Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  "Optio? Separate out all the leaders and nobles, have them roped together and led to the stockade in the camp. Then work with the officers of the Seventh to divide the rest and put them to work on the defences; but before you get to that, detach Dumnorix from the lines. We're taking him with us."

  The optio saluted and the two tribunes sat and watched patiently as the Aeduan nobleman was wrenched clear of the lines, his hands still roped together, a legionary from the Tenth holding the end of the cord.

  "Where do you want him taking, sir?"

  Furius made a dismissive gesture and reached down to grasp the rope. "You go about your work, soldier. I'll take this shitbag."

  As the legionary obediently let go, Furius tied the rope tightly to his saddle horn leaving just enough play for the captive to stand five or six feet from the horse.

  "Walk!"

  The Aeduan glared sullenly at him. Furius smiled. "I'd advise you to walk. The alternative is uncomfortable."

  Still, Dumnorix poured his immobile malice and scorn at the two tribunes. Furius pursed his lips and flicked the reins, urging his horse into a walk. As Fabius fell in beside him, Dumnorix suddenly found himself wrenched from his feet, one of his shoulders dislocating with the sudden jerk, and dragged along the floor, his knees bouncing painfully from the rocks, roots and packed earth. By the time Furius had counted to ten, the Aeduan was on his feet and stumbling alongside, groaning at the pain in his shoulder.

  On the brief ride up to the fort gate, the tribunes amused themselves by occasionally increasing the pace and then relaxing it, forcing Dumnorix to run for short periods, during which he invariably fell, further wrenching his damaged shoulder and bouncing along the floor before he could find his feet again. At the gate, the legionaries from the Eighth on guard duty did not request a password, given that officers, scouts and cavalry from the entire column were pouring through in a constant stream, but they did watch with interest as the captive Gaul bounced from the gatepost on the way, grunting and cursing in his own language.

  "Which way to the latrines?" Fabius said quietly.

  The legionary, a curious look on his face, gestured to the right side of the gate. "Nearest one's away to the south, sir, but you really don't want to go in there. The better, clearer one's up there."

  Furius nodded. "Thank you, soldier, but the shitty one will do nicely."

  Angling his horse south along the intervallum road that followed the inside of the rampart to the south, and with Fabius at his side, he rode on to the latrine - a small affair separated from the camp by a dozen leather tent sections tied together in a fruitless attempt to contain the horrendous odours.

  The drifting aroma of ammonia and faeces easily escaped the surrounds and the two tribunes found their eyes watering as they approached. The gate guard had been right. This latrine was ready to be closed down and backfilled. Perfect.

  Dismounting, Furius whistled, attracting the attention of a legionary standing near his tent and emptying the half-eaten contents of his mess tin into a slop pile. The man turned and, recognising the uniforms of senior officers, saluted.

  "Take our horses to the cavalry compound, hand them over to the equisio, tell him they belong to the Tenth's tribunes, and then you can go about your business."

  The legionary saluted and grabbed the reins of the horses, waiting until Furius had untied the rope and dragged the panting Gaul to one side before leading them off at a respectful walk towards the centre of the camp. Dumnorix stood, hunched despite his bad shoulder, and glared defiantly at the two tribunes.

  Furius dropped the rope. "Get in the latrines."

  Dumnorix stood motionless and Fabius took a step forward, wrenching the pained man around to face the doorway, raised his leg and gave the Gaul a hefty shove with the hobnailed sole of his boot, sending him staggering forwards into the stinking leather room, where he collapsed onto his knees in the reeking muck of the churned ground.

  "Juno, someone in the Eighth must have shit himself to death in here" Fabius exclaimed as the pair stepped through the gap between leather walls and hauled the prisoner to his feet, pushing him further inside, past the dogleg entrance that provided minimal privacy for the occupants.

  The temporary latrine was some ten feet by fifteen, the three sides without an entrance occupied by deep turf-cut trenches that were now almost entirely filled with the unthinkable. Only one had even the slightest room left. The tent sections that formed the walls were streaked with stains and marks and the ground had long since lost any sign of its original grass, now displaying only rutted and churned mud and other less pleasant substances.

  Fabius pushed Dumnorix until he fell on his knees again.

  "He's still way too defiant" he said matter-of-factly.

  Furius nodded. "Let's give him something to think about, then."

  Reaching out, he grasped the knot that bound the man's hands together so tightly it had rubbed his wrists red raw and stained the rope with dried blood. As Dumnorix still stared silently at him, he raised an eyebrow and then, suddenly, jerked the knot upwards and over the Gaul's head. The Aeduan noble screamed in agony as his dislocated arm was almost wrenched clear of his body with the motion. At the end of the move, his bound hands were together behind his neck, still held by Furius, who began to tug them slowly down his back, putting painful pressure on his good shoulder and sending waves of blazing agony through the bad one.

  Fabius leaned close to the man's face as Furius relaxed the pressure a little.

  "You're going to tell us everything we want to know, you Gallic turd. I just want to make sure you understand that. We've practiced interrogating giant African thugs, Parthian zealots, drugged Greeks and even veteran Roman soldiers. You hardly present a challenge. And even if you exhausted all our techniques, there are men around more expert than us. So do yourself a favour and start singing out now, so that we can all avoid the worst of this."

  Dumnorix hesitated for only a moment and then spat in his face.

  Furius jerked down hard, causing a howl of pain from the Gaul. Tears flooded the prisoner's eyes.

  "Care to reconsider?" Fabius asked, wiping the spit from his eye with his scarf. Dumnorix hawked to spit again but Fabius stood and moved out of his way with a shrug. "Shit face?"

  "Shit face."

  Hauling the Gaul painfully around, Furius pushed the man forward, flat onto his face, having positioned him carefully so that his head fell into the fullest of the latrine trenches, his face deep in the foulness. As the Gaul struggled to breathe in the muck, Furius kneeled on his back and almost casually snapped his little finger at the top knuckle.

  Dumnorix howled in pain and made an unpleasant wet gargling sound.

  "Nasty" Fabius commented. "Didn't want to open your mouth at this moment, eh?"

  After a pause of three counts, Furius broke the next finger, slightly slower so that the dreadful anticipation could build along with the physical pressure. Another count of three and he stood, the two tribunes hauling the spluttering, coughing man from the trench. A fresh waft of foul air circulated in the partly-contained yet roofless room and both officers winced, closing their eyes.

  "Ready to chat yet? Fabius asked, his voice hoarse with the conditions of the barely-breathable air.

  Dumnorix coughed up a foul black liquid and then heaved and retched his guts out for a long moment. Furius and Fabius, aware of the very real possibility of their charge drowning or suffocating if they were not careful, relaxed the pressure on his arms and let him haul in a dozen ragged breaths before the grip was tightened again, pulling his arms up.

  "So…" Dumnorix tried, collapsing immediately into another coughing and gagging fit. After a moment more, he straightened and took another breath. "So that you can just kill me anyway?"

  Furius grinned evilly. "If you think death is what you need to be afraid of, have you got a surprise coming!"

  Fabius nodded. "We're pretty good at this, but by the standards of some people we're still novices. There a
re men on the general's staff who could keep you alive for a year. 'Course you'll be half burned by then and missing most of your extremities. Your face will be lacking all its recognisable features and your remaining stumps will be all smashed and jellified. If he's got a man anywhere near as good as Pompey used to have, he can even peel off a lot of your skin and keep you going to watch it happen. You'll be begging for death in an hour. All we're up to here is a gentle threat. Feel like talking yet?"

  Dumnorix pulled himself upright again and spat in Fabius' face once more.

  "I guess we can spare an hour before we have to go meet Priscus, eh Furius?"

  The more senior of the two tribunes jerked on the rope, causing a hiss of pain from their victim. "Oh he'll be chattering away long before Priscus needs us. You got your Parthian knife on you?"

  * * * * *

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus, legate of the Tenth Legion, reached under his tunic and gave his undercarriage a good scratch. He sighed with relief. He'd had an unbearable itch for the best part of an hour, but one could hardly stick one's hand down one's breeches and have a good rummage while standing in a tent full of senior officers and one of the most powerful men in the Republic. Fronto had once confided that he had a trick for dealing with that very problem, but had never actually enlightened him as to what it was. Priscus had experimented a couple of times, raising some odd looks, but had never managed to work it out.

  Somewhere out across the camp horns sounded the sixth watch and almost simultaneously there was a rapping on the wooden strut of Priscus' tent door.

  "Come in."

  Furius and Fabius filed into the tent and stood near the door as the portal smacked shut behind them. Priscus sat heavily on his cot and began to unlace his boots. The tent was fairly sparsely furnished. Unlike other legates, Priscus had been a centurion for so long that he had never racked up the cart-load of home comforts most senior officers preferred to drag round on campaign with them. The small battered table that had been with him since Hispania held a tray of bread and fruit and jugs of water and wine that a thoughtful legionary had supplied when they'd erected the tent. He was damned if he would have a body-slave or tent servant peeling him grapes like some officers he could think of.

  Something drifted past Priscus and his nose wrinkled.

  "What, in the name of sacred Minerva, is that smell?"

  Furius and Fabius looked at one another and then back at their commander.

  "Sort of a combination. We had a bit of a latrine situation, so we've both washed down as best we could and loaded up with alum and rose scent to try and cover the remnant."

  "It's not working. You two smell like a pig shat in a bowl of perfume."

  "That'll be the boots. They're going to need some work."

  "Then could you kindly leave your latrine-soaked boots OUTSIDE MY BLOODY TENT!"

  Trying not to laugh at the expression on the legate's face, the two tribunes bent and unlaced their boots, slipping them off and tossing them back out of the door to one side.

  "Sweet mother of Dis, that was some smell! So tell me why you felt the need to go swimming in dung."

  Furius nodded professionally as Fabius grinned.

  "We had a little chat with Dumnorix of the Aedui."

  "I hope he's intact still?"

  "More or less. He pretty much confirmed what we've thought from the start. He was surprisingly talkative once he'd had a turd or two down his throat."

  "Nice. Anything useful?"

  "Depends on your definition of useful - one or two things piqued our interest, certainly. There's a grand scheme underway, just as you originally suspected. A number of tribes are already signed on to this great cause, and the word has been passed to some tribes beyond the Rhine, across in Britannia and even down across the mountains in Hispania. Dumnorix claimed it was all the doing of a bunch of druids, which is quite feasible, of course, and he claimed not to know any of them but under extreme duress, he named one: his brother, Divitiacus, who rules among the Aedui."

  "So I guess we can stop thinking of the Aedui as our great ally in Gaul, then." Priscus sighed, allowing his mind's eye to drift back over four years of stomping across this Godsforsaken land to a beautiful summer at Bibracte and the hospitality of the welcoming Divitiacus. That nice little tavern with the shady oak tree in the corner. The memory wrenched at him suddenly with the shades of absent friends: four men sharing a drink and a laugh - Priscus, of course, with Longinus, Balbus and Fronto. The slain, the wounded and the retired - all gone.

  "It would seem so" Furius said quietly, drawing his attention back to the matter at hand and the infidelity of the Aedui. "The druids are passing word and drawing together a huge web by the sound of it, rousing, bribing or even blackmailing chieftains and nobles into joining them. There was reference to a particular man they call Esus, who seems to be important, but I get the impression that this one is tight among the druids and even Dumnorix doesn't know much about him."

  "Do we have any idea of what they're planning? Any chance of finding out more about this Esus? How likely are we to get more from Dumnorix?"

  "Very definitely we have an idea of their plans, but only in the broadest terms. The son of an Aeduan whore is real proud of his secret rebellion, but it seems he's become just a cog in the grand scheme now and his knowledge is limited to specific local groups and a general overview. It seems the druids are planning to build up the resentment across all the Celtic people and prepare until they reach a point where their whole world is ready and set against us. Then they can all rise up as a nation in one army."

  Priscus pursed his lips. "It's bold. And more elaborate than I thought the Gauls capable of, but then those druids are a devious bunch. And what of this Esus and Dumnorix?"

  "I suspect that this Esus character is little more than a rumour or a minor deity to the general insurrectionists, his details kept among the druids. But he has to be someone important from the way Dumnorix spoke of him. I don't think you'll find out anything about him until you manage to peel open a druid and look inside his mind. Dumnorix I reckon still has stuff to spill, but probably nothing vital - just low level stuff - general blustering and threats. I get the feeling he likes to think of himself as some great liberator and hero to his people. Basically a midget playing the giant. If we get the chance I'd like to lay my hands on that Divitiacus man, though. Or this mysterious Esus. Or even a druid who can help point the way. Whatever the case, I think we're beyond being able to deny that Gaul is building up ready to explode."

  Priscus nodded. "I think I'll have to go back and face old eagle-nose again. There's no sign of us having a good wind for sailing in the near future and with this information I might just have enough leverage to turn him away from Britannia again."

  * * * * *

  Caesar sat in his campaign chair, hunched over his map table, pinching the bridge of his prominent nose. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which surprised Priscus. As long as he had known the general, the man had never taken more than four or five hours' sleep each night, and yet greeted each day sprightly and energetic. Sleep must be evading him altogether to cause such apparent weariness.

  "General."

  Caesar looked up and Priscus noted that it took a moment for the man to focus on him - another solid sign of sleep deprivation. For a moment he wondered whether this was a good idea. Shaking it off, he saluted.

  "Ah, Priscus. Something important I presume, then? Come… sit."

  The general gestured, open handed, at the seat opposite and Priscus strode across and dropped into it with a groan.

  "News from the captives, general."

  "Some grand scheme to throw off the yoke of the conquering Roman, yes?"

  Priscus narrowed his eyes.

  "Legate, I am far from uninformed, especially in my own camp. Fill me in with the details I don't know."

  Priscus scratched idly at his chin. "Dumnorix and his brother, the Aeduan chief Divitiacus, seem to be involved, as well as - from what we can gather
- the entire sect of the druids and some half-mythical character called Esus. It appears that the general theory is to rouse all the Celtic peoples from Gaul, Britannia, Germania and even Hispania against us in one 'glorious' freedom fighting army. Whether or not such a thing is truly feasible remains to be seen, but if it is, it could spell the end of our time in Gaul."

  Caesar shook his head. "There is little more there than I had already anticipated. Sooner or later every tribe finds its Hannibal; it's just a matter of being prepared to remove that leader before he actually causes any damage. The Gauls had their first such man in Brennus centuries ago, and he took them to the very slopes of the capitol. I won't let that happen again, but then we are more organised and prepared than that Rome of ancient days, while the Celts are, if anything, even more fractious."

  "I wouldn't be too sure about that, general."

  "We can keep them from centralising their resistance by playing off one party against another, much as we did with the Belgae. The most salient point you provide is the name of what might very well be their new Hannibal. This Esus needs to be identified and dealt with at the earliest opportunity and in the meantime we can continue to sew discord between the tribes. I see no greater threat than those we have already put down as long as we can stop a new head growing on the hydra and keep it busy."

  "With respect, Caesar, I think this is a great deal different. Before, we've had chieftains and nobles raising their men against us and it was always possible that a particularly charismatic one would draw a group of tribes together. These bastard baby-eating druids, on the other hand, could raise every man, woman and child from the border of Italia to the frozen wastes of Thule against us. I don't think we can keep setting them against one another for long. We need to concentrate on this and deal with it once and for all."

  Caesar gave a weary smile. "You sound more like Fronto with every passing week. For the very last time, I am not abandoning the Britannia campaign in order to face a nebulous threat from a hidden group of unknown size and strength. Legions will remain here and you can set men to work rooting out the trouble while my own agents deal with influencing the tribes. We need only keep them off-balance for the one campaigning season while I put Britannia in their place. We may even find something useful for your investigations there in any case, since their tribes have also been implicated. Then, once the season is over, we can concentrate on your Gallic insurrection and pulling it to pieces. All things in good time, Priscus."