Fronto laughed.
“He’s quite right, Caesar. We need to stop burning bridges and build the occasional one.”
The general took another deep breath and straightened.
“Very well. You all know what to do. Let’s start clearing Vindunum up and getting the troops onto a war footing. Most of you are dismissed, with the exceptions of Crassus, Sabinus and Brutus. We have further plans to hammer out, so I’ll need you to stay behind.”
He looked up at Fronto as the rest began to file out.
“And when you see Varus, send him to see me.”
Fronto nodded with satisfaction. He’d been getting soft back in Rome with all that easy living. It felt good to be back in the saddle… figuratively speaking, he added mentally, rubbing his still saddle-sore rump as he left the room.
It had taken four days for the various vexillations of legionaries to be recalled and to arrive at Vindunum, and then a full two days further to take down the defences of the various camps surrounding the oppidum and prepare to move out. The downside of having such a large army quartered in one place for so long was the extent of the roots they put down in that time and how long it took to pull them up and move on.
The almost constant drizzle of the preceding week had finally let up, brightening the atmosphere of the soldiers working in the soggy conditions to demolish ramparts and pack gear. Still, the next week had, instead, threatened the advance of yet worse weather. The winds had become so strong that taking down the tents had required every man available and huge sheets of leather wafting away down the river valley were not an uncommon sight for a while. Then, once the horrendous winds had disappeared late yesterday, they had been replaced by Jupiter’s own clouds, roiling and threatening thunder and lightning.
It was not, Fronto had to admit, an auspicious start to a campaign. He wasn’t feeling uneasy about it, though, as he increasingly had with last year’s foray against the Belgae, and the haruspices had found nothing untoward in the goat they disembowelled before departing. It was just the weather that put funny thoughts in one’s head.
They had departed Vindunum in the battering winds and numbing cold, saying their farewells to Sabinus and Varus and their companions as the officers prepared to travel north and east to keep the peace while the bulk of the army dealt with the Veneti. Crassus had taken the Seventh and his cavalry detachment with no fond goodbyes, though Galronus, who commanded part of the cavalry, had dropped in to bid farewell to Fronto and his friends.
And then the worst part of any campaign: the travelling. The four legions, with their auxiliary support and supply train had set off southwest from Vindunum for the hundred mile journey to the mouth of the Loire. Each day the legions managed perhaps fifteen miles, given the interminable pace set by the wagons with their oxen, and yet each day it felt as though they had marched forty miles, with the constant cold and the battering of the forceful winds.
Fronto rode Bucephalus once more, at the head of the Tenth, grateful not to be traipsing through the soggy, muddy turf. The beautiful black steed was steady and calm, though clearly miserable in the unpleasant cold and windy conditions. Even Carbo, marching along behind him with his helmet hanging from his shoulder, had taken to wrapping his scarf around his hairless cranium to keep the numbing cold away.
Where had the lovely Gaulish summers of the last two years gone, Fronto wondered? It was almost as though the land itself was turning against them. But finally, early on the afternoon of the seventh day out of Vindunum, the army had crested a low rise and the Atlantic ocean stretched out before them, the great wide mouth of the Loire feeding into it.
Likely on a hot summer’s day the sight would be magnificent, the water a stunning turquoise and the coast visible for dozens of miles in either direction. With the black and grey clouds glowering above them, however, the water looked dark and forbidding and the waves began to make Fronto feel uneasy even standing on dry land and watching them.
The army had paused there for a time, watching with fascination the numerous ships of Brutus’ fleet manoeuvring in the bay. It seemed to Fronto as he watched that they bobbed around barely under control, like those toy ships he and his sister had made of parchment when they were children and raced down the channel of the Aqua Appia where it surfaced near their home. He was unbelievably thankful that he was not currently on board one of them.
And then the legions had separated as they descended to the coast to make camp, likely for several days. The officers, along with the general and his praetorian cavalry, however, had ridden ahead down to the water’s edge, where temporary ramparts contained the tents and support wagons of the fleet crews and their marines.
As they reined in outside the command tent in the open muster area, Fronto handed the reins of Bucephalus to one of the Marines and turned to look at his fellow officers. Each of them, once they dismounted, spent a few moments stamping their feet and bringing life back to their frozen appendages. Fronto looked up apprehensively as a deep rumble some miles away caught his attention.
“Let’s get inside, general, before Neptune pisses on us.”
Caesar, weary from the journey and as cold as his men, nodded silently and strode through into the tent. Inside, several men in dark tunics with their cloaks tightly wrapped around them stood at a large central table with Brutus. Fronto almost sighed as the warmth from the four braziers that heated the tent hit him like a wall of comfort. The small hole in the roof issued smoke as though the place were on fire and the upper regions of the headquarters were invisible through the murk. And yet, down below, where the men gathered, the warmth was far more important than the smoky conditions.
As the general entered, with Fronto and Cicero at his shoulders, the others behind and Ingenuus’ troopers creating a protective cordon outside the tent, the occupants turned to see who had entered and came suddenly to attention. Brutus, poring over the map, looked up and straightened wearily, saluting the general.
Caesar waved aside the pleasantries and Fronto noted with concern the pale, haggard look of the young staff officer and the dark circles beneath his eyes that told of stress, overwork and lack of good sleep.
“The army is here and ready to set up camp” the general stated. “I don’t mean to rush you, Decimus, but I need to know the status of the fleet before I can plan our first move. We’ll call a full meeting in the morning when the legions are settled, but what can you tell me quickly?”
Brutus sighed and stood back from the table, flicking one of the little model triremes onto its side.
“I’m afraid it’s not good, general. We’ve got a lot of good sailors and some experienced officers who’ve taken part in naval battles and after six days of training and manoeuvres they have uniformly come to the opinion that the Veneti could trounce us in the blink of an eye.”
Caesar frowned.
“What is the problem? You have a good number of solid triremes and quinqueremes; perhaps a hundred of them, with fresh sailors and experienced officers and marines.”
Brutus nodded.
“Yes, general. But conditions out there are nothing like anything they’ve ever dealt with before. We’re used to the Mare Nostrum. No Roman fleet has ever operated beyond the Pillars of Hercules and we just had no idea what to expect. The Atlantic Ocean is, if you’ll pardon the pun, a whole different pot of fish.”
“The sea is different?” Caesar asked dubiously.
Brutus sighed.
“The Mare Nostrum is like a still, glassy pond compared with this. We’ve lost one quinquereme and two triremes in the last three days and all we’ve been doing is practicing. The waves and currents out there could capsize an island if it were small enough. We strike out forward but, despite the best efforts of the oarsmen and the captains, most of the time the ships go more sideways than forwards. We keep having very unpleasant collisions. And with the weather the way it is, there’s simply no way we can rely on the wind. The first attempt to unfurl the sails almost lost us a quarter of the fleet as they were thrown around the bay.”