“And you” he gestured to the optio. “I want a work party to gather every last Roman body they can find, as well as the casualties, and bring them down to the river bank, and then I want a full headcount of who we have left. How many men, officers, signallers and so on.”
The optio saluted and Fronto gave him a weary smile. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Vitiris, sir. Chosen man of the…”
“Centurion, I think” Fronto interrupted. “Just make sure you live long enough to requisition the crest from the quartermaster.”
As the men moved off, assigned to either work parties or picket duty appropriately, Fronto limped wearily down toward the river bank, making for the call of the Roman cornu he could hear. Now that the rush of battle-induced adrenaline had worn off, the ache in his knee was becoming unbearable. Pausing and reaching down, he ran his hands over the joint and was momentarily taken aback by just how swollen it was compared with the right knee.
Grumbling and muttering about the effects of age, he limped across the grass, wincing occasionally.
Here, the river bank rose above the flow with a drop of some four or five feet into the roiling, seething waters; a good height for the bridge to make landfall. As he approached the bank, he could see the figures of Atenos and the signallers on the turf.
Once more brushing the excess water from his hair and shaking his head to clear as much as possible, Fronto limped over to them.
“Any luck?”
The big Gaul turned and smiled, pointing across the water. Fronto followed his gesturing finger and squinted into the sheeting rain, picking out the image of human shapes approaching on the bridge. The small party of half a dozen men reached the truncated bridge end and gathered there. Fronto half expected to see Caesar, but the general hadn’t come yet. These were the officers currently on duty at the bridge site. The legate stepped as close as he dared to the drop into the water and cleared his throat.
“Centurion? Can you hear me?”
The distance-and-rain-muffled voice of the officer called back “Just about. That legate Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“Thank Juno. We were starting to worry.”
Fronto, his voice hoarse from shouting into the rain, took a deep breath. “We’ve destroyed the archers and routed another force, but we’re still in danger and poorly equipped. Can you send over some equipment for us?”
“Of course, sir. We’ll fire a rope over by arrow and set up a ferry from the bridge. What do you need?”
“Everything. Have someone fetch our helmets, shields, pila and everything else. It’s all stockpiled ready. We could also do with a few archers if they feel up to hand-over-hand-ing it across a rope?”
The centurion let out a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do sir. You sit tight while we get the ball rolling.”
Fronto turned and breathed deeply.
“Soon as it all arrives, can you get it distributed appropriately?”
Atenos nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“I’ll be sat on a rock somewhere hoping the bottom half of my leg’s not about to fall off.”
Atenos grinned. “If he’s still alive, there was a capsarius in my century. I’ll look into it and if he’s here, I’ll send him to find you.”
Fronto nodded and wobbled off across the grass in search of somewhere solid to sit down that wouldn’t churn with mud. Men were beginning to make their way into the clearing, carrying the bodies of the fallen and supporting those too wounded to walk on their own. It was somewhat disheartening to ponder on the numbers, but then the assault had apparently been anticipated, which had rendered their mission considerably more dangerous and costly than expected. Exactly how the enemy had known they were coming was still a mystery, but the more he thought on the ambush at the farmstead, the more he was convinced that someone had tipped them off. Presumably the Ubii.
Fronto’s eyes widened as a familiar shape loomed out of the seething white rain-mist.
Cantorix could hardly stand, and was being gently carried along by two legionaries. Fronto noted without surprise the stumps of arrow shafts jutting from his right shoulder, left hip, right arm, and both legs, apparently all broken off when he fell to the ground, driving them deeper in. He was deathly pale but grinning through a mouthful of blood.
“Looks… looks like we got ‘em, legate Fronto.”
Fronto tried to stand, but the strength had left his knee.
“You look in a sorry state, Cantorix.”
“Didn’t have time to shave, sir” the centurion grinned, spitting a wad of clotted blood to the turf.
“Don’t you dare die on me now, centurion.” He said, smiling back, but only half-jokingly.
“I have no intention of dying, sir. I’m owed a couple of weeks’ leave.”
Fronto sighed and stood slowly and awkwardly, favouring his right leg, as the legionary ran across the sodden grass towards him, splashing up crowns of water with each heavy step.
“What’s happening?”
The legionary came to a stop and saluted. “The outer pickets to the east have spotted movement in the woods and confirmed a sizeable force, sir.”
Fronto nodded and stretched wearily. “Tell them to fall back to the inner line at the woods’ edge. The inner pickets can come in now. As soon as they’re visible from the inner line, they’re to pull back too.”
As the legionary ran off again, Fronto turned and peered into the incessant downpour, trying to spot Atenos. The towering Gaul was organising things near the water’s edge, gesturing to groups of men who were dashing around with piles of equipment or digging the trench.
Hobbling over toward them, Fronto was impressed at how quickly things had progressed. The pickets had been in position for only two hours, but already two rope lines had been slung from the construction to ferry goods and support to the bridgehead. While the engineers and their work parties carried on the work at an impressive forced pace, Atenos had groups of legionaries preparing what resembled a tiny marching camp on this bank.
The headcount had come in and, of the four hundred or so men who had crossed the Rhenus, Fronto’s command now numbered ninety-seven, including himself and the two remaining Ubii scouts, who remained under close scrutiny on the suspicion that it was they who had warned the enemy about the mission. One mystery that niggled was the continuing absence of tribune Menenius, last seen when forming up for the wedge assault.
Of those ninety four officers and men, thirty two were posted to picket duties in four-man groups, the rest rushing around and carrying out Atenos’ commands. A ditch, currently three feet deep and three wide surrounded the site in a ‘U’ shape, seventy yards in length and almost completed was being excavated, while four men sharpened cut branches and planted them in the hollow, angled toward the enemy approach. The upcast, forming a three foot mound within the perimeter formed by the ditch, protected a scene of organised chaos within.
The capsarius who, wounded himself, had set up a small field hospital and was working manically to treat those who stood a chance of survival, had been joined by a fellow medic from the camp who had shown the gumption to hand-over-hand it along one of the ropes, and the two men dealt with a constant supply of wounds. A peremptory and none-too-gentle prod of Fronto’s knee had elicited little sympathy from either medic. Cantorix lay wrapped in a blanket, pale grey and sweating, delirious with the compounds the capsarii had forced into him. When pressed on whether the centurion would make it, both men had looked doubtful and shrugged.
Two men worked a pulley and bag on one rope, retrieving rations, weapons, entrenching equipment and, on the legate’s orders, a few jars of watered wine, and distributing them among the men as required. The other rope delivered a slow but growing supply of Cretan auxiliary archers, none of whom looked particularly enchanted with their method of arrival, but who were starting to take positions behind the low rampart, jamming their arrows point first into the ground for quick retrieval.