Caesar nodded. “For once I agree with you, Cicero. We have no confirmation of the identity of those who attacked us. Quite simply our intelligence on the tribes of Britannia is not complete enough for us to make any solid guess as to who we were dealing with. Barring a few coins with unfamiliar names found upon the bodies, they could easily be from any tribe. All those who have entreated me claim to have had nothing to do with the clash at the beach, though it seems unlikely that they are all quite innocent. We have accepted their offerings, but I want this encampment fortified, regardless. I want the army on constant, full alert, and the ships under guard.”
“They’re probably trying to buy time” Fronto said, trying to keep the anger and resentment from his tone.
“Possibly” the general acknowledged. “Without a sizeable cavalry force we are effectively blind and relying on the few patrols commander Galronus can manage, and otherwise on the word of potentially treacherous natives and simple hearsay. The entire island of Britannia could be forming into an army over the next hill with a thousand druids for all we know. Thus I want the alert high and maintained.”
Cicero swallowed and took a deep breath. “Forgive me for reiterating, Caesar, but I can still only advise that we return to Gaul. You said it yourself: we’re effectively blind. We have no idea what’s coming. And while we sit here and wish the cavalry would arrive, the weather is turning inclement. I can appreciate that a chastisement of the tribes that supported the Veneti against us would be a good way to instil a respect for Rome, but we can hardly punish the wayward tribes of Britannia in these conditions. Returning is the only sensible course of action.”
The general’s gaze rose slowly to Cicero and came to rest there, carrying the full force of Caesar’s scorn.
“For the very last time, Cicero, there will be no return to Gaul until I am satisfied that we have achieved what we came to do. If you so much as mention this again, I will consider confining you to the ships with the Briton hostages. Am I understood?”
Fronto glanced across at his fellow legate to see Cicero’s speculative look being flashed back at him again. Damn it! He’s still sounding me out against the general and… Fronto ground his teeth, horribly aware that he was starting to find Cicero’s stand somewhat seductive.
“Very well” the general said quietly. “The two legions will set about fortifying the camp. We have rations with us for today and tomorrow only. So tomorrow we will have to examine the situation and look at foraging for more supplies. For now, though, we concentrate on consolidation and defence.”
Caesar’s eyes passed around the tent and fell upon Galronus.
“All with the exception of your good self, commander.”
The Remi officer remained silent as the general leaned over the table before him, unrolling the map that had been amended by Volusenus. Further detail had recently been added, charcoal marks and text scribbled across it. Pinning the rolled edges down with wax tablets, Caesar pointed to a place deep in the heart of the island, almost at the far edge of the map from the marked landing site.
The officers all took a few steps forward to peer at the map.
“This chart has been given some extra detail by our hostages. We appear to be largely surrounded by tribes that I consider untrustworthy and that historically have links with the Veneti and other Gallic troublemakers. There are one or two tribes in the island that have long been supporters of Rome, at least since the subjugation of the Belgae.”
Fronto noticed Galronus’ hands clench irritably at that last phrase and felt sympathy for his friend. Now was not the time for confrontation, however, and Galronus clearly recognised it.
“With respect, Caesar, I have become very familiar with your language, but I am still a relative novice with your written words.”
Caesar nodded and tapped his finger on the word ‘ATREBATE’.
“These are the Atrebates. They are a Belgic tribe within the heart of Britannia, closely tied with their namesake around Nemetocenna. They are one of the very few peoples on this island in whom I have any confidence of support and this is the supposed site of their main oppidum, called Calleva. They will supply us with the cavalry that we are lacking, I am certain.”
“That’s a hundred miles away, Caesar” Brutus said quietly.
“Yes. A long way, and through potentially dangerous lands. No Roman would make it there, I’m sure. Perhaps one of the Belgae, though…”
Galronus nodded slowly.
“It is possible, Caesar. We would have to travel fast and light.”
“Agreed. How long do you think it would take?”
Galronus tapped his lip, glancing across the map. “Four days each way. Plus allow a day for errors. We are entirely unfamiliar with this land and could easily find ourselves off course.”
“And that is catering for the safety and wellbeing of your horses?”
“Yes, general. Four days and the horses will be comfortable.”
“Then push them a little. Make it three days each way. And I will allow the Atrebates two days to assemble their forces for me. That is a week in total. Can you do that?”
“The horses will be strained, but it is possible, Caesar.”
“Do it. As soon as we adjourn here, I want you to take most of your turma of cavalry and bring me the Atrebates. Leave us only half a dozen horsemen for scouting duties.”
Galronus saluted and stepped back. Fronto could see the strain in his friend’s face as the Remi officer had bitten off his argument over the safety of the horses.
“Alright, gentlemen. Let us get down to the detailed planning.”
Fronto started awake at the call for the dawn watch, his uncomfortable cot almost folding up beneath him as he rolled across to sit on the edge and rub his knee, blinking bleary eyes. Four days had passed since Galronus had taken his riders and disappeared to the west to track down the Atrebates. In that time he’d spent most of his free time alone. Carbo and Atenos were almost constantly busy with their duties and, despite recent revelations and attitude changes, he still felt uncomfortable with the idea of inviting Furius and Fabius to socialise with him. Besides, they would likely be as busy as his own centurions. And Brutus was the almost continual companion of the general.
The next morning he’d geared up to visit Caesar and discuss the matter of the tribunes with him, but had come to the conclusion that he really did not feel well enough disposed toward the general at the moment to visit his on personal terms.
And so he’d busied himself with the daily routine of a legate, such as it was in a time of tense uncertainty. The Seventh had been given the task of foraging for food in the area and were not making a bad job of it, while the Tenth had been tasked with the cutting and retrieval of timber and the construction of extra defences and a few timber buildings.
The drumming of heavy rain on the leather roof of the tent soured his mood as it had done each of the past three mornings.
The weather had gradually worsened since the rains began. There had been but a few hours of dry here and there; not even long enough for the ground to dry out. The sun had hardly shown its face at all and when it had, it had been a pale white watery thing behind a veil of grey.
Yesterday, though, had seen a turn for the worse. A storm had hit in the late afternoon and had continued to ravage the coast into the night as Fronto had wrapped up tight in his wool blankets and eventually fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, dreaming of warm afternoons in the lush vineyards near the family’s estate at Puteoli.
This morning sounded little different from last night’s unpleasantness, apart from the notable absence of the thunder.
While the half dozen timber and wattle structures that had been hastily constructed had been put aside for the food, wool and linen supplies, and for the armoury, Fronto was starting to consider moving his cot in there and sleeping among the grain or the armour.