Leaving six cohorts of the Tenth with the army to help secure the upstream and downstream banks, Fronto had sent Carbo across the river with the First Cohort. The half a thousand men had crossed around four miles upstream, over a gentle rise and around the Liger’s curve, out of both sight and hearing of the oblivious city. Using two fishing boats they had found tied up to the bank, it had taken almost an hour to get the entire cohort across, and a further two for them to move into position as subtly as possible among the ruins of the destroyed Roman depot. Finally, as the sun was beginning to descend towards the horizon, a brief burst of smoke from a fire went up among the ruins… just a thin tendril, which was instantly cut off and smothered. So brief as to be considered a trick of the eye to a casual watcher in the city, but enough to let those who waited for it know that Carbo and his half thousand men were in position.
Then, as Caesar’s army began to move, stomping into view of the city and drawing the full attention of its residents, Fronto, his singulares, and the remaining three cohorts had begun their own advance. Every man had stripped off his helmet and mail, his shield and his pilum, leaving them in the legion’s support wagons, and fourteen hundred men in units of eighty, each dressed in their drab russet tunics and carrying only their blades, had moved to the river bank. Then, dropping to the reeds and the mud and the small fishermen’s trails that wove among the almost continual coverage of trees and bushes, they had moved towards the city. Each century, aware that even without their metalwork, discovery was all too likely, waited for the previous century to move to the limit of their sight before following. Thus over the succeeding three hours, as the sun sank ever westward, a third of a legion moved in small clumps, hidden by shadows and foliage, descending unnoticed upon Cenabum, whose eyes were riveted elsewhere, upon the seven legions who had begun to set up a semi-circular cordon around the city.
Fronto had been relieved to find that his assumption had been correct. As he reached the edge of the foliage and the trees gave way to the solid dock and a packed line of trade and fishing vessels, not a single soul was visible there, every last man having run for the safety of the city walls before the gate shut in the face of Caesar’s aggression. As the sun’s rays glorified the sky with a golden sheen, the first thud declared that a ballista had begun to find its range. Within a quarter of an hour that single thud had blossomed into a constant clatter and rumble of stones, bolts, arrows and slingshots, all pounding the city of Cenabum into panic. All the defenders’ attention had gone from the waterline, worried eyes turned towards this impressive display of threat.
At the edge of the dock, Fronto waited for the last tip of the sun to disappear below the horizon, leaving the entire dock area a playground for shades and ghosts and, taking a steadying breath, he had climbed from the steps at the end of the dock onto the nearest boat, risking perhaps three feet of open space. Once aboard, he scurried along, hidden by the sails and shipped oars, the coiled ropes and the numerous crates and sacks, and then took a quick jump to the next ship, his precious leather bag slung at his waist.
Behind him, he could see the Masgava following, and then Palmatus, and so on. The brief argument as to whether it was the job of the singulares to move ahead of their commander had been ended with a reference to their ranks alone, though both his officers were still unhappy with him moving out first. In truth, they could probably all have run openly down the dock, given how little attention was being paid to this side of the city, but the plan relied upon the bridge appearing clear and inviting, and so they took care, the thuds and creaks, bangs and clatters as they ran and jumped helpfully concealed by the general noise of boats moving in the current and bumping against the dock.
An hour after sundown everything had been in place. An entire cohort was concealed at the western end of the dock, just within the trees, and another at the east. The remaining cohort — on paper four hundred and eighty, though numbering perhaps three quarters of that through ongoing casualties and losses — was concealed among the thirty or so boats moored by the river’s edge.
The sound of over a thousand men making absolutely no noise was so oppressive that it made Fronto want to scream, especially given the simmering thirst for retribution that bubbled beneath the surface of his skin. Sitting in this floating hell of gut-churning sea-sickness after the tense hours of moving so carefully into position was bad enough, but sitting in the silent presence of eighteen other soldiers, each apparently suffering near-terminal flatulence, was really starting to wear on his nerves, and he had already chewed three fingernails down to the nub — something he hadn’t done since childhood.
His gaze took in his boat-full of men, their shapes barely distinct in the darkness — Masgava virtually invisible, but for when his eyes turned this way. His entire singulares unit and a contubernium of legionaries from the Tenth with their officer, and each one had found something. Some carried lengths of rope, others sacks, pieces of dried timber or lengths of sailcloth. Fronto breathed again to calm his pulsating gullet and reached down for his own burden. A misshapen globe of horseshoe fungus taken from a dying birch tree, contained in the leather bag he had now untied from his belt. If he concentrated, he was sure he could feel the faint threads of heat emanating from the bag. An old soldier’s campaign trick, and one that would shortly play an important role in events.
He swallowed the latest thick-saliva mouth of his sickness and concentrated. In the distance, muted by the natural sounds of the river and the boats, he could still hear the continual barrage of artillery and missile troops driving the defenders of Cenabum down behind their walls. Somewhere in the midst of it he could hear a roaring noise that betrayed the successful torching of at least one building, and the shouts of consternation among a civil populace desperately trying to extinguish the conflagration.
Time passed in their nerve-wracking watery tomb.
It was perhaps approaching midnight when he heard a hiss from Atenos, the hulking Gallic centurion who stood at the prow of this boat — the nearest to the bridge. Fronto glanced across to see Atenos pointing towards the city while remaining hidden behind the raised prow. His eyes tracked passed the officer and noted the city gates opening.
This was it.
He held up his arm, indicating that no one should move, though every man knew the drill from the repeated explanations before they had set off along the riverbank. Moments later, he heard the pounding of feet as they passed from the packed gravel and earth of the dock and onto the echoing timbers of the bridge. There was no small number of panicked deserters, by the sound of it. Had they overcome the gate guard in their flight, he wondered? Or had they been released to their fate by a warrior intending to close the gate after them? Either way, it would be their end.
Keeping as hidden as he could, he mimed a question at Atenos, and the big centurion flattened his palm and made calming motions, suggesting that he wait. The urge to vomit was now becoming almost unbearable, given the mix of the boat’s sloshing movement and the tension at work on his nerves. Footsteps continued to pound across the bridge. There was clearly no small number of panicked runners.