Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  He straightened. ‘I think that pretty much concludes my announcement. Anything you’d like to add, Priscus?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the prefect shrugged. ‘Think you’ve covered it.’

  ‘Farewell then, warriors of the Senones. Enjoy your voluntary captivity. We’ll enjoy your women.’

  He turned his horse and started to walk her back towards the army. Priscus quickly joined him.

  ‘Dangerous way to end, that. They might have stuck us full of arrows just out of spite.’

  ‘But they didn’t,’ smiled Antonius. ‘Any moment now…’

  The horses took a few steps further, carefully, between the marshes.

  ‘Wait!’ cried a desperate, panicked voice from the battlements.

  Antonius turned an insufferably smug smile on his companion.

  * * * * *

  ‘A welcoming party?’ Antonius muttered to Priscus, as the army tramped at a steady pace through the fine, soak-you-to-the-bone drizzle. The prefect widened the viewing hole in the hood of his cloak in which he had almost cocooned himself for the last day of the journey. It had been less than a week in total since their three legions had left the very gate through which their ‘welcoming party’ now emerged: the west gate of the massive camp of Samarobriva.

  ‘Not a good sign.’ Priscus shifted his sore rump as the bony nag beneath him bounced up and down.

  Over the past three days, returning from the borders of Carnute lands, the weather had turned inclement again, this time warmer, but considerably wetter than the late winter had been. Complaints and grumbles had become the norm among the three legions - as well as their officers. All everyone wanted to do was get into that camp, drop their armour to the ground, peel off the soaked wool and bathe, change into something dry and then go to sleep, inside and warm.

  The small knot of mounted officers converging on their column from the gate suggested that such a dream was a way off as yet.

  ‘It’s Rufio,’ Antonius frowned. ‘Him and a few lessers. What in the name of Juno’s bony arse is he doing coming out to meet us?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Priscus muttered and turned to the rider behind him, who sagged under the weight of his cornu. ‘Sound the halt.’

  The man extricated himself from the enclosing circle of the horn and tipped it upside down to empty the collected rainwater before blowing a somewhat soggy call through it. The column came to a halt as the order was repeated back through the Tenth, the Ninth and the Seventh. The legates of the three legions, riding alongside to stay out of the press and the mud, kicked their horses forward to meet the commanders at the fore.

  Waiting, rained-upon and tired, the returning victors - such as they were, having fought a grand total of two men - waited for the approaching riders. Rufio reined in his steed as they met on the low ground before the camp.

  ‘Miserable day you’ve brought back with you.’

  ‘Cut to the point, Rufio,’ grunted Priscus. ‘I’m cold.’

  ‘We’ve been waiting for your return. Caesar’s convened the assembly, but he’s also announced our next move to the staff. As soon as matters are settled with the natives, we’re moving against the Menapii in force.’

  ‘Surely he plans to let us settle in and get dry first?’ Priscus snapped.

  Rufio chuckled. ‘Some of you. The Tenth are to return to quarters and stand down until after the assembly, but the Seventh and the Ninth have been redirected. Trebonius and Plancus are to take their men and make immediately for Labienus’ camp, along with the entire army’s baggage train. Labienus is being given overall command of three legions in order to crush the Treveri, while we squeeze the tribes from the north, starting with the Menapii.’

  Priscus sagged slightly. ‘What about Fronto? He’s right in the middle.’

  ‘The general seems to think that Fronto will find his task easier if we can drive the enemy to him, working from the edges.’

  The recently-arrived staff officer peered at the damp legions before him, noting the sour, less than happy looks on the faces of the two legates who would not tonight find the comfort of a warm room and a hot dinner. ‘Sorry, gentlemen. Caesar’s already had the support wagons and the baggage train readied for you at the east gate, so that there’s no delay. You’ll be slowed badly by the baggage, so you’d best get moving immediately. Your specific orders are with the prefect in charge of the wagons.’

  ‘What news of the assembly?’ Antonius asked pointedly.

  ‘Caesar’s drawing new oaths and new levies of cavalry from all the states that can still afford to do so. What happened with the recalcitrant tribes you went after?’

  Antonius thumbed in the direction of the column behind him.

  ‘The deputation from the Senones was delayed by stupidity. They’re with us at the back, as are a number of hostages from their tribe. The Carnutes apparently panicked when they heard we were approaching, and their deputation found us, almost falling over themselves fawning and simpering, wanting to attend.’

  Priscus gave a hard smile.

  ‘I suspect that had something to do with what you told the Senones. Word of things like that spreads fast through the tribes. The Carnutes’ King probably shat a brick when he heard what you told his neighbours.’

  Antonius chuckled as Rufio raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Suffice it to say,’ added Priscus, ‘I think Antonius frightened the tribes into submission. They took the oaths again in a hurry and followed us like sheep. The west is settled, for now.’

  ‘Good. As soon as this council’s over, the Fourteenth and the Fifteenth will take on garrison duties here and the other five legions march on the Menapii.’

  Priscus glanced at Antonius.

  ‘Great. More swamps.’

  Antonius shrugged, droplets of water showering from his shoulders.

  ‘I’d rather be in a swamp with five legions than in the Eburones’ sacred forest with just a dozen men,’ the officer replied pointedly.

  Chapter Eleven

  Divonanto in the lands of the Condrusi

  Fronto ground his teeth as he hiked up the last few feet of the near-vertical slope, his breath coming in gasps and puffs.

  ‘Would they… really be… offended if… we didn’t bother?’

  Samognatos shook his head. ‘They know we… are coming. They… always know.’

  ‘But… we know where… to look next… anyway.’

  The Condrusi scout flashed him a look that illustrated his feelings on the notion of bypassing the sacred nemeton of Divonanto. Fronto had been in two minds all morning. As far as his direct mission was concerned, he was unlikely to get any better directions to Ambiorix’s current location than the council had given him last night. And whatever the scout said, Fronto had his suspicions as to how helpful the druids were likely to be. He’d as soon stand knee deep in the sea, wearing copper armour and calling Jupiter a spiteful prick as trust a druid, but Samognatos seemed convinced they had to visit, and in these lands, Fronto was to some extent reliant upon the man’s continued help and goodwill.

  The pair reached the top of the interminable and evil slope and Fronto reached down, gripping his trembling knees and heaving in breaths, watching the singulares labouring up the mountainside behind them. The ‘easiest’ route to the nemeton without circling round a few miles involved heading to the side of town away from the river, nestled up against the slope, and coming at the cliff outcropping from an oblique angle. Easiest: maybe. Easy: no. The slope was still one of the steepest he had ever climbed, and certainly one of the highest. His legs may never stop shaking, and he knew just how badly his calves and shins were going to hurt tomorrow.

  ‘I’m not leaving anyone outside… you know.’

  Samognatos simply widened that infernal grin. ‘Won’t you want to leave someone to guard the weapons?’

  Fronto blinked. ‘If you think for one… moment I’m going in there unarmed…’

  ‘That is the only option, I’m afra
id, sir.’

  ‘Screw that.’

  ‘Respectfully, Romans do not approve of bearing arms in their temples. Indeed, the whole of Rome is weapon free I understand?’

  ‘That’s because Rome isn’t home to a bunch of savage…’ He stopped short, not for fear of insulting Samognatos’ druids, but rather because he was about to claim that Rome was safer and more civilised, but a quick mental run through his past few visits silenced that notion.

  ‘I give you my word that you will be unharmed.’

  Fronto sighed. ‘I’m not impugning you, my friend, but I could give you my word that up is down. Would that make it so?’

  ‘Come on… Let’s get inside,’ coughed Palmatus, clambering over the edge onto the grass.

  ‘Samognatos here tells me we have to leave our weapons.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Fronto frowned. ‘You approve?’

  ‘Not really, but we’ve come all this way, and they’re only old grey-beards with sticks. We’re legionaries, with Masgava too.’

  ‘Grey-beards? You’d not say that if you’d met the bastard with the crown over in Britannia that tried to carve me a new arsehole on the front!’

  Samognatos cleared his throat meaningfully and Fronto turned to him, and then followed his gaze to see two men in white robes standing in the open gateway in the wicker fence.

  ‘Arduenna tells us that Romans are coming and that we are to open our arms to them.’

  Fronto narrowed his eyes. ‘Experience tells me that one of those arms will hold a dagger.’

  The druid held his arms out to the sides. ‘Please enter. You will come to no harm.’

  Again, Fronto maintained his steely stare, but Masgava was suddenly next to him, striding towards the gate. As he approached, he drew his sword and three knives from various places about his body and, removing his cloak, placed them on the ground, on the thick wool for protection from the damp grass.

  ‘Masgava?’

  ‘Come on, sir.’

  Fronto sighed and stepped forward, unsheathing his blade and dropping it onto Masgava’s cloak with the others. He gestured to the men behind him to do so. ‘Pontius and Quietus? You two stay out here with the weapons.’

  ‘We were led to believe there were twenty of you?’ the druid enquired, performing a second quick headcount and eyeing the seventeen visitors with interest.

  Fronto paused as he approached. ‘Our three Remi riders are bringing the horses and gear the long way round. They’ll wait for us at the main road. You are surprisingly well-informed?’

  ‘You travel within the Goddess’ lair. She sees all.’

  ‘Comforting.’

  The druid gave a smile that did nothing to ease Fronto’s tension and ushered the Roman party inside. As they passed into the sacred nemeton, Masgava and Palmatus took a surreptitious opportunity to wink at Fronto and indicate the location of their hidden knives.

  The Divonanto grove consisted of three rings of trees regularly spaced and offset so as to almost create a barrier that one had to pass through at an angle. Consequently, the centre of the grove was not visible until the three rings had been negotiated. As far as Fronto was concerned, it was a terrible waste of what must be an astounding view, but with a shrug he followed the druids through the trees into the centre.

  Within, a circular area consisted of well-tended turf and a ring of small jagged standing stones. At the centre was a wide, flat slab of blue-grey rock, four felled trunks surrounding it, forming benches. A veritable banquet lay on the slab, including platters of fruit and meat, bread and cheese, and jugs of what looked to be water.

  Two druids sat at the slab opposite and raised their hands in welcome. Fronto approached the feast cautiously and sat on one of the logs, as far away from the druids as he could. As the others took their seats, his eyes strayed across the table, surveying the food. He also saw, with no surprise, a purple stain on the stone beneath.

  ‘A new use for your stone?’

  The druids frowned in incomprehension.

  ‘I note the stains. Telling ones, those are. Fruit’s not the only thing that gets laid open on this stone, eh?’

  The man who had escorted them through the gate and had first spoken to them arched an eyebrow and smiled knowingly.

  ‘Many sacrifices on this stone. Goats, sheep, bulls, chickens and more.’ He laughed. ‘And fruit.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  The silence that fell was cold and uncomfortable, and Masgava, in his usual easy manner, broke the spell by reaching out and laying a slice of pink meat on the white bread, stuffing it into his mouth with a happy sigh.

  The druids nodded approvingly at him, and then one turned to Fronto. ‘You hunt Ambiorix of the Eburones.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘I am a little uncertain how the druids stand on this matter. Traditionally, none of your sect has spoken civilly to a Roman and I am having a great deal of difficulty in believing that you mean us anything less than harm. Tell me why you would aid us.’

  There were shared glances between the four robed men, and finally one of the pair who had already been seated at the table leaned forward, pouring himself a cup of crystal clear water and cleared his throat.

  ‘Do not be mistaken, commander. We are no friend of yours. It simply suits our purpose to supply you with what you need to accomplish your goals at this particular time. When your task is complete, we will have no further business with you.’

  The druid next to him nodded. ‘It is a troublesome matter for us and has created divisions in our society. Some would happily cast their blessings upon Ambiorix for what he has done and what he continues to attempt. I have to say that even I toasted his success when he destroyed your legion in the winter.’

  Fronto’s eyes darkened dangerously, and the legionaries around stopped reaching for the food, suddenly on their guard. Masgava shrugged and stuffed a plum into his mouth.

  ‘Let us not fall to argument,’ the first druid said, soothingly. ‘This nemeton is home to seven shepherds of the people. Three disagree with our stand and have left in support of Ambiorix and the enemies of Rome. We four remain as we have no interest in perpetuating the Eburone king’s campaign of resistance.’

  ‘You still give us no reason. Why this divide?’

  ‘It is a matter of deciding where the best path lies for our people. Those of us you call ‘druids’ are not an army, but a caste of wise men, each with our own free will. And as wise men, we each believe we hold more wisdom than others. Perhaps true wisdom would be trying to knit all possibilities into one garment.’

  ‘So some of you think Ambiorix is bad for Gaul? I tend to agree. Alright… for now let us assume that you are hiding nothing and that we can trust you, although the very idea makes me twitch. Have you any helpful information for us?’

  The fourth druid, who so far had not spoken, cleared his throat. He was an old man - older than the rest, anyway - and his voice was reedy and quiet. ‘Ambiorix has only a small following of his own, but enjoys the favour of kings and councils. He is welcome anywhere from the sea to the mountains, except in Condrusi lands.’

  ‘That’s not particularly helpful.’

  ‘Where he is now is of no use to you. By the time you get there, he will be gone. I offer you the greater solution: where he will be.’

  Fronto narrowed his eyes. ‘Now you’re talking. Go on.’

  ‘Ambiorix has finished treating with all the eastern tribes and gained their favour. The Treveri are already making war on your general, and the Nervii are all-but destroyed, yet he has hopes to build an army from the rest before your forces reach them. He will not look to us, as the Condrusi have consistently refused to deal with him. So only one path remains to him: to return home. He still needs the Eburones, as they are the centre position of his tribal alliance. And the Eburones that still thrive are loyal to his opposite number, King Cativolcus. To complete his army, he must wrest the land from his brother king. Find Cativolcus, and in time Ambiorix will find you
.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘As much as it irks me that I’ll be aiding druids towards their goals, thank you for this. Needless to say, if we make our way to Cativolcus’ court and find that we have been sold out and that the entire Eburone nation is waiting for us with sharpened blades, I will find a way to come back here and nail you to your sacred trees, even if it is my larva - my vengeful spirit - that has to do it. I trust we have an understanding?’

  The druids simply smiled indulgently, as though they fully expected and accepted his threat.

  ‘I have one further matter to discuss.’

  He picked up an apple from the table, inspected it as though expecting it to be rotten, rubbed it on his tunic, bit and chewed for a long moment.

  ‘Where did the Arverni go?’

  His companions turned frowns upon him, and Fronto ignored them, watching the faces of the four druids. Just as he expected, two of them immediately displayed expressions of guilty surprise before plastering innocence across the top. The other two were instantly guarded.

  ‘There are no Arverni in the north.’

  ‘Now you and I both know that for the lie it is. How do you expect me to trust your information on Ambiorix when you lie so plainly about your visitors?’

  The man who had first accompanied them, and who Fronto had begun to think of as the headman, leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

  ‘The Arverni are no concern of yours. They are about on the business of our brothers from the south, and not in connection with your hunt for Ambiorix.’

  Fronto narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Bear in mind that I am an eminently practical man. Even my undead spirit will be able to handle a hammer and nails. Keep uppermost in your mind an image of the four of you hanging from your trees while your precious sacred stone is stood upright and carved into a statue of Nemesis. I do not like to be lied to or crossed.’ With a grunt, he dropped the part-chewed apple back to the platter and rose. ‘I think we’re done here.’