Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (39 page)

His sharp eye caught the airborne missile as it shot towards its target and he leapt forward, knowing he would not make it. Legate Fabius was unaware, concentrating on the minutia of command. The arrow would take him in the neck - an instant and definite kill.

Fabius threw himself forward, shield extended as far as possible.

The arrow passed him, not stopped by the shield. He’d not been quick enough to prevent the strike. But the feathers of the missile brushed the shield’s bronze edge as they passed, and the course of its flight changed at the last moment, the shaft plunging off-course into Fabius’ shoulder, some of the force of the blow dampened by the leather strops hanging from his cuirass. Legate Fabius gasped in pain as his tribune namesake fell to the ground at the end of his dive, shield falling away.

‘Get that archer!’ bellowed Crassus to the nearest optio, who drove his men into the woods at the arrow’s source.

‘It would appear I owe you a life,’ the legate of the Eighth said, his eyes wild as the wounded tribune slowly and painfully climbed back to his feet.

‘My pleasure, sir,’ he answered with a weary smile.

‘No,’ the legate replied, chuckling. ‘
That
is a pleasure.’ He stopped and cupped his hand to his ear. Fabius listened. The sounds of fighting had subsided, and the cacophony of the Gallic carnyx lowed its injured bovine call across the island, indicating the end of the fight and a desire to parlay.

‘We appear to have won, sir.’

‘It appears so.’

Fabius sighed as the medicus began to slowly and carefully unwrap his tightly-wound bandage. Maybe he would be able to go find his sword if it was over. He would need it if Caesar was planning to turn on the Treveri.

* * * * *

Priscus watched the dejected Menapii leaders as they were escorted from Caesar’s headquarters by the implacable horsemen of Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalry. They had attempted to bargain with the general, even knowing that they had lost everything. They had tried to seek favourable terms, and Caesar had simply ignored them and laid out his own conditions which, after an hour of bluster and wheedling, they had found no alternative but to accept.

Commius - chieftain of the Atrebates and long-time loyal supporter of Caesar - would be given overall control of the Menapii, who would submit to his every command. The Atrebates would station their own men in Menapii territory to be certain of their ongoing submission. The usual hostages given, slaves taken, reparations, donations, and the like had followed. Already, before negotiations had even begun, all the druids had been forced to announce themselves and step forward, and without delay or pause for thought, Caesar had ordered the strange Gallic priests crucified along the causeway. Priscus had, of course, argued against it, but the general was not to be halted in the matter. Shame, since they undoubtedly had information that Priscus felt they could very much do with.

‘Come inside, Priscus. You’re letting in the damp and cold.’

The prefect turned to the interior once more, where a few of the more senior officers had remained after the negotiations at the general’s request. Dropping the tent flap back into place, Priscus returned to his seat.

‘I am of a mind to travel with my hammer of five legions and crush the Treveri against the anvil of Labienus,’ the general said thoughtfully, peering at the map on the tent’s dividing wall. ‘I sent him three legions and the baggage on the basis that we would be moving south after the Menapii fell. Then the army will combine once more in order to deal with the Eburones and their craven leader.’ He took a deep, cleansing breath. ‘Now, we could travel upriver from here along the Rhenus to the Mosella and then back into Treveri lands. It’s a deal further, but faster terrain. Or we could cut directly across the forest of Arduenna. Much shorter, but troublesome going for a full army.

‘Faster is better,’ Antonius said from the shadowed edge of the room. ‘The men are weary after two months of endless raids and sieges against these two northern tribes. If you give them too long to ponder before they are committed once again, you may find them indolent or flagging. Added to that is the possibility that the Treveri and their allies might fall on Labienus before we arrive. Better to move fast and combine the army all round.’

‘
I
, on the other hand, would
avoid
the forest,’ Priscus noted, snapping a glare at Antonius. ‘A hundred and fifty-odd miles of stomping through unfamiliar, tough, enemy territory? Not favourable by any stretch of the imagination, and that’s if your scouts can find a clear way through that nightmare that allows for legions, cavalry and wagons - Fabius and Furius reported that there’s hardly a track big enough in the whole place to take even a horseman unless he ducks a lot. If you travel along the river bank, skirting the great forest and Eburone territory we might learn something of use about Ambiorix in our journey. Are the Treveri enough of a threat? Labienus already crushed them months ago, and now he’ll have three legions instead of one.’

Caesar pursed his lips. ‘My sources inform me that following his prior victory, Labienus was his usual peaceable self, allowing the tribe to return to their lands with just a hard word and a smack on the behind. Such magnanimity the Belgae simply consider weakness. Mark me: he has not seen the last of the Treveri. And do not forget that, while Labienus may have three legions, and may be able to deal with one tribe, we now know that Ambiorix is not in the north. If he is not among Nervii and Menapii lands, then he is south - close to the Treveri. That being the case, Labienus could be facing not only what is left of the Treveri, but also any other combined force the Eburone traitor has managed to raise. With three legions, if the worst happens, he should be able to hold even against the largest force until we arrive to lend a hand, but the Treveri are the remaining powerful ally of Ambiorix, and my focus should naturally fall there next. You would prefer I turn on the Eburones directly and risk Fronto? I have given him ample time, after all.’

Priscus simply sat back wearily. The general spoke sense. Campaigning against the Nervii and Menapii had been hard work, but the two tribes were now certainly unable to support Ambiorix. Where
was
Fronto? The whole reason for his hunt was to provide Caesar with an alternative route to burning the Belgae to ash in his vengeance, but already the general had brought death and destruction to another great tribe, and now he turned to a third. Priscus was unpleasantly aware of the mood among the auxiliary cavalry - many of them Belgae. Desertions among the allies had risen threefold since the start of the Menapii campaign, and things would only deteriorate as the Treveri were crushed.

He nodded.

‘And what then, Caesar?’ asked Marcus Antonius, sitting over to one side with his ubiquitous flask of wine. ‘When you have crushed all the tribes Ambiorix would rely upon?’

The general’s brow furrowed and his eyes glinted.

‘Then we will trap the fox and tear him to pieces. Fronto will have had far more than the time I offered him, and I will not see this season end with that animal free to cause further trouble. I have vowed his death and I
will
have it.’

Priscus took a deep troubled breath and glanced towards the closed door. A couple more weeks, then. A month at most, before Fronto’s hunt was to be consumed by Caesar’s vengeance - surgical strike replaced by the mallet of the general’s wrath.

He turned back to the general, who was moving on with his briefing.

Fortuna be with you, Fronto.

Chapter Thirteen

Deep in the forest of Arduenna

‘Where the hell are we now?’ Fronto gave Samognatos a dark stare, and Masgava and Palmatus shared a look and braced themselves for the latest attack of Fronto’s bad mood.

‘The oppidum of Atuatuca.’

Fronto shook his head. For the past week or more, they had moved back and forth through the more major tracks in the oppressive forest of Arduenna, even to the point where the hill regions ended and they looked down to the north over Menapii territory, where Fronto had almost expected to see Belgic armies massing against them. They had maintained a steady easterly direction, but roved a great deal at a nerve-gratingly slow pace in the process, covering Eburone territory and the heart of the great forest. Rarely had they come across any real settlement, and when they had, Fronto had kept the main force with him, while Samognatos and Magurix had gone ahead along with Biorix, the Gallic engineer, to investigate and pick up any information.

News was scant. Apart from the rumours that Caesar was now laying waste to the Menapii - near where they had been five days ago, Fronto noted with irritation - they had picked up precious little of Cativolcus. Rumour suggested that the second king of the Eburones was trying to obfuscate and keep himself as far from worldly events as possible, still harbouring a deep-in-the-bone loathing of his brother king, along with a very real fear that Rome would soon rage through his lands like a forest fire, destroying all in its path.

It was a very accurate fear, and Fronto could hardly blame the man for hiding himself, but the fact remained that as well as keeping him from harm’s way, it also kept him out of reach of those who would provide any kind of aid, such as seeing his hated brother removed from the world.

During more than a week of travel, only twice had they heard rumours of the old king’s whereabouts. The last had proved to be complete fiction, and they had arrived at Avendura to find it dull, lifeless and miserable, the few occupants eking out a hard life after the death of many of the working menfolk in the previous year’s rebellion. Though the inhabitants were approached by what had appeared to be three natives, the townsfolk were hardly forthcoming, apart from snarling that Ambiorix had ruined them by taking their men off on a pointless uprising and that the old Cativolcus was no better and, no, he had not set foot in Avendura within living memory.

And so they’d moved on in search of more useful information. Fronto had argued forcefully that this was a fool’s errand that they’d been sent on by druids, of all people, and so it should hardly be a surprise that they were finding nothing of use, wandering endlessly and slowly in a dangerous forest. He’d even advocated returning to Condrusi lands and skinning a few of the druid bastards to find out where the old King and his young brother might actually be - after all, the bloody druids had failed to mention in their grand suggestion for Fronto’s journey that the old king might be hiding and could be harder to find than Ambiorix himself.

Samognatos had patiently reminded him that the locals they were speaking to were genuinely displaying no love of either Eburone king, and that whatever trouble they were having finding Cativolcus, Ambiorix would likely be having just as much difficulty, if not more. And while Brannogenos was out there somewhere, they’d heard nothing of him and experienced no difficulties other than a few minor scuffles with bandits. What his objectives were was anybody’s guess, but it seemed unlikely he was connected to Cativolcus. Instead, he had probably gone in search of Ambiorix.

Searching this damned endless mountain forest with its taciturn, recalcitrant occupants for two men was like searching the Mare Nostrum in a rowing boat for two particular flatfish. Fronto’s mood had been on the descent for many days now, and his two officers had stopped voluntarily conversing with him some time ago.

And now here they were, at the second location rumour held to be the hiding place of Cativolcus.

Or rather, as far as Fronto could see, they weren’t.

‘This,’ Fronto said with an exaggerated patience that they all knew was not a true representation of his mood, ‘is not Atuatuca. I’ve
been
to Atuatuca. It’s a big walled place where the Sambre and the Mosa rivers meet. And if we were there, I’d be able to see the lumps and bumps of all our camps and ramparts from when we besieged the place, burned it to ashes and enslaved the entire population.’

He took a deep breath as something he should have thought of before occurred to him for the first time. ‘Anyway, Atuatuca is the oppidum of the Aduatuci! Nothing to do with the Eburones. Why are we going there? We’re outside Eburone lands, then? Samognatos, what the hell is going on?’

The Condrusi scout hoisted up his perpetual smile to contain a notch of genuine humour.

‘Aduatuca of the Aduatuci. Atuatuca of the Eburones. It is a fine distinction, certainly, but an important one, for they are different places.’ As Fronto opened his mouth to shout yet again, Samognatos shrugged. ‘The Aduatuci were linked to the Eburones. They were…’ he searched for an explanation that might suit Fronto. ‘Think of them as cousins to the Eburones. Both tribes descend from the blood across the Rhenus, which separates their whole race from ours. Aduatuca - or Atuatuca equally - is a Germanic term for a ‘fortress’. The Aduatuci were the ‘fortress’ people and, as you can see, this oppidum of the Eburones deserves just such a term.’

Fronto sagged. Samognatos certainly knew his stuff, though his explanations tended to go off on tangents occasionally or spill over into rambling accounts of tribal history and politics. Instead of continuing the debate, he looked up at the great ridge that ran north-south to a spur which looked particularly unassailable.

‘We’re
all
going in, then,’ Fronto said flatly.

‘Sir?’

‘Look, we’ve visited numerous of these places and everything Roman that might put them off talking has stayed out of sight with me. I think we’ve now agreed that the locals have no love of their kings. So if neither Cativolcus nor Ambiorix are there, we shouldn’t have any trouble. And if he is there, then I want to speak to the old goat anyway. Now how do we get in?’

Samognatos shrugged and pointed to the western side of the huge ridge with a plateaued top. ‘There is a path you can see from here that winds to the top.’

‘Come on, then.’

Fronto started to walk his tired horse across the wide valley, the rest of the singulares falling in behind. The mountain loomed as they approached, and Fronto had to admit to a startling geographical similarity in some respects to that other ‘Aduatuca’ where Priscus had almost died four years ago. Throw in an approach road at the narrow end and heavy walls and the place would be horribly familiar. In fact, where he was riding right now was about where he’d stood with Tetricus and learned how to measure a cliff’s height. Strange - this year seemed filled with startling reminders of times long gone and people he’d lost.