And suddenly an arm grasped his wrist. Fronto squinted into the smoke to see a centurion’s chest harness, adorned with phalera and other decorations. The back of the hand around his arm was criss-crossed with scars.
“Come on, sir. Out of there.”
Fronto sighed with relief as Balventius hauled him out of the entrance and all but threw him back on to the grass before reaching in to retrieve Capito.
Fronto fell back with immeasurable relief, relishing for a moment the heavy rain battering his skin and washing the black dust from his face. He wiped his forehead and eyes and sat up. A huge column of smoke issued from the tunnel entrance, pushing up into the sky like a signal. His euphoria at the sudden breathable air and dull light waned once more as he descended into a racking cough that was matched by a crack of thunder from above.
As the fit subsided, he became aware than another figure had crouched next to him. He squinted up into the rain to see the shiny face of Carbo, his primus pilus, frowning down at him.
“Dangerous, sir. Moments like that are why you have underlings.”
Fronto sighed.
“There wasn’t time. What’s happening?”
Carbo shrugged unhappily.
“They’re leaving, sir. They’re just flitting across the rock shelf as though they’re on wheels. Our fleet can’t pursue them, ‘cause they just can’t get close enough. We can watch where they go, but we can’t follow.”
Fronto growled.
“These people are really starting to piss me off, Carbo.”
Chapter 8
(Iunius: temporary camp on the Armorican coast)
Fronto pushed the tent flap open and made his way out into the dusk, shivering against the cold. Grumbling to himself, he traipsed through the wet grass and across the hilltop to the thicker undergrowth near the cliff’s edge. The interim camp prefect, whose name Fronto had now learned was Draco, had planned their camp so well that the nearest latrines for the officers of the Tenth was more than halfway across the length of the fortress. Consequently, those officers had taken to going near the cliff edge for their business, at least when there were no high winds.
Fronto found the spot nice and easily. A helpful centurion had spelled out ‘Draco’ with small stones for the officers to piss on; a nice touch in Fronto’s opinion. Hoisting the front of his breeches down, he began to relieve himself with a sigh, grateful for a rare dry evening, even if everything underfoot was still wet through.
His eyes strayed from the rocky name near his feet, across the thick grass and to the bay below, passing across the white-flecked waves and to the next headland, which had, until this afternoon, been one of the most powerful of the Veneti strongholds. He sighed again.
For a month now the legions had been marching up and down the coast, even inland a way to chase yet more shadows that dissipated as soon as the Roman army got close. A whole month of besieging fortresses and chasing elusive bands of warriors and what did the army have to show for their efforts? Nothing. Not a single captive.
Every time the army came close to trapping the Veneti, the Gauls found new and ever more inventive ways to slip out from under their enemy and make it to safety once again. Five more fortresses had fallen in the few weeks after that smoky tunnel had demonstrated to him just how prepared the enemy were. Five more fortresses, and still not a single solid victory.
The moment that had brought him close to breaking point had been when they realised that the Veneti that had fled from the latest conquest had doubled back on them and made their way down to one of the strongholds the legions had already taken once. It was like… it was like trying to nail the sea to a tree; like trying to catch fog in a net. One thing Fronto knew for certain was that Caesar was close to the end of his tether and, when they finally caught the Veneti, Fronto wouldn’t have been among their number for all the gold and wine in the world. The last time Caesar had had this much trouble, near Numantia in Spain, the general had repaid the locals with genocide.
His gaze rested for a long moment on the shattered remains of the headland stronghold, it’s buildings pulled down, walls dropped into the sea, the thicker areas of vegetation fired and still showing from this distance as columns of smoke, and the grass salted to ruin it for generations to come… if there were to be any future generations, that was.
Fronto sighed again and pulled up the front of his breeches, fastening the drawstring. Before he turned away, he made sure to spit once on Draco’s name, a habit rapidly becoming a tradition in the Tenth. Glancing quickly at the sky, which threatened heavy rain again through the night, he strode back across to Tetricus’ tent. The warm glow and murmur of good-natured conversation from within welcomed him.
Pulling the tent flap back, he entered once more and made his way across to his seat among the cushions on the floor.
“I just don’t see what he expects us to do?”
Brutus gestured irritably with one arm before swigging from the cup in the other.
“I mean…” he paused, rubbing his eyes, ”the simple fact is that our ships can’t go out to sea to follow them in those choppy conditions and they can’t get close enough to land to follow them along the coast. All we can do is keep watch. Even when we do get near them, they’re both faster and higher than us.”
Tetricus shrugged.
“Then you’re going to have to find a way to bring them to your level. To even the odds a little.”
“Easier said than done, my friend.”
Tetricus nodded.
“The time will come. In the meantime, how many of these damn strongholds do we have to take before we can pin them down?”
Fronto sat heavily and reached for his own wine.
“I have to admit I am heartily sick of Armorica. For a few days when I got to Vindunum I was actually glad to get out of Rome and back into the field. For the life of me I cannot fathom why!”
Balventius and Carbo shared a look and then the primus pilus of the Eighth smiled.
“It could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be with one of the other armies.”
Fronto frowned and Balventius spread his hands wide.
“You could be with Labienus suffering the worst of both worlds. He has the climate of Gaul and the boredom of no action. He’s just digging aqueducts and teaching the locals the value of Rome while his boots fill with rain.”
Carbo nodded and leaned across in front of him.
“Or you could be with Crassus… actually, that’s enough on its own. You could be with Crassus!”
Fronto chuckled.
“I wonder how everyone else is getting on?”
He leaned back and took another swig.
“Remember the last couple of years? Those times we sat in that nice little tavern in Bibracte?” He grinned meaningfully at Balbus. “Or that charming little place in Vesontio where you broke my nose? I can’t remember there being rain. All I remember when I think back is warm sunshine, bees and the smell of wildflowers.”
Carbo snorted.
“That’s because you went to Spain for the winter. You should have seen the conditions at Vesontio in November. It was like camping in the bottom of a latrine.”
Fronto shrugged with a laugh.
“Fair enough. It’s just this constant rain is beginning to wear my patience away, particularly when combined with our inability to nail the Veneti down. It just feels like we’re wasting our time out here while the Gods piss on us for fun. The only time it stops raining is when the bloody thunder clouds need time to gather to give us yet another storm.”
Brutus nodded.
“But that can’t go on forever. At least if the weather clears up the fleet might have more of a chance to prove itself. We’ve been sat pretty much port-bound for the last fortnight.”
Balbus smiled and leaned forward.