Cantorix grinned. “A centurion doesn’t get enough leave, does he? Shall we toss a coin?”
Fronto shook his head and tried to reach past them for the mail shirt now being proffered by the legionary. The two centurions leaned towards each other, blocking him off.
“My duty, I think” Cantorix grinned. “The Tenth have reputation to spare, but the Fourteenth never seem to get the glory.” Atenos looked hard at him for a moment and then nodded.
As the centurion from the Fourteenth grabbed the shirt and pulled it over his large, muscular frame, covering his own mail that glistened red with the blood from his earlier wound, Fronto looked helplessly at Atenos.
“This was my plan. I’m not going to let anyone else grab the shitty end of the stick.”
“Tough, sir.” Atenos smiled. “Get that shirt off, sir, and get in the centre. If this works, you’ll need to be around to organise the defence until the bridge is finished.”
Fronto opened his mouth to argue, but the look on the centurion’s face was adamant and he simply nodded and began to peel off the heavy, wet armour. Next to him, Menenius had already divested and passed his mail shirt to an enormous Gaul, who was having trouble struggling into it.
A minute passed in tense expectation as the last of the armour was transferred and men fell into their assigned places, allowing for the fact that they would not be able to consolidate into the wedge properly until they left the woodland. Finally, the archers in the clearing seemed to have come to the end of their patience and occasional arrows whizzed into the woods, burying themselves in timber here and there. Fronto smiled grimly to himself. Every shot they took lessened the chances of that man being able to shoot during the charge.
“Are we all ready?” Cantorix waved and gestured for everyone to settle into their final positions. “As soon as you pass the last tree, get as tight into formation as you’ve ever been. I want you all to be able to feel the breath of the man behind on your neck. Tight and fast, then break as soon as we’re there.”
The men murmured their agreement. Fronto looked around from his position in the midst of the unarmoured centre, grumbling at his secure and unadventurous place. He couldn’t see Atenos or Menenius in the press, nor Cantorix, though he could hear the centurion at the head of the wedge.
“Go!”
And suddenly he was running, along with everyone else, his concentration now fully on the men around him and the forest floor, watching for treacherous branches or bumps that could foul him and ruin the formation, aware of the weakness of his knee with every painful click.
A sudden image flashed into his mind of a legionary being beaten within an inch of death on the orders of centurion Fabius for tripping in manoeuvres and fouling his unit. He’d been so outraged by the man and now, as he ran, barely missing a tangled root with his left foot, he felt that perhaps…
Angry, he pushed the thoughts away and concentrated on the run.
Arrows were now coming thicker and faster. The sounds of them thudding into trees were fewer and farther between, while the sounds of them crunching into mail or the screams as they punched into flesh were all more common. Here and there an archer was casting aside his bow, the string now ruined, and drawing a sword.
The stygian gloom of the woodland gave way to the pale, misty grey of the clearing and the men closed formation as only legionaries could, Fronto finding himself so tightly packed in the press that he could hardly move.
A tense heartbeat, and there finally came the expected sound: the collective twang and rush, whirr and zip of countless arrows being released simultaneously. Another single heartbeat and the result manifested in the screams of dozens of men and the inevitable slowing of the wedge. Three more heartbeats and the front of the Roman unit seemed to meet the archers, the sounds ringing out eerily through the swirling mist.
Fronto lurched, tripping on a body that had fallen in front of him and his eyes momentarily ran across it, almost certain it would be Cantorix, only to see a legionary he knew not, three arrows jutting from his face, chest and belly. He must have been one of the front men, though, to take three shots. Fronto found that he was praying subconsciously to Mars that Cantorix made it, despite the fact that such a notion was ridiculous.
Two more heartbeats and the press opened up in front of him, men veering off as assigned, moving left and right along the line of archers. Somehow, strangely, Fronto found himself staggering to a halt with no enemy to fight.
Turning this way and that, he peered into the barely-penetrable gloom, the rain hammering at him and plastering the tunic to his torso. It seemed that the archers had broken and routed as soon as they realised they couldn’t stop the Roman force. In the subdued fog of rain, he could hear the sounds of fighting off to the left and right, but here there was no one, apart from a few legionaries looking as lost as he; a few wounded, staggering with an arrow in the thigh or clutching one jutting from an arm.
Turning, he looked back toward the barely visible treeline. Bodies littered the ground between here and there, the grisly graveyard disappearing into the mist. A lot of men had died there, but it appeared that they had completed the mission. The bridge site was safe for now.
Rubbing the excess water from his hair, Fronto looked around for a centurion, optio or tribune, but saw none. He would have to pull them together and get down to the river. This was unlikely to be the last they would see of the barbarians before the engineers reached this bank.
“On me!” he yelled. “Re-form!”
Time to establish a bridgehead, somehow.
Chapter 11
(East bank of the Rhine)
Fronto walked across the grass toward the approaching men, legionaries looming out of the mist like some sort of demon horde, grinning maniacally at having survived such an insane charge. Many of them, he noted, carried some trophy of their kills, the Gallic legionaries of the Fourteenth tending toward the more grisly. It was not something that Fronto particularly approved of in the aftermath of battle but it was hardly unknown, particularly among the Celtic peoples, and he could hardly chide them for such a petty thing after their brave sacrifices.
“Any officers among you?”
Two figures stepped out ahead of the men returning from the east, a centurion and, Fronto was pleased to note, the optio who had saved his life at the farmstead. Behind them, a cornicen and a signifer came striding forth, the standard bearer dragging a wounded leg.
“Over here” called a voice from behind, and Fronto turned gratefully, to see the figure of Atenos appearing from the mist in the direction of the river.
“Anyone seen Cantorix or Menenius?”
No one spoke, and Fronto felt the leaden certainty in his gut that the centurion had not made it. The front man of a wedge never did. Rarely did the front third, in fact. Menenius, on the other hand, was in the press of safer men at the back. They would turn up soon enough, whatever had happened to them.
“Right. I want pickets stationed all around the edge of the forest. The men with the best eyesight and hearing, and those who can whistle loud enough to be heard half a mile away. Atenos? I want you and this musician and standard bearer down by the water. Get the duty centurion’s attention on the far bank. When you can get him onto the bridge to speak, let me know and I’ll come talk to him.”
Atenos nodded and, the two signallers falling in at his shoulders, jogged off to the river.
“You” Fronto pointed to the centurion he didn’t know. “Set up the pickets.” The man saluted and began scouring the surviving legionaries for the best men, hooking them out with a beckoning finger.