Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (53 page)

* * * * *

Atuatuca had changed somewhat since their previous visit. Even from across the valley, Fronto had been able to see the damage that had been wreaked upon the oppidum. Never had it more closely resembled its namesake - the Aduatuca of that eponymous tribe which had been removed entire from the face of history four years ago. The defences were low and crumbled and darkened by ash.

The journey up the sloping path had been carried out in silence. Even the most ardent Roman could not help but be affected by the air of hopeless loss and sadness emanating from Ullio, though his expression remained harsh and grim. Yet another example of Caesar’s wrath being visited upon the Eburones. Much more of this and they would see the last of the hunter, Fronto was sure. When Fronto had returned to the camp following the discovery of Drusus’ body, and breathlessly revealed what had happened with the boar, even Aurelius’ ramblings about the ‘demon Goddess’ had been shushed by the rest while they listened. Ullio had simply nodded once, sharing a knowing look with Samognatos, and then affirmed his intention to stay with them for now. Though he’d not once explained his reasoning, Fronto was sure he’d seen the incident with the boar as clear sanction from Arduenna.

And so he was still with them, though he spent increasing time with the Condrusi scout away from the Romans - especially Aurelius, who jumped at the slightest thing and continually took the Goddess’ name in vain, despite Fronto’s orders to the contrary.

Now, the two natives - hunter and scout - crested the rise and moved towards the fallen walls of the Eburone stronghold. Behind them, the singulares and their commander moved towards the defences, eyeing the destruction with shallow breaths. Whichever of the Roman columns had come through here had been thorough. The walls were less than a man high in most places, crumbled and blackened and tumbled inwards or outwards. Through the wide gaps they could see the charred skeletons of houses, ebony timbers pointing accusingly at the Gods from piles of ash and rubble. Even the dust of the streets was black.

The sounds of a thriving settlement were entirely absent. No animal noises, no children. No trade or manufacture. Nothing. Just the noises of the carrion birds feeding and fighting over the choicest morsels and the sound of a shocked few who had survived.

Those handful of Eburones were at work outside the gates. It was a manufacturing process of the most grisly sort. A few soot-stained men were gathering up the dead and placing them on pyres to render down to ash - pyres which were being constructed by another group from the remaining timbers of the town. Blackened patches with piles of ash around the extramural grass marked the sites of burned down pyres, and a number were in various stages of burning and collapse or embers gradually cooling. Womenfolk were gathering up the cold ash from the finished pyres and scooping it into wine jars and earthenware pots. Others were cutting out shallow pits and carefully laying the jars on an easterly alignment, placing a few charred possessions alongside and then filling in the holes. The sheer number of fresh earth-and-turf mounds spoke volumes as to the death-count of the battle.

‘Caesar takes his vows seriously,’ muttered Palmatus as they moved towards the silent, grisly workers.

‘This wasn’t Caesar. This was Labienus showing mercy.’

‘Mercy?’ Masgava said in a tone of disbelief.

‘No crucifixions. Quick deaths. Only Labienus would afford the Eburones that mercy.’

They fell silent as they moved among the crow-black funeral workers.

‘You,’ Fronto said, not unkindly, to one of the men who had paused and straightened to rub his sore back. The man looked at them and Fronto saw no fear and no anger in his eyes. No life, in truth. The man replied in his own language, and the Roman glanced over at his two natives scouts. Paying him no heed, Ullio and Samognatos between them quizzed the weary, hopeless man, their voices heavy with sympathy. Fronto listened in hopefully and caught the name Ambiorix used three separate times by the local. He waited, trying to exude patience and sympathy, though he was twitching to know what they were discussing.

After a long exchange, Ullio stayed with the man and spoke soothingly to him, while Samognatos turned and strode over to Fronto, gesturing for them to move a respectful distance away from the burials. Fronto realised the presence of Romans among their victims was the worst insult they could have perpetrated, albeit entirely unintentionally.

The Condrusi scout’s strange, permanent smile - the result, Fronto surmised, of some ancient facial injury - seemed horribly out of place in this mass burial and land of the lost, but despite the grin, the scouts eyes were dark with distaste.

‘You know I wish this had worked out another way,’ Fronto said quietly.

‘I know.’

‘And it could have been so much worse. Those in
Caesar’s
path will be suffering so much more.’

‘I know.’

Fronto sighed. ‘What news, then?’

‘We close on him,’ Samognatos said in hushed tones. ‘Two days ago Labienus’ legions came here and it took but half a day for them to reduce the place to rubble. The man said the nobles refused to surrender or even speak of Ambiorix. Now those nobles are gone, and with them almost all their people.’

‘Go on.’

‘The survivors returned to the oppidum yesterday morning, once it was certain that the Roman column had moved safely on, and began the process of gathering and tending to the dead. As the light was failing last night and they were finishing up for the day, Ambiorix passed through with a small retinue of warriors. Apparently there was a bit of a scuffle. A few of the locals took exception to their king’s presence, after what the Romans had done to them for his resistance. They managed to kill one of Ambiorix’s men and wound another, but these men were true warriors and half a dozen locals joined their dead kin before Ambiorix moved on.’

Fronto took a deep breath. ‘We’re only half a day behind him now. He can’t be more than ten miles away in these woods. So close I can almost smell his treachery.’

Samognatos nodded. ‘I am not familiar with the terrain east of here, but Ullio says there is a valley that runs towards the Rhenus and opens out into wider, flatter land towards the edge of the great forest. That is the direction Ambiorix left, and it is the most direct route to the river. There can be little doubt now that the king is making to escape across the water and seek Germanic aid.’

‘Then we have to get to him before he manages to reach that river. We need to speed up our travel.’

Samognatos nodded. ‘There’s more.’

‘About Ambiorix?’

‘No. Not more than an hour after Ambiorix passed through to the east, as the last light went, a huge warband of Germans passed through to the north.’

‘Germans?’

The man thinks they were Sugambri, from across the Rhenus to the east. They are about the nearest of the tribes.’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Caesar gave permission for other tribes to come and raid the Eburones. I don’t like it any more than you, but the Sugambri have sworn oaths to Rome, and are here at Caesar’s invitation.’

Samognatos shook his head. ‘You misunderstand, Fronto. They’re not raiding the Eburones. They’re going north. North is out of the forest. We’re not far from the flat lands now.’

‘So where are they headed?’ Fronto asked with a furrowed brow.

‘There’s no way to be certain,’ Samognatos said quietly, ‘but by my estimation, and Ullio’s too, the road north from here leads to the camp where your legion was destroyed in the winter.’

‘Sabinus and Cotta’s camp?’ Fronto frowned. ‘What would they be going there for?’

‘That’s the other thing. Apparently, while nine of the legions are prowling these woods looking for Ambiorix, the other one is at that old camp, protecting all Caesar’s baggage and wounded.’

Fronto felt his pulse quicken.

‘Who’s in command? Do we know?’

‘They say it is the man the Eburones could not kill.’

‘Cicero, then. You say it was a
huge
warband?’

‘The man said they filled the valley from side to side. Must be every warrior the Sugambri could muster.’

‘Gods help Cicero, then. Let’s hope he’s fortified himself.’

‘Should we not send warning?’ Samognatos asked quietly.

‘No point. The Sugambri would probably be there before our man. Besides, he’d have to go round the Germans to get there. Anyway, now that we know Ambiorix has a party of warriors with him, I’m loathe to release any of our men in case we need them. We’ll just have to hope the poor bastard’s on top form. He’s held a camp against an army around here before.’

* * * * *

Baculus sat up in his sick cot. He was still feeling unwell, though his strength was returning daily now, and his flesh was considerably pinker than it had been. The medicus had even sanctioned him going for a twice-daily constitutional, as long as he stuck to gentle exercise and did nothing stupid.

Time for a walk, he decided, listening to the tell-tale sounds of a force preparing to march. Standing, he used his stick to straighten, more from habit than out of necessity, and walked slowly but steadily from the room.

The camp was sizeable. When they’d arrived a week ago, they’d been surprised to find the defences still of good quality. It had been a simple matter of cutting back the nearest woods to rebuild the palisade and the internal buildings. Cicero had also constructed two large enclosures, each surrounded by equally strong defences, effectively quadrupling the size of the fort in preparation for the arrival of the rest of the army.

The hospital complex was a large one, having taken in the wounded from every legion while their healthy comrades campaigned in the great forest, but Baculus was still the most senior officer within the complex, and ruled the roost of the sick and damaged as though they were a working cohort. Nothing happened in the complex without his knowledge and permission, despite the medicus’ exasperation.

Striding from the door and between the small orderlies’ quarters, he left the hospital zone and emerged in the open space used currently as a parade ground and muster point within the walls. The camp was larger than necessary for its current occupants, and Caesar’s orders - given to Cicero in detail on a tablet - had stated with no margin for misinterpretation that he was under no circumstances to place the legion in jeopardy, and that all forces should remain in camp until the army returned by the kalends of Quintilis. A brief exception had been made upon arrival in order to gather the timber for the camp’s fortifications, but after that time, even parades had been carried out within the ramparts.

Why, then, Baculus pondered, were there several cohorts of men forming up in full kit?

He briefly ran through his days in the hospital bed, wondering if he’d missed a day or two somewhere? No. The kalends was tomorrow.

His eyes picked out Cicero standing on the raised timber platform at the far side with two tribunes, and, the twitch beneath his left eye starting up once again, Baculus walked slowly around the mustering men, closing on the podium.

Cicero was in deep conversation with the tribunes as he stomped up the steps and stopped in front of them. After a few moments of clearing his throat meaningfully, the legate looked up in surprise.

‘Baculus, isn’t it? From the Twelfth? Thought you were removed from duties?’

Baculus saluted gingerly and nodded. ‘Yes sir. Heard all the commotion and thought I’d come see what was happening?’

‘Well, centurion, it appears that our supplies are running dangerously low. I have authorised a forage party to scour the local countryside and settlements and refill our stores.’

‘Sir?’

‘Hard of hearing, centurion?’

Baculus frowned. Labienus he’d got to know, and would take that kind of comment from, as he knew he still commanded the man’s respect. This armoured politician, on the other hand, was looking at him as though he’d crawled out from under a rock.’

‘
Respect
fully, sir,’ he replied, stressing the syllables as though he might push them through that decorative bronze cuirass and make them part of the legate, ‘Caesar’s orders were specific. I was there when they were read out. No leaving the fort until the army arrives on the kalends.’

Cicero’s face fell stony and the man gave Baculus a hard look.

‘Tomorrow
is
the Kalends, centurion.’

‘Yes sir. And
respect
fully, today is not.’

Cicero bridled, but the senior, broad-striped tribune beside him looked distinctly uncomfortable and Baculus realised he had an ally there. The man cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, legate, for the sake of one day…?’

Cicero rounded on his officer.

‘Yes, tribune, we have the supplies to last ‘til the kalends. Possibly even an extra day or more. But think beyond today. The forest of Arduenna is huge. There is every likelihood that the army will be considerably delayed in returning... if they haven’t run into trouble and been slaughtered within its mass! We might be sitting here for weeks yet, awaiting their arrival. Just because the general said they’d be back tomorrow does not mean they
will
be.
Anything
might happen. And what do we do if we fail to replenish supplies and then we find ourselves under siege? What if the Belgae take exception to us and try to repeat their successes of last winter? How long do you think we will hold them off with enough supplies to feed the men four meals each?’

The tribune fell silent, though he was clearly still unhappy. Cicero turned to Baculus again.

‘And the sick, I might add, are a
huge
drain on supplies and resources.’

‘We’ll try to be less sick and wounded for you, sir.’

‘That’s
enough
of that kind of talk!’ snapped Cicero. ‘I have here Caesar’s baggage train and I will not let it or the wounded fall into enemy hands. It’s
one
day. We need to be fully stocked with vittles. What use is a supply train of weapons, equipment and booty if we starve protecting it. The forage party will only be going a few miles and will return before dark. Five cohorts can look after themselves without the walls for a few hours. Stop panicking, centurion, and get back to your cot, where you belong.’