He remembered the awe he had felt at finally speaking to men who were barely myths in Rome. Yet for all their wild looks, Julius had found the tribesmen understood the simple Gaulish speech he had labored to learn.
“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.