Varus found himself chasing down three men on his own and threw out joyous thanks to Fortuna as one of the two brutes accompanying the chief lost his footing in the water on some misshapen stone, plunging with a squawk into the current and disappearing underneath, rising with difficulty a few moments later, coughing out water, his sword lost and wits befuddled.
Dropping his reins and using his knees to guide the horse like the well-trained Roman horseman he was, Varus drew his pugio dagger from his belt with his offhand. He carried no shield, being an officer, and now that free hand was of great value.
He was no marksman. He’d used a bow once or twice to no great effect, and he’d practised with the scorpion bolt throwers of the legions with at best moderate success. But throwing… ah well. Throwing was different. A boyhood spent skipping stones across water had given him an eye for range and a shoulder for the throw.
He glanced briefly, regretfully at the dagger. He’d only picked the damn thing up from the supply wagon before they’d set off to replace the one he’d lost in the swamp. To lose two pugios in one day would seem careless. The quartermaster would find a nickname for him when he went again, helm in hand like a beggar, requesting another replacement.
Still…
Biting his lip and concentrating, he drew his arm back high and threw the dagger with all his might.
The weapon was most certainly not designed for throwing and it spun in the air, but his aim was surprisingly true, and the dagger clonked into the back of the other big warrior’s head. It hit badly, at the crosspiece below the grip, but with enough force to knock the man forward into the water, where he floundered in panic, trying to rise.
Varus, his sights still upon the leader, simply rode over the struggling warrior, cracking his bones and pulping him under-hoof as he bore down on his man. The second warrior disappeared beneath the surface with a scream.
The leader was at the bank. Varus watched him climbing up onto the grass and preparing to sprint for it. Kicking his horse’s flanks, forcing it to run even faster, Varus rose from his saddle, prising himself out from between the four horns that kept him safely settled in even the worst conditions.
The Gaul had his blade out and was running. Varus felt the change in rhythm as his horse moved to dry ground, no longer fighting the water. In a straight race, the man would reach the trees and flee.
This was not a straight race.
His horse was now no longer under his control, his hands busy balancing rather than gripping reins and his feet now on the seat of the saddle as he rose like those Greek acrobats that danced on horses and bulls. The beast beneath him was a trained war horse and stayed on course despite his lack of control.
He tensed, bent his knees, and leapt.
His head clonked into that of his quarry as he hit and the pair went down on the grass in a tangle. He hissed as the pain from this morning’s hip wound lanced through him at a particularly bad twist in the fall, but what was filling most of his mind was a ringing sound.
As the pair rolled to a halt, Varus tried to clear his head, his eyes blurred with the shock. Reaching up and only missing twice, he undid the leather thongs that kept the cheek plates of his helmet tied, and ripped the helm off, casting it away, where it rolled across the grass.
He could feel the tender part of his head where they had collided. It felt dangerously soft and even a gentle prod felt like someone driving a tent pole through his brain. Jove, but that hurt!
He realised that the man beneath him wasn’t moving, and tried to focus. The Gaul’s chest was rising and falling, so he was still alive. But as Varus none-too-gently turned him over, the huge lump and welt on the man’s head came into view. Of course. Varus was helmeted – the Gaul was not. He examined the man’s head briefly, but it didn’t appear to have cracked like an egg and there was no blood leaking from nose or ear to betray a serious internal injury.
The man would be seeing three of everything for a while though, and when he awoke it would feel like those same Greek dancers were cavorting inside his skull.
The man wore good bronze and gold torcs and arm-rings, the latter twisted into the shape of an ‘S’ with intricate design. His middle left finger bore a ring with the shape of a pentagram, and the one next to it a horse, again with an ‘S’ above it. Tell-tale designs of the Senones. There was little doubt in Varus’ mind that this was Drapes, the other important leader of the revolt. Grimly, still shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, Varus hauled the unconscious noble up and carried him across to his horse, where he threw him unceremoniously across its back behind the saddle. Gathering his helmet and the fallen swords, he arranged everything and mounted once more, turning to look back across the river.
The high ground near the ford was occupied by his cavalry, herding a few prisoners into a line. The riders in the river had finished off all but one of the fleeing men and were playing some sort of brutal game with him, batting him back and forth with the flat of their blades. The farm itself was now swarming with legionaries, who had also pushed a few die-hard Senones down to the river bank. The Germans, true to form, were finishing off those who had run into the river. The poor bastards had thought to swim away and achieve safety from the horsemen, but the Germans feared nothing, from gods through wars to even fire from Hades itself. He’d once seen a group of Caesar’s German cavalry leaping their horses over blazing kindling and beneath burning branches with very little clearance, just for sport.
The river certainly didn’t faze them.
Some of the Germans were still mounted, mid-flow, their powerful home-bred horses swimming beneath them as they whooped and snarled, sticking their blades down again and again into the shapes swimming across the river. Other Germans had leapt from their horses and were swimming after their prey. Varus couldn’t see in that kind of detail from this distance, but he’d be prepared to bet those men had their skinning knives between their teeth. He shuddered.
The most sensible of those Senones who had swum into the river had turned round away from the Germans and were even now once more climbing the near bank to surrender to the legion rather than face the brutal monsters in the water.
It was over. A resounding success with not a single enemy escaping the field.
And he had Drapes.
* * * * *
Varus stood at the westernmost of the three camps, atop the rampart, watching the oppidum of Uxellodunon, with Caninius beside him.
‘Is all this strictly necessary?’
Caninius pursed his lips as he watched the two legions throwing up a turf rampart around the entire circuit, forming a ditch as they did so and replacing the earlier wicker fence atop the mound. It was starting to look like Caesar’s circumvallation of Alesia last year, with towers being raised at the more vulnerable spots. He could just see a party of engineers draining that benighted marsh into the streams that ran through it with cunning and artifice and a lot of hard work. ‘Perhaps not, but just because we have one of their leaders does not mean the fight is over. They’ve only lost half a thousand men, and I’m prepared for a fight. I’m not going to let something like that happen again.’
Varus nodded. They had managed to capture enough supplies to keep the legions fed for a week, maybe two if the food was stretched thinly enough. Drapes was in their custody and his identity had been confirmed. He was not being over-talkative, but torture for information would not be an option, at least until his dreadful head wound was healed. Indeed, it had been other prisoners who had confirmed his identity at first, since, when he had awoken, Drapes couldn’t have told you what species he was let alone his name. His head must have felt like mush, given the fact that his skull had managed to hammer a deep dent in Varus’ helmet.
The one nagging failure so far was the location of Lucterius. While Drapes was clearly the most senior man in their army here, Lucterius had been the instigator, and he had escaped. It would seem logical that he had retreated to the oppidum, but the problems he would have faced passi
ng the Roman cordon and the wattle fence made that less likely. It was the considered opinion of the officers and scouts that Lucterius had fled the area in search of other allies.
And now, Caninius was settling in for a long siege.
‘Sir?’
The two men turned, both assuming it was them being addressed. A legionary was standing at attention, panting, a little along the wall.
‘What is it?’
The man, barely able to speak from running so hard, gestured to three riders cantering through the camp towards them. They were Roman officers, easily identifiable by their flowing red cloaks. Dismissing the man and letting him recover, Caninius straightened. Varus broke slowly into a smile as the three riders closed on them and he recognised the one at the centre.
‘Fabius? Thank the gods.’
The newly-arrived legate returned his smile with one of his own. ‘Seems as though you’ve got the rats pinned in their nest, yes?’
Caninius nodded. ‘Lucterius has fled, we don’t know where. We have the other leader Drapes in chains. And there are maybe ten thousand men trapped up there, well fed and apparently with a spring to supply them fresh water.’
Fabius laughed. ‘Well perhaps we can do something about that now. I’ve brought the Eighth and Ninth with me. The Carnutes won’t be troubling anyone for a while. I left their entire country pretty much a charred ruin.’ He focused on Uxellodunon for a moment, deep in thought. ‘This oppidum’s long and pointed like Alesia, so it seems to me we could take a side each and concentrate our legions. You take southeast, since my men are coming from the north, and we’ll settle on that side.’
Varus stretched. ‘And my men and I will settle in for the wait and occasionally scout the area. Cavalry get bored in a siege, you know?’
Fabius chuckled again. ‘The news that’s flooding the north is that Caesar has finished putting down the tribes. He’s headed back south and west and will be passing through Carnute lands soon. Gaul is finally beaten, apart from this one little fortress. We can afford to devote the whole summer to it if we want, so let’s just keep them pinned and see what happens. Don’t want to waste men on an assault if we don’t have to.’
Varus nodded. One last stand. One last Alesia. And then Gaul was finally peaceful.
Chapter Sixteen
CAVARINOS replaced his mug on the rough-hewn table and smacked his lips with an unconvinced expression. ‘Why is the average-priced stuff in a Greek city tavern better than the stuff I was sampling in your office this morning? You’re supposed to be a quality wine merchant.’
Fronto snorted. ‘You dipped into the office amphora? More fool you. That’s not proper wine. That’s posca.’
‘Posca?’
With a grin, Fronto leaned back and sampled more of the wine on the table. ‘Posca’s what the legionaries drink.’
‘Really? And they conquered a hundred nations on that? No wonder they’re so implacable.’
The Roman chuckled. ‘They drink proper wine, too, as often as they can, but they have to pay for that out of their wage, while the commanders give them an allowance of posca daily for free. The stingiest, and those who are saving for their retirement, live on posca and save money. A legionary’s wage is good but wine, woman and dice takes a lot of financing.’
‘Are you sure your army is doing it right? Perhaps it’s really meant for cleaning armour, rather than drinking?’
‘It’s more or less vinegar and water with a few herbs, and made with the cheapest wine possible, too. We’re experimenting with Gaulish wines at the moment. That stuff you tried was a mix of four parts water to one part Lingone wine, livened up a little with some of the cheaper spices that come in from Syracusae.’
‘That stuff does not want livening up, Fronto. It wants putting down. But Lingone wine explains it all. After all, I’ve met Lingone women.’
Cavarinos grinned and Fronto took another swig of the house standard as he fixed Cavarinos with a steady gaze. ‘I could use a man with knowledge of the tribes, you know?’
The Arverni simply shrugged off the comment as he had every time Fronto had tentatively tried to bring about such a subject. ‘Do your men not want a drink?’ he asked.
Fronto glanced up at Aurelius and Biorix, standing near the door like the Pillars of Hercules. Aurelius was far from small, his shoulders bull-like and his muscles impressive. His face was flat, framed with black hair that had grown longer than his usual cut and taken on a slight curl that made him look more like a local. His hand rested on the knobbly end of a stick at his belt that looked a lot like a centurion’s vine staff, and he leaned against the wall a little inside the bar. One of his seemingly endless list of superstitions apparently involved not standing on a threshold. Next to him, Biorix, the bulky Gallic engineer, stood in the doorway, his gaze wandering across the crowds in the street outside. Bigger than Aurelius – bigger than almost everyone in the bar – Biorix had taken advantage of his retirement from the legions and had grown out his blond hair once more, though he remained clean-shaven.
Neither of them wore armour or weapons other than Aurelius’ stick, and both were dressed in nondescript local clothes.
Fronto shrugged. ‘Normally neither of them would have an issue with throwing down a few jars. Even on duty. I know both of them can handle a few cups and remain sober enough to work. But since the news you brought, Masgava has all the lads on a strict no-booze-on-duty routine.’
‘Good. Your men seem very loyal.’
‘They’ve been through a lot with me. Up in the forest of Arduenna a couple of years ago…’ he noted with a sly grin Aurelius ward himself against evil at the name of the Belgic goddess. ‘And then of course in the war last year. We lost a lot of good men.’ He noted a pained look cross Cavarinos’ face. ‘I know. You did too. Everyone did. But my little personal force was reduced to about a quarter over that time. Those who are left are closer than brothers.’
Cavarinos nodded. ‘It is good for warriors to be like that. And it is good that they have experienced the horror and loss of war. Only warriors who remember what war is like should lead men. Those who do not know the consequences are too eager to bathe in blood regardless of the consequences.’ The Arverni noble felt a flash of pain and guilt pass through him at the memory of his brother, dead at Alesia.
‘Wise words,’ Fronto agreed.
‘Will you go back to your army?’
Fronto blinked. The question caught him totally off-guard, and when that happens, the first thought to flash into a man’s mind is oft the unsought truth. The fact that as soon as Cavarinos had spoken, Fronto had pictured himself in armour with centurions and comrades at his side made him suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Not the least because most of those he’d instantly pictured around him had been dead for years. He bit down on that image and forced it back, suppressing it beneath common sense.
‘I will never say “no” to that question. But I have no plans to do so. I’m far from a young man, these days, with a wife and children depending on me. No man can say I’ve not done my duty to Rome and her people now. Time for younger men to play the game.’
The Arvernian cocked an eyebrow. ‘You sound like a man trying to convince himself. Good luck with that.’
‘I miss the life,’ admitted Fronto. ‘But I don’t miss the actual fighting. I saw things these past few years that most officers would never see. I have dreams…’
Cavarinos barked out a short, totally-humourless laugh. ‘Let us not compare dreams. Mine would shock your hair white. If I were a man to believe in gods and superstitions I would think myself cursed.’
A short, slight whistle through teeth attracted their attention, and both men turned to see Biorix at the door step back into the shadow, nodding towards the street. With the hand of a practised deceiver, Cavarinos picked up the jar of wine and held it to the light, giving the impression from the doorway that both men were simply looking at the label on the jug, while enabling them both to clearly view the door.
/> Two figures appeared in the entrance and sauntered inside, one slapping the other on the back, laughing at some joke. Fronto peered at the men, wondering why Biorix had warned them, then recognised the pair a moment later. Glykon – Hierocles’ man who had ruined Fronto’s business from the inside for months unchecked, was chuckling at some jest of the man whose ribs Fronto had broken with a staff that night they had broken into his warehouse. Without intending to, Fronto shot up from his chair.
‘Find another bar, shit weasel.’
The two men stopped, Glykon immediately recognising Fronto even as his friend tried to place the man. Glykon’s gaze took in the hardened Gallic noble sitting opposite the Roman and also, as he spun with a sense of dread, the two former legionaries close to the door. In other circumstances, the man might have stood up for himself, even against Fronto. But with the odds so heavily stacked in the Roman’s favour, he gave an obsequious smile and bowed from the waist.
‘By all means. I find the company here unpalatable, anyway.’
The other man had now recognised Fronto, his hands shooting to newly-repaired ribs at the memory, and he began to pull at Glykon’s shoulder, trying to turn him and eject him from the place. Two Greek sailors who had just entered behind them cursed the pair as they tried to get past to the bar, and Fronto’s former enemies scurried out of the bar, almost knocking down another man as they went.
It took Fronto a moment to realise that he was growling, and he made himself stop. ‘Bastards,’ he grunted as he reached for the wine jug to pour another cup, but as his fingers closed on the pottery handle, Cavarinos’ hand fell on his wrist and held it down.
‘Don’t look left,’ the Arverni said, almost in a whisper. ‘Laugh as though I told you a joke.’
Fronto panicked. Nothing in the world is more difficult than a convincing fake laugh at short notice. He chortled like an idiot at a freak show and felt thoroughly stupid, especially as Cavarinos gave him a look that conveyed just how moronic he’d sounded. ‘Count to three,’ the Arvernian went on in stilted Greek, ‘then look to your right briefly.’
Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis Page 34
