Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica

by Turney, S. J. A.

  In the two days they had marched since that grisly discovery, they had p assed through four settlements and e ach had felt less friendly than the dangerous and threatening dark alleyways of the Subura in Rome. None of the villagers had been talkative beyond necessary answers and most had no command of Latin, claiming communication difficulties as an excuse not to talk to the Romans, despite the presence of able translators. None had been able – or more likely willing – to comment on their findings at the deserted village . There had been nothing specifically threatening about any of them, and nothing that Fronto could call them out on, but he had certainly felt unwelcome. And now there were hidden observers in the woodland? He was starting to regret having brought just the one legion after all . Perhaps Caesar could have spared the Tenth too. And he could have found a way to manage them all in the passes.

  Shit.

  He watched, his heart thumping, throat dry and forehead damp, as the small unit of legionaries and scouts pounded off through the undergrowth, rounding the end of the lake and making for the woodland on the far side. Now, even as he watched, Fronto could see the shape of a figure moving through the trees.

  All seemed too quiet, and he was on the verge of having a musician blow the recall when the trouble began. As the ei ghteen men ran at the tree line a burst of arrows shushed forth from among the dark trunks . Fronto watched grim ly as the shafts thudded into his men. Half a dozen legionaries fell, unable to get their shields up in time against the unexpected onslaught. He had no idea how many of the enemy there were, but there w ere enough to create a good cloud of arrows , certainly .

  Recall or attack?

  T here was no choice, really. The very idea of leaving a threat unchallenged on their flank made him twitch.

  ‘Atenos, have the advance sounded. We move at the double and each century forms testudo as they close on the treeline. I don’t want to lose anyone we don’t have to.’

  As the legion fell into ranks and began to turn, breaking into a run through the undergrowth around the southern edge of the lake, Fronto kept his horse at pace with them. He could do no good on his own, and most of the cavalry were at the rear. Besides, among the trees they would be useless. He tutted to himself over his foolishness sending out such a small party when he’d already been convinced they would encounter trouble.

  There was no sign of faltering among that unit, though. A dozen men were now moving on the trees, shields held high and tight, the native scouts sheltering behind them. Even as he watched, closing inexorably on the fight alongside the legion, a second arrow volley took out two more legionaries and one of the scouts. With a roar, the remaining eight soldiers charged into the woodlands , while the unarmoured scout dropped to the thick high grass out of sight . Clearly whichever le gionary had seniority among the men had made the call that they were better charging an uncertain enemy than moving slowly and gradually being picked off with arrows . He may have been correct, but Fronto couldn’t escape the conclusion that they wo uld all be dead before help arr iv ed. Perhaps the scout had had the better idea.

  ‘At the run,’ Fronto shouted. The men were tired. They had marched most of the day, and for the three preceding days, and yet the order was carried out without complaint, each and every man in the legion picking up his pace so that he was pounding headlong through the undergrowth, heedless of danger. One or two runners would probably fall foul of rabbit holes, but nine men were at risk now in the woods , probably already dying, and Fronto didn’t want them to have died needlessly, allowing time for the enemy to prepare. The legion had to fall on the archers while they were still recovering from the first attack, lest it be wasted.

  Regardless of the danger, as they closed on the trees, Fronto dropped from his horse, handing the reins to a surprised legionary. ‘Take care of him,’ he huffed as he ran. ‘He’s an old friend.’

  The legionary ducked out of the column with Bucephalus as Fronto grappled his shield from him and took it in his fist, running full pelt to catch up and fall into place in the soldier ’s position. The others stared at him in disbelief as they ran but conversation was impossible, partially due to the heavy breaths of exhaustion and partially due to the sudden blaring of cornu and buccina and the throaty bellow of thousands of legionaries charging at the trees.

  Moments later Fronto’s world became one of sweat and pain, darkness and confusion as the men ran in among the trees. He had taken the position of a man from the First c entury and, though he couldn’t see him, he could hear Atenos’ voice calling out orders. Obedient to his junior officer, he joined his fellow soldiers, fanning out to the left , leaping fallen timbers, the bracken and undergrowth whipping at his bare shins, the combination of under-canopy gloom and heavy helmet restricting his vision and hearing .

  He knew they were too late when he tripped and almost fell headlong over the twisted body of a legionary peppered with dark shafts . He staggered for a moment and pulled himself upright, sword out and lashing, expecting trouble, until a nother call from Atenos drew them all up short. Fronto foun d himself obeying instinctively and he peered around, trying to take in the confused situation. The bodies of legionaries were scattered across the dark undergrowth beneath the trees, each riddled with arrows. The enemy had not resorted to meeting them blade to blade, but had continued to fall back as the legionaries entered the trees, picking them off as they approached. It had been a massacre. One corpse had no less than twelve arrows jutting from him where he lay slumped against the bole of a tree.

  Fronto broke ranks and jogged out front to join Atenos. The centurion seemed entirely unsurprised to see his commander suddenly in the fight, hefting a legionary shield.

  ‘If you’re going to join in, I’m going to have to issue you with a pilum, sir,’ he noted drily. But both men were intent on the enemy, really, rather than conversation. There was clearly no chance of catching them , which was why Atenos had called the halt, to preserve their energy from a hopeless chase. The archers were already some distance away through the woods and rapidly disappearing from sight . They clearly had no intention of sticking around to face off against a legion.

  ‘Shit,’ Fronto grunted, wiping his mouth with his wrist. ‘We’re going to have to move very carefully from now on. It appears that we are finally in enemy territory proper .’

  He became aware of laboured breathing by his side and turned to see Arcadios, heaving in deep breaths , Galronus close behind, with his long Gallic blade out at the ready .

  ‘Where did you…’

  ‘Hush now,’ interrupted Arcadios as though speaking to a noisy child, and Fronto frowned himself into silence. Even as he formulated an indignant reply, the archer whipped his bow from his shoulder, drew an arrow with a single swift motion, nocked it and released with barely a pause.

  Fronto watched the arrow fly. At the rear of the departing ambushers one man seemed to be struggling with his leg, though his anguish at being left behind was quickly snuffed as he Cretan’s arrow plunged deep into the back of his neck and he fell.

  ‘Find him,’ Arcadios barked at two gawping legionaries. ‘Bring him back.’

  Fronto turned to the archer, who was slinging his bow across his shoulders once more. ‘ Damn good shot .’

  As the legionaries began the grisly business of making sure their comrades were dead and snapping off the arrows so that they could be moved comfortably, Fronto, Atenos and Arcadios stood watching the fallen enemy being located, collected and carried back through the woodland.

  ‘What do we do with the dead, sir?’ a legionary asked Atenos, who in turn glanced the question to Fronto.

  ‘ Put them in the wagons. We haven’t got time to stick around and bury them, and I don’t want any cremations that’d send a column of smoke up to the sky telling everyone exactly where we are. If we march hard we’ll be in Lapurda before dawn and the dead can be honoured and laid to rest there.’

  Atenos nodded and issued the appropriate orders. Most of the cohort was now moving back out of the
woodland to join the rest of the legion, who were returning to the column and to the Tenth Cohort who had remained to guard the valuable baggage train.

  The native scout who had dived into the grass a few dozen paces from the trees had arrived now and was standing near Arcadios, brushing himself down, his face angry and bleak . He watched, hawk-eyed, as the legionaries brought the body of the ambusher across and laid him on a fallen tree-trunk. The man was clearly dead. His leg displayed a deep cut, which had clearly been the reason for his slowness and tardiness, the only blow the small force of legionaries seemed to have managed to land. But Arcadios’ arrow had plunged through the neck, transfixing the man as it burst out through his vein, bleeding him dry in moments.

  ‘I’d have liked to question him,’ Fronto grumbled.

  ‘You were damn lucky I hit him at all, sir,’ Arcadios snapped. ‘This dampness is playing merry Hades with my bow string.’

  Fronto smiled sheepishly at the archer. ‘Of course. And it was, as I said, a most excellent shot.’ He called the native scout across and pointed at the body. ‘Can you tell us anything of use?’

  The scout was a native of the Bituriges Vivisci from just south of Burdigala, not a native Aquitanian, but his knowledge would still be unparalleled in the column, after two campaigns in the region.

  ‘He is not a local,’ the scout said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We’re in the lands of the Tarbelli , spitting-distance from the Sibusates , L egate. What have you seen of the Aquitanii we’ve encountered between Burdigala and here?’

  Fronto frowned. ‘Nothing special. They look like all Gauls, I suppose.’ Galronus nodded his agreement , as he sheathed his blade and stepped forward. ‘Looks like all the ones I fought under Crassus: the Sotiates, Vocates and Tarusates.’

  ‘Precisely. But remember, they’re Aquitanii, not Gauls. ’ He glanced at Galronus. ‘ The low landers are influenced by the border tribes, including my own Bituriges. All the ones you fought were lowlanders. They wear moustaches and braid their hair back. They wear tunics and light trousers with leather shoes. Look at the body, sir.’

  Fronto did so, and his brow creased further. The dead archer was clad in furs and his legs were tightly bound with wraps. He wore a beard like a Greek philosopher, though shaggier and dirtier, and his hair was long and wild, like a dandelion gone to seed. ‘So who is he then?’

  ‘One of the mountain men, sir. The southern tribes. If I had to guess, I would say Begerri or Consoranni .’

  ‘And they’re not local, then.’

  ‘Maybe sixty or so miles southeast, in the foothills and mountains of the Pyrenaei, sir.’

  ‘Then what in Hades’ icy arse cheeks are they doing all the way down here loosing arrows at a Roman column. Something odd is happening in this region. There’s more to it than meets the eye. This isn’t just scattered flames of revolt – not if tribes are far outside their own territory. Reminds me more of the months before Vercingetorix’s revolt. This is not good. Not good at all. Get the men ready to move immediately. We march double time through the night. I want to be behind the walls of Lapurda as soon as possible.’

  Who are you? He asked the body silently as his men scurried back to work. What are you doing here?

  * * *

  Lapurda was not a sight , even in the early dawn light, to cause sighs of relief to the anxious column. The region had only been even sparsely explored by Rome over the past half-decade , and direct control and influence were less than a year old. The Lapurda fort had been constructed following Caesar’s visit and, though it was clearly destined to become a permanent fixture, at this point it resembled a temporary camp more than a lasting fortification, with timber parapets above turf ramparts and wooden buildings withi n with no stone footings. The fort stood on a small hill to the south and west of a confluence of rivers, with a ferry in place across the more major one to the north and a new bridge across the smaller one to the east.

  The fort was occupied, which at least was a relief, for there were figures moving around on the walls and smoke rising from one or two buildings. No civilian vicus had yet grown up around the place on the slopes, but a sizeable native village lay a little to the west on the river bank. Fronto wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting – a small island of civili s ation in a wild and dangerous region, perhaps – but the small, meagre fort failed to live up to whatever expectations they were.

  Moreover, the chances of the legion fitting inside the walls were non-existent. The fort was just big enough for a small garrison of perhaps five hundred men. Five thousand was simply impossible. The walled safety they had all looked forward to evaporated instantly, and Fronto could almost feel the column sag with the realisation that they would still have to camp in tents outside the place, still setting guards and living ‘campaign-style’. Moreover , the bath house below the fort visible from across the river could hardly hold more than ten or twenty people, and five thousand tired, dirty soldiers had just hoved into view, each hoping for a bath. Even in shifts they would still be cycling round by dusk.

  Fronto straightened. He had worked with worse, and perhaps the place would look more inviting when the sun was fully up and not just a golden glow on the eastern hillsides.

  ‘Carbo? You need to organise everything here with the legion. I can’t see us getting more than twenty men at a time across that ferry, so it’s going to take most of the day. And you’ll need to start setting up camp on the far side as close to the fort as you can manage. We’ll be staying for a few days, so make it good. I’m going to take a few of the others on the first crossing and visit the commander.’

  The camp prefect nodded his understanding and began to give orders to the various centurions and signallers. Fronto gestured to his companions. ‘Atenos? I want you there, and Masgava, Galronus, Decius and Aurelius. Also centurions Terpulo and Arruntius. Come on.’

  As the seven named men pulled out forward, Fronto slid from Bucephalus and handed the reins over to a legionary. The eight of them then strode down to the ferry on the bank. The Aturrus River was wide – two hundred paces at an estimate – fast flowing, and clearly deep. Not a river to play around with. Snaking a further four miles through the countryside, it carried vast quantities of mountain water and emptied it into the ocean to the west. There were no personnel on the jetty , but a huge pewter gong hung on twin ropes, dents and dips across its surface mute testimony to its regular use. A long stick hung beside it with a lead ball at the end, and Fronto picked up the ringer, took a deep breath and banged the gong three times. The sound was deep and ear-splitting, and the echoes and reverberations carried up and down the river, ringing along valleys and through trees.

  Two figures at the far bank emerged from a small hut and peered across the river before hastily unfastening the ferry from the bank and pushing it out into the current. As one punted them away from the bank, the other slid his oars into their fittings and began to row. Moments later the other man followed suit and the craft slid quickly across the water, both men angling upstream to counter the current. They knew their jobs and the river well, for in short order they were pulling in to the jetty exactly on target, where they tied up and saluted the Roman officers waiting.

  ‘Sir s . Welcome to Lapurda.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘Thank you. I need myself and the officers taking across, then slowly the legion will need to cross. Unless you have unlimited reserves of muscle, you might want to pass the job over to my men to take turns.’

  The men shook their head. ‘Not a good idea, sir. The Aturrus is a fetid bitch of a river, pardon my Greek. Unless you know what you’re doing, the boat will end up a mile downriver or floating out into the ocean.’

  ‘Then you’ve a tiring day ahead of you, soldier. But I take your point and thank you. I will make sure you are appropriately rewarded at the end of the day.’

  Moments later they were aboard and the ferry was pushing out into the current once more. Aurelius made ward
ing signs against ill luck and tipped a little wine from his skin into the water as an offering, desperately trying to guess the name of the god of this river. Fronto smiled at his superstitious bodyguard, then watched the high mound with its timber fort sliding slowly toward them.

  ‘You seen the bridge, sir?’ Centurion Terpulo muttered as they crossed. Fronto peered off toward the bridge that spanned the narrower channel at the confluence.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s got a gate. And a guard unit. Like it’s been fortified. Not a good sign. I think the garrison of Lapurda is nervous.’

  ‘Great.’ Just what he wanted. The people he was about to look to for support were seemingly as worried as those who were just arriving. His sense of unease grew as they neared the far bank. Closer examination exhibited more warning signs. There was no civilian vicus on the slope, though huge square shapes in the grass made it clear that one had been there, but had been removed mere days or weeks ago. Two watch towers had been constructed, rising from the northeast and sout heast corners of the fort, adding visual coverage of the surrounding land. And Terpulo was right. The near side of the bridge had seen a hastily constructed palisade with a wooden gate, and half a dozen men seemed to be stationed there. With a gentle bump, they touched the jetty at the far side, and Fronto stepped onto the timbers, thanking the ferrymen for their smooth ride and once more promising them something later in gratitude. As the boat pushed out into the river once more, Fronto and his companions looked up the slope at the fort. The gates were firmly shut and there were more men atop the walls than Fronto would normally expect.

  ‘Come on. Let’s find out what’s making them so nervous.’

  The eight men walked quickly up the hill. As they approached the gate, Fronto was impressed to note that, although a defensive ditch seemed to have been begun and abandoned due to the difficulty of the terrain, sharpened stakes, lilia pits and obstacles had been placed, forming a triple defensive ring outside the walls, and small bolt throwers were in place on each low tower top, all of which trained on the new arrivals as they moved. The legate and his officers stopped twenty paces from the gate.