‘Who goes there?’ called a voice from above.
‘Marcus Falerius Fronto and the officers of the Tenth Legion,’ he called back brazenly. It was a lie in essence , for sure, but not being able to identify his legion would hardly settle these men’s fear. And beside s , several of these men had served as officers in the Tenth, so it was, strictly speaking, the truth.
He heard a voice from somewhere inside shout ‘The relief is here,’ and moments later the gate swung open. A centurion with a drawn face and hunted eyes stalked out to meet them, bowing as he came and then thrust ing out a hand. ‘Well met, sir. The Tenth. Glorious. The boss will be mighty pleased to hear that.’
Fronto shook the clammy hand, then surreptitiously wiped his own on his tunic. ‘Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Can you show me to your commander. I need to see him immediately.’
The centurion nodded, his eyes flickering from man to man as he took in the motley bunch of new arrivals. Then he turned and marched inside once more, waving his vine cane.
‘We were drawn from the Fourteenth during the general’s visit for a one year duty here. We’ve done our best to make it liveable, but as you can see it’s hardly palatial.’
‘After four weeks on the march, you’d be surprised at what feels palatial,’ Fronto smiled , trying to hide his visual disappointment at what their destination had turned out to be .
‘And I’m looking forward to slipping into someone more comfortable,’ grinned Terpulo. The local centurion turned an odd look on his counterpart. ‘Then you’re out of luck. The brothels and bars have been torn down and ejected. You might be able to find services in the local village, but you’re putting both your life and your dick in their hands if you do.’
Fronto began to fidget as they walked. ‘Looks like you’re prepared for trouble, centurion.’
‘Just playing it safe, sir. The boss will answer your questions.’
The headquarters building was a low timber affair with a single vexillum of the Fo urteenth hanging above the door bearing Caesar’s bull emblem. Even with the lamplight from within it did not look particularly inviting. The eight of th em followed the centurion in and to the commander’s office, where the local stepped inside, announced them, and then retreated again to make room. Fronto walked in with the others at his heels.
The man behind the desk looked tired and dispirited. His face was pale and his hair wild and uncombed. He was perhaps thirty years old, going on sixty. He wore an officer’s tunic and belt, but no armour. He rose wearily as Fronto entered.
‘Legate Fronto. Your reputation precedes you, as does that of the Tenth. I am Prefect Publius Didius Barba, commanding Lapurda outpost.’
Fronto inclined his head. ‘I must apologise for a tiny misunderstanding. The Tenth are not with me. I have officers of the Tenth, but my legion is in effect a giant vexillation taken from all Caesar’s active units, and without a designation of its own. We have an eagle and flags, but no number.’
‘How peculiar,’ Barba said, sitting once more. ‘Do I then assume you are not the relief for whom we’ve been hoping?’
‘Not exactly. Your centurion said you were here on a year’s service. Surely you are not expecting relief yet?’
Barba waved to a chair, but Fronto shook his head and remained standing. ‘Well, ’ the prefect explained, ‘ I’ve written more than ten missives now to the general asking for relief or aid. You see we’ re a little cut off down here, L egate Fronto. We control important routes for imports from Hispania into Gaul, and we are the only full-strength and permanent Roman installation in Aquitania. We effectively have the job of maintaining tax on imports and exports along the coast and ensuring the peace of the region.’
‘And there comes my next question,’ Fronto said quietly, but Barba held up a hand and went on.
‘We are aware of trouble throughout the region. We contacted the general months ago and frankly we were beginning to think he’d forgotten about us, or didn’t care. We used to have a nice comfortable supply situation here, what with goods coming in by sea and river and with ample trade with the natives. But then the native merchants stopped coming. And the Roman merchants stopped returning. And the locals refused to sell us their goods. Well, it was made clear by Caesar when Lapurda was established that we were here to maintain peace and cordial relations, so I thought it prudent not to force the issue. But I started sending patrols inland to try and find the missing merchants, to secure supplies and to investigate the vague reports we were getting of trouble. And the patrols never came back.’
‘So what did you do?’ Arruntius put in, stepping forward.
‘Do? I sent half a century with a cavalry escort to find out what happened to my men. Can you guess what happened?’
‘They never came back,’ Fronto said quietly.
‘Correct. I fretted about it for a while, then I bit the blade and sent a full two-century party with twenty cavalry. Might as well have tipped them into a deep hole. Never heard from them again. So rather than continue to throw good men away, I started to seal up Lapurda tighter than a Massilian’s purse , to rely on seaborne supplies and to send repeated letters to Caesar asking for help. It had occurred to me that my couriers might well have met the same fate as the patrols and merchants, but it appears that at least one got through , because you’re here .’
‘The region does seem to be overwhelmingly hostile,’ Terpulo noted. ‘We ran into trouble two days north of here, and we’ve seen signs of older trouble too – killings and evacuated villages .’
The prefect nodded. ‘We get weekly reports from those few locals who still speak to us, telling us of violence and burnings out there, but I’ve left them to it. I started the winter with four hundred men. I’ve a little over two hundred now, and only ten cavalry. My plan was to hold out until we got help or , if I heard nothing from Caesar, to wait ‘til late summer and just abandon Lapurda and march north along the coast until we saw a friendly face. ’
Fronto straightened. ‘Alright, Didius Barba . I need to know everything you can tell me. We have been sent here to bring peace to the region. I am to put down insurrection and to settle veterans in strategic positions around Aquitanii territory.’
‘Good, L egate. It will be nice to have allies in the area, even if they’re retirees. The evocati are always a force to be reckoned with . I’ve hated being alone here. But I hope you know what you’re up against. This lot aren’t like the Gauls we fought a few years ago. They’re harder and more bloody - minded. Less organised and less civili s ed, but more brutal. You have to kill them two or three times before they realise it and lie down.’
Atenos chuckled, and Front o leaned on the desk. ‘Tell me about the tribes, then.’
‘Well the locals are the Tarbelli , with the Sibusates just beyond them . On the whole they seem to be calm. The Tarbelli are the ones who still get news to us, but even many of those are gone now. Most of the lowland tribes have deserted their settlements and moved up toward the foothills of the mountains. Don’t ask me why. We tried to look into it, but when we look closely we get killed, so I stopped that. All the tribes had a Pax Gallica altar put in place during Caesar’s visit. The Tarbelli still respect theirs, holding festivals around it and so on, but I’ve heard tales of the most appalling desecrations of our peace altars. ’
The prefect poured himself a wine, didn’t even look at the water jug, and took a swig. ‘Then there are various other tribes. As I said, the lowlanders have more or less gone, moved up to the mountains and the foothills. That’s the Sotiates, Elusates, Ausci , Vasates, Lactorates and Aturenses . ’
‘What of the Vocates and the Tarusates? ’ Galronus put in, noting the absence of th os e tribes from the list. ‘I fought them under Crassus six years ago and they were not a force to be ignored.’
Barba gave the Remi noble an appraising look and nodded clearly impressed. ‘The Tar usates are a negligible group. Your army crushed them so utterly those years ago that they’d have tro
uble raising enough warriors for a bar brawl, let alone an insurrection. And I think what remains of the Vo cates consider themselves more part of Gaul than this lot, so they’re still u p by the Garonna River trying to be good . T he Sibusates are the first proper tribe of the mountains heading east, and we’ve heard nothing from them. Word is their settlements are deserted, but we can’t confirm that. Beyond them are the Begerri and they’re nothing but trouble. They were even trouble when we were all theoretically at peace. Then there’s the Aspiates up in the snowy valleys . They’re worse. Skin their own mother over a bad stew, they would. And as for the Consoranni …? Well you’re getting the picture. Then there are dozens of smaller tribes in the mountains, some of whom we know very little about. Some, like the Monesii and the Camponi, we don’t even know the location of. It’s complete terra incognita up in those mountain s . ’
‘So,’ Fronto huffed, ‘if we’re looking for the source of the trouble, it seems we want to head east into the mountains.’
‘That sounds like the answer to me.’
‘Good. Th en th at is what we shall do. ’ He turned to Galronus. ‘Any knowledge of the mountain areas from your time down here?’
‘Not much,’ the Remi shrugged. ‘We reached the foothills. We might be on the periphery of familiar regions. Some of the men of the Seventh went up into the passes after the campaign was over to crucify prisoners as a statement to the Aquitanii, but most of us stayed in the hills. Mountains are not good territory for cavalry, after all. ’
The legate smiled at his friend and turned back to Prefect Barba. ‘ Now, my legion has travelled for four weeks on poor supplies. I do hope your ships bring in acceptable wine?’
‘They do, Legate Fronto. We have shipments of Hispanic wines from Hispania Citerior. The same wines the nobiles drink in Tarraco. One of the few things we get plenty of.’
‘Good. My men will need a few days’ rest, then we’ll be moving east. In the meantime, I want to learn every tiny morsel of information I can get about the region, and I want to drink some of that wine. Oh, and I promised a reward for the ferrymen who are busy making about seven hundred trips across the river with my men.’
Late Aprilis
IT was a lovely image. Caesar on his knees, his old bones and muscles creaking, that little scar below his eye twitching as his eyelid flickered with the tension. Would he beg for his life? Naturally, one would say no, for who could picture even in their imagination the great hero of Rome begging ? And yet in the king’s experience, everyone had their breaking point, no matter how proud and noble they might think they were. And with time he would find Caesar’s . He would find that one ti ny twist or jab that would make the general cry out and beg for his life.
It would be glorious.
It was one of two dreams that had kept that bitter smiling face content during the long, cold nights . The other… well, it was complicated, and while it made him grind his teeth and wish for blood and black vengeance and the end of everything, bringing the whole of mankind down into a boiling, cleansing pit of death and hate, it also left him crying when he awoke. A slave had caught him sobbing into his pallet once and had had to be killed, despite everything.
A cleared throat made the king open his eyes.
The hot spring was one of several in the high, snowy passes, and had been covered with a timber building that held in the heat, leaving the bathing king sweating in his water. None of the other warriors used it. They held that dirt was the gods’ extra armour against cold and disease. Let them live with their superstitions. It made them easier to manipulate. He liked his warm water.
He blinked, remembering the clearing of a throat that had announced he was not alone. Shuffling back, he put his arms over the age-smoothed stone at the edge of the pool and took a deep, stifled, warm breath.
‘Ah, good.’
The four men were roped together at the ankle, limiting them to three feet distance from one another, and their wrists were bound so tight that they bled. Their decoration and bearing, even in captivity, announced them to be chiefs and kings in their own right, even if they insisted on the ubiquitous wild beard and shaggy hair. Only four men had brought th em in, but those four were good men, and well-armed, while the prisoners were bound and unarmed. With swift strikes behind the knees, accompanied by sharp yelps, the four chiefs were made to kneel.
Well, they weren’t Caesar, but every dream had to start somewhere.
The smiling king took a deep breath, launching into powerful words in the jagged harsh tongue of the Aquitanii.
‘Your tribes are small. Only small tribes remain. You cannot hold out on your own. When Rome comes for you, you will los e everything it is to be Aquita nii. Your name will vanish from the tongues of men and you will be merely lesser Romans like the Gauls and the Belgae . I offer you something more. Not a lot more, just to be sure. But a little. You will follow me and work toward my goals, or you will die. It is a remarkably simple choice. Speak.’
There was a long silence. The king examined his new prisoners. One he could see was going to be trouble. A younger man with haughtiness in his eyes. He had never experienced defeat. How naïve would he be? The answer came a moment later as the young chief opened his mouth.
‘What assurances do we get? What do our people stand to gain?’
The king frowned at the young man for a moment, then gestured to a warrior behind them.
‘My luck is clearly waning. I need more. Cut off his cock and have it dipped in lead.’
The young man’s eyes bulged and he started to scream and struggle as two burly warriors freed him from his bonds, holding him tight, then stre tched him out while a third drew a long, serrated knife. The young man was shrieking through floods of tears now, but the king turned his attention from the noise as it reached a crescendo. When the boy was dropped to the floor to bleed to death, the king smiled – some might say he had no choice about that, but this smile was genuine, and genuinely nasty – and pointed to something that glinted in the light of the lamps. The remaining three chieftains looked up at the king’s standard where it leaned against the wall, eight lead penises hanging from the lower bar, occasionally clanking into one another.
‘Even the Romans know the phallus brings luck. Now, let us continue. It is a simple choice: join me, or die…’
Chapter Four
‘YOU would do well to leave a few men here,’ Terpulo said, lifting one buttock from the wooden bench to let rip a fart that would have men in the nearby tents scrabbling around, holding everything down and waiting for the tremors.
Fronto, long since u sed now to the highly efficient yet highly peculiar centurion, swiftly took a huge swig of his wine then pulled up his scarf and wrapped it tightly around his nose and mouth. He would swear on the altar of Apollo himself that the air actually changed colour when Terpulo broke wind. Around the tent the others rushed to pull up their scarves , barring Aurelius, who had left his with his kit and, eyes wide in panic, excused himself quickly and ran outside ahead of the miasma.
‘Will there be enough men who want to stay in to make a difference,’ Fronto burbled through the muffling linen.
Terpulo blew out his cheeks and took a deep breath tha t should by rights kill him.
‘ Maybe settle a hundred or so lads here. Grant them land here and then they can be called on in trouble. I’m sure the prefect would be extremely grateful.’
‘I’m sure he would ,’ Fronto agreed, ‘but I might have need of those men myself when we ride out tomorrow. It might be months before we get back here.’
‘A prefect’s gratitude is never to be sniffed at,’ Terpulo smiled. ‘Especially a prefect who has control of the wine imports.’
‘Gods but you’d laugh if you knew what I was doing this time last year,’ Fronto snorted, wondering how Catháin was managing the business in his absence.
‘We’re still going to be within fast courier reach of Lapurda for a week or two yet ,’ Pulcher said through his muffling scarf. If w
e need supplies or to get information anywhere we might be relying on the goodwill of the prefect.’
Fronto nodded. He couldn’t deny the ir logic.
‘Alright. And I’ll give th em a little extra encouragement if they’ll play courier for us too.’
There was a tentative knock at the door of the barrack block Fronto and his officers had taken for their own .
‘Come.’
The door swung open and a legionary entered. Fronto watched with amusement as the air quality insisted itself on the soldier and his eyes started to water almost immediately. Not safe to remove the scarf yet then.
‘What is it?’
The soldier stared helplessly at him, his face taking on a green tint .
Fronto frowned. ‘Speak up, lad. Ignoring an officer can be a very unhealthy habit.’
Terpulo snorted. ‘He can’t answer you, L egate. He’s a ghost.’
‘What?’
‘Caught him paying less attention to the landscape than to his own pimply arse . I ghosted him.’
Fronto’s frown merely deepened, and Arruntius coughed. ‘Terpulo declared the lad dead through his own incompetence. He’s not allowed to speak, touch anything, eat, drink, or lie down until the first watch of the morning. He’s a ghost, you see.’
Fronto chuckled. ‘You’re an inventive bugger, Terpulo. Hang on, isn’t that…’
‘Yes indeed,’ Terpulo said with an edge of menace. ‘Come on, soldier. Show me Mister Rusty.’
Fronto watched the poor lad he remembered from their first exercise , clearly the chose n butt of the centurion’s humour , as he helple ssly stood before the officer. Th e young man looked torn and panicky, unable to comply with his orders to produce the bottle of rust because he was now officially dead and not allowed to touch anything. He’d risked everything just to open the door , after all . Added to that, the miasma in the room was clearly beginning to make the lad feel light headed. Fronto worried for a moment whether the lad might faint.
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 9
