This was far from the usual Gaulish oppidum or settlement with which Fronto was familiar. Rather than the unplanned, rambling streets of a Gaulish town, with trees rising from the roadside for summer shade and gardens in front of each house, this was a utilitarian arrangement, designed purely to protect a people from harm. There was no subtlety or joy in the layout, with squat, dark buildings for shelter all gathered close around a square at the highest point, with bare, windowless facades facing the outside, one end of the central square given over to granaries and storehouses.
“So where the hell are they?” Fronto asked no one in particular as they crested the hill and approached the silent, strangely deserted-looking buildings.
The general, beside him, bore a puzzled frown.
“Perhaps they hide within?”
Fronto shook his head.
“I don’t think so, general. These people aren’t the sort to cower without even trying to fight. But the question does remain: where are they?”
Again, Carbo barked out orders to his men and two centuries split off the main group as they approached the square and began to check out the buildings surrounding it. Behind the Tenth, the Eighth crested the hill, Balbus leading his men fast to catch up with the front line. Farther back, Crispus had split the Eleventh and sent them in two groups around the lower edges of the headland, above the cliffs, to meet up at the far end. The fourteenth had played rearguard, remaining with the artillery for their protection.
Fronto and the general watched with growing unease as the legionaries of the first cohort entered and exited the buildings, shrugging, nonplussed at the strangely deserted fortress.
“Is it possible that we were mistaken?” Caesar frowned. “That this is not a principal fortress and there were only a few dozen men here on the walls after all and they’re hiding somewhere. A distraction? A decoy?”
Again Fronto shook his head.
“No. This is a major fortress and if you look at the mud here you can see hundreds of tracks. The ground’s been churned up recently by a lot of people. They’ve got to be here somewhere. Perhaps there’s something down near the cliffs? A cave system or something? I’ve heard tell that they do that in the east; occupy cave systems. If so, Crispus’ men will find them soon enough.”
They suddenly became aware of shouting. Squinting into the fine mist of rain, Fronto spotted an optio waving from the edge of the grassy slope ahead, toward the sea; one of Crispus’ men from the Eleventh. The man waved both arms above his head and then pointed out to sea. Fronto felt his heart sink. Somehow, he knew what had happened. Gesturing at Carbo, he beckoned the general and the three men strode speedily between the storehouses and across the grassy headland toward the man.
They saw it before they caught up with the optio, as soon as they reached the area where the ground began to fall away down toward the cliffs. Ships. Dozens of dark, heavy ships, their huge rectangular sails unfurling as they watched, were making their way out toward the open sea, hundreds of jeering Gauls lining the rails and gesturing up at the Romans in the empty fortress.
Caesar, next to Fronto, stopped in his tracks, grinding his teeth in angry frustration.
“No.”
Fronto looked across at him.
“Brutus and the fleet can get them. Look… the triremes are already moving.”
The three men watched intently as other officers joined them at their vantage point. Behind them, three legions spread out across the stronghold, searching every inch.
Fronto found that he, too, had his teeth clenched as he watched the sea below. Despite the fact that the storm had died to a gentle drizzle, the sea still rose and fell dangerously, huge waves crashing against the rocks where they breached the surface. The Veneti galleys were moving slowly as yet, a mere hundred yards from the cliffs, their sails only just beginning to catch the wind, whereas Brutus’ ships, powered by banks of oars, were already tearing at high speed toward them.
“They can’t get away” Fronto noted as he watched. “There’s not enough time.”
Caesar nodded as he continued to peer down into the roiling waves in intent silence. Beside them, Carbo made a strange rumbling noise. Fronto turned, frowning, to look at his primus pilus. The man was shaking his head.
“What’s up?”
Carbo unstrapped his helmet and, removing it, mopped his brow.
“It’s not going to work. If the commander doesn’t pull his fleet back, they’re in trouble.”
“What?”
But instead of explaining, Carbo merely pointed to the lead trireme as it put on an extra burst of speed, bearing down on the escaping Veneti fleet. Fronto turned back to it and peered down.
“I don’t see…”
He fell silent as he watched the trireme meet the submerged rock shelf that surrounded the headland. There was a series of cracks and crunches as the oars hit rocks and shattered, followed by an almighty bang as the hull connected with the undulating shelf beneath the jagged pinnacles.
He watched in horror as the trireme foundered on the rocks, water rushing in through the broken hull. The crew panicked and began to abandon the ship, some diving blindly onto the rocks. Behind them, the rest of the fleet veered away sharply.
Fronto stared. “How is that possible?”
Carbo shrugged.
“It’s all about draft, sir. The hulls of the triremes are too deep beneath the surface to cross these rocks, and the oars are no use there.”
“But how do the Veneti do it then?”
“Their ships must be designed differently. A lower draft so that their ships can cross the rocks in safety. And if you look, sir, they’ve a much wider beam too.”
“Beam?” Fronto began to feel as though he was being toyed with.
“Yes sir. The beam is the width of the ship. Ours are deeper underwater and narrower in the beam. Theirs have a shallow draft, which allows them to approach the coast easily, but that would make them less stable at sea, so they’ve counteracted that with a wide beam so that they remain the right way up even in strong waves. Quite clever really. They’ve adapted their shipbuilding style to the conditions they live in.”
As they watched, the Veneti fleet was already leaving the rocky area beyond the cliffs and making for open sea, their sails billowing.
“It’s not over yet” Caesar noted, watching as the Roman fleet, now carefully avoiding the rocks, began to head out to sea.
Again, Carbo shook his head sadly.
“They’re actually moving faster than our ships at the moment. Once they get out into those heavy waves our triremes will be in extreme danger. They’ll capsize and break up in those conditions. If commander Brutus doesn’t turn them back before they’re half a mile out, we’ll lose the fleet.”
Fronto frowned at his senior centurion.
“You seem to know a lot about this?”
“I wasn’t always a soldier, sir. I grew up in Ancona. My dad was a shipbuilder, sir.”
Fronto raised his eyebrow. This man never failed to surprise him.
“What’s the answer then, Carbo? How do we stop them?”
The primus pilus sighed, his shoulders drooping.
“I’m not entirely sure that we can, sir. Catching them’s possible, but it’s a matter of surprising them and trapping them in a harbour with deep enough water that we can get our own ships to them, while they can’t escape past us.”
Fronto nodded and suddenly became aware that the general was at his shoulder, paying close attention.
“Go on, centurion” the general said. “You say we could catch them, but that is not enough?”