“It was not the right time.”
“Why not?”
“Either Clodius was not there, as Atia said, in which case we would have drawn a blank and made ourselves look to be the rudest of fools, or he was there and so well prepared that Atia felt safe inviting us in and it would have been tantamount to falling on our swords to even try. No. It was not the right time.”
“So what now?”
Balbus took a steadying breath and strolled across the square to the boy collecting the windfalls, flipping three copper coins to him.
“Ossus? Tell me.”
“The posh one left yesterday with two patrician types” the boy said, scratching his chin. “He’s not been back since, but nobody’s moved out all the personal stuff he moved in yet, so I reckon he’s still based there. He’s got this friend, who looks like an old soldier, but he’s so tall he looks like he’ll bang his head on the city gates. Talks with a weird accent; Greek, I think. That fella comes and goes quite often and he’s been around today. In fact, he came out of the back gate while you were at the front, with a couple of other thugs.”
Balbus nodded in satisfaction and tossed him two more coins.
“Where did they go and did you hear them say anything?”
Ossus grinned at his new acquisition. “They went that way — towards the Circus” he pointed south. “His accent’s really weird, but I heard the Aventine mentioned. That’s about it.”
“Sounds like they did head to Clodius’ house” he confirmed to the other three. “The rat has a large residence in the shadow of the circus. Like so many he considers the Aventine unlucky, so he carefully lives just below the hill, rather than on it. Cheap property, so he can live like a king for a low cost — gives him extra cash to spend on thugs and gladiators. If he’s taken Faleria there we’ll need a small army to dig her out.”
With a friendly smile, he turned back to the young lad.
“I’ve a new job for you, Ossus. It’s more dangerous, so I’ll double your pay. Find the house with the Bacchanal mural opposite the Circus and near the Neptune’s chariot street fountain. Keep an eye on the place and take note of all comings and goings again. If you see, or hear of, a lady in her thirties who looks like she might be there against her will… No — this is Clodius. If you see any lady at all — other than slaves — come and find me immediately. You got that?”
“Got it, sir.”
Balbus breathed deep again.
“We must move carefully, gentlemen.”
And yet time may well be running out for Faleria.
Chapter 18
(Caesar’s camp on the coast of Britannia)
Fronto stood on the rampart and peered out into the torrential rain as the winds battered him, threatening to knock him from the parapet and driving the downpour at an almost horizontal angle. The soldiers on the walls had taken to moving considerably slower than usual due to the extremely slippery nature of the timber walkway, which had already caused a number of minor accidents. Back down in the camp, what had begun as puddles a day and a half ago were now small lakes that reached up above men’s ankles and the grass across much of the site had now become a thick, cloying mud.
“There’s going to be too many of them. You know that?”
Caesar, standing beside him, tapped his chin thoughtfully with a finger. “How many was the estimate?”
“The scouts came up with various figures, but I’d safely average it out to about twenty thousand.”
“And we have less than ten thousand.”
“Precisely. And those men are undernourished, cold, tired and have the lowest morale I’ve seen in years. When the Tenth start to mutter and complain you know there’s something wrong.”
“Indeed, Marcus. But this could be our moment. We came here to chastise the Britons for their interference in Gallic campaigns and to make them think twice about doing so again. If we can smash their force here, we could perhaps break their spirit and consider our task complete. Then we could return to Gaul and think about wintering the troops.”
The legate of the Tenth nodded with little enthusiasm. “That’s reliant upon us actually winning, though, and I’d be dubious about wagering money even on a one-to-one basis right now, with the legions in the condition they’re in. Certainly two-to-one worries me.”
“We could still leave” Cicero muttered on the other side of Fronto, quietly enough that only his fellow legate could hear before the wind whipped the words away. Fronto ignored him, despite the sense he spoke. The two men had shared a strained relationship ever since the aftermath of the beach assault.
“We need an edge. We need to pull something out of our helmets to even the odds.”
Caesar nodded and tapped his foot irritably. “If we had the cavalry we could harry them from behind. That would make all the difference.”
“No use pondering on the ‘could-haves’, Caesar. Unless…”
A smile crept across Fronto’s face.
“What?”
“Maybe we could use their tactics against them?”
“What do you mean?” Cicero asked interestedly, leaning closer.
“These Britons are the same as the Germanic tribes we fought, and the Belgae and so on. All these Celtic peoples favour ambushes. The worst battles we’ve fought are the ones where they’ve fallen on us from the woods. Remember the Nervii at the SabisRiver? They very nearly put an end to your whole Gallic campaign. And only days ago the locals came out of the trees and surrounded a vexillation of the Seventh. But they feel safe attacking us, because word gets around. Everyone knows that Romans fight in the open ground. We like an empty field.”
“Go on” Caesar said thoughtfully.
“Horns of the bull. We array most of the army in the open before the camp, exactly as the Britons will be expecting. But they won’t notice two cohorts missing. Cicero can take his veteran first cohort out to the south, through the trees, and I’ll take mine north. We’ll get ourselves lined up in the cover of the woods to either side of the open fields and as soon as they engage your force, we’ll come out of the woods and fall on their flanks. We can do them so much damage it might even the odds for us.”
Cicero shrugged. “Why not two cohorts each? Why not come right round behind them and seal them in? After all, we need to stop them escaping like they have every time.”
“No” Fronto shook his head. “More than two cohorts makes enough of a difference in the army’s size that they might notice and suspect a trick. On top of that, on the off-chance we run into trouble in the woods, we only lose Caesar two cohorts and he can still make a try for victory with the remaining eighteen. If we risk four cohorts we risk leaving too few to succeed.”
Caesar nodded. “And while I would love nothing more than to stop them fleeing the field, it’s stupifyingly risky to trap a force twice your size with no means of egress. They are then forced to fight to the death and that makes any army twice as dangerous. If we wish to survive it ourselves, we have to leave them a way out when they break.”
He glanced around Fronto at the legate of the Seventh.
“Are your men up to it? The Seventh have had a difficult time of it so far. Perhaps Brutus can take Fronto’s second cohort?”
Cicero opened his mouth, a look of sheer disbelief on his face being quickly overcome by one of anger, but Fronto stepped forward to block the view between them and addressed the general.
“Caesar, Cicero is an able commander and his first cohort fought like lions the other day. They have a number of good veteran centurions. This is the way we need to move. We’ll be taking the primus pilus of each legion with us, so Brutus will need to take charge of the Seventh, on the assumption that you will command the Tenth, Caesar?”
He stepped back and allowed the air to crackle between the other two officers for a moment. Caesar seemed to be weighing up the situation in his head and finally nodded.