Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (18 page)

Fronto rode Bucephalus once more, at the head of the Tenth, grateful not to be traipsing through the soggy, muddy turf. The beautiful black steed was steady and calm, though clearly miserable in the unpleasant cold and windy conditions. Even Carbo, marching along behind him with his helmet hanging from his shoulder, had taken to wrapping his scarf around his hairless cranium to keep the numbing cold away.

Where had the lovely Gaulish summers of the last two years gone, Fronto wondered? It was almost as though the land itself was turning against them. But finally, early on the afternoon of the seventh day out of Vindunum, the army had crested a low rise and the Atlantic ocean stretched out before them, the great wide mouth of the Loire feeding into it.

Likely on a hot summer’s day the sight would be magnificent, the water a stunning turquoise and the coast visible for dozens of miles in either direction. With the black and grey clouds glowering above them, however, the water looked dark and forbidding and the waves began to make Fronto feel uneasy even standing on dry land and watching them.

The army had paused there for a time, watching with fascination the numerous ships of Brutus’ fleet manoeuvring in the bay. It seemed to Fronto as he watched that they bobbed around barely under control, like those toy ships he and his sister had made of parchment when they were children and raced down the channel of the Aqua Appia where it surfaced near their home. He was unbelievably thankful that he was not currently on board one of them.

And then the legions had separated as they descended to the coast to make camp, likely for several days. The officers, along with the general and his praetorian cavalry, however, had ridden ahead down to the water’s edge, where temporary ramparts contained the tents and support wagons of the fleet crews and their marines.

As they reined in outside the command tent in the open muster area, Fronto handed the reins of Bucephalus to one of the Marines and turned to look at his fellow officers. Each of them, once they dismounted, spent a few moments stamping their feet and bringing life back to their frozen appendages. Fronto looked up apprehensively as a deep rumble some miles away caught his attention.

“Let’s get inside, general, before Neptune pisses on us.”

Caesar, weary from the journey and as cold as his men, nodded silently and strode through into the tent. Inside, several men in dark tunics with their cloaks tightly wrapped around them stood at a large central table with Brutus. Fronto almost sighed as the warmth from the four braziers that heated the tent hit him like a wall of comfort. The small hole in the roof issued smoke as though the place were on fire and the upper regions of the headquarters were invisible through the murk. And yet, down below, where the men gathered, the warmth was far more important than the smoky conditions.

As the general entered, with Fronto and Cicero at his shoulders, the others behind and Ingenuus’ troopers creating a protective cordon outside the tent, the occupants turned to see who had entered and came suddenly to attention. Brutus, poring over the map, looked up and straightened wearily, saluting the general.

Caesar waved aside the pleasantries and Fronto noted with concern the pale, haggard look of the young staff officer and the dark circles beneath his eyes that told of stress, overwork and lack of good sleep.

“The army is here and ready to set up camp” the general stated. “I don’t mean to rush you, Decimus, but I need to know the status of the fleet before I can plan our first move. We’ll call a full meeting in the morning when the legions are settled, but what can you tell me quickly?”

Brutus sighed and stood back from the table, flicking one of the little model triremes onto its side.

“I’m afraid it’s not good, general. We’ve got a lot of good sailors and some experienced officers who’ve taken part in naval battles and after six days of training and manoeuvres they have uniformly come to the opinion that the Veneti could trounce us in the blink of an eye.”

Caesar frowned.

“What is the problem? You have a good number of solid triremes and quinqueremes; perhaps a hundred of them, with fresh sailors and experienced officers and marines.”

Brutus nodded.

“Yes, general. But conditions out there are nothing like anything they’ve ever dealt with before. We’re used to the Mare Nostrum. No Roman fleet has ever operated beyond the Pillars of Hercules and we just had no idea what to expect. The Atlantic Ocean is, if you’ll pardon the pun, a whole different pot of fish.”

“The sea is different?” Caesar asked dubiously.

Brutus sighed.

“The Mare Nostrum is like a still, glassy pond compared with this. We’ve lost one quinquereme and two triremes in the last three days and all we’ve been doing is practicing. The waves and currents out there could capsize an
island
if it were small enough. We strike out forward but, despite the best efforts of the oarsmen and the captains, most of the time the ships go more sideways than forwards. We keep having very unpleasant collisions. And with the weather the way it is, there’s simply no way we can rely on the wind. The first attempt to unfurl the sails almost lost us a quarter of the fleet as they were thrown around the bay.”

He waved his hand dismissively at the map on the table.

“I can’t see how the Veneti can manage in these conditions. Their ships must be totally different to ours. I feel like the first Roman sailor to meet the Carthaginian navy.”

Caesar frowned.

“How could they be so
different
?”

Brutus shrugged unhappily.

“Well for a start, they have to be a
lot
stronger and heavier. Out there it feels like we’ve been thrown into the cloaca maxima on a leaf. We’ve little control over the ships and only stronger construction and a lot more weight would counteract that. Then they must have a much shallower hull. I don’t know whether you’ve seen the rocks around this coast, but there are shelves of them hidden just below the waves most of the time. We can’t even get within striking distance of the coast in most places.”

To illustrate his displeasure, he leaned across the table, gathered the small models of the fleet and put them in a pile in the mouth of the Loire on the map.

“
That’s
the operational ability of the fleet, general. We could use them as a bridge I suppose?”

“Are you telling me that the fleet is effectively
useless
?”

Brutus sighed again and rubbed his eyes wearily.

“Not exactly, but we are totally at the mercy of conditions beyond our control, Caesar. The weather… well frankly, the weather is shit, sir, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. If the wind would die down and the sun would come out, then the sea would calm and we might have a totally different situation. Once summer actually arrives, we might be able to do something, but until the weather changes, I wouldn’t give a bent denarius for the chances of any ship making it as far up the coast as the next navigable harbour.”

The general grumbled and rubbed his face irritably.

“The Veneti are a people that are heavily dependant upon the sea. I need to take the legions against them and put them in their place, but my ability to do that is greatly hampered without support from your ships. I have been working on my next move based on the principle that we would have naval support.”

Brutus shook his head, exasperated.

“I know, general. I had been labouring under the same illusion, but we simply could not have prepared for this. No Roman ship has ever tried to operate in these waters and we could not have known. All I can say is that as soon as the weather breaks, we can try again, but every time I send a ship out more than a few hundred yards I’m putting it in danger of sinking.”

Again the general grumbled before straightening.

“Very well. We’ll have to go back to relying on the legions. But I want you to stay here and keep working at this, Decimus. Practice. Try to change things. Try new ideas and non-traditional tactics. Quite simply, find a way to make this work and get the fleet involved as soon as possible.”

“The Veneti have retreated to their coastal fortresses, right? So that means the army is only going to be operating close to the coast anyway. We have no reason to go inland. So we set up a number of small scout units that stay on the cliffs and beaches near the army who can signal the fleet if Brutus arrives. They can pass messages back and forth and, well let’s face it, we’re going to need scouts on the coast keeping an eye on any moves the Veneti make at sea anyway.”

Caesar nodded, still clearly unsatisfied by the situation.

“I suppose that’s workable. Brutus? Keep working here and get this fleet operational. As soon as you can move, travel up the coast and watch for the signals.”

“Well, Caesar” Fronto said, straightening, “it looks like the legions are going to have to march on the Veneti. Perhaps we should call a meeting of the legates, tribunes and senior centurions. And we need to get some scouts out there to locate the fortresses and check the terrain and situation for us.”

Caesar nodded and turned back to the door.

“Cicero? Gather the officers and prepare a meeting. Send me a message when they’re ready. We’ll meet in the command tent once it’s up.”

As the staff officer nodded and turned to leave, Caesar turned to Fronto.

“Marcus, I am tired and somewhat peeved and I may need someone to vent at. Come with me.”

Fronto nodded, rolling his eyes as the general turned away, making a silent motion to the praetorian trooper at the door, suggesting that the delivery of an amphora of wine to Caesar’s tent in the immediate future might be a good career move.

As they left the tent, Jupiter and Neptune met with a resounding crash and the downpour began in earnest.

Chapter 6

(Maius: The Veneti fortress of Corsicum on the west coast of Gaul)

“He’s very serious. This whole situation has him wound tighter than a ballista. I honestly think that at this point he’d sacrifice a legion to get his hands on Corsicum.”

The tribune and artillery engineer continued to shake his head in disbelief. Just as they’d expected since they left Brutus and his fleet wallowing in both waves and misery, traipsing through the torrential rain and accompanied by regular storms, every settlement they reached had been abandoned and anything of use or value had been stripped and taken away. They had wandered a few miles inland, examining the situation, but had returned to the coast the next day and finally located, only ten miles or so from Brutus’ anchorage, the first major stronghold of the tribe.

He just couldn’t stop shaking his head.

The fortress of Corsicum stood on a huge rock that jutted out into the sea, like a lesser copy of one of the Pillars of Hercules. The only land approach was a causeway perhaps two hundred and fifty yards wide that stood almost at sea level and was swampy and treacherous. Above the approach loomed the heavy walls of the stronghold, the towers topped with Gauls watching intently as the might of Rome began an orderly descent of the opposite slope toward the causeway.

Fronto had tried to argue Caesar out of launching a full attack, given the obviously strong defensive capability of the Veneti. He had no doubt, given the mettle of the men in the four legions that accompanied them, that they would
take
the fortress at the end of the day, but the casualties could be appalling.

Tetricus swung his gaze out past the high cliffs of Corsicum to the roiling sea beyond, trying to think of a solution. The rocks out there formed a platform just beneath the waves that would make it impossible for the fleet to approach, even were they here.

“We’ve got limited time to get across that causeway before the tide cuts the place off. Caesar’s determined to take the fortress without having to camp and perform a protracted siege. I have to admit the idea of sitting here in the pouring rain for days battering at the place is not entirely appealing, but I don’t think throwing men away is a valid solution.”

The young engineer sighed and shivered in the cold, wet air, pulling his cloak around him and totally failing to produce any extra warmth. He turned to look at his handiwork. On the promontory facing the fortress, a ‘dolmen’, as the locals called it, had been dismantled by the engineers. They had been dubious about doing so, through some strange Gallic superstitions, but the site was just too useful to leave for the dead of millennia past, and the stones had been taken down and rearranged to form a perfect artillery platform where, even now, the engineers were beginning to set up their machines. Caesar had not given the order, but Tetricus had consulted Fronto and they’d decided that the time would come when it was needed.

“In about a half hour the artillery will be ready to start firing” Tetricus said, flatly.

“In about a half hour the ground down there will be thick with dead Romans.”