Catilo nodded, and Basilus turned to the other prefect approaching at the far side.
‘Portius? Catilo’s going to take and hold the gate. I’m going to take half the cavalry straight for the settlement as soon as he’s there. The moment we break cover for the town, you take the other half and ravage the fields. Kill everyone you find and chase any survivors off into the woods. Once you’ve done that we’ll fire the crops.’
Portius nodded and turned to give the orders to the decurions as Basilus once more regarded the town below.
‘You poor unsuspecting barbarians. I’m about to turn your world upside down and then set fire to it.’
* * * * *
‘What do you mean, he’s here?’ Fronto snapped angrily.
Ullio, standing in the doorway and blocking the morning sunlight, shrugged. ‘He arrived last night, late at night.’
‘Well where is he then?’
‘He was escorted to one of the houses outside the walls. He has a large number of armed men with him. Segni as well as Eburones, so the king thought it prudent to keep him outside until morning.’
Fronto ground his teeth. The knowledge that he was a matter of moments away from Ambiorix set his pulse pounding with possibilities, but with Cativolcus in charge here, there was nothing he could do until the king had made his move.
‘What happens now, then?’
Ullio leaned against the door frame casually. ‘Once the sun is suitably high and Ambiorix has been forced to wait for a while, he will be invited into the town with only a small guard, to visit the king.’
‘Why wait?’
‘Ambiorix is not a patient man, and is given to imprudent and precipitous action if he is pushed. The longer we make him wait, the more likely he is to make a mistake, and the king wants him angry and off-balance enough to take the tainted drink without having one of his men taste it first.’
‘He may not be stupid enough to do so anyway.’
Again, Ullio shrugged, arms folded. ‘You do not know Ambiorix. He is a man given to displays of his own power. He would not accept a drink proffered by the king, but if the king has an expensive wine open on his table and a cup of it in front of him, Ambiorix will not be able to resist taking the drink. He will want to make it clear that whatever Cativolcus owns, he can take. The poisoned wine will be present, but not offered.’
‘You’ve thought all this through very carefully,’ Fronto noted with satisfaction. ‘What happens if you’ve misjudged Ambiorix and he doesn’t take the wine?’
The native hunter straightened in the doorway again. ‘Then things will have to be done my way, rather than the king’s.’ He made a gesture across his throat with a turned thumb.
‘Not acceptable,’ Fronto said firmly. ‘I need him to answer a few questions.’
‘I can disable and cripple him without inhibiting his tongue. Ambiorix likely thinks he can remove Cativolcus with the assassins he brings, but the king has plenty of men like me who can protect him and remove the enemy. We are prepared. Ambiorix has seen his last sunrise, but he will sing songs of betrayal to you before his darkness descends.’
‘Good,’ Fronto nodded. ‘I’d remind you that a lot rides on this. If I can question Ambiorix and then take his head to my general, Caesar can be made to see the Eburones as allies. The whole future of your tribe could hang on this morning’s events. Remember that, while you play your part. What do we do while this is all going on?’
‘Stay in the house. If there is any hint of you or your men abroad in Espaduno, Ambiorix will panic and everything will fall apart. Stay out of sight and I will fetch you when Ambiorix is busy shaking and babbling.’
Masgava stepped out into the light from the doorway to the rear room where he and his four men slept. ‘It ends today, then?’
Fronto nodded. ‘It ends today.’
* * * * *
Ambiorix toyed with the fine captured Roman helmet on his knee and huffed in irritation.
‘These delays are irksome, Garo.’
‘Cativolcus is a wily one, my lord. He will be surrounding himself with warriors before he deigns to see you. He will not make himself a target willingly.’
‘It matters not how many men he surrounds himself with while you are by my side, Garo.’
The second man in the room smiled a chilling smile. A Sicambri by birth, Garo had discovered a love of pain and an affinity with death early in his life. By the time he came of age, he had killed more than a dozen of his fellow tribesmen, women and children. His methods had become increasingly inventive, until one day he had been discovered in the process of dissecting a young girl to see what parts still pulsed after death. Before the wrath of the elders could be brought down on him, he had fled, crossing the Rhenus into Belgae lands and then Gaul, where he had sold his services as a killer to an endless array of nobles and warriors, honing his craft as he went. Finally, two years ago, he had found himself in the service of the Eburone king, back on the doorstep of his own tribe, and Ambiorix was gifted with a wide variety of enemies for Garo to deal with and plenty of coin to pay for it.
Ambiorix was right, of course. Cativolcus could surround himself with warriors, walls, shields and ditches, but it would avail him little. Garo could kill from the doorway, barely moving a muscle. One of the two poison-tipped darts of a Greek design stitched into his cloak clasp would do the trick. Or the small, light axe hanging behind his shoulder and beneath his cloak, which was perfectly weighted for throwing. There were a number of possibilities without even reaching him. If he happened to get close to Cativolcus, the options were endless.
Whatever happened this morning, Garo was certain the day would end with Ambiorix the sole king of the Eburones, and his former brother king greeting the afterlife.
Ambiorix smiled.
‘Are the men armed and prepared?’
‘And have been for an hour. As soon as the king sends for us we will be ready to move.’
‘No delays, Garo. As soon as we’re in his presence, do your job. They will almost certainly make us remove our weapons before we enter. There will follow a brief negotiation during which we will argue and I will be allowed to take my weapon for my own protection. I assume you will have weapons they will not notice?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Good. Then, as soon as…’
He stopped at a shout from the garden outside.
‘What was that?’
Garo stepped across and swung open the door of the small house where they had spent the night, to see two of the Segni warriors that accompanied them racing across the small lawn.
‘Romans!’
Ambiorix, his face creased into a disbelieving frown, leapt to the door. ‘What?’
‘Romans, lord king.’
‘Here? That’s ridiculous!’
But his eyes were already rising past the Segni warrior to the hillside beyond, where hundreds of crimson and glinting steel cavalry were emerging from the treeline and racing towards the valley floor. His eyes wide, Ambiorix turned to take in the whole scene. A few dozen of the riders had broken cover ahead and raced for the settlement’s gate, where even now they were forcing back the Eburone guards to secure it. The rest were coming in two huge groups, one for the town and one spreading out and riding into the fields.
‘How did they know we were here?’ wailed Bolgios, the new king of the Segni, as he ran for the hut’s door.
Ambiorix shook his head. ‘They didn’t. This is simply bad luck. They’re attacking Espaduno, not coming for the house. Caesar has turned his fires upon the Eburones.’
He smiled coldly. ‘The general has done me a favour, the idiot.’
‘What?’
‘They will kill Cativolcus for me. Oh we’ll lose Espaduno and its people, but it’s a small price to pay when you think that the Romans are about to make me undisputed king of the Eburones entirely by mistake!’
He laughed as he slapped Garo on the shoulder. ‘Saddle the horses. We must leave this place immediately.
’
* * * * *
Basilus raced for the gate. His men were already in the fields, hacking down the Eburones as they attempted to flee, and a quick glance off to his left afforded him a view of a dozen warriors on horseback racing for the woods, surprised somewhere in the valley. It was a shame to let warriors escape, but the grand prize was the town. He would ravage, loot and burn the place to spread fear among the Eburones.
Tribesmen tried desperately to shut the gate in the face of the attacking Romans, but Catilo’s alae were there, keeping the entrance clear. With a whoop of victory, Basilus raced into the town, his sword coming down in a wide arc and taking the head of a local who was attempting to flee the scene.
‘Second ala to the left and Fifth to the right. Secure the walls and the gates. The rest of you take the town. Kill everyone.’
The roar of a victorious army surged across Espaduno as Basilus’ men raced through the streets, hewing tribesmen wherever they found them, chopping down the old and the young, men, women and children alike, without prejudice. This was to be an object lesson in fear for the last tribe on Caesar’s list.
Basilus could almost feel the weight of the decorations that would be heaped upon him. Could almost feel the warmth of Caesar’s grateful embrace.
With an ululating cry to Mars, he rode for the centre of the town. Barbarians or not, the centre of a town always held the centre of power. Senate, king or thug, men who ruled did so from the middle.
As panicked natives fled before him, Basilus, his best men following on immediately behind, made for the largest houses he could see - not dissimilar to the rest, but for slightly wider frontages and better quality shutters on the windows. His sword rose and fell, a spray of crimson arcing out through the air with every cut, the screams of his victims all-but lost among the general din of agony and panic that filled the settlement. As he burst from a mud-packed street into what appeared to be a village square - or possibly just a wider road, paved with cobbles - he saw two warriors emerge from the door of one of the larger buildings, catch sight of him and disappear back inside, slamming shut the door.
Reining in at the street/square’s centre, Basilus pointed at the house with his blood-slicked sword.
‘Get that door open. Every man in there is to be spared long enough to crucify them!’
Around him, men slid from their mounts and ran for the building, swords raised and shields held before them. The well-trained horses milled around a little, but made no attempt to leave the square as other cavalrymen arrived and pressed on into all side-alleys and streets, hewing at anybody they found in their path.
Basilus slid from his horse, tying the reins to the open shutter of another building, and caught sight through the window of two of the auxiliary cavalry - Gauls rather than Belgae from their kit - butchering the building’s occupants. One of them grabbed a woman who screamed and fought her captors. He shouted something in his native tongue at his companion, who was busy wrenching his sword out of the last victim, and the man rushed over to hold the woman, while the first trooper busily tried to drop his trousers.
‘Kill her and move on!’ Basilus snapped through the window at the surprised Gauls, then turned and strode across the street to the important building with the warriors.
The dismounted soldiers - mostly the rare Roman regular cavalry, with a number of auxiliary Gauls alongside - were shoulder-barging the door, which was shaking and cracking with each thump.
Basilus almost cried out in shock as someone grasped his shoulder and spun him around. His sword came up defensively, and he almost cut into the Belgic auxiliary officer before he realised he was an ally.
‘What?’ he snapped angrily.
‘This is madness!’ the cavalry officer spat into his face. ‘Stop this mayhem before it gets out of control!’
Basilus narrowed his eyes and pushed the officer off him, raising his sword threateningly. ‘You, soldier, are on notice of discipline. As soon as we’re finished here, I will deal with you myself. In the meantime, get your filthy barbarian hand off me before I remove it at the wrist.
The officer, who Basilus realised was unusually wearing a Roman-style tunic along with his Gallic trousers, stepped back, though the fury and fire never left his eyes. ‘Two alae of your cavalry have just deserted in the face of this madness,’ the man said angrily. ‘If you don’t stop, hundreds more will be gone before you can burn the place. My own Remi have refused to enter the town and are waiting in the woods!’
‘Then your own Remi are also disobedient cowards and will face discipline in due course. Now get away from me!’
Turning back from the fuming officer he was just in time to see the door splinter and explode inwards, a burly Gaul tumbling in after it. In a matter of heartbeats, a dozen cavalry were inside and the sounds of murder began. Taking a deep breath to calm the anger raging in his blood, Basilus strode across, sword at the ready, and pushed in through the door.
Three native warriors lay in bloodied heaps on the floor, along with three of his own men, though it took a moment for him to separate them out in the gloom, five sixths of the body-count being of Gallic or Belgic stock, regardless of the side for which they fought.
Two more warriors were still fighting doggedly, both wounded, while Basilus’ men laid into them.
‘Alive, damnit!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ve crucifixes to decorate!’
Behind the warriors, he caught sight of an old man with grey-white hair and a straggly beard, his high quality clothes and golden torc marking him out as some sort of nobleman. Basilus grinned evilly.
‘You! Surrender and I will consider halting the deaths!’ It was a bare-faced lie, but the old man couldn’t possibly know that. He was surprised to see the old nobleman smile at him, reach to the table next to him and pick up a flask of wine. The noble raised the flask in salute and took a deep pull at it.
‘Enjoy that,’ spat Basilus. ‘You’ll be thirsty on the cross.’
The old man, still grinning, spasmed for a moment and dropped the flask, which shattered on the ground. ‘Your general will kill you for this,’ the old man smiled as his legs crumpled beneath him and he collapsed to the floor, shaking violently.
‘Damn!’ Basilus snorted. ‘Just kill the lot of them. There’ll be no crosses today. Leave no one alive and no stone standing.’
He turned, still furious at this, to see the auxiliary officer who had manhandled him outside standing in the doorway, a look of defiance on his ugly, barbarian face.
‘Get out of the way!’ he snarled, stomping towards the door.
Without changing his evil expression, the Belgic officer stepped back out of his way, moving to one side not quite enough to clear the door, obliging Basilus to push him out of the way as he exited. His glorious mood at this unexpectedly easy victory was already gone in the face of impertinent natives, disobedient cavalrymen and a failure to take the leaders alive. He would settle his mood by burning the entire place to cinders and throwing any survivors they found onto the flames. The Eburones would hear of the campaign of Basilus and quake in fear. He would…
He almost jumped out of his skin for the second time in the day as once again a hand gripped his shoulder and hauled him around. His sword came up again automatically, but this time he had every intention of using it.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ snarled an old-ish man in a mail shirt, with a five-day growth of beard, heavy care-lines on his face and salt-and-pepper hair. It took Basilus half a heartbeat to realise it had spoken perfect Latin with a southern - Campanian? - accent. His sword was already on its swing but the man was remarkably fast, a gladius of unsurpassed quality easily knocking aside his own.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ Basilus snapped, ‘but if you touch me again I will have you torn to pieces, soldier.’ It was an assumption that the man was a Roman, but a reasonable one - possibly one of his dismounted cavalrymen. Everyone was being so damn insolent today!
‘Fronto?’ said the im
pertinent auxiliary cavalry officer behind him.
‘Galronus?’ said the scruffy soldier in front with equal surprise.
Basilus, suddenly very confused, was further baffled to see other scruffy soldiers falling in behind this new irritation, one of them a black-skinned Numidian with more scars than there appeared to be room for on a body. A horrible feeling thrummed through Basilus and his blood chilled a little. He’d heard the name Fronto before. Something to do with Caesar and the staff.
‘Fronto?’ he asked weakly.
‘’Sir’ to you, you pointless moron,’ the scruffy soldier snapped, smacking the flat of his glorious blade painfully on Basilus’ forehead. ‘Declare yourself and your unit, soldier, before I have Masgava here tear off your arms and feed them to you.’
Basilus floundered, trying to understand what was going on, while a bruised lump began to form on his forehead. He found himself weakly announcing ‘Lucius Minucius Basilus, vexillatory cavalry commander, ravaging the Eburones on the general’s direct orders.’ He realised he was saluting like a junior tribune and almost stammering, and yanked his arm back to his side. ‘And you are?’
‘Marcus Falerius Fronto, former legate of the Tenth Legion, staff officer, commander of a small insurgent force, hunter of Ambiorix, and - most importantly - bloody furious!’
‘Sir?’ Basilus realised he was shaking, but couldn’t stop it.
‘What’s all this about, Galronus?’ Fronto asked, looking straight past Basilus.
The Belgic officer who’d been so insolent stepped past Basilus, eyeing him as though he were something the man had trodden in and would shortly wipe off his boot.
‘What he said. But he was told to steer clear of towns. Seems he is as tactically foolish as he is cruel and stupid.’
Basilus felt his ire rise, but he was still shaking with some unidentifiable fear. Fronto. He remembered hearing stories of the legate of the Tenth. A man who was usually to be found standing in the line with his men rather than at the back, directing things. A man who’d insulted Caesar and got away with it. A man who fought duels with assassins. Basilus suddenly felt the uncontrollable urge to urinate.
Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Page 36
