“But Caesar doesn’t?”
“Correct. Unless we get a lot more useful information at Gesoriacum — and that looks exceedingly unlikely if this lot are any indication — the general’s going to send a scout across to check it out. Hence: Volusenus.”
“Still don’t know him.”
“He’s senior tribune of the Twelfth. Distinguished himself at Octodurus apparently. Anyway, he’s apparently got history with ships, so Caesar’s planning to send him across to Britannia in a bireme to fill in the gaps in the knowledge and clear up any points that we’re not certain of. Can’t say I envy the poor sod. But I’ve had to have everything ready for him on the assumption that, as soon as we reach Gesoriacum, he’ll be off to explore.”
Fronto glanced down at the desk and noticed for the first time the hastily drawn map of the Gaulish coastline, marked out in charcoal on a piece of expensive vellum. A short distance from the town marked ‘GESORIACVM’ a wavering line of grey denoted the coast of the land of the druids: Britannia. A shudder ran through Fronto which chilled him to the bone.
“No. Can’t say I envy him either. But then we’ll all get the chance soon enough. In three days we’ll be at the coast. Then we’ll just have time to recover and shave before Neptune gets to drag everything I’ve eaten for the last two weeks out of my face and make my life a living Hades.”
As Priscus took another pull on his drink, Fronto gazed across the map, trying to decide what would be worse: the journey or the destination.
Gesoriacum was everything that Fronto feared it would be: maritime-obsessive. Absolutely everything about the place was centred about its mercantile shipping, its port and its fishing industry. The whole place smelled of dead, landed fish and brine — a fact that had caused Fronto’s first vomiting session before they’d even clapped eyes on the rolling waves. He could remember a time when he’d enjoyed fish as a meal and slathered the ‘garum’ fish sauce from Hispania over everything he ate — not so now.
The population seemed to consist almost entirely of fishermen, fish-sellers, fisher-wives, retired fishermen relying on their fisherman families, and inns with names like ‘Drunken Codfish’, ‘Thundering Barnacle’ or ‘Jolly Fisherman’. It was almost as though the Gods had set out to create a native settlement perfectly designed to keep Fronto at maximum smelling distance.
The army had camped on the high point at the landward side of the town, forming a solid fortification that loomed over the native settlement, with a commanding view. The increased altitude and distance from the docks were the only reason that Fronto had remained a pale grey-pink colour for the last week, rather than tipping into the grey-green tone he’d gone whenever he’d had cause to visit the waterfront. At least on one such visit he’d managed to secure a new ‘Fortuna’ pendant from a merchant. It looked decidedly like a bandy-legged Gallic fishwife to Fronto, but the merchant had been insistent that it was the Goddess of luck. Somehow he’d rested a little easier wearing it, for all its misshapen ugliness.
Barely had the legions begun the ditches and ramparts before the veritable army of native fishermen, traders and opportunists had descended on the camp, drawn by promises of a healthy reward for any pertinent information they could supply concerning the land of the druids across the ocean. Their idea of pertinent had apparently differed greatly from Caesar’s, and many had left the camp with a scowl of discontent and empty pockets, glowering at the newly arrived and heavily armoured soldiers that reminded them so heavily of the armies that had passed by this way a year before, ‘pacifying’ the north coast.
A few interesting titbits had floated to the surface though, two of which had helped mollify the dreadfully unhappy Fronto: Firstly, three different men, all of whom had good credentials, had confirmed that the centre of druidic power in that horrible island was more than a fortnight’s travel to the northwest. This was welcome news to every man in the army. The druids had caused enough trouble in Gaul; their religion, power and practices were still largely unknown and frightening, and Britannia was the home of that power. To know that the chances of an encounter were so distance-dimmed was a great consolation.
Secondly, the most warlike of the native tribes all lived in the north of the land. While those tribes to the south could be expected to be every bit as dangerous and duplicitous as the Gallic, Belgic or Aquitanian tribes; the talk had always been that the worst tribes of Celts had lived in Britannia. Nine-foot-tall cannibals with painted bodies, supposedly — reports delivered by enough trustworthy scholars that it was hard to refute. But to know that these tribes of monsters lived far in the north made a southern coast landing a little less worrying. Even Caesar, who had denounced such descriptions as preposterous, had donated generously to those visitors who had confirmed the vast distances between the south coast and these awful dangers.
Other details had come out too: the nature of the coast, with its intermittent areas of unassailable cliff and the location of several strong rivers; the swampy areas that lay along the coast to the north, and the names of a number of local tribes.
All in all, the information had been interesting and some of it of use, but little was detailed enough to warrant adding to the map of which Caesar and Priscus kept tight control.
And so, within half a day of their arrival and at the most favourable tide, tribune Volusenus, whom Fronto had finally exchanged a few words with — largely ones of sympathy — had boarded a small, fast bireme that had come up the coast from the anchor point of the Gallic fleet, and had sailed off into the endless waters and the unknown.
Two days later the rest of the Roman fleet that had been raised the previous year on the orders of Brutus hove into view and anchored at the southern end of the town.
Since then the army had settled in to wait. Fronto had deliberately moderated his drinking — a move made all the easier by the fact that not a day passed without his having to find a quiet corner in which to be sick — and had very carefully avoided any possibility of bumping into either centurion Furius or tribune Menenius, though each for entirely different reasons.
And now, with a week of misery under his belt, Fronto stood leaning on the fence of a horse corral, breathing deeply; the cavalry pens and the latrines were the only places outside mealtimes where the stink of fish disappeared beneath something else.
“Fronto!”
Taking a deep breath of horse sweat and dung to keep him going, Fronto turned at the familiar voice. Priscus stood in the main road between pens, his hands on his hips.
“Whassup?”
“Time to come and get involved.”
Fronto shook his head. He’d been ordered to attend the first two of the general’s interminable meetings but after putting out a flaming brazier with a stomach full of bile last time, he’d been excused further attendance. He simply could not understand how the rest of the army endured the constant stench of brine and dead fish.
“I’m not required” he replied.
“You’ll want to be there. Volusenus is back.”
“What?”
“Landed ten minutes ago. He just came into camp to give his report. I’m gathering all officers.”
Fronto nodded and heaved himself away from the railing and the smell of horses, bracing himself for the fresh waves of fish he caught as soon as the wind brought it wafting up. While he could still get away with not attending, to hear a first-hand account of their destination was an invaluable opportunity.
“Lead on.”
Caesar’s headquarters tent was already thronging with officers when Priscus and Fronto fell in at the back. The Tenth’s commander took a deep breath of sweat and body odour combined with the fumes from the four braziers and coughed.