Moments later the rest of the attacking force encountered the same conditions. The defending Veneti had clearly, as they left the walls, traversed narrow channels through the brambles, before disappearing into the interior.
Fronto gave an involuntary yelp as a thorn wrenched a long jagged cut across his shin, raking through his breeches with little trouble. Fortunately, the entire advancing Roman force, which had slowed to a virtual crawl, were mostly grumbling or shouting at the tearing and jabbing brambles.
If seemed like hours, dragging, wading and stomping through the painful undergrowth before the legions reached short grass and heaved a sigh of relief, examining their arms, legs and feet. To a man, the Eighth and Tenth legions had been scratched and raked, drawing blood in dozens of places. Hardly a great defensive measure by the standards of the Roman army but, Fronto had to admit, innovative and simple. The thorns had irritated and pained the legions and slowed their advance considerably.
Setting their sights on the square at the top of the gentle slope, the Tenth moved on, men fanning out down the hill and searching out any hiding places. The eerie quiet was all too familiar to Fronto and his spirits fell.
The Tenth reached the top of the hill to find, just as he’d expected, a deserted square, surrounded by apparently empty buildings. Irritably, he wrestled with his chin strap and removed his helmet, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.
“These people are seriously starting to piss me off.”
He spotted the heavy figure of Balbus, legate of the Eighth, striding across the square toward him from the right. The older officer, bald and tired-looking, had also removed his helmet and carried it under his arm.
A rumble of thunder announced the coming storm just as the first swathe of pounding rain began to fall, battering Fronto’s scalp and further darkening his mood.
“Campaigning in this bloody place is like drowning in depression. I am starting to take an intense dislike to the Veneti.”
Balbus shrugged.
“It is irritating, I’ll grant you, but you can hardly blame them, really. What would you do?”
“I’d migrate to a country with better bloody weather for a start.”
The older man laughed and pulled his crimson scarf tighter around his neck.
“Come on. Let’s go see what’s happening.”
Knowing exactly what he was going to find, Fronto nodded irritably, leaving his discarded helmet where it had fallen, and strode off with his opposite number toward the sea. The slope was gentler than at Corsicum and the cliffs lower and they were but a few seconds from the top when Fronto blinked as he took in the situation.
“Bloody hell, Quintus! We’re still in with a chance!”
Below, Brutus’ fleet sat like a dreadful wall of timber in a wide crescent out in the bay, safely away from the rocky shelf, but close enough to cut off any route to the open sea and close enough to flee to their safe harbour at short notice when the storm began to churn the sea too much.
The Veneti fleet wallowed close to the cliff below, almost close enough to drop rocks on.
“They must still be boarding.”
Balbus nodded, his brow furrowed.
“But how did they get down there? The cliffs are too steep. There can’t be a path!”
Fronto swung his head this way and that and spotted the primus pilus directing some of his men.
“Carbo! Spread the men out. Start looking for hidden paths or tunnel entrances or some such. There’s a secret way down to the water.”
Carbo turned with a grin and saluted, marching away with his men, while Fronto turned his own grin on Balbus.
“We might just have them by the short and curlies, Quintus.”
The older legate nodded and turned back toward the gathered structures at the crest.
“I’ll get Balventius to search the buildings thoroughly. Could be there.”
Fronto nodded and punched one hand into the flat of the other with deep satisfaction.
“Got you, you bastards.”
“Here, sir!”
Fronto’s head whipped round at the shout. A legionary was gesticulating from a rock near the grassy cliff edge. Slapping Balbus on the shoulder to get his attention, he jogged off down the slope.
“You got something?”
“Think so, sir. Looks like a tunnel.”
Fronto hurried down to the rock, blinking the water out of his eyes. The smooth boulder rose from the grass some ten feet from the edge of the cliff and the far side concealed what did appear to be an entrance to a passageway some five feet tall and just wide enough for a man.
“If this is the way they left, they couldn’t have taken all their gear through there.”
Balbus, behind him, nodded.
“But if they were prepared with enough time to spare, they could have lowered everything down the cliff before they left. Balventius has put out the call. The Eighth are on the way across.”
Fronto nodded, but was already levering his way down into the gap.
“Then they can follow us down. No time to waste.”
Balbus grinned.
“Crazy as ever, Marcus.”
Stepping into the tunnel and straightening as much as he could, Fronto drew his sword and gestured to the legionary.
“You’re not one of mine?”
“No sir. Legionary Capito, sir, of the Eleventh legion, third cohort, century of Pictor.”
“Well, legionary Capito” Fronto grinned “time to lead the charge. Come on, but you’ll have to leave your shield; I don’t think there’s room.”
Balbus examined the entrance speculatively.
“I’m not sure I’m going to fit through there either. I can only assume there are no fat Veneti!”
Fronto laughed.
“Stay there, Quintus, and send your men down behind us once they’re ready.”
Even as he stepped into the passageway, Fronto could hear the men marching across the hill toward them. He examined the passageway ahead, descending steeply into the darkness. As the legionary clambered into the tunnel behind him, Fronto clicked his tongue irritably.
“No time to get torches and light them. We’re going to have to go down in the dark.”
The legionary shuddered.
“Best watch your head, sir.”
Fronto nodded and turned back to the tunnel.
The first half dozen steps were easy enough, despite the wet and slippery rock beneath his feet, as there was a touch of daylight still filtering through from behind. As they descended though, the light faded, leaving an oppressive gloom. No matter how hard he squinted, Fronto could hardly make out the passageway ahead and had to move at a ridiculously slow pace, feeling his way as he went.
Ten more steps. A scraping of his cuirass on the wall and a grazed elbow. Yes, it would have been almost impossible to get down here with helmet and shield.
Eight more steps…
Thump.
Fronto almost struck out with his sword before he realised that what he had bumped into was solid rock. Capito walked into the back of him and apologised profusely.
“Shh.”
Feeling around, Fronto tried to determine where the passage went from here. This couldn’t be a dead end, could it? It could just be for storage? It…”
His hand disappeared into dark space. The passage turned to the left. Fronto nodded. Of course, it would have to turn back on itself or it would come out two thirds way up the cliff. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the space, feeling for more. Yes. It only went a few feet and then turned left again. Nodding with satisfaction, convinced now that this was the route the enemy had taken, Fronto explored with his hands. The passageway seemed to be opening out at this point, much wider and more spacious. Perhaps this was now a natural passage they were in? It was so hard to tell in this stygian darkness.
A few more steps brought him to the next turn and, as he carefully edged round, he was surprised by a yellow glow. Perhaps fifty feet down the long, straight passageway, a lamp flickered on a ledge, illuminating the tunnel. The light was low and small, but felt like the glare of the sun after the darkness behind him. Fronto smiled as he realised that this part of the tunnel was quite wide and high for most of its length.