“Get to camp” Fabius bellowed. “Go. Get help!”
For a moment, he worried that the cart was too far away for the men to hear, despite the fact that the legion had silenced immediately at his call, stilling their swords. He watched anxiously as the two figures apparently conferred. Taking the risk, Fabius waved his arms away, gesturing for them to leave.
One or two of the natives seemed to catch on to what the centurion was saying and turned, spotting the cart several hundred yards down the track and shouting to their friends. To Fabius’ relief, the cart suddenly lurched and started to move, the two men on top almost falling with the sudden jerk.
With a roar, a sizeable group from the army of Celts raced after the cart and Fabius watched tensely as the vehicle built up speed slowly. They would never make it. Why didn’t…
Even as the notion occurred to him, it seemed to have struck the men on the cart, who were hurling the sheaves of wheat from the vehicle to lose some weight and give it an extra turn of speed. The warriors closed on them, regardless, and the two desperate legionaries began to actually hurl the sheaves at the pursuers themselves, knocking aside the nearest of them.
Fabius’ gut soured as a thrown spear caught one of the cart-riders dead centre in the chest, impaling him and throwing him from the bouncing vehicle. The scene was becoming difficult to make out now, the retreating cart and pursuers shrinking with distance, but he was fairly certain he saw the vehicle continue to bounce off down the track as the warriors came to a tired halt, pushing and shoving each other as they tried to assign the blame for letting some legionaries escape.
Fabius nodded to himself.
“That’s it lads. Help will be coming soon enough. We’ve just got to hold them for a bit.”
Even as he said it, he wondered how many of the other officers and men of the Seventh realised that the ‘bit’ he was talking about would in all likelihood be an hour. It would take probably twenty minutes for the cart to reach camp — fifteen at even a dangerous speed. It would take twenty minutes for the Tenth to come to their aid, even at a run. And there would be at least ten minutes of getting the army ready in between, calling back the workers from the woods and so on. It was distinctly possible that this vexillation of the Seventh legion would be corpses picked over by crows by the time the Tenth came to relieve them.
But it was a chance; a hope. Moreover, it was something for the men to believe in; to cling on to.
“Every man that makes it out today will go down in my book and when we get back to Gaul, you’ll all get a bonus, an extra acetum ration, and a week off duties in rotation.”
From somewhere to the right, out of sight, he heard Furius’ raised voice. “Any man who distinguishes himself in the next hour earns himself ‘immune’ status!”
There was a roar of approval from the men of the Seventh and Fabius grinned. A dead man’s boots had just given his friend a field promotion and made him effective primus pilus and commander of the vexillation. And that made Fabius the second centurion of the legion.
“Alright men. I’ve just had a ‘blood promotion’ and I’m bollocksed if I’m going to die now and give it up straight away. Lock shields and ready yourself to kill as many of these blue-skinned goat-humpers you can. Any man who kills more of them than me gets an amphora of good wine.”
Another roar of approval from the men was almost drowned out by the matching roar of the Britons who burst into a charge.
“Come on, then. Time to die!”
Fronto stood on the raised parapet of the camp’s wall next to the west gate, watching the men of the first to fourth cohorts gradually widening the killing ground around the camp by reducing the treeline into the distance. They were bringing back an almost constant supply of good heavy, solid timber that had had the bark and any extraneous branches or nubs removed and had often also been cut down to rough planks. Behind him, in the main camp and in the new supplies annexe, the men of the seventh to tenth cohorts were busy planing the new timber and trimming it to shape, carrying it around the camp and using it to continue the construction of the buildings.
While the legions did not expect to be staying here longer than another month at the most — even the general had been insistent that this punitive campaign had to be complete before the dangers of winter crossings were upon them — the construction of timber buildings had been considered not only preferable, but even necessary.
Many of the men’s tents had become rickety and leaky. Normally, these would be patched and repaired, or even replaced from the supply train. Such was not possible with the ocean between them, and a good timber building would keep the inclement weather away from the men and give them the blessed opportunity to dry out and warm up overnight.
Trying not to swear, Fronto felt yet another spot of rain ‘plip’ onto his forehead. What was it with this island? How could the druids hold this place sacred? Were they part duck? Italia was hardly free from storms, but at least the place had the decency to give its population a break in between, and when the storms came they were often noteworthy.
But this place? This place was the physical incarnation of a bad mood. Not a single day since they’d struck the beach had passed without at least a short shower to remind them that they were outsiders. Some days it never stopped raining from one dawn watch to the next. Most often it came in fits and starts, just giving the ground enough time to almost dry and deceptively clear away enough clouds to look hopeful. Then, as soon as you stepped outside, the next drizzle would begin. It was as though the Gods of Britannia were urinating on them from a great height. That was it, too: it wasn’t proper rain. Not like the torrents they’d had at the Rhenus, or the thunderstorms of Gaul or Hispania. Most of the time it was just a depressing, gentle, insistent, cloak-soaking drizzle.
It was the most disheartening climate he’d ever spent time in. For the first day or two, he’d revelled in how green and fresh everything was. But that was before he became truly aware of the price for the lush greenery. What he couldn’t understand is how it didn’t all drown!
Hopefully this would just be a short shower again and he wouldn’t have to give the order to down tools and get inside. It wasn’t that the men couldn’t work in the rain, but morale was already low enough on this side of the ocean, and making the soldiers plane wood in the pouring rain would hardly give it a welcome boost.
“Work proceeds apace.”
Fronto turned in a mixture of surprise and gloom. Caesar’s voice was very familiar and unwelcome; he’d managed to spend many days in a row now without exchanging a single word with the general. Ever since the man had launched into him concerning his perceived insubordination, Fronto had been harbouring a deep-felt grudge and avoiding the risk of pushing the beak-nosed old bastard’s face through the back of his head.
Fronto forced a smile that barely reached his face.
“We’ll have the food and cloth stores complete by the end of the day, if we work through twilight. If it’s straight down to the Tenth, two more days will see good timber accommodation for everyone. If the Seventh are done with their forays and can join in tomorrow, we should all be under a solid roof by tomorrow night.”
“Good.”
The two men fell silent and Fronto still resisted glancing at his commander. He could feel him though; feel the eyes boring into the side of his head; hear the click of the general’s knuckles as his hands rubbed and gripped one another behind his back. He’d been with Caesar long enough now to know every sign and every mood. The general was uncomfortable. Good. So he should be.