“Across the water, the fishermen call you the Pretani, the painted ones,” Julius had said, slowly hefting the sword in his hand. “What name do you have for them?”
The blue king had looked at his companions and shrugged. “We don’t think of them, much,” he had replied.
Julius chuckled at the memory. He hoped Commius had survived the year he had been away. With the beach secure, Brutus brought in his Third Gallica to support the Tenth, and Mark Antony added to the numbers of Romans on the high ground, each cohort protecting the next as they moved inland in measured stages. By the time the first night fell, the galleys had retreated out to deep water where they could not be surprised, and the legions were busy with the task of building forts.
After years in Gaul, they undertook the familiar work with calm efficiency. The extraordinarii swarmed at the edges of the positions, ready to give the alarm and hold off an attack until the squares could form. The walls of banked earth and felled trees went up with the ease of long practice, and as the stars and moon moved to midnight, they were secure and ready for the day.
Julius summoned his council as the first hot food was being passed out to those who had worked so hard for it. He accepted a plate of vegetable stew and sniffed appreciatively for the benefit of the legionaries. They smiled as he tasted it, and he passed through them, pausing to speak to any man that caught his eye.
Bericus had been left in Gaul, with only his legion and the irregulars to cover that vast territory. The Ariminum general was an experienced, solid soldier who would not risk those under his command, but Brutus had been appalled at the danger of leaving so few to hold Gaul while they were away. Julius had waited through his protests and then continued with his plans. Brutus had not been part of the first landing as the storm blew his galley far out to sea. He could not understand the need Julius felt to make the second a shattering blow. He had not seen the sea run red and seen the legionaries fall back from the blue-skinned warriors and their monstrous dogs.
This year, Julius vowed, the Britons would bend the knee to him or be crushed. He had the men and the ships. He had the season and the will. As he passed into the torch-lit interior of the command tent, he laid the bowl of food on a table to go cold. He could not eat with the tension that churned in him. Rome was as distant as a dream and there were moments when Julius could only shake his head in amazement at being so far from her. If only Marius or his father could have been there to share it with him. Marius would have understood his satisfaction. He had gone deep enough into Africa to know.
His council came in pairs or threes and Julius mastered his feelings to greet them formally. He ordered food brought to them and waited while they ate, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked out of the tent to the night sky. He had rough maps made after the first landing to point them north, and the scouts who had drawn them would travel out to judge the strength of those they would face. Julius could hardly wait for the first light.
The news of the fleet had traveled swiftly. When the full might of the invasion had become apparent, Commius had torn up the plans he had made to defend the coast. There was no mistaking the intention of such a vast force and no chance whatsoever that the Trinovantes could stand against them. They pulled back to a string of hill forts twelve miles inland, and Commius sent out messengers to all the tribes around him. He called the Cenimagni and the Ancalites. He called the Segontiaci and the Bibroci and they came to him out of fear. No man alive had ever seen so large a gathering of their enemy, and they knew how many of the Trinovantes had been killed the year before against a smaller number.
That first night was spent in argument as Commius tried to save their lives.
“You did not fight them last time!” he said to the leaders. “Just a few thousand and they broke us. With the army they have brought now, we have no choice. We must bear them as we bear the winter. It is the only way to survive their passage.”
Commius saw the anger on the faces of the men before him. Beran of the Ancalites stood and Commius faced him with pale resignation, guessing at his words before they were spoken.
“The Catuvellauni say they will fight. They will accept any of us as sword brothers under their king. It’s better than lying down to be taken one by one, at least.”
Commius sighed. He knew of the offer by the young king, Cassivellaunus, and it made him want to spit. None of the men there seemed to understand the level of danger from the army that had landed on their coast. There was no end to them and Commius doubted they could be hurled back into the sea even if every man in the land took arms against them. The king of the Catuvellauni was blinded by his own ambition to lead the tribes, and Commius wanted no part of that foolishness. Cassivellaunus would learn in the only way possible, as Commius had before him. For the others, though, there was still hope.
“Let Cassivellaunus gather the tribes under his banners. It will not be enough, even with us. Tell me, Beran, how many men can you take away from your crops and herds to fight?”
Beran shifted uneasily at the question, but then shrugged. “Twelve hundred, perhaps. Less if I keep back enough to protect the women.”
Under Commius’s stern eye, each of them added to the numbers.
“Between us all, then, we can gather perhaps eight thousand warriors. Cassivellaunus has three and the tribes around him can bring six more to war, if they all agree to follow him. Seventeen thousand, and against us my men counted as many as twenty-five, with thousands more on horseback.”
“I’ve known worse,” Beran said, with a smile.
Commius glared at him. “No you haven’t. I lost three thousand of my best against them on the beach and amongst the corn. They are hard men, my friends, but they cannot rule us from over the sea. No one has ever managed to do that. We must wait them out until the winter sends them back. They know by now what the storms can do to their ships.”
“It will be hard to ask my people to put away their swords,” Beran said. “There will be many who want to join the Catuvellauni.”
“Then let them!” Commius shouted, losing his temper at last. “Let anyone who wants to die join up under Cassivellaunus and fight. They will be destroyed.” He rubbed angrily at the bridge of his nose. “I must think of the Trinovantes first, no matter what you decide. There are few enough of us left now, but even if I had a host of men, I would wait and see how the Catuvellauni fared in the first battle. If their king is so hungry to lead us all, let him show he has the strength to do it.”
The men looked at each other, searching out agreement. The spirit of cooperation was an unusual experience, but nothing about the situation was normal since the fleet had been sighted that morning.
Beran spoke first. “You are no coward, Commius. That is why I have listened to you. I will wait and see how Cassivellaunus fares in the first skirmishes. If he can make these new men bleed, I will join him to the end of it. I do not want to be standing by with my head bowed while they are killing my people. It would be too hard.”
“Harder still to see your temples smashed and ashes made of the Ancalites,” Commius snapped. He shook his head. “Do whatever you think is right. The Trinovantes will not be part of it.” Without another word, Commius stormed out of the low room and left them alone.
Beran watched him go with a frown. “Is he right?” he said.
The same question was in all their minds as Beran turned to them.
“Let the Catuvellauni meet them, with what men they can muster. I will have my scouts watching and if they say these Romans can be beaten, I will march.”
“The Bibroci will be with you,” their man said. The others added their voices and Beran smiled. He understood how the King of the Catuvellauni could want to gather the tribes under him. The men in the room could bring nearly eight thousand warriors to the field. What a sight that would be. Beran could hardly imagine so many men united together.
Julius came upon the hill forts of the Trinovantes twelve miles in from the coast. The sound and sme
ll of the sea was far behind his marching columns, and those legionaries who looked to the future murmured appreciatively as they passed through fields of corn and even cultivated vines that they stripped of the acid white grapes as they passed. Wild apples grew there, and in the heat at the end of summer, Julius was pleased to see the land was worth taking. The coast had shown little of the promise of the fields beyond them, yet his eyes searched constantly for the dark scars of mines. Rome had been promised tin and gold from the Britons, and without it Julius knew the greed of the Senate would never be satisfied.
The legions stretched across miles of land, separated from each other by the heavy baggage trains. They had supplies for a month and tools and equipment to cross rivers and build bridges, even to construct a town. Julius had left nothing to chance in this second attempt at the white cliffs. He signaled the cornicens to blow the halt and watched as the vast columns responded, their formations shifting subtly at the edge of his vision as they moved from marching files to more defensive positions. Julius nodded to himself with satisfaction. This was how Rome should make war.
The hill forts stretched in a straggling line across the land, each one a solid construction of wood and stone that held the crest of sharply rising land. A river marked on his maps as the Sturr ran below them, and Julius sent out his water carriers to begin the lengthy process of refilling the legion supplies. They were not yet in need, but Gaul had taught him never to spurn an opportunity to collect water or food. His maps ended at the river, and for all he knew, it might be the last source of fresh water until they reached the Tamesis, the “dark river” sixty miles from the coast. If it even existed.
Julius summoned Brutus and Octavian and detached a cohort of his veteran Tenth to approach the forts. As he gave his orders, Julius saw the powerful figure of Ciro march through the ranks to him. Julius grinned at the big man’s worried expression and answered his question before it could be asked.
“Very well, Ciro. Join us,” he called.
Julius watched as relief flooded the features of the giant soldier. Ciro’s loyalty could still touch him. The armor of the Tenth gleamed painfully as Julius looked them over, and again he felt himself filled with a powerful excitement. At any moment, the armies of the Britons might appear to strike at them, but there was nothing out of place in the perfect ranks and files. The legions were ready and something of Julius’s own confidence showed in their faces.
In the pure, clean air, Julius heard birds call far above him as he rode slowly up the slope to the largest of the forts. He began listing the defenses and planning how to break them if the occupants would not surrender. The walls were well constructed and any attacking force would have to face a barrage of missiles from above as they stormed the gate. Julius imagined the dimensions of the battering ram that would be necessary to breach such heavy timbers, and the answer did not please him. He saw dark heads outlined on the high walls and sat straighter in the saddle, aware that he was being observed and judged.
Inside the fort, there were shouts and horn notes blaring. Julius stiffened as the main gates were heaved open. The lines of triarii ahead of him drew their swords without an order as each one of them expected a charge to come screaming out at them. It was what Julius would have done had he been on the hill, and he clenched his fists on the reins as the dark interior of the fort was revealed.
No warriors came surging out. Instead, a small group of men stood in its shadow and one of them raised an arm in greeting. Julius ordered the cohort to sheathe their swords to defuse some of the tension. Octavian moved his horse a pace ahead of Julius and looked back at his general.
“Let me take a fifty inside first, sir. If it’s a trap, we’ll make them show themselves.”
Julius looked at his younger relative with affection, seeing no sign of fear or hesitation in the man’s calm eyes. If it was a trap, those who entered the fort first would be killed, and Julius was pleased that one of his blood should show such bravery in front of the men.
“Very well, Octavian. Enter and hold the gate for me,” he replied, smiling.
Octavian snapped out orders to the front five ranks, and they broke into a run up the last part of the hill. Julius watched the reactions of the Britons and was disappointed to see them stand their ground without a sign of fear.
Octavian kicked his mount into a canter to pass under the gate, and Julius could see his armor shining in the main yard as he wheeled and rode back. By the time Julius had brought the rest of the cohort up, Octavian had dismounted, and a quick exchange of glances was enough for Julius to grin. It had been an unnecessary caution, but Julius had learned about risk in Gaul. There were times when there was nothing else to do but charge and hope, but those were rare. Julius had found that the more he thought and planned, the fewer were those occasions when he had to depend on the sheer strength and discipline of his men.
Julius dismounted in the shadow of the gate. The men who waited for him were mostly strangers, but he saw Commius there and embraced him. It was a purely formal gesture for the benefit of the warriors who watched in the fort. Perhaps both men knew that only the size of the Roman army forced the apparent friendship on them, but it did not matter.
“I’m glad to see you here, Commius,” Julius said. “My scouts thought this was still the land of the Trinovantes, but were not sure.” He spoke quickly and fluently, making Commius raise his eyebrows in surprise. Julius smiled as if it were nothing and continued.
“Who are these others?”
Commius introduced the leaders of the tribes and Julius greeted them all, memorizing their names and faces and thoroughly enjoying their discomfort.
“You are welcome in Trinovantes land,” Commius said at last. “If your men will wait, I will have food and drink brought. Will you step inside?”
Julius looked closely at the man and wondered if Octavian’s suspicions could yet become reality. He sensed he was being tested and finally threw off his caution.
“Octavian, Brutus . . . Ciro, with me. Show me the way, Commius, and leave the gates open, if you don’t mind. It is too hot a day to shut out the breeze.”
Commius looked coldly at him and Julius smiled. The centurion Regulus was there and Julius spoke to him last before following the Britons inside.
“Wait a single watch for me to return. You know what must be done if I am not seen by then.”
Regulus nodded grimly and Julius saw the words were not wasted on Commius as his expression hardened.
The fort seemed larger than it had on the track up the hill. With the other Britons, Commius led the four Romans through the yard, and Julius did not look up as he heard the shuffling feet of Trinovantes warriors craning to see them. He would not honor them by showing he heard, though Ciro bristled as he glanced at the upper levels.
Commius led them all into a long, low room constructed of heavy honey-colored beams. Julius looked around him at the spears and swords that adorned the walls and knew he was in Commius’s council chamber. A table and benches showed where Commius sat with his people, and at the far end was a shrine and a thread of silver smoke that lifted past a stone face set in the wall.
Commius took his seat at the head of the table and Julius moved to the far end without a thought. It was natural enough for the Romans to take one side and the Britons the other, and when they were seated Julius waited patiently for Commius to speak. The sense of danger had lifted. Commius knew as well as anyone that the legions outside would trample the forts into ash and blood if Julius did not come out, and Julius was sure the threat would prevent any attempt to hold or kill him. If it did not, he thought the Britons would be surprised at the savagery that would follow. Brutus and Octavian alone were so far from common swordsmen that their speed and skill seemed almost magical, while a single blow from Ciro could snap the neck of all but the strongest men.
Commius cleared his throat. “The Trinovantes have not forgotten the alliance of last year. The Cenimagni, Ancalites, Bibroci, and Segontiaci have agree
d to respect that peace. Will you honor your word?”
“I will,” Julius replied. “If these men will declare themselves my allies, I will not trouble them past the taking of hostages and a level of tribute. The other tribes will see they have nothing to fear from me if they are civilized. You will be my example to them.”
As he spoke Julius glanced around the table, but the Britons gave nothing away. Commius looked relieved and Julius settled back into his seat for the negotiations.
When Julius finally came out again, the Britons gathered along the high walls of the fort to see him go, the tension clear on their pale faces. Regulus watched closely as his general raised an arm in salute. The cohort turned in place and began the march down the hill to the waiting legions. From that height, the extent of the invasion force could be seen, and Regulus smiled at the thought of every battle going as easily.
As the cohort was absorbed back into the main body of men, Julius sent a rider to fetch Mark Antony to him. It took an hour for the general to arrive, and Julius strode through the silent, waiting lines of soldiers to greet him.
“I am going north, but I cannot leave these forts at my back,” Julius said as Mark Antony dismounted and saluted. “You will stay here with your legion and accept the hostages they send. You will not provoke them into battle, but if they arm, you will destroy them utterly. Do you understand my orders?”
Mark Antony glanced up at the forts that loomed over their position. The breeze seemed to be increasing in strength and he shivered suddenly. It was not an easy task, but he could do no more than salute.
“I understand, sir.”
Mark Antony watched as the great legions of his homeland moved off with a tramp and thunder that shook the ground. The breeze continued to strengthen and dark clouds swept in from the west. By the time the first walls of the camp were going up, a driving rain had begun to turn the earth into heavy clay. As he saw his tent being assembled, Mark Antony wondered how long he would be left to guard the allies in their dry, warm forts.