Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (67 page)

“Have your men in two single lines on the jetty. I’ll form the other two up the same .That way all four centuries can march together back up to the fort.”

“Yes sir. What of the cargo, sir?”

“Leave it till morning.”

“But sir, we’ve got four of the cavalry horses – one of them may have to be put out of its misery, mind – and if we leave any of the loot here, it might be pillaged by the locals.”

Fronto shook hs head. “Have the ship’s officer and men lead the horses ashore when we’ve left and take them to the nearest stable. No one’s going to steal your treasure, though, centurion. Look at those ramparts. The port’s under Roman control.”

The centurion managed to remain apparently unconvinced, but saluted and went about his business.

Having made the arrangements, Fronto stepped forward a few yards, giving the four officers the space to muster their men. Brutus followed him and stood tapping his lip thoughtfully.

“Have you noticed the lack of people?”

“It’s pissing down, Brutus.”

“Yes, but even on the walls.”

“Come on. Rufus only has one legion and he’s got the port, the town, the fort and who knows what else to deal with. There’ll only be a few of them down here and they’ll be keeping out of the rain. After all, who else would have lit the beacons?”

Brutus nodded uncertainly and glanced up at the town, with smoke rising from numerous roofs. The thought of getting somewhere he could huddle by a fire in the dry was overwhelmingly attractive.

It took less than a minute to get the four centuries lined up, the men moving as fast and efficiently as possible, each one feeling the urge to reach somewhere dry, warm and stable. As soon as the four centurions confirmed that their units were ready, Fronto issued the command and the small force marched out proudly into the heart of Gesoriacum.

Across the cobbled quay they strode, towards the main thoroughfare that ran up the hill to the looming shape of the fort, almost obscured behind the clouds of smoke rising from the cosy fires of the Morini townsfolk.

A constant river of brown liquid ran from the slope of the street, across the quay and down into the harbour. The men eyed it with distaste and a certain amount of unhappiness as they moved into it, preparing to slog up the street towards their objective.

At commands from the centurions, the four lines of men doubled out, splitting into eight columns of forty – give or take the few fallen in Britannia – and they began the trudge up the slope with the two legates out front.

Brutus turned to Fronto with a nervous frown.

“Can you feel it?”

“What?”

“Something’s wrong. The hair on the back of my neck’s standing up.”

Fronto glanced around and then ahead again and felt a chill run down his spine, terminating in his coccyx and causing him to shudder.

“No one. Not a sentry, not a guard, not a local. There’s no one.”

“Not quite” Brutus shook his head and pointed at a house as they passed. Fronto followed his gesture and saw the shutter on a window close hurriedly, leaving only the faint glow of firelight around the edge, but not before he saw the face of a young girl glaring at him.

“I think you’re right. Trouble.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing yet. Any move we make to ready the men is going to be seen by dozens of people and we don’t know what’s happening yet. We might make it up to the fort without trouble. Let’s not rock the boat, so to speak.”

Brutus nodded. “All the same…”

Turning to the centurion behind him as he walked, he hissed as quietly as he could “Be ready. Have your men on the alert as quietly as you can. No weapons drawn as yet.”

The centurion, clearly relieved that the two officers had also noticed the eerie emptiness, nodded and turned to pass on the word.

“What the hell’s happened here? We’ve been away, what, a month you think?”

“About that. I think Rufus might be in trouble.”

“Not just Rufus.”

“Maybe we should just get back down to the ships and head down the coast a way? At least wait until the rest of the fleet gets here?”

Fronto shook his head. “Quite apart from the fact that I don’t think they’re all that safe or seaworthy now, I’m not at all convinced what’ll happen if we turn around and start to walk away.”

Brutus nodded unhappily.

“Come on.”

Slowly they climbed the slope, the liquid mud running into boots and making the thoroughfare treacherous. They had almost reached the main crossroads when Brutus grabbed Fronto’s arm.

“Look!”

“What?” Fronto peered up the street into the pouring rain.

“The smoke.”

“It’s making it quite hard to make out the fort.”

“Fronto, it’s coming
from
the fort.”

“Oh shit.”

Fronto fought the rising alarm and resisted the urge to start shouting. Smoke could mean several things, even in those amounts. It could mean a larger force of men inside than the fort was designed for, sharing outdoor fires. It could mean the place had been ransacked. But it could also mean an ongoing siege. There was no way to tell without seeing it close to hand.

“We’ve got to pick up the pace.”

“You want to
go
there?” Brutus said incredulously.

“We’ve got to. Rufus could still be up there with his men.”

“Then let’s move.”

Fronto glanced back at the centurions behind him.

“Subtlety over, lads. Swords out. Double time to the fort.”

The officers saluted, shouting out the commands to their men, who drew their gladii with an enormous, collective rasp.

The shape of the fort was starting to resolve better now in the gloom as Fronto squinted ahead. His heart skipped a beat when he realised that the smoke was rising from the front gate, and apparently outside rather than inside.

“They haven’t fallen yet. We have to get inside!”

Without the need for a command, the four centuries put a little extra speed into their ascent.

“Fronto!”

The legate glanced across at Brutus’ shout just in time to see the opening shutters of windows all around them, silhouettes of men formed by the warm firelight within.

“Testudo!” he bellowed, dropping back several steps and grasping Brutus by the upper arm, yanking him back down the street. The legionaries raised their shields, moving into formation better than Fronto could have hoped, given the incline and the fact that they comprised men of two different legions unused to working together. Here and there were gaps that quickly closed up, while others lifted their shields to create a roof. The four centurions joined the two legates as they disappeared inside the relative protection of the ‘tortoise’ formation just as the first arrows, stones and spears started to strike.

The regular drum of the heavy rain on the shields joined the falling missiles to create an almost deafening noise.

“Piss!” shouted Fronto with feeling.

“Move forward” Brutus commanded. “We have to get to the fort.”

The testudo started to stumble up the slope under a constant hail of missiles and Fronto shared a look with his fellow legate. They were both horribly aware of the shrieks from further back down the testudo where gaps opened due to the near impossibility of holding to formation while climbing an uneven, slippery slope.

“This is going to fall apart soon” Brutus said.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that” replied Fronto with a grim expression. “Listen.”

Above the drumming of rain and missiles and the occasional yells of wounded men, they could now hear the roar of the natives rushing them from the side streets and the slope behin.

“Bollocks.”

Chapter 20

(Gesoriacum)

Fronto glanced left and right in the almost claustrophobic press of the testudo, his vision filled with mail-shirted torsos, dirt-streaked arms, sweat and dripping water. Brutus gave him an equally helpless look.

“We’ve got to take control of the street or we’re done for!” Fronto shouted.

“On the bright side, they’ll stop firing things at us once they’re carving us up!”

“We’ll have to break the testudo – get the men at the front to split off and deal with the ambushers. They can block the windows with their shields and maybe kill the bastards while they’re at it.”

Brutus nodded, taking a deep breath. “Then we can form a defensive retreat up the hill. You take the lead and I’ll form the rearguard.”

The two men held one another’s gaze for a moment and then Fronto returned the nod.

“At my command,” he bellowed “the front tent party in each line will break formation. Pick a target from the men shooting at us. Get to his window, take him out and block off any further attack with your shield. Hold that window until further orders.”

Pausing, he could hear the war cries of the Morini closing on their rear and steeled himself.

“Break!”

The men of the Tenth and Seventh legions that led the advancing ‘tortoise’ immediately scattered at the command, eight contubernia splitting off, their shields coming up directly in front as they ran to protect them from the inevitable fire pouring out of the open shutters of the low, squat Gaulish buildings, their swords gripped ready for action.

It was obvious to Fronto’s professional eye which legion was which even when scattered. The Tenth had been a proud unit with a strong bond among its men, well-trained and constantly drilled over years by some of the best officers the Republic had to offer. The Seventh was a recent hotchpotch of men from different legions as yet new to working together as a unit, lacking the focussed training of a veteran legion. Almost every man in the Tenth marked a window and ran for it, a contubernium of eight men held back for a moment, ready to take the place of any man who fell on the way. The men of the Seventh, however, moved in sporadic groups, often two or three men marking the same window.

Fabius and Furius would have their work cut out over winter if they survived all this.

An archer at one of the nearest windows managed to pick off his attacker as the legionary pelted across the street, the arrow taking him in the chest and knocking him back to the slippery, muddy road, tripping the next legionary so that they rolled down the gentle, messy slope ina tangle. Before Fronto could shout the order, two of the reserve party were moving. While one ran off up the street after a different target, the other raised his shield and charged the window where the archer was busy nocking another arrow as fast as he could. The legionary, two broken shafts already protruding from his shield from his time in the testudo, angled his shield slightly to lessen the chance of the arrow punching straight through as he ran. The archer proved to be both quick and surprisingly accurate as the arrow thrummed out of the window and punched into the wood and leather. A look of wide-eyed desperation fell across his face as he desperately fumbled another arrow from the sheaf on the timber in front of him and tried to bring it up in time to fire again at the legionary.

There was clearly no time and the Roman was upon him before he could draw the string back. As the soldier swatted the bow aside with an almost contemptuous and amazingly dextrous flick of his shield, the archer screamed, his arm broken by the bronze edging strip. He floundered, dropping the bow from useless fingers, and reached down for the hilt of the sword at his side. The legionary leapt up, leaning in through the window and driving his gladius though the man’s throat before twisting it and ripping it back out.

The archer fell away, gurgling and clutching his neck with his good hand, blood spraying up and around the window, while somewhere back in the dim interior lit only by the glow of the warming fire a woman screamed and threw a red clay bowl that skimmed the legionary’s helmet and crashed out into the street. A quick glance inside confirmed for the soldier that no other missile wielders occupied the room and he set his shield to block the aperture, keeping only enough space free to peer over the top and keep watch on the woman.