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  Despite feeling as though he were trying to digest a signal tower, and having to avoid and frustrate the attentions of the two teenage girls and their insistent mother, Fronto was at the most relaxed he could remember being in many years.

  A runner had arrived to inform the two legates that the legions were in position and that lookouts had been placed. Balventius, Velius and Tetricus had apparently taken good care of them and Fronto was surprised to realise that he had not spared a thought for the men during their travel and manning of the defences. That would change soon enough of course.

  Today in fact. It was a little after dawn, and Caesar had informed all of the officers that they must be in position at the town’s north gate an hour after sunup. Balbus sat on the other side of the fireplace, one slave tying the ribbon around his cuirass, another lacing up his boots. Fronto eyed him up and down. Balbus looked every inch the hard bitten soldier. Much, he suspected, like he would look not long from now. Probably how he looked now, in fact.

  Fronto had been all for taking a glass of watered wine with his morning repast, which his father had always claimed was good for the blood, though Corvinia had clucked over that decision and supplied the two legates with a glass of warm goat’s milk each.

  Fronto sat in his military garb, with the red cloak folded and ready to don when he stood. He was profoundly grateful to Corvinia for having washed and dried his good red military cloak. Caesar had made it clear that full dress was required, but had grasped Fronto by the shoulder as he left and whispered into his ear “not that cloak though.”

  He had made another attempt last night to unpick one of the cherubs from that cloak, and had accidentally torn a small hole by one leg. He sighed. The cloak would be with him until he died and, knowing his sister, he would be buried with it and would have to suffer it throughout eternity.

  Balbus stood and dismissed the slave with a gesture.

  “Alright, Marcus. Are you ready to face the barbarian?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, Quintus. It’s about time we moved anyway. A week here at the mercy of Corvinia and I’ll be a lazy, rotund man with as much energy as a sponge!”

  Balbus laughed and slapped his colleague on the back.

  “Come on. Let’s move before one of my harpy-like daughters corners you.”

  On the way through the town, the streets were eerily quiet. Fronto had always assumed that civil townsfolk awoke at a more leisurely time than the army but had found, with the early morning noise of the last few days, that the military did not have the monopoly on early. However, today the normal tradesmen, craftsmen and hawkers were absent. No surprise really, as word of Caesar’s deadline with the Helvetii had leaked out almost immediately. Surely the townsfolk couldn’t be worried about the Helvetii. They must know that no tribe could walk through such defences, held by three legions. Indeed, the increase in the local military presence had heralded a boom time for many of the local merchants and shop-keepers. The problem was that the people of Geneva were aware of the distinct possibility that, once Caesar had his victory, he would take most of the army and head south, leaving Geneva open to revenge attacks. It was a reasonable assumption in the circumstances, and Fronto could quite understand the people not wanting to be seen to be a part of this.

  At the north gate, Balbus and Fronto were the first to arrive. The two stood for a moment, enjoying the morning. The temperature had improved dramatically over the last two days, and spring appeared finally to have arrived. Perfect soldiering weather, Balbus had called it. Not cold enough to discomfort the troops, but not hot enough to exhaust them. The ground was hard, but dry, which looked good for military action.

  They stood in silence for five minutes, watching the Eighth Legion moving around the near end of the defensive embankment, and admiring the beauty of the landscape beyond.

  The sound of hoof beats brought them back to the task at hand. Caesar came at a trot along the main street of the town; Longinus and Sabinus, one of the staff officers, behind him among a knot of other staff. Fronto and Balbus saluted as the general arrived and then fell into step alongside the other officers.

  The gathering of officers left the town with Caesar at the head on his white charger and the rest behind, a glimmer of red, burnished bronze and polished steel. The group passed down from the gate, along the shore of the lake and to the redoubt that had been constructed under Fronto’s guidance near the end of the bridge that had been dismantled.

  Once at the fortification, the officers were admitted by the soldiers of the Eighth that were already in position. Balbus nodded at the centurion in charge, who replied with a bow.

  Caesar made his way to the centre of the redoubt and dismounted, an optio of the Eighth rushing to help him. Climbing onto a raised stand, the general looked down at his officers.

  “You are all aware that the Helvetii will likely be returning today. We have no way to tell when, and they may even be a day or two late. Thus the army will have to wait in position and we, gentlemen, will stay at this fortification for the duration. Scouts have been placed so we will have at least an hour’s warning of the enemy’s arrival.”

  The general then turned to Longinus. “I want dispatch riders ready at this place to warn all the legions as soon as the Helvetii are on the move. I also want a horse brought for Fronto. Marcus, you’re going to need to be highly mobile during this action, present among all the legions and being my eyes and ears and controlling the strategy of the army.”

  In a louder voice, so as to be heard by the officers and all the men of the Eighth stationed close to the lake, Caesar called “and now we wait. Look to your comrades and to your arms. Remember that you are Roman, and that Rome stands in need of you now. They are barbarians, and barbarians will never again trample the soil of our lands beneath their stinking boots. Jupiter and Mars protect the men of the Eighth and of the other great legions here today, serving Rome!”

  A cheer rose around the redoubt, rippled along the length of the wall and into the distance like a wave. Fronto smiled. ‘This is what he’s good at’ he thought. ‘This is why he’s a great leader, not just a great strategist.’ Even Fronto’s blood was pumping now, and he sensed the eagerness around him. Even that donkey Longinus had his sword out and was inspecting the edge. A swell of pride flowed through the legate. He was Roman, as were all the men around him, and if the mountains themselves moved against the wall, the legions would hold them back.

  * * * * *

  Velius stood on the raised platform behind the palisade and looked along the wall toward the lake. That would probably be where they hit first. They might even be fighting for control of that now. With the lake being eight or nine miles away, he couldn’t see anything but quiet and peaceful countryside. The word had come down with a rider ten minutes ago that Caesar had refused access to the Helvetii and that they had threatened the Eighth before pulling back and gathering the tribe. Velius couldn’t believe that in the face of such defences any army would try to take them, let alone a bunch of unwashed, hairy barbarians. The officers seemed to think they would come, and they should know their business. Still, Fronto had said that he’d try and spend as much time as possible with the two new legions, and Velius wished that he’d hurry up and get here.

  The grizzled centurion knew how to command the unit; knew what to do and that the legion would obey his orders, but he knew they wanted a legate here. He wanted a legate here. Deep in a reverie, it took Velius a couple of minutes to realise that one of the centurions of the Twelfth was waving and shouting from a few hundred yards upriver. Shading his eyes and looking in that direction, Velius saw the centurion alternately waving at him and pointing down into the river. Following his pointing digit, Priscus felt a quickening of his pulse. A thin, diluted stream of red appeared in the centre of the river and as he watched the icy Alpine water rush past, the pigment filled out and diluted more until the river in its entirety was tinted a rosy pink.

  The training centurion drew himself up and took
a deep breath. “This is it lads. It’s started upriver, but it won’t be long before it comes our way. The legate will be here with us as soon as he can, but the barbarians might just get here first.”

  Velius looked back along the line toward the lake again.

  Hooves thundering beneath him, Fronto felt a mix of excitement he had not experienced for some time and trepidation over the delay he had suffered at Caesar’s command post. The Eleventh and Twelfth awaited him only a few miles away, and some of the Helvetii were busily engaged with the Eighth, hurling missiles across the river, generally harmlessly, against the palisade and occasionally trying in small groups to swim across, despite the icy cold of the water. A large group of the barbarians had split off early on and made their way downriver, out of missile range of the Roman defences. In general Fronto found the barbarians’ position laughable. Unprepared, they had no hope of tackling such a force as Caesar had gathered. Regardless of Caesar’s orders to maintain a presence everywhere along the wall, Fronto intended to ride straight to the new legions and help Velius and Tetricus with any serious tactical decisions. Balbus would have no trouble commanding this end of the wall.

  Riding at full pelt down the slight slope of a seasonal stream and then back up the other side, Fronto suddenly registered the activity around him. The sounds of shouting and the clash of metal weapons gradually reached him over the din of the horse. Reining in, Fronto cast his eyes around the site. One of the redoubts, filled with soldiers of the Eleventh, lay about five hundred yards ahead, and the previous, occupied by the Eighth, lay around a mile behind. Here was just a knot of soldiers based on the embankment itself, men of the newly raised Eleventh. It would be a good few miles before he reached any of the Twelfth, or even the command unit of the Eleventh. Balbus had assumed that a four mile gap between the cohorts of the fully trained legion was reasonable and could be covered by the green legions under view of the units on either side.

  Fronto trotted up to the embankment just as a flurry of missiles whistled over the top of the palisade. Hurling himself from the horse just as a spear covered the intervening space, the legate landed in wet, slightly muddy grass and came rolling to his feet. One of the legionaries reached for his horse’s reins and led the beast back toward the redoubt and safety. Two more legionaries came to help Fronto to his feet, but he shrugged them aside.

  “Where’s your centurion. What’s going on?”

  A figure appeared from the top of the bank, chain mail remnants hanging in tatters all that remained of his armour. His helmet was gone and not all of the blood in which he was drenched was his own, despite gaping wounds in his arm and side.

  “Sir, I’m Bassianus, commanding this century.”

  “What the hell is happening?”

  Bassianus stood straight, wiping a stream of blood out of his eye. “We didn’t get no warning sir. They got archers. Damn good ones too, better than them Numidians we used to have with us, sir. They’re in the scrub on the other bank. Must’ve been there since last night. They took more than half my men on the wall with the first volley, before we even knew they was there. Then, while we was ducked down and sortin’ out the troops, a whole bunch of ‘em came across in small boats, under cover of the arrows. This whole thing’s a bastard setup sir. They’d no intention of arguing with Caesar!”

  “How does it stand now, Bassianus, and where’s tribune Tetricus?”

  “I dunno where the tribune is sir. The bastards is under the wall sir, on this side of the river. We got ‘em pinned down for now, but them archers is still thinnin’ out my men, and they’re still ferrying theirs across. Sooner or later we’ll be outnumbered. We could call in other centuries from the Eleventh, but that’d stretch us somewhere else. We’ve stationed about sixty percent of the legion close by the Eighth’s redoubt on Caesar’s orders, so we’re a bit thinner here than we’re supposed to be.”

  The centurion lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “And beggin’ your pardon sir, I know they’re new men, good lads all of ‘em, but they’re not strong enough trained to handle dirty fighting sir.”

  Fronto nodded. He shouted to the man leading his horse.

  “Soldier, get on that horse and ride upstream to the first fort. Find the centurion in charge there and tell him to send help. Any surplus troops they have from the Eighth, and the unit of Cretan auxiliary archers and Spanish slingers I saw in reserve. Tell him legate Fronto of the Tenth requested it.”

  He turned back to Bassianus. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Get every reserve man here to collect the shields from the dead. You’re going to get your men back up onto that wall, with every second man using two shields, protecting the ones in between. The soldiers in between are going to take all these long spears that have been thrown over the wall and use them to stab down at the barbarians below. You only have to keep them occupied and keep their numbers down and your own men protected until the archers from the Eighth get here. Then use them in the same way to take out their archers on the other bank. I’m going to head on toward the Twelfth. If I find anyone else that can help, I’ll send them back. If the Twelfth aren’t too pressed I’ll arrange relief.”

  As Fronto set off west at a jog, the men of the Eleventh around him began collecting up spears and shields.

  Velius was beginning to wonder if the legate would be turning up at all. He was starting to get very tense. About ten minutes ago, a whole load of Helvetii had been seen on the other bank, moving between the trees and undergrowth. There was something going on, and it must be going on all the way down the line. The tint in the water was still going strong, and it was far too concentrated to be coming from miles away by the lake.

  There must be a fight going on somewhere upstream, but not too far. Velius gripped his sword until his knuckles went white. Please don’t let it be the flank of the Twelfth. If there was a fight going on there, then there must be something happening up by Caesar’s encampment near the lake. Now that there was activity here, Velius would be prepared to wager money there was action further downriver too. There were fords down there, and the fringes of the Twelfth, along with two cohorts of the Eighth, would have to defend them well. Somewhere out on that end was Longinus with his cavalry. The man had ridden past at high speed not long after Velius had received word that it had begun. He hoped Longinus was up to it; hoped he was even still here and not lost out in the woods.

  What was happening with the Eleventh? He hadn’t had a report from anyone recently. Suddenly there was a creaking noise and a tremendous splash. Glancing over the top of the wall, Velius saw a tall tree bobbing on the water, reaching halfway across the river. As he watched, another tree came down with a crash, parallel with the first. What the hell were they up to? The centurion was fairly sure he wasn’t alone in having assumed that these barbarians were the sort to charge blindly against an enemy. He certainly hadn’t expected engineering.

  His worst fears were born out when, a moment later, wooden rafts began to slide down the impromptu ramp; rafts that were tied together with rope. They were building a bloody bridge! Anger rose rapidly in Velius. They were using Roman techniques, against the legions. Weren’t barbarians supposed to be stupid? He ran to the highest point.

  “Get all the javelins up here, and bring the archers in from the redoubt. I want every missile we have dropped in those thickets on the other bank, now! Before they get that bridge across. I don’t much care for this type of fighting, but I’m damned if they’re going to get past the Twelfth. I want men packed shoulder-deep on the wall, and all reserves up in four solid rows on the bank ready to take their place or, at the worst, take care of incursions. I…”

  Velius fell silent and his head dropped to stare at the shaft sticking out of his chest. With a deep reverberating noise, the arrow had struck home just beneath his collar bone and driven in until it touched the inside of his shoulder blade. He touched it gingerly, his face registering neither pain nor fear but merely surprise. Blood welled up around the shaft
as it moved. Using his other arm to take off his scarf, he wound it round the arrow shaft and tied it around his arm and neck to hold the arrow steady. Having temporarily secured it, he looked up.

  No one had moved.

  “What the hell do you think you’re staring at? Get moving. I gave you orders.”

  As the men moved to obey, a capsarius, drafted in from the Tenth at Aquileia to the new legion, came running up the slope to Velius.

  “Looks deep sir. It’s not near anything vital, but we should get you to the hospital tent as soon as possible to avoid excessive blood loss.”

  Velius flashed a humourless smile at the capsarius.

  “Just pad it and we’ll break it off a few inches out. There’s no way I can go anywhere while there’s no legate here. You really want me to put an untrained junior in command?”

  The capsarius sighed. “I do wish you officers would occasionally trust our judgement. We don’t do this for a laugh, you know, sir?”

  “Hmph!”

  Another sigh. “You’ll suffer some fairly severe discomfort sir, and I strongly recommend that as soon as the legate gets here, you get down to a doctor.”