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 agreed 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.
That night, a summer storm struck the coast. Forty of the Roman galleys had their oars and masts torn out and were driven onto the cliffs and smashed. Many more lost their anchors and were driven out to sea, tossed and battered in the darkness. The sheer number of them made it a night of terror, with the desperate crews hanging out over the sides with poles to fend away the others before they were crushed.
Hundreds lost their lives in collision or drowning, and as the wind softened once more just before dawn, it was a bedraggled fleet that limped its way back to the shingle beach. Those who had seen the bloody savagery of the first landings moaned in terror as they saw a dark crust of bodies and wood along the shore.
With dawn, the remaining officers began to restore order. Galleys were lashed together and the metal spars of siege machines were dropped as makeshift anchors to hold them. Scores of landing boats had been ripped overboard, but those that survived spent the morning traveling from ship to ship, sharing the supplies of fresh water and tools. The dark holds of three galleys were filled with the wounded, and their cries could be heard over the wind.
When they had eaten and the Roman captains had discussed the position, some voted for an immediate return to Gaul. Those who knew Julius well refused to listen to the idea and would not put a single oar in water until they had his orders. In the face of their resistance, messengers for Julius were sent ashore and the fleet waited.
Mark Antony received them first as they came inland. The great force of the gales had been lost a few miles from the coast, and he had experienced no more than a bad storm, though flickering lightning had woken him from sleep more than once. He read the damage reports in dawning horror, before he mastered his spinning thoughts. Julius had not foreseen another storm to damage the fleet, but if he had been there, he would have given the same order. The galleys could not be left exposed to be hammered into driftwood over the course of the campaign.
Mark Antony opened his mouth to order a return to Gaul, but the thought of Julius’s fury prevented the words.
“I have five thousand men here,” he said, an idea forming. “With ropes and teams, we could bring the galleys in one by one and build an inland port for them. I hardly felt the storm, but we would not need to go so far from the coast. Half a mile and a wall to protect them would keep the fleet safe and ready for when Caesar returns.”
The messengers looked blankly at him.
“Sir,” said one, “there are hundreds of ships. Even if we brought the slave crews out as labor, it would take months to move so many.”
Mark Antony smiled tightly. “The slave crews will be responsible for their own ships. We have ropes and men to do it. I would think two weeks would be enough, and after that, the storms can blow as they will.”
The Roman general ushered the seamen out of his tent and summoned his officers. He could not help but wonder if anyone had ever attempted such a thing before. He had never heard of it, though any port had one or two hulks out of water. Surely this was just an extension of the same task? With that thought, his doubts faded away as he lost himself in calculation. By the time his officers were ready to be briefed,
Mark Antony had a string of orders for them.
CHAPTER 40
The resemblance to the Gauls was striking as Julius ordered his legions into the attack. The British tribes of the interior did not affect the blue skin, but they shared some of the ancient names Julius had first heard in Gaul. His scouts had reported a tribe calling themselves the Belgae in the west, perhaps from the very same line he had destroyed across the sea.
A long crest of hills formed a ridge over the land that the legions climbed in the face of arrows and spears. The Roman shields were proof against them and the advance was inexorable. The legions had sweated to pull the heavy ballistae up the hills, but they had proved their worth as the Britons tried to hold the plateau and were taught respect for the great machines. They had nothing to match the sheer power of the scorpion bows, and their charges were shattered in disarray as the legions moved on to the slopes beyond. Julius had known that part of their advantage lay in speed across open land, and the tribes gathered under Cassivellaunus fell back as each position was taken and the Roman lines moved on.