Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  All because of Drapes’ distrust.

  Idiocy.

  Carefully, he lifted his foot out of the brackish water and gestured to the tangled root that had almost tripped him so that the men following on behind would not fall foul of it.

  This place, which in his childhood they had called the marsh of dead horses for some unknown reason, was the only place a breakout could be achieved. To the southwest of the oppidum, towards where the river plunged into a narrow valley, the two tributary streams that fed into that river met in a tangled swampy woodland. The ground was so soft and flat here that the streams flooded the woodland and created a troubling marsh. The Romans might have created a bulge in their cordon to enclose the whole thing, but that would have meant taking it right back towards the river, and the sense of order and neatness that seemed endemic of the Roman mind would not allow for that. Instead, the cordon went to one side of the marsh, where a sentry sat at the driest point he could find, and picked up again with a similar man on the far side.

  The marsh was not wide. The pickets might not be able to see each other, but they were close enough to shout to one another, as the escaping warriors had confirmed when they were treated to a shouted ribald story about some Syracusan whore. Fortunately, the flow of the streams through the undergrowth mixed with the vast array of marshy wildlife created a constant murmur of watery movement, and the sound of five hundred men moving very slowly and carefully through the hidden ways between them remained unnoticed by the pickets. And, of course, the mist helped to dampen sound anyway.

  Drapes had actually, when he’d heard about this place, suggested that the whole army move through it and escape. He genuinely believed they could get the army past the Roman cordon and be halfway to Narbo before Caninius knew they had gone. Which only went to show that Drapes was an idiot. Five hundred men through here was dangerous enough. Many thousands would stand no chance.

  Indeed, he would have had no nerves crossing this place with his five hundred Cadurci, all of whom knew Uxellodunon and this marsh and could navigate it with their eyes closed. These various Senone and other allied idiots, though, were making so much noise it was amazing they hadn’t already drawn the attention of the sentries.

  It was at that moment that Lucterius’ new plan formed.

  When they got to the supplies, he would suggest that he remain with his men to guard the dump while Drapes began ferrying the grain back to the oppidum. There was not a jot of doubt in his mind as to the idiot’s reaction to that. Drapes would narrow his eyes suspiciously and decide that he would guard the supplies while Lucterius ferried them back, for the Senone chief would worry that Lucterius would flee as soon as his back was turned and leave them in the lurch.

  Far from it.

  If he could leave Drapes with the last vestiges of the supply dump while he transported the rest into Uxellodunon, he would effectively have removed the stupid thorn from his side. Drapes would be outside with two hundred men or so, while Lucterius had the entire army in the oppidum. He might even then be tempted to alert the Romans and let them deal with Drapes appropriately.

  Someone pushed him in the back and his thoughts came back to his present situation as he turned an angry glare on the man behind him. Tarbos, a lesser chief of the Petrocorii, was urging him on, his lip drawn back in a snarl. If he had dared to speak, Lucterius would have pointed out to the turd behind him that the reason he was moving slow was because he was currently traversing an area of slimy stones beneath the surface of the water. He resolved not to point to them and hoped the man would slip under the water in his mail shirt and drown.

  If Drapes was the hunter (which was something of a reach for a man with the intellect of a root vegetable), then he had three hounds. Bimmos of the Santoni would be the one to reach the prey and bring it down without the need for his master. When the war actually began again, Bimmos would be effective, if he could be dragged out from beneath Drapes. Lugurix of the Pictones would be the hound who did exactly what was asked of him; no more and no less. He would bring back the bird Drapes had brought down.

  Tarbos of the Petrocorii – the moron currently sloshing along behind Lucterius – was the third hound. He would be the one unaware even of where they were, who simply spent all his time curled into a ball, licking his own arse.

  Behind him, Tarbos slipped on the slimy stones and almost cried out, but grabbed hold of Lucterius’ back to stop himself falling. Lucterius resisted the urge to turn and knife the man. He was nothing but a liability.

  With considerable relief, Lucterius saw the gradient begin to rise and the boles of the trees that came ghosting out of the mist thinned out gradually. They were at the edge of the marsh of dead horses. They were past the Roman sentries. As he climbed out of the water and through a short section of sucking mud to the springy turf of the valley side, he kept low.

  The Romans would not be paying a great deal of attention to this area. It was outside their cordon of watchers, but one of the three main Roman camps sat on the gentle slope only a few hundred paces away at the confluence of the watercourses. He could just see the faint flicker of the Roman torches far off in the mist. Turning his glare on Tarbos again he motioned for him and the stream of men following to keep as quiet as possible.

  Holding his breath, aware that this was the most dangerous part, he kept low and stalked across the grass until he reached the shelter of a small copse of chestnut trees that marked the end of the perilous journey. From there on, they would have the shelter of trees and hedges until they were around the first bend of the river and out of sight of the Roman lines.

  Then to Serpent Ford and the supply dump.

  As he waited for the rest of the five hundred to reach the trees and relative safety, he could feel Tarbos’ eyes on him and he turned to meet the man’s gaze. There was something troubling there. It was not just the distrust and sneering dislike he’d so far experienced from the idiot. This was something else. Why was he continually watching Lucterius? Why were he and his ten men even with Lucterius among the Cadurci contingent, instead of back with his huntsman master and the Senone warriors?

  Did Drapes really distrust him so much that he’d set this shaved ape to watching him? If so it was a poor choice of spy.

  He resolved to make damn sure he did away with Tarbos as soon as Drapes was no longer a factor.

  * * * * *

  Varus yawned and rubbed his face vigorously. Years of waking early on campaign still never made rising in the pre-dawn hours any easier. Plus, he had to admit in the privacy of his own mind, he was not as young as he once was. His gaze slid up through the endless, soul-sapping mist to the golden sky above, the first mackerel-skin stain of morning having already given way to the early sun that hit the ground and raised the ubiquitous mist. Every dawn and every dusk this place issued a white cloud like the breath of some giant subterranean creature.

  Within an hour it would be properly light.

  He could have relied on a lesser officer, of course. Doing the rounds was something that most commanders left to their lessers. Caninius certainly wouldn’t be strolling around his camp at the moment. He rarely rose from his cot until the sun was above the horizon. But Varus had learned from the best. Caesar knew the value of the personal touch. And Fronto too. A few others. Not like this new breed of officers that seemed too distant to be a part of the army proper.

  But the importance of a personal appearance could hardly be measured. Varus’ men knew him and valued him already, but it was handy to have the respect of the infantry, too. Often in such situations the two branches of the military would have to work in concert, such as at Alesia last year. And a personal appearance from a senior officer made men feel valued. Especially the poor bastards who had done the last night shift of watch in the cold and the dark and the early morning mist.

  ‘Morning, lad.’

  The sentry looked around. Good man. He’d had his gaze locked on the ground ahead of him and left and had not noticed the lone horseman w
alking up behind him from the Roman side. But then, unlike many of his fellows, this poor sod had a troublesome spot to watch. At the edge of the irritating marsh that spread like a suppurating wound from the twin waterways, the lad had to watch not only the forward ground, but also whatever he could of the tree-covered, mist-soaked marsh.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Nothing doing, I take it?’

  The young soldier shook his head. ‘About an hour before dawn the fires were stoked and lit up there. Heard the slaughtering of animals for breaking their fast, sir. Not a pleasant noise, but I’ll be buggered if it didn’t sound damned tasty down here.’

  Varus laughed. It was good to hear such light humour being tossed about on such a dark subject. The Roman forces were getting very hungry indeed, living on half bread rations and hard-tack biscuits. Soon, hopefully, Fabius would arrive with extra supplies. Certainly there was nothing to be found in the local farms and settlements. Whatever they had managed to produce in the area – probably not a lot after last year – had clearly already been taken into the oppidum before they arrived.

  ‘I’d certainly not argue with any man who plonked a plate of mutton before me right now,’ grinned Varus. ‘Gods, I’d eat a dog’s arse if it were cooked with enough onions!’

  The soldier burst out laughing and Varus’ grin widened. This was what men like Caninius missed out on by not consorting with the lower ranks. Oh, it did something to a man. Somehow it cracked the noble outer that coated the patrician class and many of the equites and injected something of the common man. And that created men like Fronto, who were sometimes disapproved of by the higher echelons of the army. But by the gods it made good leaders and fighting men.

  He crouched next to the young soldier.

  ‘Do you know what I had when I woke this morning?’

  The lad cleared his throat nervously. Varus was well aware that even in times of privation the officers were treated to foods denied the men. The lad would be trying not to imagine what delicious foods Varus had tucked into in his tent. In actual fact, he had eaten only plain bread with a little salty butter. The boy was nervous.

  ‘Go on. Guess what I had when I woke up.’

  The lad cleared his throat. ‘I… I have no idea, sir.’

  ‘A boner,’ Varus announced with a grin.

  The young soldier dropped his shield as he exploded with laughter.

  The other noise was so quiet that Varus almost missed it, but years of dealing with Gauls and their clever, wily ways made his ear twitch and the hair stand proud on the back of his neck. His spine shivered as though a hundred ants traversed it.

  Quietly, he leaned forward and whispered in the lad’s ear.

  ‘Tell me a story. A loud one.’

  The lad frowned, so Varus urged him with a hand gesture. As the young soldier began to recount some fairly dull tale of training, Varus rose from his crouch and padded as quietly as he could over to the trees nearby.

  He somehow thought he knew what he was going to see, but was surprised by one aspect of it. The splash he’d heard could have been any animal in the marsh, but the quiet, almost inaudible curse clearly wasn’t. It had been too quiet to identify as non-Latin but, accompanied by a splash, it was no sentry. He’d known even before his eyes picked out the movement in the mist that it was Gauls sneaking through the marsh. What he hadn’t been expecting was that they were heading to the oppidum, rather than from it.

  And they were carrying bundles of grain and sacks and bags. They were resupplying the oppidum! And they were moving very slowly.

  He did a quick calculation. He had no idea how many men there were in the marsh, but surely they wouldn’t try and sneak more than a few hundred through here, else it would be too risky? The sentries were placed in the Roman cordon every two hundred paces. While it would take a while to gather enough men from the sentries to fight the Gauls, he could drag in maybe a dozen quickly enough to hold them off, while the garrison of the camp at the confluence was alerted. In a matter of two or three hundred heartbeats half a legion would be bearing down on this place. That was, after all, the point in sentries and strategically placed camps. He crept back to the young soldier and gestured for him to arm up and stand. As the lad did, clearly aware something was up, Varus took a deep breath and filled his lungs.

  ‘Alarm! Gauls in the marsh!’

  Waving for the lad to follow him, he ripped his sword from its sheath and ran towards the tree where he’d seen the Gauls. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that away across the grass the next two sentries were already moving, converging on his position.

  Good.

  Now all he had to do was not die until the rest got here.

  Tense and vibrating with that nervous energy that comes at the start of battle, Varus raced into the marsh, the young soldier behind him.

  The Gauls had been taken by surprise and seemed to be suffering a lack of command cohesion. Some of them dropped their precious grain in the marshy water where it would be instantly ruined, drawing blades. Others grasped their heavy burdens over their shoulders, drawing a sword with a free hand and preparing to fight while horribly encumbered. Yet more simply shouldered their supplies and ran like hares for the safety of Uxellodunon.

  Taking advantage of their disarray, and heedless to the danger, Varus picked a big man who had dropped a sack and drawn a sword and simply ran at him like an enraged bull. The big warrior raised his sword to bring it down on the charging Roman but at the last moment Varus dropped to a running crouch, swiping out with his blade as he passed. He was a cavalryman. The Gauls would be expecting legionary manoeuvres, using the traditional thrusting gladius of the infantry. But Varus’ sword was a horseman’s blade. Long, honed for slicing, and much more like the Gaul’s own blade, the sword sliced into the man’s legs at the top of the knees, below his tunic’s hem. Though the sword bounced from the bone and came away clean, the man issued a high pitched keening noise and fell into the swampy water on agonised legs.

  Varus was already up, slashing at the next man, who was having trouble wielding his long sword while trying to maintain his grip on the heavy sack at his shoulder. The man’s extended arm was smashed to pieces by the blow, the wrist and hand that held the blade all-but severed, hanging by a thread as the man screamed and dropped the sack.

  Again Varus was off like a demon, low again this time, his sword taking a man in the calf down to the bone, wrenching it back out as the Gaul pitched face first into the brackish swamp. A cut up that took a man in the side before slicing through the sack he carried, releasing a torrent of grain that fell like a pretty cascade into the green murk. A slice high again, bouncing back from a shoulder blade, but effective enough to send the man flying into the water.

  Varus stopped as he realised there were no more Gauls. He had actually fought his way to the front of the resupply column. With immense satisfaction that penetrated even the fog of war, he turned and looked back through the mist. There were screams and calls. He stood for a moment, shaking slightly and taking stock. Two enemy blows had landed during that frenetic run, though he’d not noticed either at the time. One was a flesh wound in his upper left arm – had he taken a shield from his horse his left arm would not now be coated in sticky red – and the other was a nick in his hip that had touched bone where the flesh was thin, but had actually miraculously done no real damage.

  Satisfied that not only would he live, but that he was in fact still in fine fighting condition, he turned and ran back towards the sound of fighting. As he saw the first shapes in the mist, he halted. Better he stop them getting any closer to the oppidum than get too bogged down fighting at the centre. He could hear shouts in Latin and see the shapes of legionaries, so several sentries were clearly now involved and, thankfully, over the top he could hear the whistles of centurions fairly close – evidence that reserves were pouring from the camp.

  A desperate shape emerged through the mist, bloodied sword in hand and sheaf of grain over shoulder
, and the Gaul’s eyes widened as he realised that he’d not achieved freedom as expected, but had, in fact, met the Roman officer who had demolished the front of their column.

  Varus snarled and leapt at him, his sword flicking out and taking the stunned man in the throat.

  Two more figures appeared behind as the first fell gurgling away, and Varus readied himself. All he had to do was hold the marsh and stop them getting away one at a time. These two were clearly nobles, from the quality of their clothes, weapons and few trinkets. The taller of the two, with a shrewd, instant recognition of the danger, pushed his friend towards the Roman officer and turned, barrelling off through the mist at a tangent towards where Varus and the lad had so recently been discussing food.

  He had no chance to follow. The blocky, wide-shouldered noble who had been pushed at him knocked him backwards and he staggered. The noble was unencumbered with food and swiftly drew a sword, brandishing it at Varus and jabbing with it once, twice, thrice.

  Varus watched the brute’s eyes. He was squat but strong. In a fair fight he would be a difficult proposition to take down. Years of fighting against men like this alongside men like Fronto had taught Varus the value of an unfair fight, though. There was no glimmer of intelligence in those flat, dark eyes.

  Ripping his pugio dagger from his belt, Varus made sure to brandish it obviously. The bull-necked noble’s eyes flicked to the dagger and back twice. Content that he had the man’s attention, Varus threw the dagger off to the side a few feet, where it disappeared with a ‘plop’.