He paused, blinking. The light had, of course, ruined his night vision, resulting in purple and yellow blotches dancing around in his eyes no matter how much he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut. Why would they leave a light to help…
It was only that sudden thought that saved his life.
The Veneti warrior who had been lurking in the darkness behind a section of jutting wall, his back to the light source and fully attuned to the dark, lunged forward with his blade aimed resolutely for Fronto’s neck. The legate was already moving to the side as the man leapt, the blade connecting instead with the shoulder section of his cuirass and scything through the fasteners. The shoulder piece flapped loose as the sword ripped on through it, deprived of a solid target, and the point hammered home into the wall of the tunnel.
With a breath of relief, Fronto stepped to his left twice, away from the blow, trying to get the flickering of the lamp out of his vision so that he could see better. There was a clunk and a shifting of weight as the front and back pieces of his cuirass separated at the shoulder, becoming instantly irritating and uncomfortable.
The Gaul was hauling his blade back for a second blow, though the long Celtic weapon was unwieldy in the confined space. The well-designed gladius in Fronto’s hand, however, was subject to no such restrictions. Unwilling to allow the man enough time to make another careful blow, Fronto stabbed with his sword repeatedly into the rough area of the Gaul, the dancing blotches in his eyes making targeting difficult. Still, given the closeness, at least three of his six sharp lunges connected and he heard a gasp and a gurgle.
Stepping back, he tried to focus. Slowly his vision cleared as he saw the body of the Veneti warrior crumple to the floor. Lucky… very lucky.
Fronto turned to the legionary behind him.
“Try not to look at the light. Keep your eyes low.”
Stopping for a moment to try and adjust his shoulder, he fidgeted at it irritably and gave up in disgust. The shoulder piece was ruined. A job for the armourers next time they had a minute. They didn’t have time now…
Back and above, he could hear the legionaries pouring into the tunnel, making a noise like a hundred iron plates being dropped into a well. So much for sneaky…
Gesturing to Capito, he moved on downwards. The way was easier, but they moved warily, watching for more hidden figures to left and right. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the lamp and Fronto gratefully turned left to peer down the next corridor, putting his back to the dancing light.
For the second time in as many minutes, he cheated death as he felt a hand grasp the broken backplate of his cuirass and haul him away from the corner. He toppled backward, caught surprised and off-balance, and landed on Capito whose hand was wrapped tightly around the bronze plate.
The arrow that would have struck Fronto square, and very definitely fatally, in the head sailed past and hit the passage wall with a crack. Fronto blinked.
“Sorry sir” Capito breathed. “Heard the bow string stretch.”
“Crap, you have good hearing. Thanks!”
“What now, sir?”
Fronto smiled.
“If they’re there to shoot at us, it means they haven’t left yet. Hang on.”
Standing, the legate stepped forward gingerly to the corner and peered round the very edge, squinting. The next length of passage, perhaps forty feet long, was lit by dim reflected daylight. The end of the tunnel was sealed with some sort of gate, through which the light filtered. Outside was some sort of wide cavernous opening at sea level. The smell of brine and the distant noise of waves confirmed it. This was the end of it.
He could see two figures moving behind the gate, in some sort of undergrowth. There was the tell-tale stretch of a bow string again and he stepped back.
“Could be a bit troublesome getting down there without being shot.”
The legionary nodded.
“Not much we can do, sir.”
Fronto grumbled. He refused to get this close and be stopped by a damn gate. Behind, the first men of the Eighth legion rounded the corner and moved down to join them. A voice called out.
“Legate Fronto?”
“Yes.”
“Centurion Hosidius of the Eighth. What can we do to help?”
“Anyone back there brought a shield?”
Hosidius paused for a moment and then relayed the question back through his men. There was a murmur of argument back a way and then a voice piped up.
“Got a signifer’s shield, sir. Quite small and round, though.”
Fronto shook his head irritably.
“It’ll have to do. Pass it forward.”
There was a moment of grumbling and muttered complaints as the bulky shield was passed with difficulty along the passage. Eventually an unseen hand passed it to Fronto and he took the item and looked down at it. A circle of red wood and leather perhaps two and a half feet across, emblazoned with the golden bull. Hardly what he really wanted, but apparently the best thing on offer. Fronto turned to Capito.
“As soon as I start to run, get along behind me. Stay close. If I fall, take the shield and keep running. We need to get to that gate and secure it, so that we can get to their ships.”
Capito nodded nervously and Fronto grinned.
“Don’t worry. Fortuna’s a personal friend.”
Without waiting further, the legate took a deep breath, raised the shield, and turned the corner, breaking immediately into a run. He felt the bronze strip at the edge of the shield grating along the rock sides of the tunnel as he ran, but was more concerned about the possibility that, though much of his bulk hunched over behind the shield, a well placed shot could still put an arrow through his thigh.
And yet there was no stretch and no twang. He ran on, but began to falter. Something was wrong. Why were they not at least trying to shoot at him?
Smoke.
His nostril hair curled and he came to a halt, Capito bumping into him again, and risked lowering the shield for a moment.
It had struck him as odd when he first looked down here that there should be undergrowth by the gate in a sea cave. Undergrowth, no…but carefully prepared and dried faggots and bundles of perfectly combustible foliage stacked against the gate? Now that made sense. Fresh flames leapt up among the sticks as he watched, and the entrance to the tunnel began to fill with dense smoke.
“Shit!”
Turning, he pushed Capito and yelled up the passageway.
“Retreat! They’re smoking us out!”
The silence from further up the tunnel erupted into panicked movement as half a century of men turned as fast as they could and began to scramble back up the passageway toward the stronghold above.
The tunnel acted, just as the Veneti had obviously planned, just like the draw hole in the roof of a hut, funnelling the smoke into the passageway and drawing it up toward the boulder entrance on the cliff top.
Fronto coughed as the first cloud of grey, roiling smoke wafted past him.
As fast as they could, they ran back to the corner with its lamp. Already Hosidius had moved his men up to the next bend.
Ignoring the jagged rock walls tearing at their arms as they ran, Fronto and Capito charged up the slope, the passageway thickening every second with heavy black fumes.
Another corner; and another. And suddenly they were at the back of a column of legionaries desperately clambering through the opening and out into the air.
Fronto coughed raspingly and next to him Capito burst into a fit of choking. Around them the drawn fumes filled the passage, blackening everything and blocking out the light. Everything went dark as men coughed and struggled.