Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Planning to, sir. Soon as I find a nice sacred spring somewhere to drop it in.’

  Fronto frowned. ‘Who are you cursing? Ambiorix? Or Brannogenos?’

  ‘No, sir. That devious bat-loving bitch Arduenna.’

  Fronto reached out sharply and grabbed the lead disc from the legionary, who looked up in surprise, almost scarring a line across the commander’s fingers with his dagger. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Aurelius, we’re in her forest. At her mercy. It is very possible only she can help us find Ambiorix. Some say none of the other Gods can hear a prayer in here, such is her power. And you want to curse her? Are you mad?’

  ‘She’s wicked, sir. The wicked should be cursed.’

  ‘And you should be locked away in a small room where you can’t hurt yourself. I’m confiscating this.’ He peered at the disc, seeing the half-formed name of the Goddess, and resolved to slash and batter the tablet until the name had gone as soon as he had a few moments free.

  ‘Grip your Minerva and concentrate on her.’

  ‘Sir.’ The legionary looked less than convinced… and less than impressed.

  ‘Now, Drusus said earlier that he needed a quiet word with me. Where is he?’

  ‘About a hundred paces out, sir, behind a big tree and next to a square rock.’

  Fronto peered into the impenetrable darkness beneath the trees and shuddered. There was the distinct possibility that even with those instructions, he would be hopelessly lost within fifty paces, and shouting could attract attention of the unwanted sort.

  ‘You care to take me there?’

  Aurelius peered into the forest with heightened nerves and nodded reluctantly. ‘Alright, sir.’

  ‘Come on.’

  Pausing only to draw one of the flaming branches from the fire, Aurelius took one of the lengths of shredded blanket they kept for torches and wrapped it round the tip to enhance its flammability. Once it was convincingly bright and durable, he nodded to Fronto and ducked into the darkness beyond the clearing’s edge, stepping carefully among the sticks and undergrowth.

  Fronto appreciated Aurelius’ speed and surprising silence as the legionary moved through the forest with barely a crack, creak or shuffle, while Fronto came along behind with his traditional level of stealth, sounding more like a bull dancing on grain husks and nut shells.

  Deeper into the forest they moved, the light from the campfire soon lost to them, their only source of illumination the branch in the legionary’s hands. Fronto smiled. Had he been on his own, he’d have been a long way off-course by now.

  After a short walk, Aurelius pointed to a pile of large rocks close to a tree. Even in this almost non-light Fronto could see how the ground fell away beyond. An excellent viewpoint.

  He nodded and the pair moved on.

  Rounding the larger of the rocks, they could see Drusus sitting wrapped in his cloak peering out across the slope, shield propped next to him and pilum jammed into the ground nearby. Fronto moved closer, his footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Strange? The lookout didn’t turn at the noise.

  Fronto felt that old familiar cold ball of fear forming in the pit of his stomach. He waved Aurelius closer and the pair hurried over, Fronto clearing his throat.

  ‘Drusus?’

  No answer, not that he’d expected one. Drusus’ eyes were open and he sat comfortable, huddled against the cold. Fronto approached, feeling the fear emanating from the legionary at his shoulder. Close, now, he reached out towards Drusus and snapped his fingers. The man’s eyes remained open, glassy.

  ‘Oh shit. She’s killed Drusus. The bitch has killed Drusus!’

  ‘Get a hold of yourself!’ snapped Fronto angrily, reaching out and pulling aside the seated watchman’s cloak, expecting to see a sword hilt standing proud of the man’s chest.

  What he hadn’t expected was bats.

  As he pulled the cloak away there was a chorus of sharp squeaks, and three flapping black shapes emerged from the shadows around Drusus’ seated form, fluttering up into the night air, sweeping a mere foot above their heads.

  Aurelius let out a blood-curdling shriek that almost deafened Fronto and turned, pounding off into the woods, shouting curses at the forest’s matron Goddess and screaming for the others. Fronto shook his head and rubbed his temples. The legionary had at least, in his panic, dropped the torch, which burned on the forest floor, sparks smouldering dangerously among the fallen leaves and sticks. Sweeping the burning branch up, he stamped on the glowing embers until they went dark, and then leaned over Drusus with the torch, examining him.

  He paused, putting his hand in front of the legionary’s mouth and then feeling his neck. He was quite definitely dead. But there was no spray of blood anywhere and no obvious wounds. His brow furrowed, Fronto leaned the man forward and searched his back, lifting his tunic to his armpits to examine his torso. Nothing. His legs were unharmed, and Fronto was hardly going to peer into the man’s underwear. Whatever had killed him it had been subtle. Perhaps he’d had a heart attack?

  After all, he’d nearly had one when Aurelius shrieked next to his ear, and the superstitious lunatic was heading that way himself. It wasn’t unknown for a man to die of natural causes, after all. Even a healthy, robust one like Drusus.

  And yet he was failing to fool himself. He knew Drusus had been killed somehow.

  Brannogenos was still out there somewhere. And so was Valgus. And, of course, Ambiorix and all his followers, and probably a bunch of Arverni. Hell, it could be anyone! Or no one.

  But with Aurelius shouting about Arduenna and running to his mates, Fronto was fairly sure that shortly the entire unit would be blaming the huntress Goddess for this.

  With a sigh, he lowered the body back, spoke a few words over him and withdrew a coin from his purse, pushing it under the tongue and closing the mouth again. Turning, he made a rough estimate of where the camp site would be, based on the commotion he could hear in the distance. Now he needed to get back before Aurelius did too much damage to the unit’s morale.

  Holding the burning branch aloft and slightly to one side so as not to ruin his night vision too much, Fronto began to pick his way back through the woodland as fast as he dared.

  His heart almost exploded from his chest as he rounded a tree and the dancing orange glow of his torch was suddenly reflected back to him in two wide, black, glassy orbs. He skittered to a halt and stared as the huge, grey boar peered at him intensely. The damn thing was enormous!

  Fronto tried to remember any tale he’d been told about boars and how you dealt with them, but his lifetime’s experience with the creatures was entirely limited to what sauce you added to them, and what wine went best. He did know that they were extremely dangerous, especially when startled, and bloody hard to stop without a ballista and a nice wall to hide behind. Alone against one, in the dark, in the forest, lost and - he cursed as his hand touched his hip - unarmed, he was likely in some serious kind of trouble.

  The beast huffed and a cloud of steam boiled from its snout. Fronto felt a chill run through him at the sight and the sound.

  ‘Erm… shoo!’

  The boar remained motionless, huffing again.

  Fronto, panic beginning to blind him to sense, waved his arms at it in a dismissing motion.

  ‘Shoo! Go on. Piss off!’

  Again, the boar remained.

  At a pinch, he could wield the torch both offensively and defensively, but he had the sneaking suspicion that such activity would simply annoy the creature and that would likely be a worse situation than having it stare haughtily at him.

  ‘Go on. Go… go find a sow. Go on.’ Panic bubbled ever higher. ‘Erm… Honey Glaze!’ he bellowed. ‘Liquamen and apricot sauce!’ Idiotic, of course, but recipes were all that flocked to his mind.

  ‘Oh just fuck off!’ he snapped, and hurled the lead curse tablet at it. The disc bounced off the creature’s shoulder and still it didn’t move.

  ‘What, then?’

  Slowly, with a
strangely human grunt, the boar turned and, flashing him one last, oddly-disappointed glance, ambled off into the darkness.

  Fronto exhaled with an explosion of air as the thing disappeared among the trees.

  Somehow he couldn’t help but feel that he owed his continued ability to draw breath more to a native Goddess than to his divine Fortuna and Nemesis, for all their power and personal connections.

  ‘Wait ‘til I tell Ullio about this!’

  * * * * *

  Atuatuca had changed somewhat since their previous visit. Even from across the valley, Fronto had been able to see the damage that had been wreaked upon the oppidum. Never had it more closely resembled its namesake - the Aduatuca of that eponymous tribe which had been removed entire from the face of history four years ago. The defences were low and crumbled and darkened by ash.

  The journey up the sloping path had been carried out in silence. Even the most ardent Roman could not help but be affected by the air of hopeless loss and sadness emanating from Ullio, though his expression remained harsh and grim. Yet another example of Caesar’s wrath being visited upon the Eburones. Much more of this and they would see the last of the hunter, Fronto was sure. When Fronto had returned to the camp following the discovery of Drusus’ body, and breathlessly revealed what had happened with the boar, even Aurelius’ ramblings about the ‘demon Goddess’ had been shushed by the rest while they listened. Ullio had simply nodded once, sharing a knowing look with Samognatos, and then affirmed his intention to stay with them for now. Though he’d not once explained his reasoning, Fronto was sure he’d seen the incident with the boar as clear sanction from Arduenna.

  And so he was still with them, though he spent increasing time with the Condrusi scout away from the Romans - especially Aurelius, who jumped at the slightest thing and continually took the Goddess’ name in vain, despite Fronto’s orders to the contrary.

  Now, the two natives - hunter and scout - crested the rise and moved towards the fallen walls of the Eburone stronghold. Behind them, the singulares and their commander moved towards the defences, eyeing the destruction with shallow breaths. Whichever of the Roman columns had come through here had been thorough. The walls were less than a man high in most places, crumbled and blackened and tumbled inwards or outwards. Through the wide gaps they could see the charred skeletons of houses, ebony timbers pointing accusingly at the Gods from piles of ash and rubble. Even the dust of the streets was black.

  The sounds of a thriving settlement were entirely absent. No animal noises, no children. No trade or manufacture. Nothing. Just the noises of the carrion birds feeding and fighting over the choicest morsels and the sound of a shocked few who had survived.

  Those handful of Eburones were at work outside the gates. It was a manufacturing process of the most grisly sort. A few soot-stained men were gathering up the dead and placing them on pyres to render down to ash - pyres which were being constructed by another group from the remaining timbers of the town. Blackened patches with piles of ash around the extramural grass marked the sites of burned down pyres, and a number were in various stages of burning and collapse or embers gradually cooling. Womenfolk were gathering up the cold ash from the finished pyres and scooping it into wine jars and earthenware pots. Others were cutting out shallow pits and carefully laying the jars on an easterly alignment, placing a few charred possessions alongside and then filling in the holes. The sheer number of fresh earth-and-turf mounds spoke volumes as to the death-count of the battle.

  ‘Caesar takes his vows seriously,’ muttered Palmatus as they moved towards the silent, grisly workers.

  ‘This wasn’t Caesar. This was Labienus showing mercy.’

  ‘Mercy?’ Masgava said in a tone of disbelief.

  ‘No crucifixions. Quick deaths. Only Labienus would afford the Eburones that mercy.’

  They fell silent as they moved among the crow-black funeral workers.

  ‘You,’ Fronto said, not unkindly, to one of the men who had paused and straightened to rub his sore back. The man looked at them and Fronto saw no fear and no anger in his eyes. No life, in truth. The man replied in his own language, and the Roman glanced over at his two natives scouts. Paying him no heed, Ullio and Samognatos between them quizzed the weary, hopeless man, their voices heavy with sympathy. Fronto listened in hopefully and caught the name Ambiorix used three separate times by the local. He waited, trying to exude patience and sympathy, though he was twitching to know what they were discussing.

  After a long exchange, Ullio stayed with the man and spoke soothingly to him, while Samognatos turned and strode over to Fronto, gesturing for them to move a respectful distance away from the burials. Fronto realised the presence of Romans among their victims was the worst insult they could have perpetrated, albeit entirely unintentionally.

  The Condrusi scout’s strange, permanent smile - the result, Fronto surmised, of some ancient facial injury - seemed horribly out of place in this mass burial and land of the lost, but despite the grin, the scouts eyes were dark with distaste.

  ‘You know I wish this had worked out another way,’ Fronto said quietly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And it could have been so much worse. Those in Caesar’s path will be suffering so much more.’

  ‘I know.’

  Fronto sighed. ‘What news, then?’

  ‘We close on him,’ Samognatos said in hushed tones. ‘Two days ago Labienus’ legions came here and it took but half a day for them to reduce the place to rubble. The man said the nobles refused to surrender or even speak of Ambiorix. Now those nobles are gone, and with them almost all their people.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The survivors returned to the oppidum yesterday morning, once it was certain that the Roman column had moved safely on, and began the process of gathering and tending to the dead. As the light was failing last night and they were finishing up for the day, Ambiorix passed through with a small retinue of warriors. Apparently there was a bit of a scuffle. A few of the locals took exception to their king’s presence, after what the Romans had done to them for his resistance. They managed to kill one of Ambiorix’s men and wound another, but these men were true warriors and half a dozen locals joined their dead kin before Ambiorix moved on.’

  Fronto took a deep breath. ‘We’re only half a day behind him now. He can’t be more than ten miles away in these woods. So close I can almost smell his treachery.’

  Samognatos nodded. ‘I am not familiar with the terrain east of here, but Ullio says there is a valley that runs towards the Rhenus and opens out into wider, flatter land towards the edge of the great forest. That is the direction Ambiorix left, and it is the most direct route to the river. There can be little doubt now that the king is making to escape across the water and seek Germanic aid.’

  ‘Then we have to get to him before he manages to reach that river. We need to speed up our travel.’

  Samognatos nodded. ‘There’s more.’

  ‘About Ambiorix?’

  ‘No. Not more than an hour after Ambiorix passed through to the east, as the last light went, a huge warband of Germans passed through to the north.’

  ‘Germans?’

  The man thinks they were Sugambri, from across the Rhenus to the east. They are about the nearest of the tribes.’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Caesar gave permission for other tribes to come and raid the Eburones. I don’t like it any more than you, but the Sugambri have sworn oaths to Rome, and are here at Caesar’s invitation.’

  Samognatos shook his head. ‘You misunderstand, Fronto. They’re not raiding the Eburones. They’re going north. North is out of the forest. We’re not far from the flat lands now.’

  ‘So where are they headed?’ Fronto asked with a furrowed brow.

  ‘There’s no way to be certain,’ Samognatos said quietly, ‘but by my estimation, and Ullio’s too, the road north from here leads to the camp where your legion was destroyed in the winter.’

  ‘Sabinus and Cotta’s camp
?’ Fronto frowned. ‘What would they be going there for?’

  ‘That’s the other thing. Apparently, while nine of the legions are prowling these woods looking for Ambiorix, the other one is at that old camp, protecting all Caesar’s baggage and wounded.’

  Fronto felt his pulse quicken.

  ‘Who’s in command? Do we know?’

  ‘They say it is the man the Eburones could not kill.’

  ‘Cicero, then. You say it was a huge warband?’

  ‘The man said they filled the valley from side to side. Must be every warrior the Sugambri could muster.’

  ‘Gods help Cicero, then. Let’s hope he’s fortified himself.’

  ‘Should we not send warning?’ Samognatos asked quietly.

  ‘No point. The Sugambri would probably be there before our man. Besides, he’d have to go round the Germans to get there. Anyway, now that we know Ambiorix has a party of warriors with him, I’m loathe to release any of our men in case we need them. We’ll just have to hope the poor bastard’s on top form. He’s held a camp against an army around here before.’

  * * * * *

  Baculus sat up in his sick cot. He was still feeling unwell, though his strength was returning daily now, and his flesh was considerably pinker than it had been. The medicus had even sanctioned him going for a twice-daily constitutional, as long as he stuck to gentle exercise and did nothing stupid.

  Time for a walk, he decided, listening to the tell-tale sounds of a force preparing to march. Standing, he used his stick to straighten, more from habit than out of necessity, and walked slowly but steadily from the room.

  The camp was sizeable. When they’d arrived a week ago, they’d been surprised to find the defences still of good quality. It had been a simple matter of cutting back the nearest woods to rebuild the palisade and the internal buildings. Cicero had also constructed two large enclosures, each surrounded by equally strong defences, effectively quadrupling the size of the fort in preparation for the arrival of the rest of the army.