Crucified.
All three with a ‘T’ shaped structure to which they had been bound and then nailed in place. The heavy had been the only one to attempt escape, for his hands and feet were mangled where he had torn them clear of the nails. The other two had died hopelessly and slow, surrounded by the headless bodies of their servants , pecked at by crows .
But even this was not what truly drew Fronto’s gaze.
In the centre of the clearing was an altar bearing the words PAX GALLICA. And the whole damn thing was a dark brown with old blood, crusted and stained and with lumps of unspeakable stuff clagged to it.
‘I know you keep saying the Aquitanii are not like the Gauls, ’ Fronto murmured through the blessed cover of his scarf, ‘ but is crucifixion one of their things? I’ve never heard of it in Gaul or among the Belgae or Germanic peoples, so I’m surprised to see it here. And the nails and timbers they’ve used were taken from the wagons.’ Fronto ’s lip curled with distaste. ‘Do you think this was the Sibusates before they left, or has someone done this afterwards?’
‘Hard to tell, ’ Galronus m urmured, peering at the bodies. ‘What I do remember is that Crassus had the captives of the Vocates and the Tarusates crucified up in the mountains as a warning to the locals not to pick up the revolt and not to involve the tribes from the other side of the mountains.’
‘ Bit long to harbour a grudge, though. Surely they’d have done that the next season, as soon as Crassus pulled out. One thing that’s certain,’ Fronto said quietly, ‘is that this is a statement. This was left to be found. It’s no ritual thing. And using Roman nails and Roman timbers to perform a Roman execution? This was left to be found by us . Someone around here hates Rome enough to not only break his oath, but to take the whole damn region with him. Come on, let’s get back and tell the others, and send a detail to clean this up and bury the dead.’
* * *
Morning had broken with sullen discomfort. The legions had lost that energy with which new campaigns often began, forced out by the sour recollection of what was going on in the region. The small, low mound that covered the unnamed Roman dead across the river had drawn almost all eyes until they were out of sight of Sorda.
The army was full of veterans. No one had served less than five years, and most had served at least four times that number, a nd yet they were soldiers who had spent much of the previous decade figh ting the ongoing wars in Gaul and f ew of them had had the misfortune to see civilian casualties. Or if they had they had usually been enemy ones and therefore easily dismissed , of course . A few, Fronto presumed, had seen the aftermath of the revolt at Cenabum. But for most of them the sight of murdered, abused and dishonoured Roman civilians was a new and appalling thing.
It had sucked some of the spirit from the campaign, but Fronto was not worried about that, because in its place during the last hour or so had formed a hardened diamond of determination to revenge themselves upon the bastards who were committing such atrocities.
The average soldier was a base thing. He thought of money, and of whores and food and wine. As he got a little older, he started to think of wives and children and of retirement. But Rome bred a certain type of warrior, and Fronto had seen it time and again. Where other nations relied on their citizens taking up arms when required – as Rome once had – Fronto’s people had developed a whole warrior class who took the call to the legions for half a decade or more and made it their life. And yet despite this reliance on war as a way, they still looked to Rome as an ideal that they were bringing to the enemy. To many they were a force of civili s ation, pushing back the ridiculous boundaries of the outdated barbarian world . And when they saw things that did not conform with their ideal of a civilised world, it was surprising how even the lowest, meanest legionary began to see himself as an advocate of culture.
N ow, civili s ation was coming to Aquitania. And it was wearing hob-nailed boots and brandishing a sword to make it’s point felt.
Fronto was just contemplating the nature of his strange veteran legion, who marched in silence with the determination of a disciplinarian, when the column hit trouble.
Fronto had dropped back to ride alongside Carbo, hoping in some way that the usually-cheerful prefect would initiate light conversation and lift his dour spirits. The two men had, however, ridden along side by side in silence , for Carbo’s expression was unusually dark. Ahead, the infantry column was led by the First century of the First cohort as usual, with a turma of cavalry at the fore to react swiftly to anything they found, and scouts ranging up to a mile ahead, checking out woodlands and dips for potential trouble. They had missed it , apparently .
The scream was the first thing that attracted Fronto’s attention and warned him. It was an unearthly, shrill noise, and it was followed two heartbeats later by another.
Exchanging concerned glances with Carbo, Fronto nodded and slapped the reins on Bucephalus. Even as Carbo halted the column and gave the order for each century to fall in with their shields out and swords drawn , Fronto was riding forward to the cavalry, whence the scream had come.
The horse had pulled up short and even danced backwards a little, and Fronto took in the scene with dismay . One of the lead horses had accidentally found a hole in the turf. His leg had dropped into the dip and had broken as the beast’s momentum had carried it forward.
Such a thing was regrettable, but happened from time to time. So many of nature’s creatures burrowed holes in the grass that it was a constant fear for riders. And yet a second horse had done the same some fifteen feet away , and that was too much to be a coincidence. As the distraught cavalrymen went about the regrettable business of cutting their mounts’ throats to save them from worse pain to come, Fronto frowned and dropped from Bucephalus to the turf. The grass here was deep – at least a hand width . And yet, despite the funny looks he was getting from the others, he crouched in it and looked out across the land a mere foot from the turf.
The grass dipped repeatedly. It was hard to tell looking down on it, but from a more level position he could see that the meadow was honey-combed with holes like the ones that had claimed two horses so fa r. Even as he stood to call out another horse at the far side of the column, who had strayed a little too far from the group, fell into another.
‘Don’t move!’ Fronto bellowed, and ran forward , brushing at a dip in the grass. The hole within went down two feet and was almost a foot in diameter. Just right to break a horse’s leg. Or to maim a legionary for that matter. It was disturbingly close to the lilia pits Roman forces dug around their fortifications, filled with spiked timbers.
He dropped again and scanned the ground. The dips were everywhere. The turf sloped down to the river on the right, and the holes went right the way to the bank. And they covered the rise in the other direction to where it met woodland.
‘What is it?’ Galronus asked, riding up and reining in a safe distance back.
‘Lilia pits. Someone has dug pits for hundreds of paces along the grass, from the river to the woods. Someone wanted to cripple cavalry. It’s my bet that whoever set this up meant to draw an army to it and them cripple them and come in for the kill. Perhaps we’ve somehow messed up their plans and found it first. Either way we’ve lost three horses, but if we’d hit this field charging, half our cavalry would be gone.’
‘So someone expected us to come this way.’
‘I guess so. Whoever made that statement at Sorda is presuming we’d follow the river toward the mountains. You know, I’m very much inclined to double back a few miles and cross the hill to the other branch of the river, then follow that east.’
‘Unless whoever did this was expecting it to turn you back and send you that way?’
Fronto looked up sharply at Galronus. ‘Gods, I hope they’re not clever enough to think like that, or we’re in the deepest of shit. ’
Early Maius
THE four scouts sat astride their horses on the slope of the hill beneath the shade of a small stand of pines. Th
e morning was already warming for a hot day. The riders’ beasts snorted and pawed the turf impatiently, having remained in place for almost half an hour. Indeed, the scouts them selves were beginning to get twitchy.
Below, the Roman column had turned back from the traps, leaving the pitiful bodies of a few horses still and forlorn among the pits . There had been a brief discussion between their commanders , and then with surprising efficiency the entire column had coiled back on itself like some kind of snake and slithered away over the low hill toward the north. There were a lot of them, but not as many as any of the scouts had expected.
The senior of the four turned to an old grey-beard with gleaming eyes and leathery skin.
‘Adiatuanus, ride for the Preciani. Tell that slow-witted fool Borios that he has underestimated the Romans. They have already found the traps and changed their route. The Preciani chieftain has lost his chance. If he wishes to pull any kind of success out of this failure, he will have to meet the Romans at Ortus, for they are now on the other river. Tell him to kill as many as he can, even if he has to send his own children to their deaths, but make sure that their general lives. His neck is for the king alone. ’
The old scout inclined his head slightly and rode off along the edge of the trees, where he would attract the least attention. There were a dozen different ways to reach the Preciani from here without coming too close to that armoured serpent with the red banners, and Adiatuanus knew them all. As he disappeared into the distance to chastise the slow chieftain for his failure, the lead scout turned to the others.
‘ Opinions?’
‘They are so few. I expected so many.’
‘ Rome’s l egions are far more dangerous than the same number of men from any other tribe,’ the leader warned in a dark tone. ‘ D o not underestimate them. Borios made the mistake of thinking they would be slower and because of his failure a trap has been sprung too early .’
‘I thought the general would travel with more pomp. They h ave these things called lictors, they say. Some kind of creature with sticks and axes who follow them and protect them like a tamed bear. ’
The leader nodded thoughtfully. ‘ T hey say t he general sometimes fights alongside his men. Perhaps such splendour is saved for Rome? But I did believe Caesar would bring more legions. He has eleven with him among the Gauls , or so they say, so why bring just one? Unless he is even more arrogant than we have been led to believe.’
He sighed. ‘Ride for the Begerri and the other Convenae . Tell them to begin preparations. Caesar is on the way, and I do not expect the Preciani to do much more than delay him a little.’
The other riders nodded and turned, riding off eastwards, leaving the lead scout peering down at the departing Romans. The general was visible even now, talking to a man on a horse with some kind of banner. He did not look like the sort of demigod that rumour made out. A child of the Roman love goddess? Pah! Only the Romans would send a descend a nt of a love goddess to lead a war.
Yet the scout felt an odd frisson of uneasy energy as that figure on the horse turned and seemed to be looking straight at him. Unnerved by the whole thing, the scout retreated deeper into the shade of the trees and then turned and rode off to report to his king.
Chapter Five
‘ I am absolutely twitching to move faster,’ Fronto grumbled as h e once more slowed Bucephalus so as not to outpace the column. The legionaries looked no happier, for though the pace was easy for them, it meant longer days of marching and a longer campaign overall. But the pace of the column was no longer dictated by the slow grinding of the wagon axles at the rear.
‘Better slow than dead,’ Decius said rather flatly.
It was true. With th e knowledge that traps could now be set for them as well as ambushes, the pace had been slowed and the scouts trebled, leaving none in reserve. Every man available was now ranging out ahead and to the flanks watching for hidden archers, pitfalls, or anything else that could hinder or damage the legion on its march.
It had taken a whole day to move the army back toward Sorda and then over the hillside to t he northern branch of the river, and Fronto had been half expecting an ambush at every given moment. But peace seemed to reign as they turned alongside the new waterway and followed its southern bank. This river was generally wider than the other branch, but here and there it narrowed as it cut its way through rocky terrain, with jagged, hard white banks. Apparently, they were moving into Preciani territory though, as always with these things, there was no visual clue to the change. Fronto had quizzed Galronus, but once again his friend had come up with nothing useful. Crassus’ campaign had simply been too far east and north to have encountered these people.
‘Fronto,’ Galronus called from his position a few paces ahead, gesturing out across the grass. Here, the river looped slightly to the left, hidden behind a small patch of woodland, though the scouts had said it curved back south, so the army could cut the corner. As Fronto peered out, he could see two riders hurtling back toward him across the grass ahead. A prickle of anticipation ran through him and he had to fight to resist the urge to ride out and meet them. Decius and Galronus pulled in close to him, as well as Masgava and the ever-present Aurelius, and the five men waited for the riders to rein in close by.
The two men threw out salutes after a fashion, neither being Roman nor regular army, and Fronto acknowledged them with a similarly half-hearted effort.
One of the two scouts turned to Galronus and began to rattle off his report. Fronto listened intently, though with little hope of picking out anything. Even after eight years in these lands, his command of their tongue was limited to a few words, such as wine, fight and tavern. And even then dialect differences between regions had quickly taught him that the words he had learned were Aedui and from the region around them, and that the northern Belgae, and the western and southern tribes had their own variants. As for the Aquitanii? Well , what the scouts seemed to speak didn’t even sound remotely similar to Gallic. It was more like a man gargling a live frog.
‘What’s he saying?’ he nudged impatiently, earning himself an irritated look from Galronus as the Remi nobleman continued to listen to the report. Once the man had finished and fallen silent, Galronus turned and passed on the details.
‘His accent is a little di fficult, but it seems that ahead is a crossing of the river. There is a town on the far side, but set back perhaps half a mile, not close to the river or the bridge. The town seems to be occupied as smoke rises from chimneys. The crossing , he thinks, is Roman and recent. There are three men on the bridge waiting. They seem to be noblemen and the scouts are certain they are Preciani. They appear to be waiting for us. ’
Fronto chewed his lip in thought, reaching up and swatting away a fly that had taken a particular interest in his sweaty hairline. ‘Just the three ?’
‘So the scouts say. There are woods on the far bank, but they are a little set back, not close to the bridge, and only low scrub nearby .’
‘Sounds like a difficult place for an ambush, then. Sounds like they want to talk. I would be extremely interested to hear what they have to say. Galronus, you’d better come with me. I’ll need a translator, but this could be delicate. I don’t want to go in heavy handed and push away the one chance we’ve found so far to actually communicate with these people.’ He turned to Masgava behind. ‘ You have command. Have the column halt on this side just short of bow-shot from the other bank . I’ll just go with Galronus and Aurelius and speak with these three.’
‘Take a guard unit with you,’ Carbo said firmly.
‘I told you I don’t want to push these people into turning against us.’
‘And I don’t trust them as far as I can piss. Take a guard unit with you.’
Fronto frowned, but Aurelius was nodding vehemently, and looks of agreement were plastered across the faces of his friends. Shaking his head in defeat, he chuckled. ‘Alright. One contubernium. Just eight men , but not legionaries . Regular cavalry . I want to be fast and
mobile. Galronus?’
Hardly had he finished speaking the Remi’s name before the man was gone to pull in eight cavalrymen. In a dozen heartbeats he was back with the riders close behind. ‘Come on then, Fronto.’
The legate felt that same sense of tense anticipation building as they pass ed the end of the woodland and approached the gentle incline that sloped away down to the river and the heavy bridge. The three men on the crossing were standing tall and easy and as the Romans approached, Fronto took the opportunity to size them up. They were something different to the other low landers they’d seen. Perhaps the Preciani were not quite mountain people, but these were also not closely related to the Gauls. They had long, shaggy hair and beards, though their manner of dress and decoration seemed to be similar to the other more northern peoples. They wore mail shirts of good quality, though very different to the Roman manufacture, more like a single long tunic than the shorter shirt with doubled shoulder protection. The one in the centre could be a chief. If not, he was clearly some sort of noble. None of them seemed to be druidic, which was a relief. He hated talking to druids. They always had that same superior ‘ I know something you don’t’ manner that seemed to afflict Roman priests and augurs. The three men straightened slightly as Fronto approached, pulling out slightly ahead, with Galronus beside him. Aurelius came forward and drew level with Fronto, his hand on his sword hilt and his shield ready.
‘Greetings, I am…’ Fronto began.
In a flash, the world changed. The three nobles threw themselves backwards and to the timbers of the bridge. There was a series of thuds from Aurelius’ shield as he hefted it, and Galronus cried out as something smashed into him, throwing him backwards, only the tight, four-horned saddle keeping him astride his mount. His horse, though, was also crying in pain.
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 11
