Priscus saluted and, rather inexpertly, wheeled his horse before riding off in the direction of Galba and the Twelfth.
Fronto rode down toward the woods that were now green and lush in the early dawn light.
Finding Longinus on a slight rise with a good view of the woodland, Fronto reined in beside him.
“Would you like to do the honours? If they surrender, they’ll be put to work cutting trees and otherwise unharmed.”
Longinus nodded and rode down to the edge of the woods.
Fronto took a heavy breath and wheeled, riding off toward the Tenth.
Reining in on the mud-and-blood-churned plain close to where the Tenth were roping prisoners together at the ankle, Fronto raised his voice and called over the mass.
“Pomponius. centurion Pomponius, report.”
Gaius Pomponius, the Tenth’s chief engineer stood and stepped forward from where he was teaching a legionary to tie a specific knot.
“Sir.”
Fronto dismounted. Walking the horse down to where Pomponius stood to attention, he gazed thoughtfully out over the river.
“Walk with me, Pomponius. And for heavens’ sake come down from attention. You’ll rupture yourself standing like that, and I need you at the moment.”
Pomponius smiled and fell into step beside Fronto, his hands clasped behind his back, clutching his vine staff of office.
“What can I do for you sir?”
Pomponius was a young man for a centurion, remarkably young to have achieved such an office. He had joined the Tenth not long before Fronto, and the legate could remember the Tenth’s previous chief engineer receiving his honesta missio, and the promotion of the young and endlessly enthusiastic Pomponius to centurion. Still, there was no denying that he was good at his job. He seemed to have a knack for military engineering, bordering on an art form.
“Pomponius, how many bridges have you built?”
Pomponius scratched his mousy ruffled hair.
“I dunno sir. Maybe six or seven temporary pontoon bridges and three more permanent wooden structures.”
Fronto smiled. He could remember nine pontoon bridges and four wooden ones himself, and his memory wasn’t that good.
“What’s your opinion of this place for a bridge?”
As they reached the shore, Pomponius knelt, took a boulder and hurled it out into the river. It disappeared with a satisfying ‘plop’.
“Somewhere between nine and twelve feet deep in the centre. About fifty feet wide. Current on the surface is negligible; current below is probably quite strong. Good wood nearby. Can’t see it being a problem. We’ve got three legions’ worth of engineers and a lot of helpers.”
Fronto cast an appraising glance at the young engineer.
“How long do you think, given enough labour and three legions’ worth of experts?”
Pomponius scratched his chin and looked about.
“I would think half a day, working at a full pace. The men won’t be fit for a full day’s march straight after that though, not after being up most of last night.”
Fronto smiled. “You let me worry about that, Pomponius. I want you to gather all the engineers from all the legions together and start planning a bridge here. I’ll get Priscus and Longinus to sort out all the prisoners as labour for you, and in about twenty minutes all three legions will be reporting to the you and Priscus at the waterfront. Do your stuff, centurion.”
“Yes sir.”
Pomponius left, rubbing his hands together in a business-like fashion.
* * * * *
The rest of the army arrived just after noon. Caesar rode in the vanguard, with Crassus and the staff officers. Balbus rode at the rear with Crispus and the Eleventh, who came along behind the other two legions as rearguard. It irked Fronto that Crassus and Caesar still seemed to be treating Crispus as an inferior, and only Balbus deigned to join him. They all, to Fronto’s mind, looked far too rested, eager and healthy. While he stood on the hill waiting for the general to reach him, he glanced quickly back down toward the river. The three legions of whom he was about to relinquish command looked like peasants, slaves and lowlifes. Only the centurions and the small groups guarding the prisoners while they worked were wearing their armour. They were covered in mud and sweaty, mostly stripped down to their waist. The difference was vast, though with good reason. The three legions beside the river had managed only about three hours sleep in the last thirty. On top of this, they had marched at high speed into a battle and then immediately begun to construct a bridge.
The crossing was well underway by now. The huge timbers that had erstwhile been some of the largest trees in the riverside woodland now stood vertically in the river, planed straight and flat-topped and stretching out most of the way across. The first of the horizontal beams had just been nailed and roped in place, and a unit of legionaries was bringing flat slats across from the woods in large numbers now. Most of the materials had now been cut and were being shaped and put in place. Three units of legionaries stood on hastily-constructed rafts in the middle of the river, placing beams and piles in place, their rafts roped to the banks on either side and held in place by captive Helvetii. It looked barely started to Fronto’s inexpert eye. He had quizzed Pomponius over it about an hour ago, and the young engineer had replied “With respect sir, you know nothing about bridges. We’re about four hours from complete if work continues at this pace. Let us do our job.”
Fronto had given up at that point and gone up the hill to wait for a sign of Caesar and the army.
The vanguard came to a halt at the top of the hill before Fronto, while the Seventh, Eighth and Eleventh Legions continued on down the hill toward the river.
Ahead of Caesar in the vanguard came Crassus, who drew his horse to a halt in front of the grimy legate of the Tenth and sniffed.
“Your men are a state, Fronto. A disgrace.”
Fronto’s eyes widened. As the colour crept into his face and he struggled in his tired state to formulate an appropriate reply, Crassus merely wheeled his horse and rode away. Caesar nimbly slipped from his magnificent white steed and landed lightly in front of the legate.
“Alright Fronto, you got your way. I’m here.”
He snapped his fingers and reached out behind him. A staff officer passed him the standard that Fronto’s army had recovered.
Gesturing at Fronto with it, the general continued.
“I know you know what this is; otherwise you wouldn’t have sent me it. Tell me everything you know and what you have planned.”
He began to stride purposefully down the hill.
Fronto jogged for a moment to catch up and then fell into step beside him.
“We caught maybe a quarter of the tribe on this side of the river. They must have been ferrying their men across for days in their little boats. We’ve got prisoners now and we’re using them to help build a bridge. We should have the thing finished by mid afternoon, and I figure the entire army could be across the river and in close pursuit of the Helvetii by dusk.”
Caesar stopped suddenly, and Fronto had to pull himself up short, as he almost kept walking.
“Also, we’ve searched all the tribal baggage we captured and have found a wealth of items that have been taken from Roman military hands. Some of it’s directly attributable to the army of Lucius Cassius. Most of it’s of indeterminate origin, though it seems very likely that all of it comes from that source. I think you could say that Cassius is avenged, sir.”
Caesar frowned and looked down toward the baggage train.
“The Helvetii may have destroyed Cassius’ army and murdered the man himself, but it was one of their cantons; their sub-tribes that was directly responsible: the Tigurine. The standard that you captured was of that people. I want to confirm this with some of the surviving prisoners.”