‘You have so little experience of Rome, my friend. I told you Caesar would manage to find his way in. That is what he is doing. ’
‘You should pay more attention to the warriors beneath your own banner than beneath Caesar’s bull, sire.’
‘Oh?’
‘The men are concerned that you play dangerous games. First you let the Romans ge t too close, then you ruin them and then, instead of finishing them off, you sit back and let them try again.’
‘You know my reasons, Ategnio.’
The warrior nodded. ‘I know. You want Caesar to come to you. And you will gradually cripple him until the need to avenge himself on you sends him personally into the fight.’
‘It is called hubris, Ategnio. And Caesar is a martyr to hubris. He cannot lose, and he will make sure he stands triumphant in my hut as his soldiers rampage around the fortress . And that is exactly where I want him, but this is all an enormous balancing act. I need Caesar kneeling before my sword, but that means I cannot simply obliterate his army. Caesar has a habit of fighting last struggles alongside his men, and he is no use to me dead. But also I cannot let him simply walk in with his army, for then it would be I at his mercy. No, this all requires care.’
‘I saw him today, sire. White horse, red cloak, white tunic, red pl ume. He stood and watched, nothing more.’
‘I saw him too, Ategnio , committing his men but not himself . But he is coming.’
‘Sire?’
‘He comes now. It is too dark and distant to confirm it, but somehow I know that old bastard is among those men heading north, believing themselves to be hidde n . They come against us now somehow, but the darkness is dangerous to them as to us . If Caesar is with those men coming in a circle to the east to take us by surprise, then I want him. He endangers himself unnecessarily. While I am willing to sacrifice anyone – Taranis himself, if need be,’ Ategnio made a sign against bad luck and flicked his eyes up to the sky at those words, but the king was going on. ‘… I would st ill prefer to save our people. Now, p erhaps we have that chance. If Caesar is out there with a small group, we could take him and finish the battle before it truly begins. Send out patrols. Tell them that any man with a red plume needs to be captured healthy and intact and any man who wounds the general will add to the fascina hanging from my banner before he is slowly roasted. .’
‘And if Caesar reaches the walls and attacks us?’
‘Then I will let him in if I must, and he will be mine.’
‘Sir,’ Ategnio replied and scurried off to give the orders.
The king remained on the rampart. He had seen Caesar today for the first time since all this had started, and had not felt what he’d expected. Somehow he’d thought g ods would sing dirges of vengeance in his mind and sparks would fly in the aether . Yet while he felt an unsettling nothingness in relation to the general, there was still something about that figure in red and white that had sent a shiver endlessly up and down his spine for half a day now.
Chapter Nine
FRONTO puffed out his cheeks and pushed on with weary feet, the sound of dozens of breathless soldiers climbing behind . Fronto and Centurion Pulcher had hand-picked the quietest, strongest, most agile men in the army and formed a single century of them. They had armed lightly, with no mail and no apron of jangling straps. They wore only leather vests – the subarmalis that protected a man from the pinching of metal armour – over their tunics, and bore only a sword, tightly positioned so that it did not swing. They had not taken their shields, for they would be inconvenient in thick woodland to say the least, and crossing the ramparts with them would be extremely difficult . Then the century had moved off east through th e scrappy sections of woodland in the valley bottom, following the river to make use of its sloping banks.
Once they had moved almost a mile up the valley and the Arenosio fortress was little more than a constellation of tiny, twinkling lights in the distance, they had turned and begun to climb the bare slope. Here and there small copses and areas of scrub marred the hillside, though much was open heath , yet d espite the freedom of open ground t he gradient was steep and the men laboured up it with difficulty . Horses here would have struggled with the slope long before they ran into trouble in the trees , so like shields and armour they had been left behind .
The slope rose to become a high spur – the foot of the mountains that divided the two valleys at the confluence of which the fortress stood. The view from the top was impressive even under a dark, fleecy sky. With bright moonlight, Fronto considered the very real possibility he would be able to see G aul if he squinted hard enough. With some relief all round, the slope began to level out as they reached the crest, and the legate called a brief rest.
As the men paused and recovered from the climb, Fronto found himself with Pulcher at one shoulder and Aurelius at the other, and took in their surroundings
They could not quite make out the fortress that sat at the far end of the spur , though the legion’s large, rectangular camp across the valley was clear enough in the distance. They could, however, see the wooded slope which sat at the northwest side of the enemy location . It was thickly-forested with bare patches of sheer rock higher up, and Fronto could imagine how troublesome it was going to be shortly , though perhaps not so bad as what was to come next. The slope down the far side of the narrow spur, into that secondary valley, was twice as steep as the one they’d just ascended. Definitely a good job they’d not been on horses, really. A dozen or so of the legionaries, resting their weary legs, strode to the crest to look down, some whistling quietly under their breath at the steep, shadowed descent.
‘Lovely night for a stroll,’ Aurelius said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Fronto opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as one of the legionaries standing to his left was suddenly plucked from the ground and hurled backwards, his face gone, replaced with bloody pulp.
‘Slings,’ barked Pulcher, shoving Fronto back away from the edge. The unit pulled back from the slope, whence the shot had clearly come from the damage done to the soldier . No more stones appeared and Fronto paused, content that they had moved out of view. Slingers would not come further up the slope to pursue, but perhaps i f the slingers were not alone, that crest of the hill might soon bristle with armed warriors.
‘Do we pull back?’ Aurelius asked quietly.
‘Shit, no. The Convenae are on their way and we’ll be trapped against the fortress walls if we delay. We have one opportunity here to take the place, a nd we’ve got to persevere. We have to succeed. That bastard in the fort has manoeuvred us so bloody convincingly that we have to either give up or press on. And I refuse to give up.’
‘So what do we do, sir?’ Pulcher asked. ‘What’s the plan?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘A little something I learned from Arruntius.’ He turned to the gathered legionaries. ‘There’s thickets and small stands of trees on the slope down there, but it’s not heavily wooded. The slingers were hidden, else I’d have seen them, so that means they’re hiding in those trees. And that means there’s not too many of them, there’s no cavalry, and probably no armoured warriors, just fast moving pickets. On my signal, we’re going to run over that ridge and down the slope, charging the bastards head on.’
‘Sir, we’ll break our necks, ’ argued one of the legionaries.
‘It’s a risk, but we n eed to take them down and fast. If you run and fall, you’ll just have to roll and hope . Let’s show these bastards the sort of men they’re up against. Are you with me?’
The men nodded and muttered their affirmative, aware that even with enemy pickets close by the fortress probably were not aware of their location yet, and therefore mindful of the need to keep disturbance to a minimum.
The century shuffled forward and Pulcher took the fore, moving his hideous face – all the more disconcerting in the darkness – to the ridge, marking the point of visibility for the enemy. As if to provide c onfirmation of his judgement, a slingshot whipped across
the ground close by his feet, tearing up blades of grass.
‘Hurry now, lads,’ Pulcher said, waving them into position. ‘I make a big mean target while I wait for you lot to unknot your underwear.’
The legionaries, grinning, moved into position, and Fronto stepped up with them.
‘Sir,’ admonished Aurelius, tugging at his sleeve.
‘No. This is too important. Every man’s needed, you and me included.’
The bodyguard, his expression black with concern and disapproval, nonetheless stepped up next to Fronto.
‘Everyone in position?’ Pulcher asked, glancing over both shoulders at the double line of legionaries as a stone clonged off the very tip of his helmet, pulling his head backwards for a moment. ‘Good. Come on , you beauties.’
The unit broke into a run and crested the hill in odd silence, the pounding of feet and unsheathing of swords the only noise. More slingshots dinged and whizzed up from the small knot of trees ahead. Fronto cast his eyes this way and that, paying little attention to the terrain. After all, by the time he saw trouble he’d already have hit it at this pace. The slingers appeared to be based in only one small corpse, which made things easier , and the century converged upon it. .
The century charged at the treeline some fifty paces away and twenty lower. The first casualty of the terrain came almost simultaneously with the first victim of the slingers. A legionary squawked in shock as something on the slope tripped him. Rather than the usual fate of falling back and being trampled by his mates in the attack, though, the combination of slope and momentum just sent him on further ahead, the painful rolling and bumping bringing other yelps as he fell. Another legionary disappeared with a shout as a sling stone hit him in the centre of the chest, knocking him back and down.
Twenty five paces were eaten up in mere heartbeats, bringing them halfway to the copse as another man fell with a shout, taking down his neighbour in the process . The slingshots were becoming more accurate at the closer range, too, and men were crying out as missiles struck them here and there. Again, a man disappeared with a cry and a broken cheek, then another fell and tumbled on down the slope. Maybe Arruntius’ rather blunt tactics only worked for him, Fronto mused as he ran on. The trees were close and now he could see vague shapes flitting between the trunks among the undergrowth. He was about to slow and dive into the copse with the rest, when movement caught his eye and he turned.
Two men had broken cover and were running down the slope away from the fight, heading west.
‘Aurelius!’ he barked, pointing with his sword. His bodyguard spotted the two men fleeing, likely heading for the fortress to carry word of the Romans’ location, and the two men peeled off, leaving the rest to wade into the woodland and take on the slingers. Fronto and Aurelius pounded on do wn the slope and t he two fleeing men turned , catching sight of their pursuers. One, unable to maintain the dangerous run while looking the wrong way, fell foul of a dip and lost his footing, tumbling into a roll that carried him off at a tangent. Without needing to be told, Aurelius veered off and ran for the rolling man.
Fronto concentrated on the other one, who was running full pelt down the turf, heading for another small stand of trees.
‘Oh no you bloody don’t,’ Fronto snarled. The man was faster than him, considerably younger and probably bred climbing slopes like this all his life. He would outrun Fronto, and the legate knew it, s o before he could consider the idiocy of his plan he sheathed his sword and leapt.
The legate had meant to tackle the man, his arms around the warrior’s hips, bringing him down swiftly and easily. The result of his leap was less spectacular than it had been in his head. He took a running foot to the eyebrow that made his head spin and hit the man awkwardly, sideways. His shoulders struck the man’s calves and the warrior hit the ground with a shout, tumbling on, tangled with Fronto.
The momentum on this slope was impressive, and the pair had rolled another twenty paces, locked in a struggle, legs and arms grasping and flailing, before they slid to a halt. Through sheer chance, Fronto finished the tumble on top of the warrior, but the man was quick. Two hands reached up, one grasping Fronto’s reaching fingers , the other his opposing elbow, fighting the legate off, trying to unpin himself.
Fronto struggled and pushed, but his left arm seemed to have been wrenched somehow during the fall and was extremely painful, and he found that the warrior was managing to push him away with surprising ease. Gritting his teeth, Fronto smashed his head forward and down with all the strength he could muster.
Despite the lack of armour, the century had kept their helmets, which made little noise without the other armour to scrape and clatter against. Fronto’s decorative brow plate smashed into the bare head of the hirsute native with an audible crack of bone, and moments later the arms holding him off went limp. Wheezing, Fronto straightened and looked down. A huge red welt adorned the warrior’s forehead – an imprint of the decoration on Fronto’s helmet. The legate paused and examined the man beneath him . His chest was still. A hand acros s the mouth and nose confirmed lack of breath. The warrior was dead. Hauling him to one side, Fronto spotted the stone jutting from the turf. When the legate had head-butted the man, his skull had jerked back against the ground and the projecting stone had broken his neck. Satisfied that they had prevented the runners taking news to the fortress, Fronto stood painfully and looked for Aurelius. His bodyguard was stomping toward him with a fierce expression and a splash of blood gleaming in the darkness across his leather subarmalis .
Fronto tested his left arm. It ached badly when he moved it backwards or out , but nothing appeared to be broken and he could still grip his fingers.
‘Come on.’
The two men jogged back a long the hillside to the copse, where already Pulcher was marshalling his men.
‘All done here, centurion?’
‘No survivors, sir. You got the runners?’
‘We did. Casualties?’
‘Seven men dead or unable to go on. Not bad, considering.’
Fronto nodded. ‘Get the dead back to the top and leave the badly wounded up there with them for now. Where we’re going everyone needs to be strong and ready. ’
Moments later they were gathered once more and , a t the nod from Pulcher, they moved off, leaving their unfortunate companions on the hilltop. Seventy seven of them remained. If any loss of men could be considered acceptable, then Fronto was forced to admit such of this. It could have been so much worse.
‘Question is,’ he muttered to the centurion as they descended slowly, ‘was that a random set of pickets – an enemy patrol maybe? Or was it set there specifically for us? The more I think on the nature of the man in that fortress, the more I wonder whether he’s running this show in its entirety. Certainly he’s trying to. He wants me to attack him personally, I think. But I intend to make his wish come true anyway .’
The century descended the slope carefully, with only one wrong-footed fall and no injuries, and by the time they reached the valley and the terrain levelled, Fronto’s legs were shaking uncontrollably with the effort, his calves tight. Aware that everyone was in much the same state, he called another rest by the same narrow watercourse which further down, where the valley met its larger sibling, the legion had attempted to cross that afternoon in their abortive attack .
The stream was lined on both sides with trees and the vegetation of the valley in general was thick enough that there was no sign of the enemy fortress at the end of the slope. Once every man’s breathing had returned to normal, the soldiers had massaged the knots and aches from their legs, and most had taken a welcome drink from the cold, refreshing waters of that stream , Fronto gave the signal to Pulcher, and they were on their way once more.
The clouds were beginning to separate now, the fleecy grey lining of the sky stretching and pulling apart to leave sparkling stars against infinite black in their place. Fronto frowned as he peered up and after a few moments spotted the moon , momentarily sliding between c
louds .
‘Almost an hour before midnight. We’re doing well.’
Pulcher nodded. ‘Best stop the talking now, though, sir. Every step takes us closer to the enemy.’
The legate nodded as they ascended the far side of the narrow valley. This slope, which led all the way down the valley past the Arenosio fortress, was more forbidding than the ones they had already traversed. The lowest areas of the slope were fairly thickly wooded, but the higher one climbed the more rocky it became until there was nothing but scree slopes and sheer cliff. That, Fronto was gambling, was why the enemy would not think to look for trouble coming from that direction . Fronto and Pulcher scoured the woods until they located a game trail that headed the right way, west along the foot of the slop e , toward the fortress. Then the century moved into single file with Pulcher at the lead and slipped into the woods, cracking and rustling their way along the track.
The journey was only half a mile, but due to the difficulty of branches and undergrowth it took them as long to traverse the woods as it had to cross the hill at the beginning. Finally, Pulcher held up a hand to stop the column and moved into a small clearing. Fronto scurried forward to join him.
Through waving foliage and occasional tree boles, the two men could see the northern walls of the enemy fortress. They were now almost diametrically opposite the legion camp, with the Arenosio’s stone fort in the middle. They were maybe two hundred paces from the walls. This side was not protected by ditch or river, just by the general inability to get an army there in numbers. But Fronto was not going to rely on numbers. After all, he didn’t have huge numbers in the first place. No. His century would attempt to make their way through the fortress and open the gate for the rest of the legion. But to do that they needed to get inside, and that in itself required another distraction.
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 24
