Fronto’s own nervousness began to increase alongside his men as the miles slipped by until, after perhaps two hours further sailing, shadowed by the growing army of Celts, a call went out from Caesar’s trireme and the fleet began to converge again.
The cliffs had been gradually falling away for the last twenty minutes and, ahead, they finally descended to a low, flat beachy area. Beyond, nothing but dunes and low hillocks marred the easy ground as far as the eye could see. Even Fronto, whose nerves were beginning to twang they were so taut, could see the sense in reaching this terrain before attempting a landing.
Another call rang out: the order to beach and, as the ships of the fleet angled towards land, Fronto’s eyes flicked repeatedly to the shore, as did those of many of the ship’s occupants. A large force of native warriors had begun to assemble at the rear of the wide beach, with more arriving on the scene all the time.
The Tenth’s legate leaned on the rail at the bow and watched as the land came ever closer, Caesar’s trireme closing up on their right as another big merchant vessel moved into position on their left. The noise became cacophonous: a crescendo of shouting, horn calls, whistles, cries of alarm and more. The sailors of every ship bellowed their commands, keeping the fleet in line as it approached. The commanders of the troops aboard shouted orders to their men, falling in each century ready to make landing. Somewhere below, Galronus’ horse neighed and cried nervously.
On land, the chariots had come forward and were now racing up and down the beach, daring the Roman invaders to land. Each vehicle was drawn by a pair of horses, harnessed with sturdy leathers to a lightweight chariot that was little more than a wood-and-wicker wheeled fighting platform. Each chariot was driven by a half-naked warrior, his body painted with whorls and designs, his wild hair whipping about in the wind as he rode the traces, reins clutched tightly in each hand. The sheer skill and dexterity of these men as they leapt about between the horses while controlling the chariot would put to shame any professional at the circus in Rome. But despite the phenomenal sight of such activity, Fronto’s eyes were drawn to the figures on the chariots themselves. Each vehicle carried but one man alongside the driver and each man was clearly a leader or a powerful warrior. They were all fully clothed, mostly armoured with mail shirts or bronze plated chest-pieces, and helmeted in the most elaborate way, with plumes atop many. Some warriors carried a shield visibly similar to those held by the legionaries — if a little smaller — painted with bright designs and sometimes the images of wild animals. Most carried a long, gleaming sword, held aloft in a triumphant fashion, and all gripped spears in their off-or-shield hand.
There were enough of them to fill the beach and endanger each other as they passed and turned, churning up the sand and throwing sheets of it into the air to the whoops of the crowd of warriors and cavalry behind them.
More and more detail became visible as the ships of the Roman fleet closed on the sand.
Fronto gritted his teeth and watched.
The legate’s first indication that there was a problem was when he received a dazing blow to the forehead from the heavy timber hull at the ship’s bow. Shaking his head in confusion, he untangled his legs and hauled himself back to his feet to a background of calls of alarm and the crash of dozens of mailed men in chaos.
The ship had come to a dead halt, the sudden loss of momentum catapulting those at the rail into the solid timbers and sweeping almost every other man on board from his feet. Hauling himself up and ignoring all the shouts and hollers around him, Fronto peered over the rail. Concentrating hard, occasionally, though the foam and the distortions of the waves, he could see pebbles.
“We’ve run aground!” he shouted, immediately aware of how obvious the statement was. The triremes around them were still ghosting forward, but the Celtic ships, with their deep hulls were all falling foul of the gentle submerged slope, slamming to a sudden halt and throwing the centuries of men to the deck in a tangle.
Whoops of delight and derision rose from the beach. A few enterprising archers among the Briton tribesmen rushed forward and released a shot over the heads of the charioteers. While none of the missiles actually reached the ships, odd ones hissed into the water close enough to cause alarm.
With the swift reactions one would expect from the experienced commanders of the Roman vessels, the triremes slowed their advance toward land and began back-oaring to the same distance as the beached Celtic vessels. Galronus frowned at the manoeuver and looked across at Fronto next to him.
“Why are they pulling back?”
“Two thirds of the fleet are these big bastards that won’t get to the beach. If Caesar lands he’ll only have a third of his troops with him. It’d be suicide.”
Galronus shook his head in disbelief. “A landing thwarted by four feet of water? Someone’s going to lose their balls for misjudging the slope of the beach.”
“I don’t think so” Fronto shook his head. “It will have been Brutus and the trireme’s captain, but Caesar will have made the decision. The big question is: what do we do next?”
Almost as if to answer his question calls began to issue from the trireme, from the general’s personal cornicen, calls that were relayed by other musicians until the sequence of notes rang out across the fleet.
“That sounds like the advance!” Galronus blinked. “But not quite.”
“That” Fronto said flatly “is the order for the Seventh to advance.”
“But the Seventh are mostly in the same position as your Tenth.”
“Yes.”
The legate was suddenly aware of the presence of his primus pilus by his elbow. “Is the general losing his wits, sir?”
“No. He’s ordering the Seventh to attack the beach.”
“But there’s four or five feet of water down there if not more. And why not us? The Tenth are more damn use than the Seventh any day.”
“But the Seventh are dispensable as far as he’s concerned. He won’t risk losing the Tenth, but the Seventh are full of the former Pompeians, dissidents and anyone who rings a warning bell. That’s why they were chosen for this campaign. The Seventh are here to take the shit thrown at us and the Tenth are here to mop it all up and support the general.”
Galronus lowered his voice and leaned closer to Fronto. “You realise this is the perfect trigger to kick off a row between Cicero and Caesar?”
“If Cicero’s nearby, yes. But look at the circumstances. The wrong call here could cost us hundreds of lives; thousands even. Hardly worth the risk, I’d say.”
“Oh crap.” Though the shout came from one of the soldiers back across the deck, and was immediately followed by the crack of an officer’s stick across him for speaking out of turn, the call drew Fronto’s eyes inexorably back to the beach and the waiting Celtic horde.
The archers among the force were moving between the chariots and towards the edge of the water, nocking arrows as they ran.
“If they start to fire and we’re still beached, we’re in real trouble.”
“Where are the Seventh then?” asked Galronus, his eyes playing across the many vessels drawn up opposite the beach. “I can’t see anyone advancing.”
“They’re not” said Carbo. “It looks like their officers and men are refusing the order to advance.”
“Someone’s got to do something” Galronus frowned. “If we just sit here the archers will start killing people any minute.”
A series of notes issued from a ship two vessels to their left and, glancing across, Fronto could see a trireme flying the vexillum of the Seventh legion. Cicero’s ship.
“That’s the rally call. What the hell is he up to?”
Rushing across the deck, Fronto leaned over the port rail. He could only just see Cicero’s trireme over the bulk of the Gallic ship between them. Certainly the likelihood of anyone hearing him was negligible.