‘For some,’ Searix replied in a defeated voice. ‘The Remi are in no danger and enjoy Roman favour. Other tribes, though, for all their oaths and loyalties, lie in direct danger from Rome’s most bitter enemies. My people sit as an island of your Pax Romana amid a sea of rabid Rome-haters. It will not surprise you to hear that there is always a small portion of our tribe that maintains we would be better discarding our oath.’
‘Of course. In their position, I might think twice myself,’ Fronto replied. ‘But two things remain fact. Firstly: Rome will win any war she sets her mind to. The world knows this. A hundred beaten enemy peoples know this. And siding with Rome is the fast track to a glorious golden age, while facing off against her is a sure path to destruction. Secondly: breaking an oath is the act of a coward and a traitor, and just as Rome hates an oathbreaker, the Belgae are also a people founded on the nobility of spirit and the reliability of a man’s word.’
It was truth. These two facts had become instrumental in Rome’s rapid expansion over the past two centuries, and every new campaign made them more central and certain.
‘Honour,’ Searix nodded ‘is paramount to a warrior. And our tribe honours their oath. But the more we watch your army act without honour, the more voices join that minority in our tribe that condemns Rome for a butcher. This new policy of Caesar’s is destroying his reputation among his allies.’
Fronto sighed and sagged back onto the well’s lip.
‘If you think this is the be-all and end-all of Roman savagery, you really have seen nothing yet. Ask a Carthaginian about Rome’s vengeance - if you can find one! And Caesar is far from the most forgiving and peaceable of Romans. But the fact remains that these are our avowed enemies, and they are suffering for their actions. No such cruelty would be visited upon an ally.’
‘The Condrusi are still your allies,’ Searix replied somewhat stiffly. ‘We will remain so as long as those of us who respect our word outnumber those who fear your betrayal. But as I say this, remember that there are other tribes out there sending you grain, supplying you with horses and warriors, guarding your backs, who will be experiencing the same difficulty as us. And some of them may have less of a grip on their oath than us. If Rome is to maintain her alliance with the tribes and continue to enjoy their support, someone is going to have to turn Caesar from this most dangerous path down which he has us walking.’
Fronto rubbed his scalp and was surprised when his hand came away stained pink. Other people’s blood, of course, but still…
‘Thank you for confiding in us, Searix. See what you can do to reassure your people. They may be trapped, but the Eburones are a shadow of what they were and the Treveri are having too much trouble with Labienus to turn on them. And of course, the Nervii are now suffering.’ He saw the darkening of the scout’s expression and held up his hands defensively. ‘Frankly, Caesar is considerably less likely to listen to me than he is to you, but I will see what I can do. To some extent, I agree with what you say.’
Searix nodded and turned, striding back to his horse.
Galronus waved away his men, and they escorted the scout back through the city, in case he be mistaken for a Nervian and enslaved or butchered. At a gesture from the Remi officer, they took his horse with them. Galronus rolled his shoulders and produced a skin of wine from somewhere about his person.
‘Today I feel the need,’ Fronto grumbled and reached out as Galronus passed it over.
‘It is more serious than it sounds,’ Galronus said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Searix down-played the trouble for your benefit. But I have heard unhappy rumblings even among the Remi.’
‘That’ll be the fault of your turd-flavoured beer,’ Palmatus snorted, earning a gimlet stare from the Remi.
‘Still, Marcus, feelings are starting to turn against Rome at the sight of burning houses, enslaved grey-beards and dead children. Some feel that Caesar went back on his word here, whatever the general says about his actual terms. If he keeps to this course, he may soon find that he is facing all of Gaul rather than a few rebellious tribes.’
‘It’s all about bloody Ambiorix,’ Fronto snapped. ‘That one man is costing us dear. Far more than the legion and a half and some senior officers he’s credited with. Even with his tribe smashed, he manages to stir up trouble against us. But worse still, he’s earned Caesar’s wrath, and we all know that Caesar is not a man to turn from a path laid down in anger. The general is set to harrow all of the north in order to flush out that little Eburone rat, and nothing we say will likely turn him away from it.’
He threw an arm out to what he thought might be the north-east.
‘Somewhere out there is a town called Asadunon. Ambiorix or his runt advisors might be there - and pray he is, as that’d end this whole mess - so be prepared. In the morning we march to Asadunon and they will be lucky if they get half as good treatment as the people of Avenna. And it will continue to get worse until Caesar has his hands around Ambiorix’s neck and squeezes.’
‘Then something needs to be done.’
The four men fell silent for a long moment and finally Fronto grunted and stood, passing the wine skin back to Galronus. ‘I am going to find Antonius and try and pass this news on as nicely as possible. Thank you, Galronus. And you two? Best get everyone back to camp and rested and fed. We’ll be on to Asadunon first thing tomorrow. And start asking around for five replacements for our losses. Looking at the situation after the last fight, we could do with someone who knows their way around a poultice. Find a capsarius – preferably one who ignores orders from his patients. They’re the good ones.’
Masgava and Palmatus nodded and Fronto turned and left, seeking the army’s second most senior officer. Galronus shook his head sadly. ‘This gets worse year upon year. Four summers ago, when my tribe were first tied to Rome, we saw a future of mutual benefit, with greatness for us all. We made our mark in Caesar’s ledger, as did others, but we thought that by now there would be a lucrative peace. Instead we exist in a state of interminable war. I have seen enough of Rome now to know that there is no point in turning away from you. You will win in the end, and we are better to accept the tunica and the wine now and benefit than to disappear from the histories in a swathe of blood. But how long can this land stand continual war before it becomes a waste ground habitable only by scavengers and ghosts?’
Palmatus and Masgava seemed to be having an unspoken conversation, their brows and eyes doing most of the work. Galronus narrowed his own. ‘What are you two up to?’
‘You’re right, Galronus. Something must be done. And I think we know what it is.’
‘Care to elucidate?’
Palmatus shook his head. ‘Not at this point. But could you do me a favour? We need to replenish our men and - though Fronto wants a capsarius - I’d like to take on four of the five from Gallic stock. I’ll look into the Thirteenth and Fourteenth when we get back to them, since I hear there’s a lot of staunch Gauls among them. But I’d like another of your Remi, and one of the Con… the men from Searix’s tribe… if you can arrange that for me. Preferably one of the cleverest and quietest.’
Galronus’ already narrowed eyes almost closed with suspicion.
‘I will see what I can do.’
Masgava grinned. ‘I like the way you think, Palmatus, my friend.’
* * * * *
‘That is an oppidum?’ Antonius snorted.
‘After Avenna, it lacks a certain something, does it not?’ the scout said quietly. Galronus, sitting next to Searix, peered off into the mist, nodding at the other horseman’s words. The weather had warmed somewhat this morning for the march, but a thick, fleecy mist had overlaid the entire land and seemed unwilling to dissipate, or even to thin a great deal.
The party of a dozen senior officers, plus scouts and bodyguards, sat on a low rise with the best view afforded of the oppidum of Asadunon in the obfuscating mists.
It was, as Searix had noted, lacking.
De
fence-wise it had a low rampart of the more basic form: a tall timber palisade, revetted with an earth bank that produced a walkway atop. The single gate - this place hardly needed more than one - was a simple matter of two wooden leaves that closed and barred. No walkway over. No tower.
There did not appear to be anyone on the walls, though the mist made everything uncomfortably indistinct.
Of the apparent size and complexity of the oppidum the scouts had reported less than a hundred inhabitants at an estimate, and perhaps forty houses. No public buildings or the like. No towers on the palisade for the entire circuit. Fronto estimated that a single century could overrun the place faster than they could put up their tents.
‘Tell me of the other compound,’ Caesar commanded quietly, his voice slightly muffled in the fog.
‘There is a sanctuary to Epona, the Lady of Horses, to the north. It is perhaps half a mile distant and the two compounds will probably be hidden from one another in the mist. The sanctuary has a similar defence system to this, a temple and a nemeton, both cared for by perhaps a dozen men.’
‘Do we take Asadunon first and risk our prey fleeing if they are in the druidic centre, or move on and attempt to take the religious compound and the village simultaneously?’ Antonius asked quietly.
‘Speed is now of the essence.’ Caesar sighed. ‘The more we tarry, the more chance there is of the Nervii becoming aware of our presence and our quarry escaping.’
‘If they’re here,’ Fronto noted sourly. Caesar gave him a sharp glance, but said nothing in reply. It was a possibility that had been discussed under people’s breath all day.
‘Take the cavalry out in an arc and secure the druids.’ Caesar gestured to Galronus. ‘One wing should be sufficient and your men will be comfortable in the terrain.’ He shifted his glance to the former legate of the Tenth. ‘Take Fronto with you - he seems to have acquired a talent for opening up tight-sealed clamshells.’
It was, Fronto noted, the first time since his arrival at Samarobriva that the general had actually indicated that Fronto was both present and of value. Despite the dark, unfriendly voice in which the general had addressed him, it was progress.
With a quick nod to Masgava and Galronus, who sat astride horses some twenty paces away, Fronto turned Bucephalus and walked the big black beast back towards the waiting army. The small knot of Fronto’s singulares who had been exchanging looks of mutual distrust with Caesar’s own Praetorian guard, turned their mounts with varying degrees of skill and bumbled after him like some sort of comedy troupe that would entertain arena-goers before the main events. Masgava had insisted that if Fronto was to be mounted it made sense for his singulares to acquire horses too, else how could they be expected to protect him. The decision had been warmly accepted by the Gauls, who were all-but born in the saddle, and by a few of the others, who either had experience on horseback in earlier life, or who simply relished the idea of not marching from A to B to C. Others were less impressed. Most particularly Palmatus, who clung to the fact that he would rather walk a thousand miles than ride a hundred. In the end, Masgava’s logic had overridden his defiance, and even Fronto could not find a reasonable argument against. The singulares were now a mounted troop, courtesy of Galronus’ gifts.
As the group closed on Galronus’ wing, Fronto pulled alongside the Remi officer, Palmatus and Masgava behind him.
‘It’s exceedingly unlikely that Ambiorix is here. Even if he is in the area, he won’t be around the druids.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember that nobleman back at Bibracte? He was a friend of the druids but no friend of Ambiorix, apparently. If that’s the case, Ambiorix will not be here.’
The Remi noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘You realise that druids are not going to meekly surrender?’
‘A dozen men? I have more than that number of singulares, without your thousand cavalry, Galronus.’
‘But you must take at least one of them alive, for Caesar to interrogate.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I’ll do you a favour. None of your lads are going to be stunningly happy at ravaging a sacred grove. You lot surround the place and prevent escapes and we’ll go in and deal with it.’
Galronus nodded. It would sit better with his men not to be arresting and executing druids.
Moments later, they were moving off along the route the native scouts had taken, down into the shallow dip that led in a gentle curve around to the west of Asadunon, and then out onto a gentle incline that rose to the north beyond.
The terrain here looked like a ruffled blanket, with gentle humps and dips. The analogy brought back a flash of memory, and Fronto had a mental image as clear as day of the gentle and soft-spoken Crispus sitting opposite, surrounded by their friends, some three years ago and a lifetime away.
‘This land is somewhat like a lumpy sleeping pallet,’ the young legate had said. ‘You cannot sleep comfortably, so you have to flatten out the lump, but then a lump forms somewhere else. No matter what you do, there will always be a new lump forming somewhere. And the more you play with it, trying to make it comfortable, the more lumps you have until, in the end, there is nothing else for it but to discard the pallet and begin again with a new one.’
Asadunon and the Epona shrine were yet another bump in this seemingly-interminable lumpy pallet. And Crispus. Poor, young, promising Crispus, had been brutally murdered by Gallic traitors. A lump to be flattened. Caesar’s current policy may be dangerous, but there were times when Fronto could hardly deny the pull of it. Crispus would never rest well until revenge had been taken.
‘You stay safely outside. I’d send my Belgic singulares out with you, but they have to be reliable, and I have to know that they will do what must be done.’
Again, Galronus nodded.
As they neared the top of the slope they slowed, remembering the words of the scouts. Asadunon was now lost in the mist almost half a mile to the south. The white blanket that covered the rumpled pallet of the land deadened noise so effectively that he could hear no sign of the thousands of men less than a mile away, moving to take Asadunon.
At the crest of the low hill, they were afforded their first view of the shrine compound of Epona.
A low rampart with a palisade surrounded a circular area perhaps fifty paces across. Despite what the scouts had said, the rampart here was, to the experienced eye of a Roman officer, nothing like the one that enclosed the village. This was lower and simpler. More a social divide than a defence. Inside, the trees had been trained into two concentric circles, surrounding what appeared to be a paved, central oval, bounded by low steps and squat standing stones. At the northern end stood a small hovel - a shrine apparently, built in the stone-and-timber style of almost all northern Gallic structures. There appeared to be tall wooden posts standing to either side of that temple building, and half a dozen other structures evenly-spaced around the outer edge.
Only two figures were visible from here, both at the near edge of the central oval, one seated on a stone, while the other appeared to be raking or hoeing the ground. It looked so sickeningly peaceful and pleasant that Fronto had momentary cause to doubt his plan. Only momentary, though. Images flashed through his mind of druids cursing him, defiant as they drove the Gauls to rebellion, of the maiming and burning of horses and riders by Germanic priests back in their first year in Gaul, of that bastard druid with the sword and the iron crown in Britannia who had tried to carve him into a new shape.
Don’t be fooled by their apparent pacifism! He grunted to himself.
‘How do you want to do this?’ Galronus muttered.
‘Quickly and simply. Send your men out in both directions and surround the place, then close in until you’re just outside the rampart. In this fog there’s little chance of us getting a signal and Asadunon could already be under attack. We’ll go straight in.’
Galronus nodded and, with a couple of simple gestures, sent his riders off to the east and west to surround the sacred enclosure.
Fronto l
ooked back at his small force. They were still short three men, until they returned to the rest of the army - Palmatus and Masgava had been adamant about saving space for someone, but with sixteen in total, and all fighting men, they could hardly expect trouble from a dozen priest-folk.
With the assurance of a force superior in every way, Fronto and his singulares rode down the gentle slope and towards the gate which still stood wide open. As they approached the defences, Fronto felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. For a moment, he chided himself on his over-superstitious nature, but then Bucephalus wrenched his black head this way and that, his muscles bunching unnecessarily, breath coming in short heavy snorts, steaming in the air, betraying his state of heightened nerves.
The shiver began and Fronto noted that several of his companions were looking apprehensively back and forth. The place was exuding an almost tangible aura of something unpleasant, and everyone felt it, especially the horses.
‘There’s no wildlife,’ Masgava whispered on his left side. Fronto cocked his head. There was certainly no birdsong and no rustle in the grass or undergrowth, but that was not necessarily a surprise, given the conditions.
‘Could be entirely natural.’
‘Why are the horses nervous?’ Palmatus added, struggling to control the steed over whom he had minimal mastery at the best of times.
‘Same reason as us, I guess.’
‘But isn’t this a shrine to a horse Goddess?’
Fronto’s shiver came back and brought some friends.
‘Swords out, lads. Something’s amiss.’
The men around him unfastened the carrying straps and lifted their shields from their backs, each still encased in its leather cover for travelling, shouldering the shields and drawing their swords.
Knowing that despite his nerves it was his duty to enter first, he pushed Bucephalus out front, Masgava and Palmatus hurrying to join him, the rest following on closely.
The gate remained open. There was no sound of movement from within. No shouts of alarm or running feet. All there was, floating almost ethereal on the top edge of the air, was a haunting melody of strings and a hollow, childlike voice, raised in sad song.
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 18
