shared the Gallic origin of their officer. It seemed the only sensible course of action.
Yet Plancus had still refused to relinquish control of his men to his brother legate and the resulting appointment had left a sour taste in Fronto’s mouth. Menenius, a junior tribune with, apparently, no combat experience, would accompany him as a second.
The tribune looked up from beneath his sodden brown cloak, feeling the eyes of the other two officers on him. He cast an unhappy glance back at them and then lowered his eyes to his feet once more, lifting his sopping boots from the three inches of water that filled the bottom of the boat — yet another thing that sent cold shudders down Fronto’s spine.
Like it or not, he was clearly saddled with this man. Gritting his teeth and holding his breath, the legate of the Tenth nodded to Atenos and stood, rocking unsteadily as he gingerly made his way along the wide, flat craft between the legionaries pressed together against the rain, rowing for all they were worth to try and stay with the other boats despite the unbelievably strong current.
With a great sense of relief, Fronto arrived at the space around the tribune and sank to the bench opposite. Menenius looked up and tried to smile. The man looked like a fish — a fish out of water, Fronto thought sourly. The legate smiled with forced sympathy at his second in command.
“You don’t like boats either?” he hazarded, well aware in truth of the cause of the man’s nerves, but offering him an out.
Menenius sniffed, a droplet of mucus forming on the end of his nose like a six year old, which made Fronto simultaneously want to wipe it away and cuff him around the ear.
“Once we land, stick close to me. Your best centurion in the unit is Cantorix. I’ve met him before and seen him in action. When I give orders, Atenos will deal with his century. You relay them to Cantorix and he’ll diffuse them as necessary among the other three centurions from the Fourteenth. If we get separated, remember the goal. Go as stealthily as you can to the bank opposite the bridge and separate out into a wide arc before you pounce, so they have less chance of getting away. Then keep moving the arc around so you can close them in against the bank.”
The look of panic that flashed across Menenius’ face only served to increase the ire in Fronto, but he held his breath and forced the patience back into his voice.
“Have you had no experience of a fight at all? You’ve been a junior tribune for more than a year now in different legions. You must have been in the battles we’ve fought?”