Atenos shrugged.
“It may not work. It may, in fact, cause resentment among the other legions.”
“Possibly, but it’s not a given. Remember that most of the Ninth were raised in Spain. There are surprisingly few native Romans among the Ninth, and Balbus’ legion are largely formed from the Gauls in Narbonensis. The future depends on the present, after all.”
The large Gaul nodded thoughtfully.
“If you are insistent, you will need to speak to Caesar, sir, since he is still nominally in charge of the Thirteenth.”
Fronto shook his head.
“No longer. Caesar has assigned the Thirteenth to Lucius Roscius. I’m not sure how brilliant an idea that is, given that the bulk of the Thirteenth have only been speaking Latin for a year and Roscius is from Illyricum with Greek as his first tongue. But… well we said it was time to start mixing the blood. Roscius won’t deny me the transfer. He and a few of his friends are a little… frightened of me.”
Atenos leaned back in the seat.
“You do realise, legate, that if you assign me to train your men, I expect full and total control of the training regime. No interference from senior officers?”
The legate nodded with a smile. “I’d expect nothing less. Velius used to say the same.”
He sighed and lay back on his bunk.
“Do the Gauls have any weather Gods that like slightly stale wine?”
Atenos frowned in incomprehension.
“Never mind” Fronto smiled. “Jupiter will do.”
Fronto lay on the slope and brushed a few blades of grass with his fingertips, immensely grateful that the weather had held. Two weeks now of largely blue skies and soft breezes had dried out the land and lightened the mood of the entire army. Two weeks, moreover, that had seen intense activity throughout the camp in the planning of the upcoming strike, despite the enforced wait.
Scouts had been sent out immediately by both horse and ship following the meeting, and had roved for nine full days, before returning to produce a detailed and thorough plan of the area concerned. Fronto’s concern that the two long promontories that almost sealed off the bay would be crowned with strongholds had been borne out.
Planning had then begun in earnest, and had concluded with the legions moving out two days later in individual fragmented groups, each on their own mission and with precise timing in mind. Brutus, along with his marine contingent, had left first, heading out to the open sea to practice before they were required for the third phase of the plan. Caesar and the bulk of four legions had left, heading inland to bring the second phase attack on Darioritum from the east as a surprise. Finally, Fronto and Balbus, with less than four hundred men between them, moved northeast up the coast, separating once they closed on their destination, Fronto waiting a full extra day to allow his peer the time to bring the other force down from the north.
Once more, Fronto glanced over his shoulder and down the gentle slope. Close behind him, two centuries from the Second cohort crouched in the grass in the last embers of the fading light. Behind them, their cohort’s artillery section loitered by the carts among the sparse trees. Next to him, the two centurions and two optios peered across the two hundred yard strip of land that led up to the walls of the fortress.
For a while as they had approached he had been filled with apprehension, worrying that he had underestimated the place with only two centuries at his command. The scouts had been spot on, though. The fort was only around two hundred and fifty yards across, built on a rise above the entrance to the bay, but with sloping land to each side rather than cliffs. The whole fortress couldn’t hold more than a thousand men at most; likely less than half that.
Curtius, the optio to his right, rubbed his eyes and squinted again in the dim, fading light.
“There’s hardly any movement. I make it perhaps three or four on the wall facing us.”
Fronto nodded.
“That was my estimate too. Assuming they have the same guard on each wall, there are only about a dozen men watching the defences. But then, I suppose, it’s nightfall and they’re not expecting any trouble.” He turned to his left.
“Virius? What are your thoughts on the walls?”
“They’re not bad, but quite low. I’m thinking that the whole place was designed more to watch over the channel than to defend against any land attack. Still don’t know how we’re going to do it sneakily, though.”
Fronto harrumphed quietly. His own opinion on the plan he kept staunchly to himself.
“It all depends on whether Tetricus was right and how good your men are. If Tetricus was wrong then we’re screwed when we get to the walls. If your legionaries aren’t sneaky enough, then all hell could break loose any time before then. Alright. Do the men all know their assignments?”
Virius nodded, glancing over his shoulder.
“Forty men apiece, sir. Who are you going with?”
Fronto gazed out over the small fortress.
“I’m going with Curtius.” He leaned over toward the optio and waved a hand. “No reflection on your ability. Yours is the most critical task, so I want to be there.”
Curtius nodded.
“Glad to have you, legate.”
Fronto returned the nod, his gaze lingering on the bearded optio for a moment. Curtius had distinguished himself two years ago at Bibracte as part of a death-defying mad charge against well-defended rocks, the only survivor of the four men who had made the attack. Despite being watched and appraised by his commanders following his actions, the man had been involved with dangerous lunacy regularly enough that it had taken well over a year before he was considered for a promotion. Tonight would be his first individual command and Fronto couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive.
“Alright. The artillery are well hidden, everyone knows what they’ve got to do and it’s almost dark. Time to start getting into position.”
The officers beside him saluted as best they could and then shuffled back down the slope. Fronto remained for a moment, studying the small fort. So much could go wrong tonight, beginning with crossing the intervening space to the walls. He briefly offered up a half-hearted prayer to both Nemesis and Fortuna and then shuffled back on his elbows until he was out of sight of the target.
Curtius beckoned to him from his section and the legate crawled down the slope to the forty-strong force. They hardly even looked Roman. Due to the nature of the mission, the legionaries had left their armour, helmets and shields in the carts with the artillery, now dressed only in tunic, breeches and dulled cloak with a belted sword.
“Alright. Remember: a crawl at most. You have to be virtually invisible from the walls. Stay close to scrub and rocks for cover and only move when you think they’re not looking. It doesn’t matter if we take an hour or more to get there, so long as we’re not seen.”
There was a quiet murmur of understanding among the men.
“Good. The light’s almost gone now. Let’s get moving. When this is over, you can all have two days’ leave to drink yourself into a stupor.”
Without waiting, he nodded to the optio and the group began to move slowly up the slope toward the crest. Fronto’s heart thumped noisily in his chest as they reached the rise and slid gently over, slowly, like a tide of men. Making small hand gestures, he motioned for the men to separate and slow down.
The next minute was nervous enough to age Fronto several years as the men of the Second cohort moved across the most open section of ground, far too tightly-packed, fast and obvious for his liking but, after that heart-stopping minute, they began to settle into a strange, broken rhythm.