1.
The boats drew closer to the white cliffs.
Sunlight glinted off a myriad of swords, breastplates and helmets. Spray from
the turquoise channel blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater
moistened Lucius Oppius ’ palms as he gripped the
Tenth Legion’s eagle. His eyes were as blue and cold as the Mediterranean. His
friend Roscius had commented, half
jokingly and half in earnest, how Oppius would
have been considered handsome – if he ever bothered to smile. A grim expression
again carved itself into the soldier’s face as he gazed up at the jeering
barbarians, their bodies smeared with woad , upon the
cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances
from such advantageous ground, Oppius mused. The
sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of
an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip
harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck a Roman scutum or the hull of a ship.
Oppius turned his gaze towards the lead trireme where his General, Caesar,
stood at the prow. Did the standard bearer notice the hint of a wry smile upon
his commander’s face? Caesar had encountered such defiance before. Many had
rolled the dice against Caesar and the Tenth, but in the end the Venus throw
always came up and Rome was victorious. His red cloak blew in the wind. Caesar
was still handsome, whether he smiled or not. His hairline had been retreating
of late more than the armies of Gaul but his body was still taut with muscle,
his face clean-shaven. His eyes took in everything, yet often remained
unreadable. Although brave, Caesar was not foolhardy, Oppius thought. Should he choose to attack now then the legions – the Seventh and
Tenth – would be slain from a barrage of missiles before the boats could even
reach the beach.
“If their blood lust is anything like their
lust for alcohol then we could be in trouble,” the standard bearer heard a
legionary mutter behind him, only partly as a joke.
“The one often fuels the other.” The knowing
reply came from a man that the legion nicknamed Teucer ,
for his skill with a bow. The wiry, pale-faced soldier was a Briton, who had
left his homeland and travelled to Gaul. Most Britons were recruited by Rome’s
enemies on the continent but Teucer had chosen to
fight for the Republic. Caesar himself had witnessed his abilities with a bow
and bent the rules to promote him to the Tenth. Oppius liked the Briton – and not just because he had saved his life in battle on more
than one occasion. He was amiable and intelligent, picking up Latin as quickly
as he picked up the legionary’s black sense of humour . Oppius briefly wondered how his comrade was now
feeling, as he journeyed towards invading his homeland. What was it like, to
view your countryman as your enemy? Oppius hoped that
he would never have to find out.
The standard bearer was far from the only
Roman to focus his attention upon the figure of Caesar as the trireme’s captain
approached his commander. Many of the newer recruits thought, hoped, that
Caesar would point to the captain to sail back to Gaul. Yet Oppius had faith in his General that he would give the order for the fleet to sail
onwards, along the coast, and discover another landing site. Indeed Oppius had more faith in Caesar than he did the Gods – and
sure enough he observed his commander nod his head in the direction of Britain
rather than Gaul. Onwards.
Not even the Gods could stop Caesar.
2.
The previous night.
Through the flames and smoke of the campfire,
through the blackest of evenings, through a sea of bobbing heads, Oppius could still see the precious, gleaming head of the
legion’s silver eagle. The eagle nested in the sacellum ,
a sacred shrine dedicated to the standard. Even in the safety of the Roman
encampment the standard bearer tried to keep an eye on the semi-divine totem. Oppius was one of
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