The other four hung around at the edge of the field. They had done a quick sweep of the surrounding countryside, but the area was clear, the nearest point of interest the local village that lay on a small hill close to the side of the wide valley.
With a sigh, Fronto peered down at the femur jutting from the turf. More than a decade and still the earth did not cover the signs of what took place here. He’d made sure every body was buried when he’d returned with the altar, but in such bare open ground, where starving carrion feeders prowled, bodies had to be buried deep to stay there. Something had scrabbled at the dirt and unearthed the bones in numerous places. Even nature herself seemed to want to compound Fronto’s guilt with constant evidence. That was what Verginius was pushing for, of course, but the knowledge that his emotions were being manipulated did not make it any easier. Muttering a wish that the fallen here rest well in Elysium, Fronto stomped disconsolately over to the altar.
‘It’s a fine sword,’ Galronus said quietly. ‘It will need some work now, after hammering it into stone, but it’s still one of the finest I’ve seen. A blade to rival your own.’
Fronto nodded. It had been given to Verginius by his wealthy father the day he set forth for Hispania. No words had been exchanged. Verginius’ support of Caesar had created something of a gulf between the two of them, but still the father appreciated that his son was setting forth on a path to a great career, and had marked the occasion with a gift. Was Lucius Verginius still alive, Fronto wondered. He’d not met his friend’s father since the day he had returned to Rome and visited to tell the old man how sorry he was for what had happened. Lucius had cuffed Fronto with the back of his hand and ejected him from the house, never to contact him again. What would the old man think if he knew Verginius was alive?
‘Take the sword.’
Galronus shook his head. ‘That would not be appropriate – not a good idea at all. He meant for you to have it.’
‘I’m no dimachaerus , fighting in the arena with two swords. A blade in each hand is a last resort for me. Takes too much concentration. It’s a good blade, and you’re to be a Roman citizen now, don’t forget. We’ve done what Caesar asked, and he always keeps his word, whatever other faults he may have. You’ll be one of the e questrian order soon, able to wear the toga and vote in the senate. You should have a gladius instead of that bloody great scythe you call a sword. When we get to Tarraco we can get it repaired and sharpened and have a scabbard made.’
Galronus shook his head again. ‘I don’t want anything of his.’
Fronto grunted and reached out, ripping the blade from the altar amid the clatter of bones. ‘It’s not his . He left it for me , and I’m giving it to you. Just take it.’
Galronus did so with a curled lip of distaste, handling it as though it were coated in something unspeakable. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Fronto said quietly as he reached out and took the torc, knocking the skull from the altar in the process. ‘This torc belonged to a man I respected. I can’t wear it, as I wear this one,’ he noted, pointing at the one around his neck that Galron us had given him years ago. ‘Ma sgava? You take this. You deserve it. From slave to officer, it’s time you were attired like one.’
The big Numidian, less bothered about such proprieties as Galronus, shrugged, took the torc with a nod of thanks and bent out the ends so he could fit it around his huge, muscular neck. It was perhaps a tiny bit on the small side, but not too bad.
‘Do we rebury the bones?’ Aurelius asked, strolling over.
‘No point,’ Fronto said. ‘We buried them all years ago, but animals are clearly still unearthing them – not just human animals, either. Come on. It’s three days’ travel to Tarraco, but the evening’s drawing in rapidly. Let’s see if there’s an inn at the village. Last time I was here the place was deserted in the aftermath of the revolt. It must be reoccupied now, as there’s smoke rising from it.’
Collecting Biorix and Arcadios, the six men began to ride slowly from the battlefield up the slope toward the village on the hill. It was merely a small native settlement. No fortifications, just a small square and perhaps twenty houses with outlying farms, parts of the hillside terraced for agriculture. A dirt track led up the incline and passed between two lines of double-storey houses.
Galronus was frowning while he examined the buildings as they approached. The structures were each good, solid square buildings, some of mortared stone walls left bare, others then rendered with some sort of painted plaster. Windows with good wooden shutters occupied the walls, and the door was adorned with a small porch of timber on almost every house. The roofs were thatched neatly, and each building had a low wall to the rear, surrounding a garden. A narrow channel with a sluice at the edge of the village ran through each garden, allowing irrigation from some sort of huge stone tank.
‘I had no idea they were so civilised here , ’ the Remi noble said quietly. ‘We had always heard in the north that these tribes were our backward s cousins. Now I find that they are, if anything, more advanced than the Belgae.’
‘Things are different up in the northwest,’ Fronto replied, ‘where Rome’s not had any influence. But across much of the peninsula they’ve had a century or more of Roman stimulus and before that the Carthaginians had the place too, so their influence is all over the place. Your tribes were all pretty much free and always had been. Most of the peoples of Hispania have answered to one empire or another for hundreds of years. They’re bound to have picked up a few things.’
‘There’s no one in the streets,’ Aurelius said with a frown. ‘Is that normal?’
‘I don’t know. It’s getting toward sundown I suppose.’
The danger was upon them before they were even aware of it. The whisper of arrows in flight was so quiet it should have gone unheard, but the town was so still, and Aurelius’ odd warning had heightened their alertness for that split second. Biorix dived at Galronus’, whose attention was riveted on the nearby house’s garden.
The two arrows that had issued from an upper window struck home, one thudding into Aurelius’ right side, sending him lolling, gasping in the saddle, blood sheeting down from the wound. The other, which would have plunged straight into Galronus’ neck, instead struck Biorix, while the Remi noble plummeted from his horse to the dusty ground.
‘Scatter!’ bellowed Masgava, leaping from his horse.
These were not skilled archers like the ones on the hillsides back at Rectum, for their first shots had been taken slowly at leisure, and neither had been deadly accurate, and the time they were taking to reload was longer than it should have been.
The Roman party dispersed instantly. Masgava grabbed the yelping Aurelius, dragging him from his saddle and pulling him into a side alley behind a house, leaving a trail of crimson. Arcadios sprang from his mount like an athlete, landing with the various steeds between him and the source of the arrows, unhooking his own bow from the saddle and fishing for an arrow. Galronus floundered on the floor for only a moment before scrabbling to his feet as the convulsing body of Biorix hit the dirt beside him, shaking violently and clawing at the arrow lodged in his spine at the base of the neck.
Fronto had reacted through sheer instinct, dropping from Bucephalus, and now helped scoop Galronus up to his feet, the two of them running at the building whence the arrows had come, swords in hand, where they flattened themselves against the plaster wall , taking advantage of the meagre cover offered by the porch.
Another pair of arrows thrummed from the building, one clattering against the corner of the structure sheltering Aurelius and Masgava, the other thudding into the horse behind which Arcadios lurked. As the injured beast screamed and bucked, the Cretan archer appeared as if from nowhere, loosed one arrow and then hurtled for better cover. Fronto heard with some satisfaction the resulting cry of pain from inside the house. The two archers may have had the advantage of surprise, but neither was in the same league as Arcadios with a bow.
‘Come on,’ Fronto said quietly, and du
cked along the wall to the door. For a moment, he stared impotently at the latch, his good hand gripping a sword, the other bound to his side in a sling. Even as Galronus dipped past him and opened the door, plunging inside, Fronto, finally tiring of the arm, used his fine gladius to snick the bindings holding his arm in place. He winced as the limb fell loose, somewhat atrophied after so many days of being tightly bound. However, what had been a screaming pain when he moved the arm out or forward was now a dull ache and nothing more. His arm felt numb and throbbed, but he felt certain he was close once more to full usage. With a brief prayer of thanks to Aesculapius, he slipped into the gloom of the house after Galronus.
His friend was already rushing up the stairs and Fronto had enough time as he crossed the room behind him to note the bodies of a native family lying butchered in the corner. This was not done by – or with the support of – the village, then, not that he’d ever suspected anything other than Verginius.
He rushed up the stairs and took in the scene at once. Galronus was struggling with a big bearded Arenosio warrior, who had discarded his bow and drawn a blade. The other archer was dead, draped over the window sill with Arcadios’ arrow shaft jutting from his eye socket.
Even as Fronto ran across to aid his friend, the Remi noble managed to get his blade into position and slammed it through the enemy’s torso up to the hilt. The Arenosio warrior gasped, his eyes widening as Galronus twisted the blade this way and that and then ripped it back out, stepping back to find enough room. The archer coughed and moaned, then collapsed to his knees for a moment before falling face first to the dusty floorboards.
While his friend cleaned off and re-sheathed his blade, Fronto checked the Arenosio were both dead, scanned the interior for further threats, then peered out of the window. Nothing else was happening.
‘This is why you need that gladius: more manoeuvrable in closed spaces. You nearly came unstuck with your bloody monster sword there.’
‘ He seems to think it worked well enough.’ Galronus noted, gesturing to the body on the floor, and Fronto rolled his eyes. ‘Nine men were heading south, the last few places confirmed, and that includes Verginius. He left two here, so he’s got six left with him. We need to be on the alert for more trouble like this over the next few days, then. I don’t think he values his men. He seems to leave them to die for him.’
‘There could be more in this village yet. Maybe even Verginius himself,’ Galronus pointed out.
‘I don’t think so. If he was going to commit more men, he’d have put them here with these two. He’s setting traps and ambushes. It’s what he knows – we’ve seen that all the way from Lapurda. This was just a little trap to damage us, but it’s taught me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That none of you are indispensable.’
Galronus frowned as he followed Fronto back down the stairs, across the ground floor and out into the street.
‘The danger’s over lads, for now,’ Fronto said loudly, as he looked down with sadness at the still form of Biorix. Arcadios appeared from a wall, still with an arrow nocked to his bow, his gaze zipping from window to window around the street as he moved. Masgava emerged from across the street, helping the gasping, limping Aurelius.
‘How is he?’
‘Bad. Not fatal, but he needs proper medical help,’ Masgava noted. ‘The faster we get to Tarraco, the better.’
‘No,’ Fronto answered. ‘You’re not going to Tarraco,’
‘What?’
The legate looked around at his four friends. In addition to the body on the floor, Aurelius was also clearly in danger, and the others were very much on edge.
‘This isn’t your fight, and I’m not leading you into it.’
‘Try and stop us,’ gasped Aurelius.
‘No,’ Fronto repeated. ‘It ends here for you. Aurelius, you can hardly move, let alone defend yourself now. This little ambush wasn’t meant to hurt me, else one of those arrows would have been aimed at me. That was set to remove you lot . To kill or wound my companions. He’s picking you off. Well I’m not playing that game. I’m not going to play Verginius’ games any more. Masgava? You and Arcadios and Galronus take Aurelius and head on up the valley, keeping southeast. Eventually you’ll reach the coast, and any locals can point you the right way. Sooner or later you’ll get to Barcino. There are medici there who can help Aurelius. It’s maybe a day further than Tarraco, so it won’t make much difference. From there you can take ship to Massilia or head up the coast to Narbo. Whatever you choose, I will eventually find you at Massilia, so wait there.’
‘We’re not going,’ Masgava said.
‘Yes you are. Don’t make me do this militarily and order you. As long as I’m worrying about you lot I can’t concentrate on what I need to do myself. Get Aurelius to safety and have him tended. Take Biorix too, so he can have a proper send off. I will take one pack horse and move fast. Moreover, I’m not going straight to Tarraco. I reckon Verginius will be waiting for me there, so I have a mind to go somewhere else first while I investigate the lay of the land.’
‘You can’t go on your own,’ Masgava said defiantly. ‘What if you come across bandits? Fall off your horse? Or down a cliff?’
‘He won’t be alone,’ Galronus said, quietly, undoing a belt. His sword fell away as it was unbuckled, and he swung that big Gallic blade in its scabbard, belt and all, across the back of a pack beast. As he held up Verginius’ fine, if chipped, gladius, gleaming in the light, he fixed Fronto with a hard expression. ‘You can send them away, but not me , Marcus. This is my fight, too.’
Fronto drew breath to argue, but the combination of the steel in his friend’s eyes and the naked truth of his words robbed the legate of refusal.
‘Very well. Galronus comes with me. We’re going to visit an old friend and see what we can learn of Verginius. You three – Masgava, Arcadios and Aurelius – get to Barcino and then to Massilia. Take plenty of supplies and money. We want to travel light and fast, anyway.’ His gaze slipped to the glinting blade in Galronus’ hand.
‘Time to finish this.’
* * *
Galronus peered this way and that through the gently sloping fields, striated with row upon row of vines. The ban upon native wines that held sway in Gaul was unknown in Hispania, and while the noble blood of Rome raised their haughty chins and sniffed at Hispanic wine, Fronto had better experience than most as both purveyor and consumer, and knew that the better wines of Hispania Citerior were every bit the match for most of the vintages found in Italia .
The long, slow road from the Pyrenaei had led them across a low plain dotted with small native settlements and around the periphery of a range of hills that rose wooded and impressive from the dry brown and green land, finally crossing a low set of ridges and dips before approaching the coast. Less than a mile back they had passed a five-way junction in the dirt road, with the main east-west thoroughfare properly metalled. A milestone had proclaimed somewhere called Bera to be six miles east, and Tarraco eight miles west.
Galronus had been surprised.
‘ Are we not bound for Tarraco?’
’Not quite,’ had been Fronto’s answer. ‘At least, not yet.’
And so they had ridden south to the coast, ignoring the great provincial capital off to their right beyond the cacti, scrub bushes, pine trees and plants that were, to Galronus, unbelievably alien. And finally, now, as they approached the sea, Galronus could hide his curiosity no longer.
‘Fronto?’
‘Mmm?
‘We are riding uphill toward the sea, some miles from our supposed destination and through someone’s vineyard.’
‘We are. I told you we weren’t going straight to Tarraco, but to visit an old friend. I said I wasn’t going to play Verginius’ game any more. Come on. ’
The two men crested the rise and Galronus blinked. On the summit of a lonely hill on the coast, far from signs of civili s ation , was a series of well-appointed structures. A rural vill
a, Galronus realised, not unlike Fronto’s family land at Puteoli , the heart of this huge, extended vineyard . A simple, small villa of four solid wings in a square stood on the crest of the hill with a cistern nearby, narrow gulleys and pipes running from it to feed both house and fields. A servants’ block stood close by, a little more dishevelled, and a stable sat beside a fenced enclosure containing some of the largest, most stunningly bred horses the Remi noble had ever laid eyes on.
‘You know the owner?’
‘You could say that,’ Fronto smiled. ‘ Be prepared for perhaps some anti-Gallic sentiment , though . When I first came here, the owner was a cavalry commander called Longinus. A former Legatus of the Ninth, who I’d butted heads with in Hispania. He was probably the most arrogant, supercilious and irritating man I’ve known, but he was also a good cavalry officer, a noble soul in the end, and simply the best breeder of horses I’ve known. Bucephalus was his own steed, and I’ve always said that when he gets too old for campaign, which will be soon, t he old boy will come here to pasture. Longinus died the year before I met you, but you knew Crispus? I brought him here after the year we fought the Belgae . We delivered Longinus’ ashes to his widow. I’d known her since my time in Hispania, and I thought it was my duty to deliver the tidings . I also knew she was a little … err… indiscriminate in her affections, let ’ s say. She once went after me, but she took a fancy to Crispus. Anyway, I swore I’d stay in touch with Longina but sadly the world got in the way. I never did. But I have no doubt she will help us. She also knew Verginius, you see.’
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 33
