Recovering with a hiss at the sharp pain, Fronto rushed back to the fence in time to catch a short, wiry Gaul hauling himself over the top. Pulling his arm back, the legate stabbed forward, jamming his blade into the man’s shoulder, close to the neck, driving deep into his chest and yanking sharply back out to retrieve his sword before the man fell away, screaming, into the ditch below. Another figure rose next to him and flicked out with a blade, but Masgava was there, hacking off the man’s hand at the wrist so that both it and the sword it held fell to the walkway and rolled off down the ramp. The screaming man stared at the stump until the big Numidian casually pushed him back over the fence into the mass of flesh below.
Fronto glanced right to see his singulares fighting like demons, and then left to spy the same, along with a tall, spindly legionary who took a heavy axe blow to the chest so hard that it simply carved a trench in the man’s torso, shredding the mail shirt and driving the links in through the flesh.
Another Gaul appeared at the wall and Masgava stepped in before Fronto could deal with him, slamming one of the twin razor-sharp blades he held into the man’s chest and then cleanly severing the head with the other, kicking the falling bloody orb away from the walkway. Palmatus took three steps, crossing the rampart top to join Fronto, lifting his battered and misshapen legionary shield in response to some sixth sense in time to catch an arrow meant for the legate.
‘This is getting bloody ridiculous,’ he shouted at his employer. ‘We need more men.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I know.’
‘An entire stretch of the wall between towers is held by you and your own singulares, you know that?’ Palmatus pointed at the body of the lanky legionary, whose killer was now locked in mortal combat with Aurelius. ‘He was the last regular on this stretch.’
‘I’ll go see Antonius.’
Palmatus nodded and made to follow.
‘No. You stay here and keep the wall safe. I’ll be fine down there.’
His bodyguard commander gave him a hard look, but finally nodded and turned to take on the next of the interminable tide of yelling warriors clambering over the fence.
Fronto took a deep breath and carefully picked his way down the turf bank, his knee threatening to give, the bank slick with blood and boot-churned mud. As he slid the last few feet and righted himself, he looked around in the near darkness until he spotted the standards glittering in the light of the torches. Antonius’ command post, three towers down. Gritting his teeth, Fronto jogged across the churned grass, past scurrying legionaries carrying piles of equipment and capsarii lugging stretchers — some filled, some empty — back and forth. There seemed to be considerably fewer centurions and optios now shouting and directing things in the open space. The outer wall seemed to be in just as much trouble as the inner one, and Fronto noted as he ran that there were at least three places in plain sight where a determined Gaul could force access if they’d known.
Antonius’ command post was little more than two trestle tables, one covered with wax tablets and a platter of half-eaten meat and bread, the other with a rough model of this sector’s defences dotted with wooden markers representing cohorts and supply stations. The tables were surrounded by torches on posts jammed into the ground in a ring, providing light and warmth. Six tall poles stood ready to take a small leather pavilion if the weather suddenly turned wet, which seemed unlikely, the gleaming standards of two legions within their bounds. Antonius himself stood with three tribunes in deep discussion, a number of couriers on hand to carry messages and run errands as required.
Fronto marched past the outer ring of Antonius’ own singulares unit, who gave him only a cursory glance as he approached and nodded their recognition. Antonius looked up at his approach and agreed something with an officer, who hurried off about some business. Another of the tribunes started to ask something of the army’s second in command but Antonius silenced him with a raised hand.
‘Fronto? How goes it?’
‘How do you think?’ Fronto said in low tones. ‘We’re a wet fart from losing the inner wall. We need more men, Antonius.’
The senior officer nodded his understanding. ‘I know. It’s not just you. The whole plain sector is in the same situation. I sent Trebonius off half an hour ago with orders bearing my seal to draft in every man that could be spared from Mons Rea and Labienus’ headquarters and every redoubt and camp in between.’
‘And Caesar’s orders?’
‘Can go hang,’ Antonius said with feeling. ‘I told Trebonius not to take no for an answer, and he’s no fool.’ The officer paused and grasped a wine jar that sat by his half-consumed meal, tipping a healthy dose into his open mouth without bothering to decant it into a cup. ‘Want some?’
Fronto shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks. Maybe later.’
Antonius shrugged and took another large gulp, wiping his mouth and replacing the jar. ‘I hear your singulares are doing good work, Fronto. You must thank them for me.’
Fronto pointed at the jar. ‘Give them a few of those when it’s over and they’ll be happy.’
The senior officer nodded. ‘Same for all of us, I’d say. If we make it safe to morning, find my tent and we’ll share a few. Bring your lads with you. Varus too. He’s been stomping around the place like a petulant teenager since he can’t field his cavalry tonight.’
Fronto smiled wearily. ‘I’ll do that. Priscus will appreciate it as well.’
Antonius paused in the act of closing up half a dozen wax tablet cases and looked across at Fronto, his face dark. ‘You’ve not heard?’
A cold chill shot through Fronto and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as a sense of dreadful foreboding flooded through him. ‘What?’
‘Happened early on in the fight. Hours ago, now. Sorry, Marcus.’
Fronto felt his legs tremble, threatening to drop him to the turf and he reached out to the table to steady himself. ‘Priscus?’
‘Yes. He was a good man. You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’
Fronto closed his eyes. Priscus? It seemed unthinkable. He couldn’t actually picture his friend among the ranks of the fallen. The indomitable prefect had even survived that nightmare at Aduatuca five years ago, when the medicus had doubted he’d ever walk again. A picture of Priscus lying silent and unmoving just wouldn’t form. The man was invincible…
Antonius placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘I gather it was fairly quick. He took a stray arrow. An incredibly lucky enemy shot that managed to penetrate the fence. His last act was to fire the enemy crossings. He took dozens of the enemy with him, in effect.’
Fronto could do nothing but stare. Words wouldn’t form in his mouth any more than a picture of a deceased Priscus.
‘Hear that, Fronto?’ Antonius tried. ‘Cornu from Mons Rea. Sounds like Trebonius succeeded.’ He looked into the legate’s hollow eyes with a worried expression. ‘That’s the Ninth’s call to advance,’ he said encouragingly, ‘so we’ll have the walls strengthened in no time. And I think that’s the First’s call, too.’
Fronto turned away, Antonius’ hand falling from his shoulder, unheeded. The senior officer watched him walk off, back the way he came, and gestured for one of the couriers to attend him. As Fronto walked away, he drew his gladius with deliberate, slow menace, and Antonius tapped the courier on the shoulder and pointed at the retreating form of the legate.
‘Find a couple of contubernia of men and look after legate Fronto. I have a feeling he’s heading into trouble.’
The courier saluted and turned to follow in the wake of the retreating officer.