Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (59 page)

In the meantime, the Nervii were actually
enjoying
the siege - especially at night while they caroused and drank the wine they had looted from the Fourteenth's camp.

Ariogaisos nipped quickly between two tents, past a camp-fire where a small, compact Gaul was crouching, his face contorted as he blasted out a musical fart for the edification of his friends.

Just a hundred paces to go and then he would reach the Gallic gateway and look out over the dead-strewn ditches to the beleaguered fort.

He drew a deep breath and looked up at the spear tip that wavered in the moonlight above him, his breath frosting in the chilly night air. Winter had been late leaving the land this year, but it seemed to be late returning, too. The silvery point dipped and he kept his eyes on his message tied to the haft just below the spear head and tightened his grip on the shaft.

It was suicide, of course.

There was no hope of him getting back into the camp as he'd told the centurion he would. Even if he managed to get through the Nervii - and the ones near the gate would be alert - the Romans would stick him before he ever got close to their wall. After all, why would they allow one of the enemy to approach during a siege.

And so he had decided - resigned to the high probability of an imminent death - to try a different approach. He had no knowledge of the markings the Romans made on their parchments, even though his spoken Latin was not too bad, but he had drawn a fairly unambiguous picture. A small towered square that could only be the fort was surrounded by a circle of figures that could only be the Gallic army. Off to one side a group of men with crests and square shields ran towards them. Without knowledge of their 'writing' or anyone to help, it was the best he could do. He just had to hope they would understand and hold on. If they gave up or attempted to leave somehow, they would just hasten their fall and the relief would get here too late to help

His eyes locked on the gate. The Gauls' confidence was so strong that the gate stood open, half a dozen inebriated warriors sitting in the gap, laughing.

Tutting, he angled away and slipped between the tents towards the next gate, eyeing the top of the rampart as he went. There were men on the parapet and they looked more serious and alert than the drunks at the gate. Better the latter, then.

The next gate along provided no easier option, with half a dozen men playing a game throwing daggers at a target. With a resigned understanding, he returned to the original gate. It was his best chance. At least they were drunk and that gate was open.

Nearing the aperture once more, he began to pick up speed. As he passed a camp fire a voice called out in consternation, but he ignored it and ran. At this point there was precious little value to stealth.

His breath coming in gulps, his legs swinging, feet pounding the earth, Ariogaisos passed out of the encampment, into the opening in the Gallic defences. The inebriated warriors struggled to their feet, drawing swords and spears, but he was too fast for their befuddled brains and before they were ready to stop this strange attack from within their own camp, Ariogaisos the Nervian was out into the open killing zone between the two armies.

His fast, pounding gait carried him across the causeway and he started to wonder whether he might make it.

The thrown spear hit him squarely in the back, slamming into his body and sliding between his ribs, punching through organs and gristle and then bursting from his chest in a fountain of blood, the droplets black and shining in the night.

Ariogaisos fell but, despite the agony that was coursing through his body as his life attempted to flee its fleshy prison, he pulled himself upright and hauled his shaking arm back. Taking a deep, agonising, shuddering breath, he cast the message-bearing spear.

He never saw where it went.

The second thrown spear from behind hit him in the midriff, tearing out his bowels as it burst from the front, and an arrow sank into his neck as he fell.

His eyes were glazing over before his head even bounced on the sodden muddy turf.

Ahead and above him, his own thrown spear with his daubed message of hope quivered for a moment where it landed, stuck into the side of a tower on the Roman defences - just one among a number of others. Figures were appearing on the Roman parapet, trying to see what was happening out in the night.

None of them looked up at the spear.

* * * * *

Turnaco was little more than a village, without a rampart or stockade, sitting atop the slope above a wide, glittering river. Some quarter of a mile from the native settlement stood a manually-flattened plateau where the legions had camped and mustered more than once before during the campaign. The now half-disappeared ditches and mounds that marked a camp large enough for three legions were still just about visible, and Priscus gave the order to have them raised and excavated and a new stockade put up, even if they were only likely to be here for a few hours. With what was clearly happening in the north of Gaul, only the suicidally unprepared would not take every precaution.

Turnaco was one of those places scattered around the north where a small Romanised presence was permanently maintained, partially as a link in the ever-growing supply network, partially as a reminder of the existence and power of the legions in Gaul, and partially to house couriers and pass on messages, aiding the legions whenever they mustered here. Cita had begun the operation a couple of years ago, but Priscus had turned his fluid system into a web of small permanent almost-mansios where messages could be left.

He snapped the seal on the wooden box as he strode through the dip that represented a future gate in the rising defences, and flipped open the leaves to peruse the message held on the wax within.

To Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul, from Titus Atius Labienus.

Greetings.

Priscus ground his teeth at the memory of how much he'd had to argue - even wearing his senior officer's drooping knotted ribbon - to get the courier to hand over a message destined for Caesar. It wasn't until he'd had the young legionary by the testicles, quite literally, that the tablet had been handed over.

The message had arrived here on its way to Gesoriacum the evening before the Tenth legion hoved into view, and as soon as Priscus had learned that a courier was present bearing a message from Labienus to Caesar he'd been determined to read it. The message would after all almost certainly have a bearing on his own decisions in the next few days, and must have been sent just after Labienus had sent his primus pilus to bring the news. His eyes skipped to the next line with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

I hope that my centurion Baculus has already delivered news of the Fourteenth's fall. I set out with the Twelfth to pursue the Eburones and chastise them this morning, but only three miles from the camp and before I even entered their sacred forest we stumbled across what appears to be the entire Treveri nation under arms. Their numbers are immense and I declined to meet them straight away, unprepared and in the field.

I have therefore returned to camp with the legion and prepared to deal with them here. We are well stocked and provisioned and should be able to handle them. My apologies for my absence in the field against the Eburones, general, but I feel that to flee the region and join up with the Tenth and the Eighth would be foolish, leaving the south-eastern flank of the army open to Treveri attack.

I will send further single mounted couriers with any developments as long as the way remains open to them, but I cannot risk dispatching any more small parties of seasoned soldiers as I may need them here. I await confirmation of your approval of my decision or your further orders.

Regards.

Your servant and commander of the Twelfth.

Priscus nodded to himself. It was far from good news, but Labienus was absolutely right in staying there and keeping the Treveri occupied. If the east of Gaul was rising, better to keep them separate and busy while putting out whatever fires could be found. The most irksome thing of all was that Priscus had - earlier in the year - been completely on top of this revolt situation, unwrapping the layers of conspiracy one at a time, until the expedition to Britannia had intervened. Had he been left in Gaul with a couple of cohorts at his command, he could have had all this predicted in advance and been ready for it.

The important thing now, though, was to save Cicero and hammer the crap out of the Eburones, the Nervii and their rebellious friends. That seemed to be the main thrust of the revolt. If Baculus and his men had ridden hard and Caesar, Brutus and Fabius were equally swift and efficient in breaking camp and marching east, then there was every likelihood that the Eighth legion would arrive in the morning. Then they could look at giving the rebellious bastards a good kicking.

* * * * *

Cicero staggered out of his doorway and felt a spot of cold rain on his forehead. Despite his feelings about the Gaulish weather, this particular spot was surprisingly welcome. His fever had finally broken during the night and he felt better than he had done since they had first set up camp here. The spot of rain felt like Aesculapius pouring a libation to his recovery from Olympus on high.

He spread out his arms to take in the next few droplets.

His positivity was about to take a knock, he knew, but it was still welcome at this particular moment. Walking slowly and carefully, aware that he was still far from strong and his muscles were tired and underused, he made his way across the fort, noting the burned remains of the buildings and the makeshift shelters and tents that housed the legion as he approached the steps up to the rampart.

Felix was in his habitual place, watching the enemy as though by careful scrutiny he might find a way to simultaneously burn them all to the ground.

"Prefect." he greeted the man as he hauled himself wearily up the stairs.

Felix turned and smiled as he saw his commander. It was the first time Felix had smiled in several days, but it was a hollow pleasure to see the legate up and about.

"Good to see you back in colour, sir."

"Thanks. Now I just need to regain enough strength to wield a sword and then we're sorted."

The two men smiled at one another.

"Looks bleak" the commander noted finally, succumbing to the need for truth and efficiency rather than coddling himself and ignoring the trouble they were in.

"Very" Felix replied, clearly in a similar mood. "We're out of nearly everything. The men are on quarter rations and even that'll run us dry in a day or two - if there's anyone left to starve, of course. And missiles are gone. I've got a few men managing to hammer out metal from broken swords and armour and make a few javelin heads, but we're just about down to flinging our own shit at them now."

"Lovely."

"There's no denying we're in trouble, sir."

"What's the damage? The butcher's bill?"

Felix sighed as he shrugged. "Last count we were down to a little over seven hundred men, including the walking wounded."

"Jove!" Cicero whistled through his teeth. "A tenth, maybe. Six thousand or so dead in so little time."

"If it's any consolation, sir, we've taken at least double that of them. Maybe even treble."

"It's not. They get reinforcements every morning from yet another stinking tribe who think they can do it this time. I don't think there's any less men out there this morning than there were when they arrived. More, possibly. I suspect I know it, but give me your honest professional opinion."

"We're buggered six ways from Market day. Royally shafted with the wide end of a pilum. Made to…"

"I get the metaphors, thank you, Felix. What's next then?"

"Pullo's just reorganising the men on the walls and looking at a possible last-defence redoubt we could make from the ruined granaries for when the walls finally fall. At least we can hold that long enough to bury the eagle and keep it out of their grubby hands. I've sent Vorenus out to collect every used missile they can find. I suspect that this morning will be the last one. 'King' Ambiorix is about ready to wipe us out now."

Cicero nodded. "Then we'll have to make him work for every foot of ground they take, eh?"

"Definitely, sir." Felix pursed his lips. "What annoys me, sir, is not knowing whether they caught and skinned your messenger or whether the miserable little bugger just offed and joined them out there."

Cicero nodded glumly. It had been too many days now for hope to hold out.

The pair looked out in silence over enemy forces that were already shuffling into new positions, mobilizing ready for a new day's action. Neither saw centurion Vorenus until he was almost next to them.

"You'll never believe this, sir."

The two officers turned to look at the weary centurion, who was covered with blood and grime and gripping spears in both hands, half a dozen short shafted ones in his left and a long, Gallic cavalry affair in his right.

"Well done, man. That'll keep us going for a moment longer, eh?"

"No, sir: this."

Vorenus stacked his javelins against the parapet and pointed at the tip of the long spear.

"What is that?"

"Parchment, sir. Good quality parchment. And I reckon it's Roman, sir. Never seen these hairy arse-scratchers writing anything down, leastwise."

Frowning, Cicero reached up and undid the strange item from the spear, lowering it and unfolding it in view of the others.

The three men stared.

Felix barked out a sharp laugh. "That has to be your man, sir."

"Does it mean what I think it means?"

"Can't see anything else it could mean. Men with crests and square shields on their way? I wonder how long this bloody thing's been stuck in the wall?"