Nemesis

by C. R. May

They awoke to a sky as grey and hard as iron. Bitter winds were stripping the last of the leaves and scattering them in waves as the army of the Senones broke camp and prepared to depart from the scene of their triumph. The great festival of Samhaine was almost upon them and they had reluctantly conceded that they would spend this auspicious day away from their families. Although they now lived hundreds of miles away from their ancestral home in the north and the bones of their kin who remained there, the druids had assured them that the spirit world knew no physical boundaries and the souls of their ancestors would be attracted to them wherever they lived.

  To a man they felt disappointed that they had missed the chance to display the spoils they had plundered from the city as their forebears walked among them, but such was the discipline that Brennus had imposed on the tribe that none had openly complained.

  Solemis bit down on a hard crust as he watched his men dismantle the tents and toss them upon the cart. Each clan had been provided with the means of transporting the booty that they had gained over the course of the summer and, although it had been necessary, Solemis regretted that it had removed the sense of martial menace that had accompanied the clans on their arrival. It was, of course, a small price to pay for the fact that the clans were now fabulously wealthy. As chieftain, the Horsetail’s share belonged to Solemis. He would hold a great feast on their return and distribute potlach to each man, recognising their bravery and fighting spirit during the two battles that summer. Not all men were inherently brave, but no man wished to appear anything less with his woman and children looking on, and the distribution of potlach before the fully assembled clan was an important means of kindling fighting spirit.

  The sound of hammering came from the ridge line, and the Horsetail chieftain looked across and watched the men completing the giant cages as he gnawed idly on his crust. The legs, arms and heads of the giants were already complete, and the last of the timber and brushwood was being stacked against the base. He glanced up and sniffed the air. Snow was in the offing, and soon. It was good that they were leaving this day. His ride to Rome had cost them a full month, the time it would take them to transit the mountains now that they were restricted to the pace of the wagons, and the sense of urgency to be away from this place was writ large on the faces of those around him.

  Within the hour the wagons had collected in the valley bottom and the men were ringing the cypress grove in their war gear. The knot of trees stood hard on to the site of the second battle of the summer, and they all knew that it had been a major factor in the overwhelming victory that day. It had shielded the Crow clan as Crixos had led them in the charge that had routed the Etruscan left wing and wiped out the zilach and his commanders. The enemy phalanx had broken and run the moment that their banners had been beaten down, and although Crixos had fallen in the attack, each man there acknowledged the debt that would need to be repaid to the spirits inhabiting the place before they left for home.

  The warriors parted as a group of druids escorted a party of sullen men down from the ridge line. The Etruscan captives had been held within the bowl of a steep depression ever since the battle, surviving on spoiled food and scraps, and the smell of loose bowels hung about them like a shroud. Despite their pathetic state the Senone warriors glowered at them as they passed, their heads hung low in shame. They had all witnessed the collapse of the army of Clevsin; no Celt would allow himself to be taken alive if it was within his power to fight on, and they knew the captives to be less than men – men without honour.

  Before them the branches of the trees were festooned with ropes, the loop that terminated each one confirming the fears of each man who risked a glance. As the druids began their dedication to Lug, the men were led forward and the massed ranks of Senone warriors set up a low keening sound as the grotesque fruit sprouted on the boughs. Soon it was finished and the army moved across to the river. It had been the focus of the battle, the place where Brennus had led the army in its fight, and the druids gathered there as another hundred downcast captives were led down the slope towards them. The tributary had been little more than a collection of shallow pools during the heat of the summer, but the autumn rains had restored it to its glory and the central pool was now wide and deep. A score of the druids waded into the shallows and called to the chosen warriors to hand them their shields. The men had been chosen by their chieftains as a reward for their bravery in the great battle, and the faces of the selected warriors shone with pride as they handed them across, basking in the congratulations of their clansmen and friends at the honour shown to them.

  The first of the Etruscans were manhandled to the bank as the chief druid intoned a dedication to Teutates, the god of the tribe. The guards shoved them forward into the shallows, and the terrified men were immediately gripped by a pair of russet clad druids and forced to their knees. The holy men pressed down with the shields and waited for the frantic thrashings to lessen and grow still, each man meeting his end as his character dictated. Denied any chance of escape by the mass of Gauls pressing in on them, most remained stoical to the end, but a few offered wealth for their lives and fewer still managed to rediscover the will to fight and die that had deserted them in battle.

  As the sun drew itself a full span above the hills to the east the sacrifice to Teutates were completed and the army moved up to the ridge. The wicker men had finally been completed the previous evening, and the carpenters stood ready with the final cover that would seal the hatch at the base. There were five of the wicker giants lining the ridge, each one facing towards the city perched on its rocky outcrop. As the army set up a low rhythmic beat using their spears and shields, the remaining prisoners were led across the ridge line to have their worst fears confirmed. They were not to be released; that morning’s sunrise had been their last.

  Casting wistful looks towards the safety of the city walls across the vale, the Etruscans descended the slope in a shuffling mass. The druids moved forward to parcel the ragged column into five roughly equal groups, and they were herded towards the base of the wicker men by spear wielding Celts. Resigned to their fate, the men struggled to overcome their feelings of dread and pulled themselves into the body of the giants. Crammed full the wooden bodies began to sprout arms, legs and heads as the increasingly terrified inhabitants clawed at the last vestiges of freedom. A haunting wail came from the prisoners as druids moved forward with brands and began to thrust them into the kindling at the base of each giant. Soaked in fats and oils the bundles caught immediately, and within moments wispy tendrils of smoke began to rise into the morning chill. As the men above began to howl and moan in terror, the first fronds of flame flickered from the faggots. Suddenly the fire took hold with a deep whoomph, and the chief druid cried the dedication to Toranos as the flames rose to engulf the lower legs of the wicker men and the Senone warriors filled the air with the staccato beat of their weapons.

  As the flames climbed to engulf the sacrifices, the victorious Senones turned away to collect their mounts for the long ride home. Solemis found himself near to Brennus, and the chieftains detached themselves from the swirling mass with unspoken accord. They stood awhile in silence, each man comfortable in the other’s company. An amphora of wine lay discarded from the previous evening’s celebrations and Solemis nudged it with his foot. To his surprise it still felt heavy, and he hooked a forefinger through the handle and scooped it up. He handed the wine across with a tired grin as Brennus came back from his thoughts.

  Solemis ran his eyes across the valley before him as his leader drank. It was, he knew, the scene of his people’s greatest triumph, the most complete victory of arms in the history of the tribe. Bards would spend the winter moving from clan to clan as they collected the tales of the fighting here, entertaining them all with their compositions. The druids would add another glorious episode to the record of their tribal history, Solemis reflected with pride. He had been there, and he had played a pivotal part in the battle. The heroic defence of the left flank by the Horsetail clan
was sure to be prominent in the retelling. He had brought unprecedented fame and honour to the clan in his first year as chieftain – so why did he feel so despondent? Solemis sighed as he took the amphora from his leader before gulping down the dark liquid. Brennus caught his mood, clapping the young chieftain on the shoulder as he moved away. His clansmen were waiting patiently nearby, and Solemis walked across and smiled weakly as he took the reins from Albiomaros, his blood genos.

  The wicker men were roaring torches now and the terrible screams had petered out. The victory had been gained and the gods propitiated. It was time to go home. Hoisting himself into the saddle he walked the horse to the head of his clan and turned its head to the east. As the army put the devastated valley behind them, Solemis glanced down as a petal of snow appeared on his sleeve.

  Two

  The senators reclined in warmth as the world outside shivered. It was the coldest winter in living memory, and Numerius Fabius Ambustus, tribune of Rome, reflected on the changes it had wrought to the city as he waited impatiently for the concluding debate.

  The first snows had fallen on the incredulous population soon after the Senone delegation had departed the walls and ridden north. At first people had laughed and stared in wonder at the unseasonal fall, but as the snows had begun to collect to drift among the gilded statues of the forum their humour had slowly given way to unease. Cold snaps were not unknown in the city. The occasional wind would sweep the frozen air in from the peaks of the Apeninnus and Chione would scatter her deposits across the seven hills. This year, however, the winter had gripped Rome like an angry bear, and the snow nymph had come to stay.

  The citizens had quickly lost their sense of levity as the simple need to survive had preoccupied their waking thoughts. The shortening daylight hours saw a steady procession of carts and individuals leaving the city before dawn and returning with their ever-decreasing loads of fuel to feed the home fires. Country folk had taken advantage of the desperation among the city dwellers, and a cartload of good quality firewood would have brought them a healthy profit had it not been for the need to pay the local thugs to protect them, usually from the depredations of the very same men. Soon, even this supply had lessened and dropped away as the continuing snowfalls made the roads impassable and the dangers of the city had outweighed any potential for profit.

  Yet another patrician was on his feet bemoaning his lot, and Numerius shifted as he listened with disgust. Many of the small workshops littering the city had closed due to the lack of fuel to feed the fires and furnaces – rents were going unpaid. The men who worked in such places remained huddled together with their families in the unheated rooms of their insulae. Numerius knew that unless the thaw came soon, many more people would die of hunger and cold. Scant wood supplies had needed to be reserved for bakers’ ovens, and the situation in the poorer areas of the Quirinal was already grim. Increasingly the hoodlums who were sent by these wealthy landlords to extract rents from the unfortunates were finding whole families dead and beyond caring upon forcing entry to their squalid rooms.

  The Master of Debate caught the senator’s eye, and a raised eyebrow at the hopelessness of his cause was enough for him to conclude his address and resume his seat with a self-satisfied grunt. Many there would sympathise with Sulpicius. The gods knew that they were all losing money this accursed winter; trade had all but dried up as the roads had succumbed to the great freeze. The citizens had watched in wonder as the waters of the Tiberis itself, the sacred river of the city, had slowly grown sluggish and finally stilled completely as a thick crust of ice gripped the vital artery.

  As military tribunes, Numerius and his brothers Quintus and Caeso had used the power invested in them to raise a legion of men to keep the road open to the port of Ostia eighteen miles downstream. By their efforts grain supplies from Africa had kept flowing into the city despite the cold, and Numerius shook his head in disappointment as he looked back towards Sulpicius.

  Quintus Sulpicius Longus had been, like the Fabii brothers themselves, elected to the position of military tribune of the city, but there the similarity ended. He was grasping and conceited, and Numerius watched and snorted in derision as the man sat basking in the congratulations of his friends. They could stand the shortfall – and besides, their homes were warm and the public baths still functioned, so what did he expect people to do? Many had already sold anything they had considered to be of value at a knock-down price to feed fires and children and were left with nothing. These were fellow Romans after all; most men there realised that a little consideration, a little nobilitas indeed, was expected of them in the current situation.

  Despite the icy grip of winter the Senate House was full, the air thick as the confines of the debating chamber added the body heat of almost three hundred of the nobility to the effects of the underfloor heating. Lamps and torches contributed further to the heat in the room as they fought back the gathering gloom of the short winter day, and Numerius was beginning to find the aromatic scent of the incense that wafted across from the braziers cloying and overpowering. He could wait no longer, and he rose from his seat and held the Master of Debate with a look until the man inclined his head in his direction.

  Numerius returned a small nod of thanks and waited patiently as the hubbub made by scores of conversations slowly stilled before beginning his address. ‘All of you are aware, I am sure, of the seriousness with which I discharge my duties and responsibilities as a tribunus militum of our great city.’ He paused as a titter arose from the direction of the men of the Sulpicii and their allies. The Master of Debate shot them a stony glare and held it until they had composed themselves. The gens were a traditional ally of the exiled dictator, Camillus, and thus a natural enemy of the Fabii. Numerius’ family had been one of the leading movers in the prosecution of the old general for embezzlement of public funds, the money from which, he now knew, had been used to persuade the Gauls to migrate across the Alpes. Numerius drummed his fingers lightly on a fold of his toga as he waited for the interruption to fade. Finally all was still, and he continued. ‘As I have already stated, before I was interrupted,’ Numerius shot the men opposite a look of exasperation, and they smirked with unconcealed delight. ‘The Fabii take their responsibilities extremely seriously. It is not our way to occupy the floor of this great house, and the precious time of the honoured senators within, with tales of woe about the inability of the dead to pay their rent on time.’

  An audible gasp escaped the lips of Sulpicius, and the benches were swept by a wave of muttering. Senators rose to their feet and sought to catch the eye of the Master of Debate as laughter, catcalls and jeers filled the room. The man flicked up his hand and swept the chamber with an icy glare as, one by one, the senators returned to their seats. The Master of Debate fixed Numerius with a stare and raised a brow as he indicated that he continue with his address. The message was clear. Both sides had scored hits and the game was square; if he had a point to make he had better make it now or lose the opportunity.

  Numerius suppressed a smile. ‘Despite the fact people are dying in the great cold, work must still go on. I refer of course to the urgent repairs that have been delayed by lack of funding to the city walls.’ A further round of catcalls broke out, and Sulpicius crossed his arms and shook his head from side to side in great exaggerated sweeps as those around him hooted and jeered. He pulled himself to his feet and waited for permission to speak, but the Master of Debate averted his gaze and the senator cast an amused glance at his allies and slumped theatrically back to his seat as Numerius resumed. ‘I must reiterate the points that I have made on earlier occasions to you here. The Gauls promised to return in the spring, and I believe them to be men of their word. They will return, and we must be fully prepared to meet them. I have met their leaders and seen the army in battle, as have my brothers. Their weaponry is of the highest order and their military acumen is matched only by their ferocity.’ The Sulpicii and their allies were feigning a lack of interest as they stared arou
nd the room or smoothed the folds of their togas, but Numerius pushed on. ‘I hope and believe that the army of Rome will defeat these invaders before they reach the city, but we would be failing in our duty to the citizens who rely on us for their ultimate safety if we did not take precautions against the unthinkable.’

  A gasp of shock rolled around the debating chamber and Sulpicius shot to his feet once again. This time the Master of Debate appeared to share the feelings of the majority in the room and he indicated that Sulpicius speak with a curt nod as Numerius regained his seat. His brother, Quintus, winced at his side and, leaning across, pursed his lips as he let out a low whistle. ‘A bit strong brother, if you don’t mind me saying; that was a mistake.’ Numerius grimaced slightly as he reluctantly recognised the truth of Quintus’ judgement. The men of the senate were in perfect agreement with just about any other citizen, still holding the view of the barbarians from the north that the Fabii had harboured themselves on the road to Clusium the previous summer. What possible threat could a horde of hairy-arsed savages pose to the army of Rome? Their animal charges would dash themselves upon the walls of Roman disciplina like storm waves upon a cliff face.

  Numerius stole a look across to Sulpicius as he gripped the folds of his toga in the classic pose of a statesman – thumbs tucked behind the fabric, chest puffed out, chin slightly raised – and his heart sank. He had miscalculated badly and lost the day. His enemy began to speak with the calm assurance of a man who knew that the chamber was with him. ‘I thank my friend for the concern that he shows for the future of the city, I really do, but I would suggest that the awe and dread in which he holds these barbarians is rather misplaced. I, and many of you here today, also saw what can only be described as a collection of their better sort when the delegation was lodged on the Field of Mars last autumn. Well,’ his face broke into an amused smile as he looked about the room, ‘if that was an example of their finest, I think you will all agree that we have little to fear!’