He pointed east along the river.
“Run away, girl. Run home.”
The woman shook her head.
“Many wolves around the hills. And bandits. I will not make it to a town. I come with you. You will protect me from your men.”
Fronto laughed.
“I think not. I’ve got enough to do. Enjoy your countryside.”
With one long look at her, he sheathed his knife and shrugged into his tunic.
Slipping his feet loosely into his boots, he tied the belt round his waist, closed the chest, and, ignoring the woman standing, bewildered, by the water, he turned and climbed the hill toward the fort.
He was half way there before he became aware of the sounds of ragged breathing close by. He stopped and turned angrily.
“Look, lady… will you just piss off back to your own people. I’m on a tight schedule.”
The woman stopped in her tracks and stared at him. He let his gaze stay on her for a moment and then turned his back and walked on, to the crest and over the rampart where the palisade had been torn down. The camp was in chaos, tents being torn down and men on the move everywhere.
Wherever Fronto passed, the legionaries halted in their work to stare. He was not in his armour, though his fine tunic with the embroidered edge marked him as an officer, but he was well aware of the reason for their stares, since they were not directed at him, so much as just behind him.
Across the camp he strode, causing ripples of interest, until he reached the gate. The guards came to attention and foundered for a while, unsure of how to deal with the Belgae woman leaving their camp hot on the heels of a senior officer.
Sure enough, Priscus had the Tenth formed up and ready to move, while the Eighth were falling in nearby under the shouted commands of Balventius. As Fronto strode towards them, Priscus stepped out from the front of the legion.
“Sir?”
He waited until he was out of earshot of the men.
“What’s this?”
Fronto shrugged.
“She won’t stop following me. How ready is everyone?”
Priscus gestured to the camp behind him.
“Here come the Ninth now. We’ll be ready to move in ten minutes.”
Fronto nodded.
“I’ll be back by then.”
Striding back into the camp, he made for his tent to finish getting ready. As he passed the rows of tents being struck, he spotted a familiar face: Felix, the primus pilus of the Eleventh Legion. With a sigh of relief, he stopped.
“Felix?”
“Sir?”
“I’ve a favour to ask of your commander. Could you take this young lady to Crispus and ask him to look after her while the army moves out?”
The woman started to shake her head, but Fronto grabbed her arm.
“Look. If you won’t leave, then do as I say. We’re marching hard and fast into battle again. You need to stay with the baggage where it’s safe. The commander of the Eleventh is a friend and an exceptionally good man. He will look after you.”
She looked unsure for a moment, but finally nodded, wearily. Fronto heaved a sigh of relief and strode off toward his tent. Women!
* * * * *
Fronto watched as a rider raced back towards him. The valley was peaceful and the afternoon sun had burned off the mist of the morning and left an exceedingly pleasant day to march through. During the journey, Fronto had been disturbed to discover several times that he had drifted off into his own private little dream world that often involved the young lady from the river bank. He growled to himself.
“Must be going soft.”
He looked up at the horseman as he thundered to a halt.
“What is it, trooper?”
The man bowed awkwardly on horseback as the legate stepped out to the side of the column, which continued to march past at double speed.
“Commander Varus begs to report that the Belgae are splitting up. The front of the army seems to be making for an oppidum we can see in the distance. Basically fleeing, sir. The back end is being harried by us, sir, but the commander is going to break off and try and intercept the vanguard before they can hole up in the town. He asks if the legions can pick up pace and close on the rear of the force to trap them?”
Fronto nodded.
“I think we can manage that. How far behind are we now?”
The man pointed at a low hill around half a mile distant.
“Just beyond there sir. Shall I convey your acknowledgement to Varus?”
Fronto nodded. “Get going. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”
He turned to one of the soldiers marching along closest to him.
“Fall out of rank. Go find commander Labienus and tell him we’re only half a mile away and Varus needs us to close in on the rear now.”
The legionary saluted and ran off. Fronto jogged back to the front of the Tenth, the vanguard of the army, and found the primus pilus staring rigidly ahead.
“Priscus? We’ve half a mile to cover in a few minutes. Get the men into a run, but keep it together. I’m going to warn Balbus and Rufus and get them to catch up.”
The primus pilus nodded and turned to his men.
“Time to engage lads. Triple time, now. No dawdling! We’ve got Belgae to flatten!”
The Tenth broke into an accelerated pace, racing now toward the hill that obscured the force of Belgae. Fronto jogged back along the lines of his men to the head of the Eighth Legion. Balbus waved as he approached. The Eighth were already moving apace.
“We saw your lads pick up, so thought we’d best join in. Just ahead then, yes?”
Fronto nodded. “Past that hill. Can you drop a message back to Rufus?”
“Already done it,” the older legate grinned. “Let’s get a battle line formed.”
Turning from Fronto, he addressed his men.
“Pull out to the left, alongside the tenth! Quadruple time!”
Fronto grinned as he watched the Eighth peel out to double the line. Balbus smiled.
”I’ll drop word to Rufus and get him to pull right. Let’s be ready, eh?”
Ten minutes later, the legions finally caught their prey. By the time ranks had closed and formations made, the Belgae had fled as fast as they could. Varus and his cavalry were out of sight in the distance, harrying the Belgic vanguard, but the bulk of their army, almost a hundred-thousand strong ran for their lives toward the high walls of the distant oppidum.
Fronto turned to Priscus as they jogged.
“Shield wall time. Let’s run over them like a cart over a rabbit.”
Priscus grinned.
“Form up as you run… Ad aciem!”
With the practiced ease of a veteran legion, the Tenth, having marched fast for half a day with no rest, and still at a run, rearranged into solid battle lines. The command was echoed to left and right, and the Ninth and Eighth joined the line.
Taking advantage of the tiny gap left for them, Fronto and Priscus fell into the line and formed up with the rest. The Belgae were fleeing, but in a disordered rabble, which slowed and confused their ranks.
With a roar, the lines of legionaries, Shields locked and swords ready, barged into the retreating lines of Belgae. Those few who resisted the panic and realised the sudden added threat turned to face their pursuers, wielding their heavy Celtic blades, but to no real avail.
The charge was immense. Swords jabbed and slashed as the shield wall suddenly met resistance but continued to move, regardless. The legionaries did not delay to check whether their opponents were finished as they fell to an initial blow, but rather marched over the fallen bodies and on to the next warrior they found, leaving the wounded Belgae to be trampled to death by the stomping feet of fifteen thousand men.
Fronto looked to his left, where he stood in the second line, stabbing out between his men’s shoulders, and saw Priscus, laughing like a demon, as he waded into the enemy. He sighed and settled into the routine of a legionary advance. It was so familiar and simple after weeks of commanding unusual units in strange circumstances. He’d almost forgotten what it was like and what to do when placed on a real battlefield with regular veterans.