Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (54 page)

Each day now would go further the way of the enemy as the strength of the defenders waned ever more.

The reason for the small camp fires that had been lit on the Roman side of the Gaulish ramparts had confounded he and the other officers for a short while, but it had not taken him long to recognise that there were eight of them and piece together their meaning.

It had caused outrage and despair in roughly equal quantities along the wall when the eight Roman couriers had been raised on their crosses above the flames, each man beaten and cut but alive enough to appreciate the agony of a slow death by burning from beneath.

He refused, despite his rising gorge, to take his eyes from the sickening, horrifying sight.
He
had condemned them to this - he could hardly turn his face from them now.

"Just give the order, sir and we'll put them out of their misery" mumbled an optio nearby.

Felix felt the muscles in his jaw twitch. "No. That's what the bastards want: a waste of ammunition. We have less than two hundred pila left and only thirty or so shots with the scorpions. We can't even afford to waste eight. Those few missiles might buy us an extra hour."

The optio saluted and turned, stalking off along the rampart unhappily. Felix could hardly blame the man. No one should have to see this.

The question was: where was Vertico's man? Was he off in the woods somewhere, or was he brandishing a burning stick from lighting one of those fires?

The future looked bleak.

* * * * *

Ariogaisos clutched his side as he staggered through the woods, worrying about the quantity of blood that smeared his hand as it came away.

He had made it through the army surrounding the Eleventh Legion's camp through the judicious use of bravado and speed. He'd had the ill luck to have come up from the hidden ditch among a crowd of the Pleumoxii, who immediately distrusted the sudden arrival of one of the Nervii among them. Only by bluffing had he made his way through them, discovering on the way that the Nervii were based on the far side of the army in their entirety, scuppering any plans he'd had to rely on passing as one of them.

Instead he had kept his head down and his voice low and muffled so as to hide his heritage and try to pass as one of any of the numerous smaller tribes involved in this siege.

He had known that the Romans did not trust him, despite having had to rely upon him. They had little reason to trust, really. Surrounded by his tribe, why would they give their confidence to a man who could so easily turn on them? His master Vertico - the chief of a sizeable oppidum to the northeast - had given his oath to support Caesar in much the same way as the other Nervian leaders. But unlike they, who had formed an ignoble alliance through the druids to eject Rome from their territory, Vertico considered his own word to be of far more binding importance than his allegiance to that secret sect, however sacred they may be. How could a man devote himself to the Gods and their druidical followers and not hold dear the great Celtic principle of a given oath being binding?

Ariogaisos had almost fallen among the last tribal group through which he had passed when they demanded to search him, suspicious at his passage away from the centre of events, and he had refused. A knife had been drawn and had cut him below the bottom rib, but he had managed to stagger away and into the woods.

He had a rough set of directions to the next winter quarters, given by the Roman commanders, and he knew enough of the territory to reach the boundaries of Nervii land safely. Whether the Tenth legion - the next closest camp - would believe this stray wounded Celt was another matter. The message he carried should be proof enough.

"Halt!"

Surprised by the sudden Latin command so far from the legion and deep in the woods, Ariogaisos pulled himself upright and looked around. A figure stepped out of the undergrowth. He was Roman, dressed in their standard tunic, and yet unarmoured, still pulling up the breeches the Romans had adopted from the Gauls as he gestured with his blade. The reason for his presence became clear as the Gaul looked past him and saw a dozen or so other Romans gathered in a small clearing, encamped for the night. The one closing on him narrowed his eyes.

"You speak Latin?"

The Celt nodded and then, realising how stupid that was, cleared his throat. "I am Ariogaisos, shield man of Vertico of the Nervii, bound on a mission for the legate of the Eleventh legion."

"Really?" the Roman replied disbelievingly. "What's his name, then?"

Ariogaisos blinked. He'd never thought to ask that. As far as he was concerned, he got his orders from Vertico, who served the legate.

"I… I don't know" the Celt said quietly.

"Get in that clearing."

As Ariogaisos staggered forwards, clutching his bleeding side, the legionary urged him on with the point of the blade.

"Well well" commented a man in Centurion's kit as they entered the clearing. "What have you found, Nasica?"

The legionary padded over to a companion and retrieved something wrapped tightly in red cloth, hugging it to his chest as though it were his precious child, while two other legionaries pointed their swords at him.

"Only Nasica could go for a piss in the woods in the middle of nowhere and find a damn spy!"

"I am no spy" Ariogaisos replied. "I serve under Vertico, the Nervian chief in the Eleventh legion."

As the other soldiers' voices rose in disparagement, the centurion waved them to silence.

"I remember Vertico. Where are you bound?"

Feeling a sense of relief flood through him, Ariogaisos  reached into his shirt, drawing urgent gestures with the two swords, but producing a small folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax and the Bull stamp of the Eleventh legion.

"I am bound for the Tenth legion to bring tidings of war."

"There's a coincidence" mused the centurion. "The Eleventh are in trouble?"

"Yes, centurion."

"The Nervii?"

"Yes, centurion. And others."

The officer nodded. "Ambiorix and his Eburones. They've already obliterated the Fourteenth, and now they've moved onto Cicero's lot. Give me that."

As the Celt passed over the parchment, the centurion cracked the wax seal and perused the contents. After a moment, he straightened and gestured for the two guards to sheathe their swords.

"Are you badly wounded?"

"It will heal" Ariogaisos replied.

"Are you feeling brave?"

The Gaul nodded, a dread feeling that he knew what was coming sinking into his gut.

"Can you get back into the camp?"

Yes - that was it. He nodded again.

"Then I'm going to give you a reply. You take it back to Cicero and Felix and tell them to hold. Help is on the way." As he scrabbled for his stylus and the wax tablet he kept in his pack, he gestured to the legionary coddling the wrapped object. "Nasica?" Put that thing down for a moment and get yourself back in armour. No more napping, anyone. We ride day and night now until we find the Tenth."

Chapter Seventeen

DECEMBRIS

Fronto stepped onto the jetty and beheld his hometown with apprehension for the first time ever. When he came home it was invariably after a summer of campaigning and for rest and recovery over the winter months, down here where the climate was comfortable and more conducive to relaxation. Puteoli and its surrounding area were renowned for their dry, hot summers and their mild, if often damp, winters.

It was the place he automatically associated with family and friends - even though none of the latter would be in the area at this time - with wine and frivolity, with walks and swimming, hunting and days out to Pompeii and Neapolis.

In short: his happy place.

And now he was bringing all the troubles born of his past few years back home with him. Would he ruin Puteoli for the family the way the previous two winters had ruined Rome for them?

The sailing had been less rough than he'd expected this time of year and they had made good time, though he had still spent the requisite half the time at the railing adding his stomach contents to the treasures of the deep. It would be a few hours before he felt able to eat or drink, but he was becoming so inured to the sea-sickness these days that he was able to seal away and ignore the after effects to some extent - enough to concentrate on matters at hand, anyway.

To some extent the solitude he'd had at the ship's rail had been a cathartic time, if he was honest with himself. The news of Crispus' demise had come as a tremendous shock to him and the group's troubles had immediately expanded to fill all their waking thoughts, leaving him no time to ponder or grieve until aboard the ship and watching the gulls and the grey water in silence.

The thought that Crispus had been sent to Elysium in Gaul cut him all the more with the deep personal fear that, had he not severed his ties with Caesar and returned to Rome, he could have been there to stop it. It felt as though he had abandoned his friend and thus indirectly caused his death.

By the time the ship had reached Puteoli, he had finally come to terms with the loss, though a funeral feast and libations were overdue, and he would move the world itself if he had to in order to arrange a night with Priscus and Varus and the others.

A clatter as a bag was mishandled onto the dock drew his thoughts back.

As the others disembarked and the ship's crew unloaded the horses and their bags, Fronto looked along the jetty at the port - one of the busiest and most impressive in the Roman world - and then back to the city beyond, all narrow maze-like alleys and twisting vertiginous streets. Rome was a place of wide avenues and well-ordered streets - well, in the wealthier areas anyway - but almost none of Puteoli was designed like that. The city dated back to the days of the Greek settlers, before Rome's influence had reached this far south, and it suffered the design flaws of that artistic and disorganised people.

Despite the presence of the low-lying port and the sea-front part of the civic area behind, much of the city rose on high cliffs and spurs and from the jetty created something of the impression of looking up into the seats of a giant theatre arcing across before them.

"Where do we go?" Balbus asked, his voice catching. The man had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the journey, more with nerves born of the news he carried for his daughter than the pain he himself felt.

Fronto nodded to himself. He'd forgotten that Balbus had never been here before.

"We'll have to make our way up through the city. From here, just past that bloody great arcaded building and to the right of the baths' cistern - that great square thing past the white roof - you can just see the curved top of the amphitheatre. We head up to there and turn right just past it. The road from there leads out towards Neapolis and we stop about a three quarters of a mile along the cliffs. If we'd come in from the southern direction, I could have shown you the villa. You can see it from the sea."

He realised he was starting to enthuse, despite everything, and Balbus was in no mood to hear of Fronto's love for his home. Instead, he turned to the others. Elijah held Balbina by the hand. The girl's eyes were unfocussed, unseeing - almost glazed, but the Jewish physician never let her spend a moment alone or uncared for, acting more as a brother or uncle than a medicus, comforting her and encouraging her to interact. It wasn't working, but something needed to be done.

Galronus, Masgava and Palmatus were in conversation about fighting methods, as seemed their norm. They made a strange trio - a Roman born, a Belgic chieftain and a dark-skinned Numidian - but they seemed to have settled into an easy friendship, and one that was equally extended to Fronto and Balbus.

"When we get to the villa - assuming all's normal - it might do us some good to look around it first with an eye to its defence" Fronto announced. "We can deal with returning to the ladies afterwards. I would be happier if we at least scout the place out first and decide how we're going to approach the coming storm."

The three warriors broke off their conversation and looked over at him. "First," Galronus replied "we need to make sure the ladies are safe and whole."

Balbus turned to face them all. "
I
will go and see the womenfolk. I need to speak to Lucilia and give her the news, and I would prefer to do that before you all settle in there; with a little privacy. You all see to the defence plans - you don't need me for that."

"Nor I" added Elijah. "With your permission I will bring your daughter."

Balbus nodded and managed a weak smile for his blank-faced child. Elijah strolled over to join him as the porters loaded their bags onto the horses' flanks and settled them in place. As soon as all was ready, the six men and their young charge mounted up, Elijah lifting Balbina into position in front of him.

Without exchanging a word the group set off, clattering along the jetty and into the streets of the city. Fronto spent most of the first few hundred paces trying not to vomit again; to keep his insides where they belonged. Balbus rode with a singularity of purpose, his brow low and eyes burning with loss, anger and the fear of the coming exchange with his daughter, keeping his horse close to Fronto and Galronus, both of whom knew the way from the port and rode easily and confidently.

Behind them, Elijah, Palmatus and Masgava chatted amiably as they rode, their gaze slipping around them to take everything in.

Slowly, the cavalcade of six horses and their riders wound their way through the city and up the slope towards the rolling skyline of volcanic hills. Strangely, though they felt the need to hurry against the possibility of their enemies reaching the villa before them, this last stage had seen them slow, their reluctance to deal with what they might find and what they knew must come bringing hesitation to their every step.

Within the next quarter of an hour they had passed the amphitheatre, its arcades silent on this day without games, and turned on to the Neapolis road. A short, silent ride further, during which the new visitors took in the impressive scenery, and the group turned off the main road.