“No we don’t. The word of a legate, a signifer, two centurions and a cavalry commander carries enough weight to execute a man on the spot.”
“Not in the current circumstances” Atenos cautioned. “Bear in mind how well known your enmity toward them is. Whatever the truth, most of the army will think it was simply a setup by us. Legate Brutus and tribune Volusenus will both be present across the water. If either of them was to witness the attempt there could be no doubt over the truth, and no comeback.”
“Think we can arrange that?” asked Fronto quietly.
“I think we’ll manage.”
“Alright” the legate said, clapping his hands together purposefully and then pulling out his ‘Fortuna’ amulet and rubbing it between his fingers. “Now all we need to do is make it across thirty miles of Styx-water in an unfamiliar ship, at night, in a storm, with only the divine protection of a small Gaulish trout-woman with bandy legs.”
The sun had been up for perhaps fifteen minutes when the call issued from the bow of the ship. Fronto heaved himself up from his sodden blankets, crusty salt deposits giving a white sheen to the grey wool. The night had been the worst Fronto could remember. Fortunately, his memories of it were blurred, scant and confused, given the amount of time he’d spent wrapped in his blanket, shivering and trying to shut out the world.
Despite Carbo and Galronus’ assurance that the conditions, while foul, were not enough to capsize or wreck the ship, the legate had remained unconvinced and had shut himself away from all the horror around him.
There had been two rainstorms during the crossing, neither of which had apparently been particularly disastrous; not enough to cause concern among the sailors anyway. The officers had their leather shelter to retire to, but to Fronto it merely appeared to funnel the wet, salty wind into a bone-chilling draft that left the blankets almost as wet and cold as those of the troops laying wrapped up on the open deck.
The weather had seemingly broken sometime after Fronto had collapsed into a worried, exhausted sleep, and the shout of sighted land roused the legate to a world of bright skies, scudding clouds and calm sea, though the chill in the air and the faint aroma of damp belied the image of a summer morning. Gulls whirled overhead, shrieking and crying their welcome to this, the island of the Druids.
Galronus was already standing at the rail with Carbo and Atenos when Fronto staggered towards them, his legs weak and finding trouble with the rolling of the ship.
“For the love of Juno!”
Galronus turned to the approaching legate and nodded. “Impressive isn’t it? My father visited Britannia when I was a young boy and told us of this coast. I always thought he must have embellished a little. It would appear not.”
Fronto dropped his elbow to the rail in a space between the others and goggled at the white line approaching them. The cliffs must be three hundred feet or more in height for, even at this distance, more than a mile out, they could be seen to tower over the water, rising and falling as small bays opened up along the line. The morning sun caught the white chalky surface straight on, creating a blinding ribbon of white.
“I think I can see why Volusenus stayed on his ship.”
The three men around him nodded sagely.
“I take it we’re at the front of the fleet, then? I would have thought Caesar’s ship would have stayed ahead of us.”
Carbo pointed off to one side. A trireme rose and fell with the waves some quarter of a mile to their right, its shape distinctive even at that distance. Half a dozen other ships could be seen scattered across the water between and behind them. Dots on the horizon suggested that the rest of the fleet was some way back. The general had chosen to travel in one of the less stable Roman ships, rather than a Gallic trader, as befitted a praetor.
“The trireme is Caesar’s I can see the red banners.”
“You’ve got better eyes than mine.”
Carbo smiled. “I did a rough count of the ships within sight as soon as it was light enough. I could see roughly half the fleet. I’m very much hoping that the two storms separated us and slowed many vessels down. I’d hate to think that an entire legion’s worth of ships ended up turning back or, worse still, at the bottom of the sea.”
Fronto shuddered. He had trouble imagining a worse fate.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes according to the sailor I spoke to” confirmed Galronus. “Caesar’s ship seems to be angling towards us. I suspect we’re heading for that dip there.” Fronto followed Galronus’ pointing finger and spotted a bay, slightly wider than the others, nestled between two particularly high sections of cliff.
The legate leaned over the rail and smiled faintly. They were almost across. He’d not been sick since the previous evening, but then it was difficult to see how there could be anything left inside to bring up. A quick probe of his torso confirmed his suspicion: that he had eaten so little since arriving at Gesoriacum that his ribs were now quite prominent through his tunic. He resolved to eat like a horse — possibly even to eat a horse — once they were safely on land.
The calm water raced by along the hull of the strong Gallic ship, the low waves picking up a little in intensity as they neared the cliffs, though nothing compared to those they’d experienced during the night. Looking up and ahead once more, Fronto couldn’t help but be impressed by the wall-like cliffs that protected the Druids’ isle from the clutches of their enemies. Already, while contemplating his weight loss and the intensity of the waves, the ship had covered half the distance toward the sheltered bay and the cliffs that loomed ever higher.
“Well. Time for me to get to work” muttered Carbo, pushing himself back and smacking his vine staff against his bronze greaves. His face shone almost luminously pink, the morning cold and the sea air accentuating his already ruddy complexion. Turning, he began to bellow out orders to the other centurions, optios, signifers and men of the Tenth, calling the present centuries of the legion to stand to ready for disembarkation.
Fronto smiled at the efficiency of his men and then turned again, resting his chin on his folded arms upon the rail until the rocking motion threatened to set off his guts again. Caesar’s trireme was closing on them now, keeping pace, as was another Celtic ship to the far side. Those behind were doing their best to put on an extra turn of speed and catch up with the vanguard of the fleet.
Atenos grinned at him and left to attend to his duties. Galronus, on the other hand, had no duties yet; his cavalry turma was scattered around the fleet wherever there was room.
The cliffs rose sharply from the bay with a flat landing area not more than five hundred yards across between the slopes. Trees crowded in the dip and a wide expanse of woodland was visible stretching back behind, the forest starting only a few hundred yards from the edge of the water. As he watched, Fronto began to discern the trails of wood smoke from at least a dozen buildings somewhere close within the woodland. Clearly this bay housed a settlement, shrouded by the trees.
The heights, by comparison, seemed denuded, the white walls topped by a narrow line of green that suggested rolling grass above, dotted with only the occasional struggling, wind-blown tree.
“Stand to. All hands stand to.”
Without need for the issuing of commands, the Gallic sailors began to haul on ropes and busy themselves with the sail. Calls were put out in the language of the Gauls, and the ship burst into a bustle of life. Fronto turned back to face their destination, ignoring the activity. He could hardly care less about the details that were required to make a ship work.
Something ahead drew his attention, though.
“Did you see that?”
Galronus frowned at him. “What?”
“On the cliff. Movement on the top. There it is again.”
The Belgic officer turned his furrowed brow to the coast and squinted. “I see it. On the right-hand cliff: scattered movement.”