‘ I might argue that that is exactly what you’re doing with all this chatter ,’ murmured Fronto, h e aving in more breaths and slowly bringing himself to a fighting stance again, the tip of his blade coming up, wavering.
‘If I were going to kill you, I’d have done it,’ Ategnio growled . ‘But the king wishes you to live, so you shall live. Never follow, though, for I do not wish my loyalty tested like this again.’
With a contemptuous flick, Ategnio knocked aside Fronto’s blade and, reversing his sword in a masterful sweep, jabbed the rounded pommel straight into Fronto’s wound.
The former legate screamed and fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground, forgotten. The soaked bandage started to pulsa te with extra torrents of blood, and he clutched the wound, whimpering, his eyes streaming at the pain. Unable to do anything to prevent it, he watched the Arenosio warrior back away and sheath his unsullied blade, wiping the blood from the pommel with his sleeve. Th e man turned with a sneer and walked away after Verginius , paying no further heed to the Roman on the ground.
Galronus almost died on the spot. His attention distracted by Fronto’ s howl he turned, expecting to see the Roman cleaved in two and as, with relief, he found Fronto alive, the great axe smashed into his left arm. A misjudged angle, miraculously, saved the Remi’s limb from severance . By chance, the axe blade slipped on the iron links of the chain sleeve and turned sideways, but there was an audible crack as the weight of the axe head , side on, broke the arm. Verginius’ beautiful sword fell to the floor and Galronus stumbled back, shocked, in pain and unarmed.
They were doomed. C is on, it seemed, was not loyal enough to his king to hold anything back in the fight. Instead, he took a step forward, growling, preparing to kill the Remi facing him. Fronto looked desperately off after the retreating shape s of Verginius and Ategnio, then at his endangered friend. Hissing in pain, he scrabbled around until his fingers closed on his fallen sword. Gripping it by the upper end of the blade, he turned and flung it toward Galronus with all his pitiful strength .
The Remi failed to catch the badly-thrown sword, but it skittered along the gravel near his feet and he managed to stoop and sweep it up in his left hand. Cison said something in his gravelly dialect, and Galronus barked something back at him in a similar tongue.
‘Fronto?’
‘What?’
‘This animal doesn’t speak Latin. He doesn’t know what we’re saying.’
‘Oh , well everything’s fine then.’
‘Fronto, I’m going to circle backwards. My left arm’s not so strong with a sword, but I might be able to manage a few parries. ’
‘Just bring him close,’ Fronto said .
Galronus gave ground one pace at a time, staying out of the way of the swinging axe, using Fronto’s sword to turn blows whenever he could. Fronto was impressed. He himself could barely peel fruit with his left hand, let alone swing a sword. Galronus was doing pretty well by his estimation. Now: a weapon…
He couldn’t reach Galronus’ fallen sword without scrabbling across the ground , and that would draw attention to himself. Currently, Cison seemed to have forgotten the downed Roman was even there. Slowly, quietly, Fronto drew the pugio dagger from his belt and waited.
Galronus was bringing the big man closer , carefully leading him. Fronto took a deep breath, knowing he was running out of strength with every passing moment , and then the fighting pair were beside him, Galronus backing past first, then Fronto saw the leg-wrappings of the mountain man and his big fur and leather boots.
He swung the dagger over-hand, slamming it into the unprotected calf muscle, where only woollen trousers covered the flesh. The blade sank in deep, grated between the tibia and fibula and lodged there, ripped from Fronto’s hands as t he big man passed. It took a moment for the message to reach the warrior’s brain from his leg, and then all at once he howled and fell to the side, his axe swinging wildly and almost taking off Fronto’s head by pure chance before it struck the ground and bit deep.
With a roar, Cison turned to rise as best he could and met Fronto’s sword in Galronus’ hand coming the other way. The blade slammed into the big warrior’s mouth, sending teeth and chips of jaw flying in a shrapnel cloud, some of which drew blood from Galronus’ face. The blade grated as it slid into the mouth, punched through gristle and bone and emerged from the back of the neck, spraying Fronto in warm blood where he half - kneeled, half - lay beneath.
The legate barely managed to slide out of the way before Cison hit the ground , convulsing and gurgling, a rasping scream cleft by the blade on its way out of his bifurcated mouth. Fronto stared.
‘You’ve ruined my sword , ’ he grumbled.
‘You’re welcome,’ snapped Galronus irritably, his right arm hanging useless by his side as he reached down with his left and with some difficulty yanked the sword from the mouth. It was quite clearly nicked and chipped along the blade, and the burnished orichalcum of the hilt had been scraped dull where it had slid along the gravel.
‘Verginius…’
‘He’s away,’ Galronus muttered , tucking his broken arm into his belt with a hiss of breath . ‘Somewhere back there.’
‘We have to catch him. Stop him.’
‘Are you mad? Can you see yourself? You look like a ghost in a bloodied shroud. And I have one arm. Hard words and the od d kick are not going to put those two down.’
Fronto rose to his feet with some difficult y , swaying this way and that. His tunic was soaked, and mostly with his own blood. ‘The horses. They’re close, at the bottom of the slope. We can get to the top of the gantries before them if we ride fast . They’ve lots of ladders to climb.’
‘Marcus, a horse ride will kill you. Besides, how are you going to get to the horse? Crawl?’
Galronus peered down into Fronto’s face and sighed with a roll of his eyes at what he saw there . ‘You’re a lunatic, you know that? Men like you are the reason Rome has an empire. ’
‘Just help me up.’
Galronus staggered across to Verginius’ fallen blade, collected it, then passed Fronto’s sword back to its owner. ‘Hold on tight and keep that point away from me.’ With that , he sheathed his own sword, grasped Fronto’s arm, bent in front of him and heaved the weak legate up on to his shoulder. He could sense the sudden extra gush of blood from the wound flooding down over his shoulder and felt a panic that he might just kill Fronto by carrying him.
‘Marcus…’
‘Just…’ hissed Fronto breathlessly, ‘go!’
With a deep breath, Galronus trotted off across the ground, his good arm holding Fronto in place as the blood slicked over his chain shirt. The gash in his side from the weak axe strike was beginning to fill his trousers with his own blood and he wondered now if any part of him was not crimson and gleaming with the blood of Roman, Remi or Aquitani. Their ho rses were close to the entrance and , huffing and puffing, the Remi staggered out of the quarry, past the locked sheds and round to the patch of greenery where the beasts grazed.
‘It’s going to be a close run thing,’ he gasped as he heaved Fronto up to the saddle. His ey es held a brief moment of panic when he thought Fronto might fall off again , but soon the bone-white legate was in his seat and, using arms that flopped with weakness, untying his reins.
‘Then we’d better hurry.’
Wincing, using his good arm, Galronus pulled himself up onto the horse and similarly untied his reins. ‘What are we going to do even if we’re in time to stop them? Neither of us is much use.’
Fronto heeled Bucephalus and began to walk, then trot, then canter up the slope along the side of the quarry, Galronus was beside him a moment later, his natural Gallic horsemanship more than a match for Fronto’s .
‘Can you take Ategnio?’ Fronto breathed painfully, wincing.
Galronus blinked at his friend. ‘No. No I can’t. With my right hand, maybe. With my left? No.’
‘Can you keep him busy?’
‘I could let h
im spend a happy half hour carving small pieces off me, if that’s any help!’
‘It might. I need to stop Verginius, but that means keeping Ategnio out of it.’
‘Fronto, you’d lose a fight with a moth right now.’
‘I have a sword. Verginius i s unarmed.’
‘But healthy. Marcus, this is madness.’
‘ It has to be done, ’ Fronto said, then broke into a satisfied smile and pointed as they crested the top of the hill and came rather perilously close to the edge , in his opinion. Galronus followed his gesture. Two figures were just visible in the growing light, only four ladders below the top. Their horses were tethered to trees not far back from the edge. Fronto and Galronus would be in time , if they hurried .
‘Come on,’ said the Remi , sudden determination flooding his tone.
‘You sound full of yourself.’
‘Fortuna favours you, Marcus. Always has. And I think Taranis has me in his grip now, too . I think we’re meant to do this.’ Almost as if bestowing her blessing on their endeavour, Aurora chose that moment to put in an appearance, a blinding flash of golden light rising over the horizon at the far side of the quarry.
The Remi put his heels to his horse’s side and broke into a gallop, racing around the edge of the quarry. Fronto tried to do the same, but almost passed out the with effort. Besides, while he could ride a horse as well as most Roman nobles these days, that was still with far less skill than Galronus, and they were rather too close to a sixty foot drop for Fronto’s liking. With slightly more caution, he rode in his friend’s wake, reaching the top of the scaffolding and sliding with pain and care from Bucephalus as Galronus, already dismounted, stepped out onto the wooden gantry.
‘Here we go, ’ he said.
* * *
Verginius stopped two ladders from the top and a slow smile of respectful disbelief crossed his ever-smiling face. Fronto’s friend was already down the first ladder and waiting on the top gantry. Even as the Remi stamped his foot and tested the safety of the who le rig, he was jabbing and swinging with his sword in his left hand, practising. That was one of a number of things Verginius had seen in his time among the C eltoi – the people who occupied all the Gauls . Romans were useless with their left hands. If they had any natural talent with that hand it was bred out of them in their youth, especially among the legions, where a shield wall could not be maintained if some men had their shield on a different arm. The Aquitanii had been different, using whatever hand felt most comfortable, and the Gauls and Belgae had clearly been much the same. So the Remi had a broken arm? His right was tucked into his belt, a clear sign it had suffered badly.
Behind Galronus, he could see Fronto starting gingerly down the top step, clinging in with both hands, his face drawn and bone-white, his skin feeble and pale even in the glorious golden light of morning. Verginius had to hand it to his old friend: he had strength – of character and will if not of body . He was determined. He had that same fire that had driven both of them in the old days. But Verginius was compelled by a different fire now. He had to accomplish his vengeance against Caesar, else he was nothing. The goddesses – that of the natives and his own precious Nemesis, had kept him alive only on his vows to revenge himself upon Fronto and Caesar. He saw now that his vow against Fronto had been misplaced , while Caesar deserved everything coming to him, but vows were vows and had to be kept no matter how unnecessary .
This Fronto – the one who was astoundingly overcoming the footsteps of Charon in his shadow just to stop Verginius – was a man of principle, as the Fronto he remembered had been. A brave man. Somehow in his dying moments on that battlefield, Verginius must have perceived something wrong. The man climbing down to meet him now would never have left a friend to die . Look at the lengths he was going to now. And the Remi? He was an echo of that same bravery and honour. He was about to let Ategnio kill him just to help Fronto. Sad. Had the three of them never met Caesar and instead come across one another in a tavern somewhere, he had a feeling he would have liked the Remi. He was an odd mix, far more Roman than many of the republic’s subjugated peoples, more cultured than the Aquitanii, yet still with that Celtic drive and pride Verginius had seen in his time among the tribes .
He would find a way past Fronto and his friend, hopefully without harming them further . He must . Caesar had to die for what he’d done , and what he might yet do to a wh ole generation of young hopeful young echoes of Verginius and Fronto. After that? After that, Hades could come for him. He was done. The Aquitanii were no longer his people, and neither w as Rome. There was nowhere left for Verginius, as Verginius was no one. A ghost. A last shadow in the dead retina of his former self – that eager young man who had died on a dusty field.
‘Stop there,’ he shouted, knowing that his voice carried little power, but that he was close enough anyone could hear him. ‘Back up and leave. I don’t want to fight you. Neither of you are my enemy now. And Faleria and your wife sit in Massilia waiting for you. Don’t endanger yourself. I wish neither of them the heartache of losing you.’
‘Then come with me, Verginius,’ shouted Fronto as he reached the bottom of the ladder and drew his blade.
‘There’s nowhere for me to go, Marcus. I’m not a Roman. I’m not Aquitani. I’m not even a person. I stopped being that when I died. I am a male fury, Fronto. One of the Dirae , born of the blood of Cronus and sent by Nemesis to bring Caesar to the underworld. I have no other purpose. I have no future. I am vengeance incarnate, and when that vengeance is done, I am spent, and I can die again, hopefully in peace, crossing the river and seeing all those who fell in th e field with us. Do you not see ? I cannot stop, and I cannot be stopped. Don’t pit yourself against me.’
‘You never believed all that claptrap when you were young, Verginius,’ Fronto shouted down from the top gantry. ‘Nemesis was our goddess because she was stylish and unusual. That was all. We were boys. All the great names of Rome cleaved to Venus or Minerva or Mars or some Olympian, because it made their family lineage impressive. Not us. We chose Nemesis to be different. You know that. We broke the mould. We were different – not led by the fashion. Do it again. Break the mould. I still have Nemesis around my neck,’ the legate shouted, ‘but now I have Fortuna too. For almost as long as I’ve not had you, I’ve had her. Fortune is a worthy thing to put stock in too. Don’t get so caught up in vengeance you can’t see any further.’
Verginius smiled.
‘You’ve become persuasive as you’ve matured, Marcus. Not enough, though. I’m not a child, and I know what I must do. I brought you here, Marcus, because I believe you have the same right to vengeance as me. As all those who died on that field. If I’d believed for even a moment that you might put Caesar above me, I’d never have left the note. But we are strong, Fronto, and you are weak. I don’t want you to die. Last chance. Leave and let us go.’
* * *
Galronus felt the whole gantry shake as Ategnio grasped the ladder. Above, Fronto was involved in some long-winded exchange with Verginius, but i t came to an end quite suddenly as the smiling king barked an order and Ategnio began to climb. Galronus struggled for a moment in in decision. Common sense told him to take advantage of the man’s distraction climbing the ladd er. It would be the Roman way: u se whatever presented itself to your advantage. But it was not the way of the Remi and no matter how Galronus cut his hair or what type of tunic he wore, or even if he sat in the senate in support of Caesar, he was still Remi to his core. Acknowledging that it might be a suicidal decision, and very possibly the worst he could make, he backed away and allowed Ategnio the leisure to climb the ladder and step out onto the timbers .
The Arenosio warrior took two steps forward and produced his sword, twisting it this way and that, exercising his wrist. Galronus noted , with a mix of relief and trepidation , Fronto drop lightly to the gantry behind the warrior and carry on down the next ladder to Verginius. Well, it was done, then. For good or for ill, Galronus had done what Fronto had asked. He ha
d kept Ategnio out of the way and allowed his friend the chance to get to Verginius. Now , would the barely-upright legate be able to hold his own against the smiling king?
Of course not. In the same way as Galronus stood little hope of living throu gh the next fifty heartbeats.
Ategnio practised a little, modifying his technique to account for the timber struts of the gantry that hemmed them in. Galronus watched the Arenosio warrior closing on him, sword weaving in preparation, and took a momentary glance over his shoulder. At least fifty feet below, probably a lot more since they were at the quarry’s deepest point, the dusty ground looked as hard as it was. Rock. No giving earth or sand. Acknowledging the fatal nature of that drop, he stepped forward a few paces, allowing himself room to fall backwards and still land on the wooden walkway.
Ategnio lunged without warning, but Galronus was ready. He felt the se aring, burning pain in his side where Cison’s axe had drawn a crimson line, but managed to get his own sword in the way, and the enemy blade skittered off with a metallic rasp, clanking against a side timber for a moment before he pulled it back and readied himself once more.
Galronus took a deep breath and jabbed low, ducking, twisting to the side and then withdrawing to stay out of too much danger and prevent over-extending. Ategnio was quick. His Gallic blade dropped and knocked Galronus’ aside, though at least the speed of the manoeuver protected the Remi from an immediate counter-strike.
‘You fight well for a one-armed man,’ the Arenosio warrior acknowledged in his own guttural tongue. Galronus shrugged as he stepped back a single pace . ‘ We both know we’re all better than any Roman individually, but Caesar wrote diaries about his wars. Did you know that? And in them he acknowledges the Belgae as the bravest of all the peoples. Bear that in mind, mountain man.’
Ategnio snorted. ‘And yet you handle that little Roman eating knife instead of a proper sword.’
‘This?’ Galronus held it up. ‘This was your king’s sword. And one thing you will learn shortly is that it is far more manoeuvrable in tight spaces than our own traditional blades.’
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 42
