by C. R. May
A note of pleading entered her voice for the first time as she began to realise that the authority she had enjoyed within her home throughout her adult life had simply vanished the moment that these barbarians had arrived, and her expression softened. ‘Not my daughters…’
Solemis looked them up and down for the first time. He estimated that the girls were about twelve and fourteen winters old, and both shared the curious aquiline nose that seemed to mark out the Roman ruling classes. Hair the colour of a raven’s plumage glistened and shone in the soft evening light, and although their eyes were wide with fright at the special horror that only adolescent girls could fully understand at being seen naked among men, Solemis had little doubt that they usually shared their mother’s hubris as well as her looks. He nodded; they could use a lesson in humility too. ‘Yes, them as well. Hurry or my men here will do it for you, and they can be quite rough.’ He gave a weary chuckle. ‘Barbaric, even!’
As the women’s composure finally crumpled along with their clothing, Solemis threw a parting command as he moved away to set the guards. ‘Serve my men wine. Follow Berikos’ orders and you will live.’
* * *
Solemis clicked on and Tantibus shook his head and passed through the gateway. Lining the roadway Licinia hugged her daughters to her as they stood shivering in the chill morning air. Solemis thanked the woman for her hospitality as he rode past and to his surprise she met his gaze, her loftiness still intact despite her nakedness. She had been the first to retain her composure – in fact, to his amusement he had suspected that she had rather enjoyed the attention, and he found that he respected her all the more for it.
Solemis hauled the head of his mount away to the south. A shallow valley opened up before him, its pits and hollows pooled with the mists of early morning as the Horsetails chieftain guided Tantibus between the rows of vines and away. Today was to be the final day of their raid. He would ride beyond sight of the watching women to disguise their true destination and then swing north, back towards the army of Brennus.
Solemis reflected on the success they had achieved over the past few weeks in Latium. Dozens of latifundia and villa rustica were now nothing more than smouldering wrecks, their dispossessed owners either dead or thrown on the mercy of friends and relatives. Slaves were either making frantic efforts to escape to their homelands, or rampaging through the countryside as they sought to take a savage revenge on their former masters before Roman justice finally laid them low. Surprisingly, fantastically so, they had managed to enrich themselves and sow chaos across the south without losing a single man. Solemis’ deliberately irregular strikes had left any pursuers floundering in their wake as they struck out in any direction or retraced their steps almost on a whim. He paused before glancing back at the estate buildings; the fire was taking hold now, long fronds of flame flickering within the greasy smoke, but they would be far away before help could arrive. The early morning sun glittered on the distant sea like shards of ice as the mist drew a veil around the horsemen.
Six
Lucius shifted in the saddle and took a swig from his water skin. Swilling the cool liquid around his mouth he spat out the dust and grit coateding his throat as he replaced the stopper and hooked it back onto the horn of his saddle. Lifting his head, he looked along the road to the taberna nestling in the middle distance. It was the perfect place to break their fast, and his spirits rose as he anticipated the taste of the day’s freshly baked bread and local olive oil. This close to the sea there may even be some fish, he mused – it had always been a favourite of his.
They had broken camp the moment that the first grey light of the false dawn had touched the eastern hills. He was sure that this was the best time to catch the Gauls, if they were to be caught at all. Even these wild men must sleep at some time, he reasoned, and although his force was far smaller than the reputed numbers of the enemy his duty was clear.
He shook his head as he recalled the ramblings of the survivors of their attacks. Even with their honour impinged he would have thought that they could have retained the ability to count with even a small degree of accuracy. The reports that he had collected had ranged from anywhere between eight hundred and three thousand horsemen loose in the Latium. Thankfully, unlike the distraught matrons that they had come upon, his mind was more occupied by military matters than worries about how many barbarians had seen his arse. From the tracks and the size of the areas in which they had corralled their horses he estimated the number of Gauls to be in the region of five centuries or so. If he overtook them he would shadow the enemy raiders and dispatch riders to alert all the Roman forces in the area. Aware that they had been discovered, the leader of the raiders must then abandon any more attacks and either attempt to fight or flee. If they attacked he would melt away before them and reassemble as they withdrew. Once reinforcements arrived they would strike the barbarians with overwhelming force, washing Roman swords in their blood.
His thoughts fixed firmly on his empty belly, the decurion failed to spot the approaching horsemen until one of the men called them in. ‘Two riders, sir. It looks like the optio and Ferox.’
Lucius looked across to the west. Two horsemen had crested the ridge and were cantering down towards them, the sunlight playing across the unmistakable musculature of his heavy leather coriaceus, the breastplate armour of which Titus was so proud. The pair came to a wide ditch and a ripple of excitement ran along the line as they watched the outriders hurl themselves across the obstacle without a pause.
‘They are riding full pelt – this could be it, sir.’
Lucius ignored the comment and waited for them to arrive. Despite the sense of anticipation he shared with the men, he was a Roman officer and he would act accordingly. The pair drew rein in a cloud of dust as they came up, and the optio saluted as he caught his breath. ‘There’s a smudge of smoke on the far side of the valley, just beyond the next ridge.’
Lucius made a fist, as he began to entertain the hope that this could be the moment they had striven so hard to bring about. ‘Any sign of horsemen, Titus?’
The optio shook his head. ‘Just the smoke. There is not too much of it, but it is thick and black.’ He smiled at his decurion, and the men of the column shared a look as they began to check their weapons. ‘It is the right time of day,’ he volunteered. ‘They could have just set the fire and still be in the vicinity.’
Lucius nodded his agreement. ‘Well done, lads. Titus, we will do what we agreed. You take half of the men and skirt around to the north and I will take the southern route. But take care – we will only have forty men apiece, so we cannot afford to blunder into them. We will be no use to the republic dead. Remember,’ he continued, ‘if you see them, detach a dozen riders and send them out in pairs northwards and eastwards for reinforcements. I will scour the South and the coastal districts.’ He grinned, his breakfast forgotten. ‘Let’s get going.’
* * *
Galatus and Rodolfo pressed themselves closer to the ground as they watched the riders approach. Now fully clothed once more, the matriarch moved forward and pointed in the direction that Solemis had taken only a short while before. Quick as a whip, the Roman in charge of the party immediately detailed horsemen in pairs who galloped away from the column.
Galatus turned his head to his Umbrian companion. ‘Time to leave, I think.’
They shared a look, and Rodolfo nodded as they began to shuffle back down the rear of the slope to the waiting mounts. A heartbeat later Rodolfo stiffened, throwing an arm across the Celt. ‘Stay still!’ The men froze as a horse snickered. It was close, too close, and they exchanged a glance as they weighed whether their chances would be greater if they remained where they were or bolted for the horses.
A moment later the Roman horsemen came into plain sight, and they both realised at the same instant that the decision had been taken for them as they broke cover and tore down the slope. Immediately several cries cut the air, and they threw themselves into their saddles and hauled
the heads of their mounts away. Galatus cried out over the sounds of snapping branches as they pushed their way clear of the copse. ‘Head south, we can’t afford to lead them to our men. They will have turned west by now and should be clear, we can catch them up later.’
They burst from cover in a cloud of leafage, and Galatus led them along the gully and back up onto the hillside. The summit was thick with olive trees, the gnarled old trunks marching away in serried rows, and they urged their mounts on as the lay of the grove channelled them south. Sweeping across the opposite slope, they could see that the fields ran arrow-straight down to the road that led to the nearby town of Ardea. The roadway was already growing busy as the farmers and traders moved towards the town, and they saw people stopping and pointing as they galloped across the skyline.
Galatus stole a glance across his shoulder and was horrified at how close the pursuing Romans had come. Off to the east, armed men were emerging from the tree line that shaded the roadway and were clearly moving across the fields ahead to head them off. The situation was becoming desperate, and the Horsetail exchanged a look of despair with his companion as they sought a way out of the rapidly tightening net. Suddenly Galatus recognised that Rodolfo was curbing his mount as he sought to remain alongside him, and the Celt felt a wave of shame that the man was needlessly risking his life on his behalf. Despite being offered the use of one of the Umbrian war horses by his chieftain, he had declined. His horse, Broc, had been with him as long as he had been a warrior, and the bond between them had just been too close. They had fought together in the forests of Celtica, and he had carried him across the roof of the world to the new country without protest. He was more than a horse – he was a friend, and friends, Galatus knew, should never be discarded like a worn-out cloak.
A small knoll, a perfect dome of grass topped by the solitary brush of a small pine, stood away to the west, and Galatus choked with emotion as he recognised that the gods had provided him with the perfect place to sing his death song. He reached to his side and tore his dagger and scabbard from his belt, thrusting it out to the Umbrian. ‘Here!’
Rodolfo looked across in surprise, and they locked eyes as he realised the significance of the action. ‘Make sure that this gets to my son.’
Rodolfo made to argue but instantly recognised that the man had made the correct decision. The stocky northern breed was hardy and could run all day, but the sheer size of the longer legged southern mounts would run him down before too long. He stuffed the blade into his tunic and gripped his new friend by the shoulder. After a final nod the men parted, and Rodolfo whooped as he finally gave the horse its head and arrowed across the plain.
Galatus cantered up the rise and dismounted as he reached the summit. The position was all that he hoped that it would be, and he watched as the Roman column split into two below him. As a score of them angled away to give chase to the fleeing Umbrian, the remainder poured around the hillock like a tidal flow. The Celt raised his eyes as the Romans completed their encirclement, smiling with satisfaction as he watched his friend draw further away from his pursuers with every passing moment. Already he was through the line of oncoming guards rushing across from the Via Ardeatina and racing up the slope opposite. He felt pride that his sacrifice had not been in vain, and hoped that his clansmen would get to hear of it. He was sure that they would. The Umbrian was the best horseman he had ever seen, and the idea that the lumbering horses, with their heavily armed riders, would catch the swift stallion was laughable.
As the Romans collected at the base of the hillock and shuffled into line, he put his face to Broc’s muzzle and breathed in the musky smell of the horse for a final time as he drew his sword. ‘Wait for me in Anwnn, old friend. I shall be along soon, and we can ride through the fields there again with our ancestors.’
The horse shuddered, and it gasped in shock as the blade entered the chest and slid easily through the muscle and sinew to cleave its great heart in two. It was perfectly judged, and Galatus held the horse’s head as his forelegs gave way and it pitched forward onto the grass. Broc gave a shiver, his legs kicking the air for a final time before the horse grew still, and the Gaul reached into the blood pulsing from its death wound, working his hair into crimson spikes before reddening his face with a last sweep of his hand. Flexing his sword arm, Galatus took up his battle stance as he began to call out his lineage, readying his song as he prepared to exact his death price.
* * *
Rodolfo reached the crest of the valley and curbed his mount. His pursuers were far below him, and even at this distance he could recognise from the soldiers’ body language that they realised they had little chance of catching him. He was, after all, the finest horseman in the whole of Umbria, and his personal mount, Fulgar – lightning – had been aptly named.
He shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the morning sun and peered across the wide valley to the grassy knoll where he had left his friend. The scene sparkled with light as the silver blades rose and fell, and the Umbrian could see that the fight was drawing to its inevitable conclusion. He could just make out the great bulk of the Celt beneath the arc of his great broadsword as it scythed his attackers like summer barley, an island of ochre and russet amid the more uniform silver and brown of his attackers.
Rodolfo reached inside his tunic and withdrew the Gaul’s dagger, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile as he regarded the barbarity of the scabbard. Chased with intricate swirls in bronze and leather the design was typical of his race – brash and robust, but honest and true. He raised his eyes to look back towards the roadway. His pursuers were closing in as they sensed a chance to get their man; he would have to be away soon or Galatus’ boy would never get to hear of his father’s glorious death. He cast a last look across the vale. The Romans had withdrawn a short distance, leaving behind a bloody ring of bodies to mark the limit of their advance. Men were returning from the horses with a supply of javelins, and Galatus stood at the crown of the hillock, undefeated. It would make a fitting ending to his story, and Rodolfo hauled the head of his mount eastwards and dug in his heels.
* * *
The usual flurry of activity was evident ahead as Numerius led the men of the turma towards the town gate. The ride down from Rome could have been pleasant had it not been for the reason for the mad dash. The town lay under a canopy of the deepest blue as the heat of the day began to come off the land and a freshening breeze blew in from the nearby Tirreno Sea.
Word had reached the city that morning that his estate had been attacked and burnt by the barbarian raiders who had been plaguing the lands of Latium for the past few weeks, and Numerius had cursed himself for placing his family in harm’s way. He had never for one moment expected the Senones to act in such a brazen manner. He of all people, the man who had become almost a figure of amusement among the members of the senate for the strength of his warnings about the capabilities of these people, had underestimated their reach and audacity.
To have had his wife and daughters attacked and his property burnt around them was humiliating enough, but to be informed of the fact by one of Camillus’ soldiers had heaped misery upon misery. That the messenger had appeared at his domus before he had set out for the senate had been the only bright point that day, otherwise his humiliation would have been complete. Gratifyingly, the men of his century had left their places of work without a thought, and he had been on his way within the hour. It had been the first time that he had left the city since the attacks, and Numerius had been shocked by the devastation that had been inflicted upon the rural populations. Traffic on the roads had dropped almost to nothing, and those who did venture abroad demanded armed escort, even in daylight. To think that this was happening, sometimes within the jurisdiction of Rome herself, was a humiliation of the highest order.
Ahead of them the town guards had hastily arranged themselves into twin ranks lining the road at their approach, and Numerius slowed his mount as the centurion in command saluted. All the men here
were loyal to the ex-dictator and would count him as a political enemy of their general. But they were Romans, and he expected to be received in the manner that his rank demanded. Before he could state his business, the soldier spoke. ‘Welcome to Ardea, tribune.’ The man glanced down momentarily, his discomfort obvious. ‘The men and I are sorry for the reason for your journey, sir.’
Numerius blinked in surprise. ‘Thank you. Would one of your men guide us to the home of the general?’
‘An escort has already been arranged, sir,’ the man replied. ‘They await you through the gate.’
Numerius nodded his thanks and clicked his mount on. Passing under the great archway he emerged into an open space containing the guard house and various buildings that housed the town revenue collectors and other offices of the state. A small stable stood off to one side, the covering of thatch lending it a slightly ridiculous rustic air in the otherwise terracotta-tiled town. A turma of tough looking equites were mounted there, and the decurion came forward and introduced himself as his men took up station at their head. ‘Sextus Frontinus, legatus. I will guide you to the general’s domus.’
Numerius inclined his head and the officer rode to the head of the column. The tree-lined road soon spilled out into a busy forum, and the column negotiated their way through the throng as the inhabitants of the town stared at their exotic visitor and exchanged whispered comments. The road exited the forum alongside a venerable Greek temple and climbed slowly uphill towards the highest point in the town. The buildings increased in size and grandeur the further they moved from the bustling centre of Ardea, and very soon the decurion and the riders of his squadron wheeled and formed themselves into twin ranks flanking a large double gate. The iron hinges grated as unseen hands pulled the doors inward, and Numerius led his men into the shaded interior. Alighting in the large courtyard within the tribune was joined by his optio and friend, Cassius, as a dispensator, the head of the house slaves, came forward to greet him and lead him through and into the domus itself.
