Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (58 page)

They would all die soon enough.

Chapter Eighteen

Priscus tried for the third time in a row to tie the Hercules knot around his midriff and this time gave up and knotted it in a fashion that would likely have to be cut to be removed. As a symbol of command at a high level it was a necessity in order to display his rank but, no matter what he did, the ribbon always gradually slipped down his cuirass until by midmorning it rested on his hips, looking somewhat deflated and ridiculous.

As legate of the Tenth, he'd only bothered to put it on when he was likely to be in the presence of the general, but he was damned if he was going to saunter around the camp of his beloved legion that now served under young Crassus without a reminder that he was still the senior man here.

His fingers tensed and his knuckles whitened as he pulled the ribbon tight, his temper once again darkening at the thought of that young lunatic in charge of his legion.

It was an unworthy thought and he knew it. His image of young Crassus had been heavily influenced by previous contact with his family: his elder brother, whose harsh and violent approach to military command had produced great results but had also caused almost as many problems as it had resolved. And of course his father, a notoriously avaricious and pompous man who had risen to become one of the most powerful men in the republic through his dubious amassing of wealth and a willingness to overlook the ethics of any action.

The younger Crassus scion appeared to be nothing like his brother, though. Though there was only less than two years between the pair, Marcus Licinius Crassus appeared more than half a decade younger than his brother, fresh faced and with an almost childish enthusiasm.

What irked Priscus most was the fact that, while this Crassus had enough personality and passion to inspire a legion - he was eminently likeable and easy to deal with - he clearly had not even a fragment of his brother's talent for military strategy. They were as unalike as could be. Publius could have crushed an army twice his size, despite bad terrain, though his legion would resent his rule and the after effects could be wicked. Marcus would never manage in the face of terrible odds, but the Tenth would look after him. They had already adopted him as one of their own, yet still looked to Priscus for their orders.

That last, at least, suited him… but for how long? When would Caesar call him away and leave the Tenth under this pleasant and well-meaning young fool?

The military knot slid down to rest on his waist and he sighed and hauled it back up to his diaphragm, reaching out for a piece of the honeyed bread on his table - a noon meal that had sat there untouched for a number of hours - and dabbling just enough honey on the sides of his cuirass to anchor the ribbon in place. The front drooped a little, but he straightened himself, satisfied.

For a moment, he wondered whether to wear the helmet with the high black plume, but decided against it. He didn't need to stand out as an officer - they all knew him - he just needed the touches that placed him above Crassus.

With a last look at himself in the small, undulating bronze mirror that made his face misshapen, he nodded and stepped outside his quarters.

The sun was low, just brushing the tips of the trees and threatening to vanish in the next few moments, and legionaries went here and there with their fire-tools, lighting torches and lamps against the coming night.

"Glorious evening, isn't it?"

Priscus started and swung round to see young Crassus standing to one side of his quarters, his commander's armour and accoutrements impeccable.
The bastard
. Crassus sniffed the air deeply and stretched as though he'd just risen in the morning.

"I don't know about glorious" grumbled Priscus. "Feels bloody chilly to me."

"But the sun is shining and the grass is dry. There's a bite to the air, but just enough to make it refreshing."

"If you say so. Probably the filter of youth. When you get to my age, you'll see it as far too bloody cold and threatening to snow. What are you doing loitering around outside?"

Crassus grinned.

"Preparing for manoeuvres, of course."

Priscus pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache that had seen him retreat to his room for much of the afternoon was returning, and it was bringing with it a cohort of other pains and irritations.

"I assumed you would be staying in charge of the camp, as their legate. I was only taking two cohorts out."

Again, Crassus stretched, looking irritatingly supple, alert and enthusiastic.

"I think that, as their commander, it would be a good idea to at least observe these night-time manoeuvres? If I didn't know better I would say you kept trying to shield me from the real action in the legion."

'
If only you knew
' Priscus thought as he nodded in fake appreciation. Instead, his voice came clear and friendly and supportive. "Very well, legate. We shall leave your primus pilus in command and take the Fourth and Fifth cohorts out." A mean streak somewhere deep inside surfaced. "Perhaps you could take the Fourth ahead and set up the ambushes and I'll bring the Fifth into them?"

Crassus' lively grin should have faltered at the immense pressure such an opportunity might put on an untried commander, but he simply grinned as though he'd been given a gift. Priscus sighed inwardly.

"Just be careful and don't go more than four miles. We've only got a picket cordon in a five mile radius."

* * * * *

Crassus' attempt at an ambush was considerably better than Priscus had expected. Oh, he still saw the first scouts a long time before the Fifth cohort stood any chance of walking into it, but it was not a bad first effort. Likely the veteran centurions of the Fourth had given him a few pointers, but credit where it was due: it was a worthy first attempt.

"Matrinius?"

"I see 'em sir. Ambush ahead. Heavy to the right, so we need to watch out for missiles to the left."

Priscus nodded. His men were good. Ought to be, really - between him, Velius and Atenos, they'd been trained by the very best the army had to offer.

"Hello. What's this, sir?"

Priscus followed Matrinius' gaze and frowned at the group of horsemen cantering along the forest road.

"Part of some clever trap?" the centurion mused, his arm going up to stop the column without the need for orders, whistles or trumpets.

"No" Priscus said quietly. "The Fourth cohort only had Crassus' horse with them."

In instant response, Matrinius' arms made half a dozen silent gestures and the officers of the cohort behind him began to respond, forming a four-man wide column in the open trackway, shield-walls raised at all four sides, pila up for casting at the front.

Priscus peered into the darkness. It was simply too gloomy to pick out any detail.

"Who in Hades are they? They're armoured in mail - I can hear it - but that doesn't help."

The commander nodded in satisfaction as the riders closed on the waiting cohort and he could just see figures slipping from the treeline behind them, forming a blockade across the track behind. Sharp thinking on behalf of either Crassus or the centurions of the Fifth cohort.

His tension eased as the figures on horseback became more distinct and he could pick out details that labelled them Roman: the russet-coloured tunics and cloaks; the crest of a centurion; the formation of the riders. Then the tension heightened once more. Why would any other group of Romans be out here, especially riding in from the east.

"Matrinius: have the courier ride back to the fort and place the entire legion on high alert."

"Sir?"

"Romans from the east means trouble from the east. Especially when they ride in fast at night. Get the Tenth ready to move on my order."

Leaving the cohort's senior centurion to it, he turned back to the approaching riders. There were less than twenty of them. Two contubernia with some officers and hangers-on by the looks of it.

"Halt!" he bellowed.

The group slowed and the horses came down to a walk, the centurion pulling out ahead.

"Baculus?"

The grizzled centurion, primus pilus of the Twelfth legion and a veteran of the years of Gallic campaigning, nodded and threw out a weary salute to Priscus as he slid from his horse.

"Thank Mars and my swollen, bruised, saddle-sore behind. Priscus of all people. Sorry, should that be
Praetor
Priscus, sir?"

Priscus swept the comment aside. "What in Hades are
you
doing out here?"

"Bringing news of the shittiest kind, old friend."

As the two clasped arms, Priscus turned to his senior centurion again. "Matrinius: send someone to call Crassus and his men out of the trees. I think we're about to rush back to camp."

"What happened?" he asked as he turned back to his old friend.

Baculus gestured over at the motley collection of men behind him. "Representatives of two legions, Priscus. The rest of the Twelfth are on the march north through the great Arduenna forest. By now they'll probably be about where the Fourteenth used to be."

"And where are the Fourteenth
now
?" Priscus asked tensely, images rising forth from his memory to remind him that Petrosidius and Balventius were stationed among that legion now.

"Here" Baculus said flatly, pointing at his escort. "They now number three. We've got their eagle safe, but they all fell to a rising of the Eburones. All the officers are gone, including Sabinus and Cotta. Labienus decided to go try and track them down and make them pay, but he'll have his work cut out. It's a slow job negotiating that Godsawful forest."

Priscus felt his stomach churn. Balventius? The man had always been an immortal: one of those centurions that could never fall in battle. Like Baculus, in fact. Like Priscus…

"Anything else we need to know? Like where the bastards might be by now?"

"Yes. We were most of the way here when we stumbled across a Gallic auxiliary who was sent to find you to warn you that Cicero's Eleventh are under siege and in trouble. Sounds like the Eburones have gathered a few more tribes to them - probably the Nervii for one - and moved west. Labienus ordered me to pull in any reinforcements I can get and keep passing word until I find the general."

Priscus nodded - everything was starting to pan out very much the way he'd been fearing, though he'd not thought it would come to a head quite this fast. "Perhaps this mysterious Esus I've been hearing about is one of the Eburones." He straightened. "Time's of the essence, then. The general is in Gesoriacum with Fabius, Brutus and the Eighth. They're about the only other legion within reach - Trebonius' Ninth are too far west and the Seventh and Thirteenth are off down south. I would suggest that you race for Gesoriacum and get the general moving. If you and he are quick, we could meet up on the road near Cicero's camp. If the enemy are strong enough to keep the Eleventh pinned, then we'll need a sizeable force to break the siege."

Baculus nodded. "I sent the Gallic scout back to the camp to tell Cicero to hold and that we'd be coming soon. We'll ride on through the night and mobilize the Eighth straight away. We could be there before noon tomorrow."

Priscus could hear the sighs of dismay from a couple of the weary riders behind his friend.

"There's a tiny shit-hole of a place called Turnaco on the main route to Cicero's camp" he replied, "just a native slurry pit, really, but we've used it as a muster place before. Have Caesar, Brutus and Fabius meet us there as fast as they can. From there we're only a few miles from Cicero."

Baculus nodded. No attention to rank or deference - just all business, the way Priscus liked it. He gestured to the riders. "Those of you from the Fourteenth: you stay with us."

As Baculus turned and rode off with his men, the three horsemen indicated trotted over, saluting. One of the legionaries was coddling a bundle that made the act somewhat troublesome.

"You" Priscus pointed at him. "You seem to have been looking after that well. Congratulations… you just made standard bearer. Get that eagle on top of a pole as soon as we get into camp. Your two mates can gather whatever kit you need. While we're there I'll transfer a few men from the Tenth. Just half a century or so, but until the Fourteenth can be reconstituted, you're it. Make sure you stay alive and that eagle stays up. I'm thinking you'll want to use it to smash the brains out of whoever killed your mates, and I intend to give you the chance."

As the hoof beats of Baculus and his riders retreated into the distant darkness, a fresh single set echoed on the road as Crassus reined in close by and slipped from his saddle.

"Trouble?"

"You could say that. Time to stop playing soldier now and prove yourself, young man."

* * * * *

Ariogaisos, shield man of Vertico, held his breath and crept lighter than any man had ever done, the balls of his feet barely grazing the earth with his passage. Around him the Nervian army seethed even at night, drink flowing freely, accompanied by song and humour. The gradual crushing and starvation of the Eleventh legion was a balm to the Gauls encamped outside and, with the exception of the pickets and sentries, ninety-nine per cent of the Gallic army relaxed and spent the hours of darkness drinking in celebration of their situation and then sleeping off their intoxication.

They had, after all, little to do.

By day they assaulted the Roman defences, which was dangerous work, yes, but far from the peril it had been early on. The Romans had run out of missiles for their engines and few spears remained. Each night they managed to manufacture a few more, or hack the cross piece from their marching poles and sharpen the end to create make-shift spears, but the tide had turned and now few Gauls were falling with each push, while swathes of Romans died each day.

Ambiorix had given his men a week. The Gauls and Belgae raised against Rome had fought hard and won gloriously over the Fourteenth, obliterating them to the last man - so they believed - and they now had the Eleventh trapped and almost extinguished. The army had run far and fought hard and it was doing morale a great deal of good to spend a few days at a more relaxed pace while they whittled the Romans down. By the time of the new moon in a few days, however, Ambiorix would make an end of the fraught defenders and move on to the Tenth.