“And on the left.”
Now the ships were coming close enough to land that Fronto found his head beginning to crane upwards gradually to see the occasional movement at the cliff tops.
“Shepherds?” muttered Galronus.
“Too many. And at this time of the morning, that many people up there can only have something to do with us. I think Carbo was wrong about us surprising them.”
As if to confirm his suspicions his attention was drawn back to their immediate surroundings as the water nearby made a ‘plopping’ sound.
“What was that?”
His question was answered instantly as an arrow disappeared into the water only twenty yards from the bow with another plop. Glancing up, Fronto could now see dozens of figures standing perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Even as he watched, more arrows began to arc out from the land and plummet toward the advancing ships. His eyes followed one of the shafts down and into the waves just off to the right. A moment later something small and heavy that could only be a sling shot plopped into the water.
“Back!” he yelled. “Err… reverse! Back! Retreat.”
Turning from the rail, he began to wave his arms, motioning the ship’s crew to pull the vessel back out of range.
“Get us out of range of those missiles. They could kill half of us before we land.”
The sailors were now rushing in a panic, trying to slow the momentum of the vessel, while turning her, ponderously. Fronto watched, his nerves twanging, aware with some irritation that Caesar’s trireme, which had encountered the same reception and had decided on the same course of action, simply reversed their stroke. It was a difficult task and took master sailors to pull it off as smoothly as they were doing, but the effect was to move the trireme out of danger considerably faster than the slow arc taken by this great cow of a ship.
A scream echoed across the morning water from the left. The other Gallic ship had begun to turn and slow a little later and had already come within range, some poor sod becoming the first casualty of Britannia before even touching its soil.
As if to remind Fronto of the more immediate danger to himself, another arrow scratched a line across the timber at the prow of the ship as it whizzed past and into the water.
“Faster, damnit! They’ve got our range.”
But the ship had slowed considerably now and even as Fronto held his breath the prow began to come round, angling towards Caesar’s vessel and then away, bringing them out of range of the arrows.
A horn blast rang out from the trireme, calling the fleet to converge on the general’s position. Slowly, the Gallic vessel closed on Caesar’s ship, others turning as they approached. Fronto’s gaze slid back to the cliffs that were now slipping away on his left hand side. He’d be willing to swear that the number of small figures on the cliff tops had doubled since they’d arrived only a few minutes earlier.
Waiting patiently, Fronto watched the trireme as they closed on it, and finally identified Caesar standing at the rail, gesturing to him. As soon as he judged he was within shouting distance, Fronto cleared his throat and took a cold, deep and salty breath.
“A warm reception, general.”
He couldn’t quite make out the expression on the general’s face.
“What…. landing…. bay….. think?” called Caesar. Fronto waggled his finger in his ear, cupped his hand around it meaningfully and shrugged. Behind him, the ship’s crew slowed the vessel as it approached the trireme, careful to avoid interfering with the oars that drove it.
“I said” yelled the general, “what are our chances of landing in that bay intact, do you think, Fronto?”
“Virtually nil!” he shouted back. “If they could hit us out at sea with those arrows, they could just as easily hit us on the beach. We’d be cut down like wheat before we could move inland.”
“Agreed!” Caesar bellowed as the figure of Brutus appeared alongside him.
“We have time to decide, sir” the legate of the Eighth called. “It will be a few hours yet before all the stragglers reach us. Besides, we could do with waiting for the afternoon tide, to avoid falling foul of rocks on the coast.”
The general paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Very well. Can you still hear me Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll gather here and let the fleet assemble out of missile range. Then we’ll move up the coast to the northeast, looking for a better landing spot. We need somewhere gentle enough to land safely, and wide enough that we cannot be prey for archers as we are here.”
Fronto gave the general a sour look. “Or we could just turn around. Volusenus sailed this coast for five days and found it inhospitable enough to not even try to land.”
He could sense the general’s irritation, even without being close enough to make out his expression. “If you’d studied the map, Fronto, you would have seen that there are long stretches of lower coastline in both directions. We will find a suitable spot this afternoon.”
“I only hope half of Britannia isn’t waiting for us by then” Fronto yelled. “The population up on those cliffs is growing all the time, and I think I can see horsemen up there now.”
“The entire population of Britannia would hardly be a worry for my veteran Tenth, eh, Fronto?”
Grimacing at the general, Fronto reached up and caressed the bandy-legged figure hanging around his neck, his eyes straying to the growing force arrayed on the cliff top and awaiting them.
The fleet had gradually assembled over the morning and into the early afternoon and by the time the cool sun had passed an hour beyond its zenith the sea to the south was clear of shapes. Shouted reports and commands from ship to ship had come up with a roll-call figure that was only four ships short of the fleet that had left Gesoriacum, though whether those four were safely back in port or decorating Neptune’s triclinium remained to be seen. The very thought sent a chilly shudder through Fronto every time he considered it.
At some time part way through the afternoon, Brutus and his captains had announced that the tide was suitable and would remain so for a while, and the fleet began to move again, calls going out from musicians aboard Caesar’s vessel. The mass flotilla turned slowly and proceeded up the channel, keeping the forbidding cliffs on their left and staying safely out of arrow shot. Fronto had lost count of the number of times he’d thanked the Gods that the Celts seemed to have no interest in the development of artillery. The idea of a stone-throwing onager up there just didn’t bear thinking about.
Regardless, the mass of Britons at the top of the cliffs had grown constantly during the wait, to the point where it could now only be considered an army. As well as the large number of horsemen that had slowly gathered, there were also fast moving shapes that could only be chariots. It looked to Fronto as though the tribes of Britannia were gathering to prevent the Roman ships landing, as was almost certainly the case. So much for Caesar’s allies, hostages and so on.
Though the weather remained dry and relatively bright, the sky was still scattered with scudding and drifting grey cloud, the sun providing little heat to take the chill from the sea air. A nervous tension had begun to set in among the men that Fronto could feel without seeing or hearing anything specific. The men were growing increasingly unhappy.
Nervous eyes had fallen on the cliff as the ships ploughed their way up the channel in search of a safe harbour in which to land. The force of barbarians moved swiftly and easily along the coastline, following the cliff tops and dipping down into each narrow bay, keeping pace with the Roman fleet with little difficulty, a worryingly large force of cavalry and chariots leading the way.
No matter how easy the landing place Caesar chose, the Roman forces would encounter strong resistance in setting up a beach head.