Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (57 page)

Nasica sighed. ‘Sadly it’s not
all
of us.’ Frowning, the optio followed Nasica and the wounded centurion as they climbed the bank to the rampart walk. As the Germans surged forward once again in the wake of the cohorts, the gate guards hurriedly pushed the timber leaves closed and dropped the heavy locking bar into place, piling the sacks and crates next to them.

The three men reached the wall top and crossed to the parapet, where Nasica peered out, surveying the landscape until he spotted the high, bald hill top and the mass of men gathered on it in a shield wall. As he frowned into the eye-watering, pre-dawn murk, a capsarius appeared from somewhere and began to work on the centurion, staunching the blood flow and examining the stump to see whether it could be sealed and patch-clipped or would require a more simple yet brutal cauterisation.

The duty optio followed Nasica’s gaze and blinked as he saw a huge mass of Germans surging up the hill towards the small Roman defensive formation.

‘Who’s the poor bugger, sir?’

Nasica sighed and slumped a little. ‘That is the Primus Pilus being bloody-minded, short-sighted, and suicidal. Idiot.’

‘He’ll not last long up there.’

‘No.’ Nasica straightened. ‘But at least now we have in excess of eight cohorts we stand a chance of surviving the night, eh?’

* * * * *

Cicero stood, tired, his hands flat on the table before him, duty lists and sick lists and supply lists. Everything was lists! The senior officers of the legion, along with the Aquilifer of the Fourteenth, who apparently was being hero-worshipped by the men in the wake of his recent action, stood around the headquarters office sagging slightly.

‘I need suggestions about the supplies, gentlemen. What are we going to do about food?’

‘We’ve got sacks of bucellatum still on one of the carts. Found them during the night while looking for the scorpion bolts.’

The officers shared a look of distaste at the thought of the hard-tack biscuits used by legions on the march. They were emergency rations, no more. But they would do to keep the men alive for a while. About as nourishing as a horse turd, but filling in the short term.

‘Well if that’s what we have, then that’s what they can eat.’

‘Wish we could eat like the damn Germans, sir,’ grumbled a centurion, earning himself a hard look. They had all stood at the walls at some point during the darkness and the first rays of the morning light and watched the barbarians outside the camp feasting on the goods they had taken from both the sutlers’ stalls and the abandoned legionary forage carts.

Worse still had been watching them parade a grisly line of Roman heads on spear tops as they bounced around the camp. It had taken, as predicted, less than quarter of an hour for the barbarians to overcome the small force. Surrender at the end had gained them nothing, as the bargaining officers and men were beheaded and added to the Roman dead.

‘We can last a matter of days, anyway. After that, we will have to look into the problem again. At least we seem to have the measure of them at the walls now.’

The men nodded. With the arrival of the three cohorts to bolster the defences, the enemy had settled into a siege, making only occasional forays to the gates or walls. It seemed the fort was no longer the easy prospect they had expected and sought, and their voracity had quickly faded. The discovery of the forage carts, however, had explained quite clearly the food situation, and now the Germans simply waited for them to starve.

‘All the martial supplies are distributed around the walls. We…’

The centurion paused in his report at a hammering on the door. Cicero frowned. Interruptions were not acceptable during briefings, but in the circumstances, it might be important.

‘Come!’

The door opened and a legionary scurried in and came to attention with a smart salute.

‘Sir!’

‘What is it, soldier?’

The legionary broke into a wide grin. ‘Relief, sir.’

‘The legions?’ Cicero frowned.

‘Dunno, sir, but there’s thousands of Roman and allied Gaulish cavalry at the end of the valley coming this way, and it’s put the shi… it’s unsettled the Germans, sir. Looks like they’re packing to leave in a hurry.’

The tension in the room broke and the officers breathed deep with relief.

‘Thank Mars and Minerva,’ said the most senior centurion, currently filling in as Primus Pilus. ‘I will never be so glad to see the other legions muscling in on our glory!’ he grinned.

Cicero nodded, though the sense of relief he felt was tempered with worry. If the army
was
coming, the Fourteenth were saved. But Cicero knew the general well and shuddered at the thought of the interview that loomed in his near future.

Chapter Nineteen

The forest of Arduenna.

The singulares moved down the narrow track, keeping close together. They were not the well-equipped, sizeable unit who had left Caesar’s camp what felt like years before. Gone was the pack train, almost all the supplies used up and what was left cartable by the men. Gone were the mounts. The area of forest they were in now was not conducive to easy riding, and the trail only Ullio and Samognatos seemed able to follow led often through terrain that no horse could negotiate. That hardly mattered now, since it seemed that Ambiorix and his men were also on foot. How else could they manage such terrain themselves. Gone also, however, were more than half the men.

Fronto ground his teeth as he did every time he made the calculation. Nine remaining of an original twenty. Arcadios, Quietus, Magurix, Iuvenalis and Celer alone remained of the sixteen chosen men, along with Palmatus, Masgava, Samognatos and Fronto. Ullio, of course, could hardly be counted among their number for all his presence.

And that meant that they had lost too many good men along the way:

Galatos, missing in the druidic town of Divonanto, presumably murdered by the traitor. Myron and Pontius, felled in the woods by Segni warriors. Damionis murdered in his sleep. Brannogenos - not such a good man, of course, fled into the woods to plan further harm. Numisius and Biorix alive - presumably - but sent back to Caesar’s army as messengers. Luxinio dead on watch when the animal-headed bandits had attacked, and Valgus also missing since that fight. And finally, Drusus, murdered on watch last night, though no cause of death could be determined without the medical expertise of Damionis. Damn it!

Nine men. Plus Ullio. And rumour suggested that Ambiorix’s small party of warriors would be a rough match for them.

It was a touch of a concern, given that they could not be more than half a day behind Ambiorix as the fugitive king made for the great river and likely to freedom across its waters among the enemies of Rome. What if they caught up and Ambiorix managed to best his pursuers? It was a real possibility, given how weary and travel worn they all were, the evenness of numbers, the unfamiliarity of Fronto’s men with the terrain and the desperation Ambiorix would be labouring with. Desperation lent strength, as Fronto knew from personal experience.

And yet when he thought deeply on it, Fronto managed each time to convince himself that he would win. Ambiorix may have the strength of a desperate man, but Fronto and his men had determination on a level undreamed of. And the sanction of Arduenna, apparently, added to his own personal deities Fortuna and Nemesis.

If only it weren’t for the uncertainty of what Brannogenos, the sigil-draped superstitious traitor, was up to somewhere in the forest.

One way or another it would be settled soon, and Fronto would invoke the name of Nemesis as he took that bastard by the scruff of the neck and bled him for every secret he had, before sending Caesar the head to put a final halt on the destruction, albeit somewhat late in the day.

His reverie swirled in surprise as something clanged off his helmet so hard it almost knocked him over. The small column of men burst into activity as figures poured out of the undergrowth to either side of the narrow track. Fronto reflexively drew his blade and turned. Already, Palmatus and Celer were armed and moving on the ambushers.

Fronto took a step towards them, the familiar rush of adrenaline at the instigation of a fight thrilling through him, but his eyes narrowed, and his feet were already skidding to a halt in the dust as his gaze picked out details.

No mail or helms in evidence. One or two of the more-than-a-dozen attackers bore swords, but even they were ancient, rusted things. Most carried a sickle or a sharpened pole or various farm or craftsman tools. The big brute advancing on Palmatus with furious ire was clearly a smith, the great hammer swinging in his hand no weapon of war, but the tool of an artist.

‘Form up!’ he yelled. Masgava and Samognatos whirled in confusion, but the rest, trained with the legions to obey commands even before they’d heard them fully, were already back out at the dusty path centre, straightening into a line, weapons drawn and ready, but no longer threatening immediate violence.

Masgava and the scout took only a moment to realise what was happening and quickly back-stepped away from the fight. Ullio was already out front, hands up in a gesture of peace. The big blacksmith kept coming, his hammer pendulous, and Fronto stepped in front of the man, reversing his grip on his blade and using the hilt to push aside the hammer. The smith glared at him and began to raise the weapon, but Fronto simply shook his head silently.

Back at the edge of the path, where two boys too young to shave wielded farm tools threateningly, Ullio raised his voice and threw out a question in his own tongue. The smith, his head cocking to one side, narrowed his eyes at Fronto and stepped back to his people.

‘They are refugees,’ Ullio announced, waving at Fronto to put his sword away.

‘I’d guessed,’ the commander replied, nodding meaningfully towards the smith’s hammer as he sheathed his blade. The big man still eyed him suspiciously, but slowly upended the hammer and slid it through a leather loop at his side, where it hung easily.

Fronto turned to the rest of his men.

‘Sheathe your weapons. These people aren’t our enemy.’

The men of the singulares seemed more than happy to put away their swords and settled into an ‘at ease’ stance. The rest of the refugees, at a word from an old man with a pitted iron sword, pushed their way out onto the path. There were perhaps four dozen of them, mostly old men, women and young children. Barring a farmer and the smith, there was a notable absence of men of fighting age, which brought a lump to Fronto’s throat, since everyone present knew what that meant.

The old man rattled off into his own language at Ullio, who nodded, giving him a sympathetic smile, and then replied. After a short exchange, the Eburone hunter turned to Fronto.

‘I won’t distress you with the details. You can guess the main of it. These are all that remains of the settlement at the head of the white river. It seems one of the Roman forces passed through here almost a week ago, though they don’t know who led it. After burying the dead and gathering up what they could find, they are moving west and south, towards the Treveri, hoping to find sanctuary and land to begin again.’

Fronto tried to give them a sympathetic smile. ‘For what it’s worth, you can give them my apologies that a feud between two men has expanded so much that it’s even engulfed their village. I would recommend that you direct them to Atuatuca. The people there seemed to be willing to try and rebuild, and now that that area has already seen devastation, they will be unlikely to see Romans there again in the foreseeable future.’

Ullio nodded and translated his words to the old man. A look of mixed hope and gratitude swept through the refugees at the news that they might still find a home among the Eburones.

Palmatus and Masgava stepped forward to Fronto’s side as the native hunter went back to deep conversation with his countrymen.

‘This situation is getting out of control,’ the big Numidian muttered at him. ‘Pretty soon this land won’t be worth Rome having. It’ll just be a wasteland of ash and misery. Like Carthage,’ he added darkly.

Palmatus sighed. ‘It’s down to us to stop it, my friend. Caesar’s not going to halt any time soon.’

‘When I find Ambiorix, as soon as I’ve wrung a few answers out of the prick, I’m going to skin the bugger alive for bringing this on.’

‘You might want to consider Caesar’s part in it,’ nudged Masgava, and Fronto’s eyes hardened.

‘He’s a mile from innocent, but let’s not start talking about skinning the general, eh? He has big ears that hear many things.’

‘Ambiorix?’ muttered a voice.

Fronto frowned. The smith with the big hammer, standing not far from the three of them had narrowed his eyes to slits and was peering intently at Fronto.

‘Did you say Ambiorix?’ the Roman asked.

The smith immediately started babbling off in his own tongue and turned to the old man, involving him in a conversation. Fronto looked back and forth between them.

‘Ullio?’

The hunter was already asking questions, deep in conversation with the two refugees. He turned with bright eyes and a weary smile.

‘You’re in luck, Fronto. We’re closer than we thought.’

Fronto found himself walking over to them urgently, Masgava and Palmatus at his shoulders. The refugees automatically moved back at their approach, but the old man remained, nodding and chattering with Ullio.

‘Less than an hour from here,’ Ullio said, ‘down a side track in a narrow valley.’

‘Gods, we’re close. We could nail the bastard to a post before the sun goes down if we hurry. We have to catch him.’

‘Well your luck holds,’ Ullio smiled. ‘The reason these people are all so on edge is that a Condrusi warband are ravaging the area on behalf of Caesar. These poor refugees barely got away from them this morning,  but their presence has forced Ambiorix and his men to go to ground in a ruined farmstead and wait until they’ve moved on. These people passed that same farmstead just now and were hurried on by Ambiorix’s warriors.’