Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (41 page)

Fronto had heard nothing unusual, yet something in Aurelius’ voice had triggered action, and now he stood, reaching for his own blade and hissing it from the sheath.

‘Did you hear it
that
time?’ Aurelius asked quietly.

‘No.’ Fronto shook his head and began to relax. ‘You’re hearing things, you big superstitious lump.’

‘No. I heard…’

He was cut off by a blood-curdling wail a matter of mere paces away from them. Fronto, Palmatus, Samognatos and Aurelius’ heads all whipped around to peer off into the darkness, but the fire that lay between them and the scream ruined their night vision. Stooping, Fronto grasped one of the flaming branches from the fire by the dry, cold end and tossed it as hard as he could towards the big stone that loomed in the rough direction of the shriek. None of the men had chosen to sleep too close to the stones, so he was reasonably assured of not setting fire to a man in his blankets if he aimed for one.

Sparks flew from the branch in a spray as it bounced off the stone and landed in the grass, instantly illuminating the far side of the ‘clearing’.

Fronto stared in horror at Luxinio’s face. His eyes were wide with shock, his mouth open in a scream that had died away as his head rose, while the rest of him fell away to the earth, severed at the throat-apple.

The head, strings of crimson gore hanging from its ragged neck, was gripped by the dark, tightly-curled Greek hair. The orange glow faintly illuminated his killer, who stood behind him, glistening pink sword blade still raised. Fronto felt his bowels loosen slightly as he realised the creature had a wolf’s head on a human body.

‘Fuck me!’ shouted Aurelius in a panicked voice. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’

‘Get a hold of yourself, man!’ snapped Palmatus, showing a great deal more control than Fronto currently felt. All around the clearing, the men were now rising from their blankets, swords in hand. The wolf-thing cast the severed head into the fire, where the hair caught and the burning object rolled through the flames towards Fronto, who stepped aside as it passed. Figures began to loom in the darkness behind the wolf-creature, each one a horrible animal parody. A man-thing with a stag’s head, antlers sawn off close to prevent snagging on the branches. A bear-man. Others, too indistinct in the darkness.

‘The Goddess!’ yelled Aurelius. ‘It’s Arduenna!’

‘It’s not Arduenna!’ Fronto snapped angrily. ‘She’s a woman, and she’s on our side!’

The horrible creatures stepped out of the woods and into the clearing and, as if from nowhere, Masgava suddenly appeared beside the wolf-man. One hand went up to the creature’s chin, illuminated orange in the firelight, and yanked the head to one side as the other struck, driving a thick, long knife into the creature’s jugular, spraying dark liquid out into the night.

As the creature jerked and fell away, Masgava’s hand slipped, grasping at the wolf’s hair, and the wolf-mask slid off in his hand, hanging limp as the man who’d worn it collapsed to the ground, clutching at his neck, bleeding out his life.

Masgava was visible largely from the brilliance of his white grin in the dark as he cast the wolf’s head away and turned to face the rest of the animal-masked attackers. As the men leapt forward, Fronto turned to Aurelius. ‘Get a grip on yourself, you daft sod!’ he snapped as he dashed away to join the fracas, grateful that he’d stopped just short of soiling himself and that Aurelius would never know that.

Now, half a dozen of the men were in the clearing and fighting, though they had lost the element of shock that had accompanied their arrival with the pragmatic Masgava’s impressive first kill. Now, the efficiency of Roman-trained soldiers came into play. Fronto ran across and found himself standing facing the stag-man, with Magurix the Remi on his right, fighting off a second wolf-man. Even as he parried a sword strike and delivered a sharp stab to the stag’s upper arm, Fronto had a moment to admire the big, muscular Remi warrior’s abilities. With a heavy sword in his right hand and bearing no shield, Magurix neatly knocked aside the attacker’s blade and delivered a succession of three blows with his left arm: a drive up into the man’s kidney, an uppercut to the wolf-muzzled jaw, and then a sharp elbow down onto the cord that connected shoulder to neck as the man fell back. Before he even hit the floor, Magurix had recovered his sword position and drove the blade into the falling chest.

Gods, the man was fast.

Fronto delivered a second and then third stabbing strike to the stag-man, dancing back out of the way of his desperate counter-stroke, and found himself facing the bear-man beyond, as his previous victim fell to the earth. With a deep breath of smoky, cold night air, he readied himself for the next fight, but paused as the big bear-headed man stiffened and toppled forward to the turf. A neatly-fletched arrow stood proud from the man’s back.

Startled, Fronto stepped back, wondering whether he could make a dash for his shield. None of them had had the time to retrieve their shields, so sudden was the attack.

‘Hold still, Roman,’ the archer said in passable Latin, stepping forth from the darker trees beyond. He was clearly a local, in a yellow-brown tunic and grey checked trousers, his white-blond hair braided at the temples and moustaches drooping below his lips. A second arrow was nocked on the man’s bow. Even as Fronto lowered his sword, he saw shafts plunge into the remaining animal-headed attackers, killing them quickly and cleanly.

Fronto stepped back, sheathed his sword and raised his hands in a placating manner.

So much for lookouts. One of the pair on duty tonight had been beheaded and the other… well there had been no sign of Valgus during the fight. In truth, these woods were so close and dark and unfamiliar he felt it unlikely he’d have spotted an attacker any more than the others.

‘We mean you no harm,’ he said sidestepping the fire in his retreat and closing on his shield.

‘You said Arduenna was ‘on your side’?’ the man asked, narrowing his eyes, arrow still trained on Fronto.

‘We are here with the Goddess’ blessing, on the directions of the druids of Divonanto,’ Fronto said, hoping that the blessing of the Goddess and the aid of druids would be enough to offset the mention of a settlement that remained loyal to Caesar.

‘The Goddess apparently does not protect you from bandits?’ the man said, ironically, nudging the dead bear-man with his toe as he stepped past, bow still raised. Other natives were behind him, also with arrows nocked. Slowly, the men of the singulares stepped back into the clearing, making for their shields at a slow retreat.

‘Perhaps she does?’ Fronto countered. ‘You showed up in a timely manner.’

The archer let out a short barked laugh and let his string loosen, the arrow tipping away from Fronto’s chest. ‘Well said. A Roman with the blessing of druids and our Goddess is a curious thing. What brings you into the great forest?’

Fronto tried to ignore the real possibility that these very men had been among those who had butchered a legion and a half mere months ago, and forced a smile onto his face. ‘We seek Cativolcus, king of the Eburones.’

‘A dozen Romans will not slay our king.’

Fronto nodded. ‘I am aware of that. I said we sought
him
, not his head.’

‘Curious,’ the archer replied, his eyes still slitted in suspicion. ‘I am Ullio, of Espaduno. And you
must
be favoured of the Goddess. This collection of animals has killed many a strong warrior in the night, and we have been hunting them for two days. Gather your goods and follow. We will take you to Espaduno, but I warn you of this: if the king does not wish to receive you, things will not go so well.’

Fronto nodded. ‘Just take us there and we shall see what we shall see.’

As the native hunters, of which there appeared to be the best part of a score, took up guard positions on the periphery, bows still in hand, Fronto and the others gathered their kit and packed  everything on their horses, untying the beasts from the branches where they had been tethered for the night. Once they were on the move again, heading south with the Eburone hunters around them, Masgava leaned close.

‘When we left, I had a quick look to the north path. I couldn’t see Valgus, let alone his body. He’s vanished.’

Fronto sighed. ‘Great. So now we don’t know whether he’s alive or dead or possibly even a traitor like Brannogenos, run off to his masters.’

‘I think we can discount the latter. He and Celer are close as brothers, and Celer is still here, wearing a mask of grief. I fear they were lovers.’

Fronto blinked. ‘What?’

‘Lovers. It is not unknown, Fronto, even among gladiators, let alone legionaries.’

‘I… I just never knew. Keep your eyes open. I think Valgus is still out there somewhere. The bandits came from the south, and so did our Eburone rescuers, but Valgus was guarding the north approach. He’s not the fastest or quietest of men, but if he’s out there, he’ll be shadowing our party.’

Masgava nodded and moved away again.

Fronto rubbed at his temples. His brain hurt. What had Gaul come to in his absence? When he’d last been here it had been a simple matter of dressing like a Roman, standing in a shieldwall and stabbing Gauls. Now here he was being protected by the Eburones - the most rabid of the tribes Caesar could currently count among his enemies - as he sought an audience with their king at the behest of druids, all with the favour of a Goddess who hated Romans.

It was enough to curdle his gut, let along make his brain thump.

* * * * *

Espaduno was an impressive sight for its design, rather than its might, even in the dark. This was no oppidum or simple town. It was a collection of holy places visible eerily in the moonlight, linked by houses and shops in neat roads that were betrayed by the orange lights of torches, fires and lamps, all of it surrounded by a low mound surmounted by a palisade fence.

As they reached the edge of the trees and peered down the slope, they took in the settlement, bathed in a silvery glow. Away to their left, along the hillside, stood a collection of grand - for the Gallic peoples, anyway - buildings, surrounded by its own palisade. A neat collection of streets in a tight web below, within the main palisade, connected three different nemeton, each separated from the civic areas by a wattle fence and circle of trees.

‘That is the sacred springs of Arduenna,’ Samognatos said in a hushed voice, pointing towards the separate area on the hillside.

‘That doesn’t concern me,’ Fronto replied. ‘Only Cativolcus and Ambiorix concern me now.’

He turned to address the white-blond hunter who apparently led their escort. ‘Ullio? Will you be able to provide us with a place to sleep for the night?’

The man turned in surprise. ‘Only if the king tells me so.’

‘We are to see Cativolcus at this hour? I thought we would likely wait for the morning?’

‘The king rarely sleeps.’

Fronto nodded. Neither would he, in the man’s precarious position. ‘Very well. Will you allow me to take companions in to see him?’

‘If he wills it.’

Fronto sighed and followed as the party descended the slope and approached the entrance through the palisade - a simple wooden gate that would hold back a legion for about the time it took to use the latrine. They were held up at the gate for only a moment before Ullio was recognised and they were admitted. The men on guard duty - presumably a reduced number for the night - watched with barely-concealed loathing as they passed, despite the fact that, as far as Fronto was concerned, they bore precious little resemblance to Romans.

Wordlessly, they were led through the dark, packed-earth streets of Espaduno, riding to the end of the settlement that was closest to the sacred springs on the hillside and near to the largest of the three nemeton. Here, the party halted in front of a building of two storeys that looked no different to any other structure in the settlement.

‘Wait here,’ said Ullio authoritatively, and then rapped once on the heavy timber door and pushed it open, walking inside. Fronto stood and waited with the rest outside, feeling the strangest tension at his surroundings and situation. After a long, odd pause, the door opened, and Ullio reappeared. ‘He will see you, and whoever you feel you need to accompany you.’

Fronto felt himself sag with relief. He’d not come up with a viable plan of action if Cativolcus would not see him. ‘Palmatus, Masgava and Samognatos: with me. The rest of you be on your guard, but respectful. We are here as guests, strange as that may seem.’

With a nod to Ullio, Fronto stepped to the door.

‘Your swords and daggers,’ the hunter said, blocking the doorway with his arm. Fronto nodded and drew his sword and pugio, passing them to the blond archer. Behind him the others also removed their weapons. Fronto paused for only a moment, and then turned to his officers. ‘All of them,’ he noted, raising looks of surprise from the others, but a smile of respect from Ullio.

Entirely disarmed, the four men waited for Ullio, and, passing the pile of weapons to his closest man, he gestured for them to enter, closing the door behind and remaining outside.

The large building was one single room, with a mezzanine floor above. A fire in the room’s centre provided most of the heat and a reasonable light, supplemented by a number of braziers. Cupboards and chairs and other furniture lay around the room’s periphery, and a large table was covered with bric-a-brac. The room had one single occupant, which surprised Fronto. He had expected the king to have a guard of several on hand, especially if he had agreed to receive Roman visitors.

‘Your name, Roman?’ The old king’s voice was reed-thin and hoarse, like the whisper of a dying man on the wind, and Fronto felt somehow saddened by the tones. Something about the man’s voice suggested a once-powerful warlord, now old and frail. Oddly, despite everything, he suddenly found himself feeling a touch of sympathy for the old man.

‘Marcus Falerius Fronto, staff officer in the army of Rome under Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Gaul.’

‘Ah,’ the old man smiled. ‘The ‘Proconsul of Gaul’. A title that seems to be contested by many. Not here, though. It is worth remembering that we are Eburones, and not Gauls. Our forefathers came from the great forests beyond the Rhenus, not from the tilled soils of the south. We are the hardened sons of blood-soaked Gods, not smiths and farmers.’