Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  "This" Pompey said to them, gesturing around the room like a tour guide, "is the carcer. Down the hole you can see there is the Tullianum, where the stranglings are carried out if the prisoner is not worthy of a good public death." Fronto tried not to look, but Galronus was peering around with interest and, as they approached the hole, peered down it. Fronto shied away, repulsed more by the smell of urine and (possibly imagined) dead sweat than by its actual physical presence.

  "Down here" the general continued, now apparently speaking mainly to Galronus and gesturing to the tunnel ahead "is where we keep the prisoners awaiting their turn. These chambers were quarried out in time immemorial and the stone from them supports some of the great buildings in the forum. The Tullianum we passed back there was an antique cistern, dating from before the draining of the marsh and the construction of the aqueducts."

  Galronus was nodding like a student filing away knowledge as they strode across and into the passageway, Pompey pausing at the entrance and collecting one of the three oil lamps from the main chamber. The passageway was more a series of doorways that connected three chambers at one end, creating a sort of gallery. Fronto remembered it well, despite all the years that had passed. Each chamber was barred off half way in with iron railings to create three separate cells connected by the gallery, each of which would hold one or two prisoners, though as often as not they would remain empty. Few people stayed here long.

  Fronto blinked in surprise as they entered the first chamber and the flickering orange glow of the oil lamp picked out the half-dozen dirty, shit-smeared, naked figures lurking beyond the bars.

  "What's going on, Pompey?"

  "Fronto?"

  "Why so many? Are the other rooms being repaired or something?"

  "Hardly" Pompey replied quietly. "Each is as full. It's been a busy time for traitors to the republic and for unforgivable criminals."

  Fronto stopped in his tracks. "This is inhuman. They should either be done away with or freed, not just left here."

  Pompey shrugged. "They're awaiting their time, Fronto. It's the way of things."

  "Oh come on! Look at him! He must have been here months. He's almost starving to death and that beard has too many weeks' growth for a man awaiting his execution."

  Again: the shrug. "I don't make the rules, Fronto. I've put a few of them here, for sure, but I don't control their progress beyond arrival. That's down to the legal system."

  Galronus cleared his throat. "Marcus is correct. This is not honourable."

  "I say again, this is not my decision. But we are becoming side-tracked from my purpose. The next room, Marcus."

  Unhappily, Fronto and Galronus shuffled into the second chamber behind Pompey. Again, half a dozen dirty, naked creatures backed away from the intrusive light. As Pompey stepped towards the bars, closer than Fronto would have advised, one figure moved out of the shadows and stepped towards them. He was enormous and clearly a northerner by his appearance. Fronto came to a halt where he knew he was still very much out of reach.

  "You!" the big man spat the word at Pompey with thick Celtic overtones, his straw blond beard hiding much of his fierce expression.

  "Yes, me. I have done some research on you, my big ox-like German."

  The barbarian's eyes narrowed.

  "Yes. Of the Suevi I believe" Pompey went on. "Your name is Berengarus. The records of the slave traders are duplicated into the city records of the Tabularium above us. It seems your former owner - Lucius Tiburtinus - disappeared last week after a big sale. You were not crossed off his list, so you should still be unsold in his pen. You are not, and he is missing, presumed dead. The evidence, I would say, does not look good for you."

  "Piss off, Roman fat man."

  Galronus folded his arms. His face had taken on a hard look. Fronto knew there was little love lost between the Germanic Suevi and Galronus' own Remi tribe. The two had fought each other uncounted times over the centuries. Pompey turned to Fronto.

  "So tell me, with your unusual morality and sensibilities, Fronto, what I am to do with this thing" he gestured at Berengarus. "He almost certainly murdered his owner, definitely killed a number of plebs before my very eyes, and seems to be entirely unrepentant."

  Fronto frowned. "What?"

  "You have fought these people. You own slaves. It has been in my mind to simply have him killed, but Artorius, my chief enforcer, thinks I might be able to make use of him myself. My friend Policus thinks he should be given to a lanista to train for the arena. And my wife thinks I should wash my hands of the whole affair and let the state take over his case."

  Fronto shrugged. "He'd certainly make a tough fighter, but maybe not a gladiator. To be honest, I've found the Germanic peoples to be too wild and crazed to be controlled. Not sure I'd trust him in my employ if I were you. Galronus?"

  "Kill him now. He is an abomination."

  Fronto looked closer at the huge barbarian and realised with a start that the man was staring at him with some sort of vicious hunger or deeply-ingrained malice. Not the look he had directed at Pompey, but something different. Nastier. It felt as though the man seemed to know him enough to hate him without reserve. Fronto shuddered involuntarily.

  "I think I'm done here."

  "Not yet, Fronto the killer of Gauls" hissed a reedy voice from the shadows. The sound was so unpleasant that even Galronus and Pompey took a step back, joining Fronto well out of reach.

  Some sort of wraith appeared in the dim circle of lamplight, stalking forward towards the bars, where he came to stand next to the huge barbarian, whose malice-filled gaze was still locked on Fronto. What in the name of all the Gods was going on in this place? The new, terrifying figure gripped the bars, his parchment-thin skin barely concealing blue veins that throbbed rhythmically. His rheumy, pale - sightless? - eyes were locked on Fronto and a grey tongue flickered around the thin, desiccated lips as a wisp of his wild grey hair flopped down over one eye. Fronto shuddered again. It was like looking at the long-dead still standing unnaturally and speaking to you. Silently he uttered a prayer to Fortuna to get him out of this unpleasant place immediately.

  "The killer of Gauls and Germans. Lapdog of the bald eagle of Rome. How is your master, Fronto?"

  "Do I know you?" Fronto managed, his voice cracking slightly with nerves.

  Pompey cut in to answer. "I doubt it. This is Tulchulchur, the monster of Vipsul. Don't let his apparent age and infirmity trick you, Fronto. It is said that he has killed more people than old age."

  Tulchulchur grinned, revealing only ten teeth, though including all four canines which were curiously and worryingly prominent. "At your service, general pirate-killer. But I can hardly claim the record… there are men in these chambers who would seek the title themselves."

  Fronto shook his head. "I've seen enough. Do what you want with the barbarian, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could kick a ballista ball up a chimney. Come on. Let's get out of here."

  Pompey gave him an indulgent smile and turned to follow as Fronto strode for the exit, Galronus at his heel. As they left there came a series of kissing noises, hisses, growls and shrieking laughs from the cells, and cutting through them all, a deep, Germanic voice. "I work for you, Pompey general! I work for you!"

  Fronto paused for breath only when they had left the building entire, stooping to rub his sore knee. Galronus looked distinctly unimpressed.

  "Thanks for that, Pompey." Fronto snapped angrily. "Was there a point to that unpleasantness?"

  Pompey shrugged. "I was simply interested to see what you made of Berengarus. What else transpired in there was entirely unintentional. My apologies for subjecting you to it. I assumed you would not be perturbed by such a place - you who have stood knee-deep in the entrails of Gaul."

  Fronto fixed him with a hard glance. "An open battlefield and an enemy with a sword is one thing. That place and the poor bastards wasting away in it is different. They should all be executed or freed." His mind furnished him with an image of the
ancient spectre of the rheumy-eyed killer. "I'd plump for executed, to be honest. It's going to take a week and a lot of wine to shift the smell of decay and faeces from my nostrils."

  Pompey put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Truly, Fronto, you have my apologies. I had not intended such a show of unpleasantness. I needed to check on the German before I made my decision and I thought that perhaps your opinion might swing me."

  "And has it?"

  "Perhaps. Come. Let me make it up to you. A visit to the baths to wash away the stink and then you can rape my wine cellar to numb the memory."

  Fronto nodded and followed on, though his mind would not stop throwing back snippets of the visit to the carcer: images of the cold-eyed barbarian and the thin, pale wraith next to him; the phrase 'killer of Gauls' and the creeping feeling that he must know this Berengarus from somewhere. Certainly Berengarus seemed to know him.

  Not for the first time this year, Fronto wished he was standing on a field in Gaul with a shield and a sword, watching hairy lunatics running at him and screaming. War was so much more simple than this private life crap.

  Chapter Four

  "Soon as we stop, I want you two to take charge of that load of shitbags back there and get them in the stockade, all apart from Dumnorix - put him in solitary somehow with a double guard - and then get some rest before you meet me at my tent at sunset." Priscus took a weary breath. "I'll have to go and listen to the general rant about Aeolus once we've got the legion encamped."

  Furius and Fabius gave a tired smile. The general's mood had been steadily declining as the army approached the coast and the newly established temporary camp at Itio. The calm harbour that Caesar had selected for embarkation had been freshly and grandly renamed Portus Itius, despite the local's tendency to ignore their settlement's enforced Latinisation. The winds had shifted round to the northerly a few days ago and had since refused to change, bringing a fresh cold gust that pushed any wind-powered vessel straight back into port and declared flatly 'no sailing the channel until I've moved again'. This further delay had deeply irritated Caesar, and the general had become waspish and difficult to such an extent that officers now flipped coins to decide who would face him over even the simplest query. Furius and Fabius heaved a sigh of relief that their tasks were simple military ones.

  As the column approached the timber walls of the Portus Itius fort, half a day's march north of Gesoriacum, the fresh smell of cut pine emanated from the stockade and the two or three buildings that had been constructed within. The general and his small party of senior commanders led the van as usual, the forward scouts having arrived an hour or so ago. Behind them came the cavalry contingent and then the Tenth, followed by the other legions. However, between the rear ranks of the Tenth and the front of the Seventh, space had been made for the two hundred and nineteen prisoners they had taken in the forest of Arduenna, all roped at both wrist and neck, their ankles unfettered to allow for swift transport. The two dozen Treveri nobles - and one Aeduan - among them expressed outrage at being roped among the common warriors - a sign to Priscus that Gallic culture was considerably more 'civilised' and therefore uneven and debased than he had previously realised. Only an advanced culture could boast such smug, snobbish inequality. They might as well be Roman already, Priscus had smiled to himself.

  It had, in fact, already become necessary to separate Dumnorix from the other nobles in the roped party, placing him towards the rear and among the more subdued lower warriors. He had by pure chance been overheard by a passing legionary trying to exhort the Treveri nobles to throw in their lot with him in an attempt to overcome their jailors and flee. How he had expected to escape a four-legion column with cavalry contingent and mounted scouts was unfathomable, but Priscus had kicked the Aeduan noble until he coughed blood and then moved him away from potential conspirators. After months of investigating and unravelling the threads of an apparent Gallic plot to rise up against Rome, he was not about to take any chances with a man who appeared to be at the centre of it all.

  The column came to a halt outside the east gate of the fort that had been constructed by Sabinus' force and which had only the facilities to accommodate those two legions and the command party. Caesar issued a number of commands to his couriers, who turned their mounts and rode down the line with instructions for the individual commanders. The mounted clerk reined in before Priscus and saluted - a salute that was returned somewhat wearily and half-heartedly.

  "With the general's complements, Legate, your men are to encamp off the south wall of the fort as best you can. He realises that you may have to remove some of the treeline to accommodate the legion, but space around the fort is at a premium and as soon as the wind changes the legion will be embarking anyway, so he hopes your discomfort is short-lived."

  Priscus rolled his eyes. "Thank the general for his concern and inform him that we will do so and I will attend him presently."

  As the clerk rode off once more, Priscus gestured to the two recently-raised tribunes. "As I said, take command of the prison detail and get them slammed up. You might even want to give that Aedui bastard a bit of a going over. If we can deliver a nugget or two of useful information to the general it might stop him being such a miserable and vindictive sod."

  Furius and Fabius saluted and rode away along the line of the legion towards the roped slaves. As they left, Priscus turned to the primus pilus, whose shiny pink head was brighter than usual after the sweaty day's march.

  "Carbo? I presume you overheard the general's instructions? Get the legion settled in, set the watch and passwords, make sure the standards and eagle are secured at the legion command tent, check on ration distribution and then meet me in the headquarters for a briefing at the sixth watch. And bring whatever booze you can track down among Sabinus' supplies.

  Carbo saluted and began to issue the orders to his centurions, directing the setting up of camp in the narrow strip of clear land between the timber stockade and the dense forest close by. There would have to be more than just a little deforestation to give the legion any security. To have the treeline right at the edge of the camp would be to grant any potential interloper the opportunity to get so close they could climb into bed with the men before they were even seen.

  Furius and Fabius reined in ahead of the four roped lines of captives, who were guarded by men of both the Tenth and Seventh legions who'd had a hand in their capture. An optio from the Seventh was busy walking up and down the lines, smacking shins and shoulders with his stick, moving the prisoners into straighter lines.

  "Optio? We'll take charge of the prisoners from here. You can return to your unit."

  The optio frowned for a moment and then saluted with a slight shrug.

  "All yours, sir and good riddance to the shit-stinking heap of 'em."

  "Wait a moment" barked a deep voice. Furius looked up to see a familiar face approaching. The Seventh's new primus pilus was striding along the column, vine staff jammed under his arm, an air of haughty irritation about him.

  "What can I do for you, centurion?" Furius smiled, adding a stress to the title. The primus pilus frowned at the tribunes sitting astride their mounts by the prisoners.

  "I know you… sir."

  "Yes. We met in the snowy woods hunting Gauls a few months ago. Pullo, yes?"

  A sour look passed across the officer's face. "Yes, sir. Field promotion, sir?" Furius smiled indulgently, feeling the warmth of successful one-upmanship flowing through his veins. "Sadly, I had to vacate my previous position so that you could fill it."

  Pullo reined in his anger with visible and somewhat understandable difficulty. "Legate Cicero has ordered that I take the captives and put them to work on the trench and rampart for the Seventh's camp."

  Furius turned to Fabius and pursed his lips. "It's a good idea, really. Shame to let the Gallic bastards sit in comfort while good legionaries dig and sweat." He turned back to Pullo. "I'll compromise with you, centurion. The nobles are all going straight to the stockade, but th
ere's almost two hundred others. Split them half and half. Take one lot with you to build your camp and the other can go and serve the Tenth in the same role. Good enough?"

  Pullo mulled it over for only a moment - just long enough to almost count as an act of defiance to a superior officer, and then nodded. "Very well, sir. I will inform the legate of your request."

  "Decision."

  "Sir?"

  "It was not a request. It was a decision. If your legate has a problem with it, he can argue the toss with ours."

  Again, Pullo paused and pondered. Furius and Fabius could almost see him weighing up the likelihood of Cicero even considering entering an argument with the veteran of the Tenth and coming down on the side of 'not even on a quiet day in Hades'.

  As the primus pilus turned and left with no further salute, Fabius pulled his mount alongside. "You're going to have trouble with him and his mate. I reckon he sees you as a rank-jumper. He's going to want to one-up you at the first chance he gets."

  Furius shrugged. "Let him try. Him and his pet… Vorenus was it? We're not new to that game."

  "You could always just drop him in the shit for back-talking a superior?"

  "Not likely. It's only a stroke of luck that separates us rank-wise - he's just another 'better-than-you senior centurion'. If he wants a pissing contest, I'll beat him on his own level. The chain of command's one thing, but a little competition between units is healthy and you and I both know that the Seventh is still far from its best despite all our work, while the Tenth has gone from strength to strength. I can piss higher than him on my worst day and then wash the floor with his face. Come on."

  Turning, he rode back to the rear of the Tenth, where an optio of his own legion was changing the men on prisoner duty.