Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  His world had then shrunk from an attack of eighteen men to an assault by six. He realised that the archers had gone off the other ways and his unit was relying on the slinger. Some might say slingers were less effective, but Fronto had nearly had his brains knocked out of his head with a slingshot twice now, and he would disagree. The Remi scout led the group, the slinger behind, then two lithe and dangerous looking legionaries that he vaguely recognised, followed by the engineer, and then him.

  It took what appeared to be only a couple of dozen heartbeats to reach position behind an ailing yew tree and its surrounding undergrowth, and the Remi gave another little crake call. It was answered in only a few heartbeats by a ‘kua kua’ from somewhere nearby, out of sight. A heart-stoppingly long pause was finally followed by a third call.

  No sooner had that final noise risen than the Spaniard who had been crouched near the tree, bullet already in his sling, rose and whipped it round just once, his arm coming up and over as he released the cord at the top of the arc. It amazed Fronto to watch a skilled slinger at work, and there were no better than those drawn from the Balearic Islands. Youths and the unskilled would whirl the damn thing round for hours, making a ‘whup-whup’ noise. Even the damned treacherous tribune Hortius a couple of years ago had whirled it three times before striking Fronto, but a truly skilled professional would be able to rotate it just once, the only sound being the faint flap of the loosened thong after and the hum of the bullet through the air.

  The figure on the rampart disappeared instantly, thrown backwards by the blow to the face, most certainly dead before his feet left the ground. As Fronto strained to look left, the next man had also gone and even as he squinted he saw the third vanish silently, a shaft - invisible at this distance - through his throat.

  The wall was clear.

  Without the need for commands, the engineer with the rope ran forward and uncoiled it, holding the end near the iron grapple - a naval design, but put to good use here too. With a few test swings, the soldier heaved the rope up over the rampart. Fronto couldn’t see the other groups, but the engineer with his party was clearly an expert, and the grapple caught and held, even when he tested his considerable bulk on it. Pulling it taut, he nodded to the Remi scout, who grasped hold and began to climb fast, hand over hand and legs dangling.

  Fronto hated climbing ropes. Always had. It was one of the few exercises Masgava had had him doing last year that he truly loathed. But now, at least, he was grateful for the practice.

  By the time the Remi had reached the top - Fronto mentally noted that he must learn these men’s names - the engineer was already on his way up and the slinger was spitting on his hands and rubbing them ready for the climb.

  Fronto, determined not to be that officer who was ‘just along for the ride’, made sure he was next, before the other two legionaries, and as the slinger, light, lithe and energetic, neared the top of the rope, Fronto grasped and began to haul.

  Once more he marvelled over the difference last year’s fitness regime with Masgava had made. As he struggled up the rope, using his feet and his hands both to pull and push, he considered how two years ago he would never have stood a chance of making it to the top, let alone quickly and without exhausting himself.

  As he reached the parapet, one of the men reached out and helped him over onto the rampart top, where he stayed in a crouch and scanned the area. The same was happening at the other two assault points. Because there was a good chance that other guards across the compound were watching the walls occasionally, the Remi scouts were standing, taking the position of the dead defenders, while the others crouched out of sight.

  The area enclosed by this rampart was heavily green and wooded, with a small cluster of huts near a clearing at the centre, where rituals were presumably carried out. It was empty, apparently, or at least the priestly inhabitants were safely ensconced in their residences. The far rampart had men spaced wide-apart along it, around to the western and northern sides, but no alarm had been given. There was only one single guard on the wall between the nemeton area and the main town, and he appeared to be slumped, possibly asleep, but certainly inattentive in any case.

  Where the two walled areas’ ramparts joined, Fronto had expected some sort of barrier, given the lack of a gate between the two enclosures, but it seemed he was in luck. The wall carried on uninterrupted from where he crouched all the way to the main gate, though the concentration of men increased there.

  Even as he was turning to give a signal, he realised it was unnecessary. The parties that had scaled the walls further along were already in motion, led by the irrepressible Masgava and Palmatus. The Remi scouts remained in position to allay any suspicion while the other ten men scuttled along the wall to join him, keeping low and in the shadows.

  In a matter of twenty heartbeats, fourteen men were gathered around Fronto and moving off, drawing their weapons with a quiet rasp and leaving the three Remi standing silent and still in position.

  A thrill throbbed in Fronto’s blood and he realised only as he caught the worried expression of the legionary next to him that he was probably grinning like a jackal, or possibly a wolf. He was right where he should be at last, after almost two years of faffing about, and even more than that of meddling in political chicanery. He was in the midst of combat. He had trouble stifling the laugh that almost burst from him. The legionary next to him afforded him a couple of feet of extra space, in the manner that sane men avoid the mad.

  He didn’t care.

  The party of fifteen soldiers burst onto the main town’s defences like a wave breaking over rocks, overrunning the two guards standing closest, who hardly had the chance to see their death approach in the failing, dim light. Fronto felt his blade meet the resistance of only tunic and cloak before sliding between ribs and tearing the life from the Nervian guard, while his other hand went around the head and clamped over his mouth to prevent the cry. The next guard along the wall opened his mouth to yell a warning and toppled backwards, a dark arrow shaft jutting from his eye socket.

  Other Nervii were trying to bring weapons to bear and shout out a warning, but Masgava was faster than any of them, dispatching one with a backhanded strike across the neck as he ran and then ploughing the other down to the wall top, knocking all the breath from him and killing him with one masterful blow. Behind him, legionaries moved to take care of others. Palmatus was pointing out targets before he himself slammed open the door to the tower above the gate and rushed inside.

  They were here! It had sounded like an impossible task, as far as Antonius was concerned.

  A cry went up from the wall at the far side, but they’d reached the tower above the gate. The game was up and they were discovered, but it no longer mattered. Two legionaries were busy putting down another guard.

  ‘Now!’ he yelled.

  With the professionalism and discipline of the Roman military, his force split off and splintered. The archers and the slinger disappeared into the tower, along with another legionary, fast on the heels of Palmatus. Two brief squawks within announced the success of the Roman officer, and then two of the missile troops appeared at the openings, loosing arrows and bullets down at any defender they could see. The third was not visible for a long moment, but then finally appeared, his arrow blazing with golden fire as he drew his bow string back and released. The fiery shaft shot up into the air, trailing smoke like a comet.

  Fronto and the engineer took up positions on the wall, to either side of the tower, preparing to hold the gate top from any more Nervii coming along the wall, which they would be doing in force as soon as the alarm had spread throughout Avenna and they had mobilised a stronger defence. The three Remi were now on their way to lend a hand, and the remaining legionaries split into two groups of four and descended the rear slope of the rampart, Masgava leading them as they rushed the men on duty at the gate below. The four Nervii on the ground had no chance, and were butchered with little resistance. Fronto peered over the edge and realised
that he had lost two of those men in the assault, but Palmatus and three others were standing in an arc, preparing to meet the Nervii from the city, who were approaching with a roar, somewhere back among the houses, while the other two heaved open the gates.

  A pained cry drew his attention and he looked along the wall to see that the three Remi scouts had run into a little trouble, one of them on the floor, yelping and clutching his stomach. The other two finished off their attacker and then granted their companion a mercy blow, finishing him off before running on to join Fronto at the gate,

  The sound of the approaching legions began to rise above the action at the walls, and the rhythmic beat was a balm to him. Antonius, true to his word, had had the Ninth and Tenth poised ready to move at the signal, and even before the fire arrow had touched the ground the first cohorts were approaching the gate.

  The Nervii were coming from inside. The legions were coming from outside.

  It might appear to be a race, but Fronto knew better. The Nervii were unprepared and would be coming in dribs and drabs as they armed. The gatehouse and its killing zones were designed for easy defence and it would be just as easy for them to defend as for the Nervii. They would hold until the army were through. And then it would be easy. And bloody.

  Fronto laughed like a man possessed.

  Chapter Seven

  It took less than half an hour for the elation of swift victory to wear off.

  Fronto stood in the main public forum-like area at the centre of Avenna, before a large stone-and-timber construction that seemed to have served as some sort of crude curia for the Nervian ‘senate’, with a temple to one of their hairy, hammer-wielding Gods off to one side and a number of shops around the periphery, a well - where they had gathered - in the centre.

  Carefully, he examined the beautiful blade in his hand, lifting it so that the pale watery sunlight gleamed on the perfect Noric steel. There was no trace of the gore that had encrusted it half an hour ago - Fronto had always been careful to clean his blade after a battle, but since acquiring the murderous tribune Menenius’ astounding gladius, he had become almost obsessive over the matter. The great Gods of Rome smiled approvingly from faces of perfect glittering orichalcum. With a sigh, he slid it into the sheath and tried to block out the activity all around him.

  ‘Not pretty, is it?’ Palmatus muttered, and Fronto looked around in surprise at the statement only to realise that the former legionary - now officer of singulares - was actually speaking to his counterpart, Masgava.

  Palmatus had dealt with the removal of the tower’s occupants with the casual brutality of a veteran legionary with experience of more than one war, and had then returned to help hold the wall top until the army broke through the defences and began the systematic destruction of Avenna. The result was that he now stood here in his drab, dun-coloured tunic, the same as the rest of theirs, so liberally splashed and spattered with mud and blood that it was difficult to tell where material ended and skin began.

  Masgava, conversely, had stood in a line of soldiers - a fighting style totally unfamiliar for an arena trained combatant - and defended the gate from all comers until Antonius’ men had swept past them and relieved the small attacking force, and yet the only marks on him were three small lines and splashes of red. His gut wound had held up and stayed closed throughout his first real action, though he complained of discomfort. He did, however, look somewhat hollow-eyed and angry. Not at the battle - death was an old friend and constant companion to the big Numidian gladiator. No… what happened afterwards was the cause of his concern.

  ‘Why is this being allowed?’ the big man replied with his own question.

  ‘Because the general wills it.’ Fronto replied in a weary voice. ‘It is in the nature of the career soldier to take every opportunity to make the most of a situation for financial gain. And beyond simple loot, some are simply too blood-drunk to stop. Their centurions will eventually take control of them and instil order, but without the general specifically forbidding it, a little looting and destruction is almost expected. In fairness, Caesar is generally quite humane in this respect. He doesn’t often approve of wanton post-battle chaos, but in light of Ambiorix and Caesar’s need for revenge, the standing orders now have changed. At least he’s forbidden random rape and murder.’

  ‘Some of the things I’ve seen in the last quarter hour might challenge that.’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Random, I said. The orders to hold back only applied to those who surrendered willingly. Those who choose to resist have no defence, and Caesar won’t blink twice at their fate.

  Masgava still seemed unimpressed.

  Fronto turned and took in the havoc he had been blocking out. Already, sizeable portions of Avenna were aflame. While legionaries had herded the captive survivors into the smaller squares here and there and roped them together for transport to Samarobriva and then the slave markets, others had begun the systematic looting and impounding of anything of use or value. Once an entire neighbourhood had been emptied, it was fired.

  Here and there warriors, women, or even children fought back. Most of them were killed on the spot by the legionaries, who had little interest in struggling with a difficult native when loot was there to be had. Many of the struggling children had escaped where the legionaries had simply let them go rather than wrestle and then murder a minor, but the women had been treated worst, as was always the case in the aftermath of a siege.

  Black, oily smoke poured into the air from three neighbourhoods and the crackle and roar of flames was periodically punctuated by the crash as a building fell in. Screams and shouts and occasionally the ring of steel on iron echoed across the city.

  ‘What was the final number?’

  ‘Five,’ Palmatus said with a satisfied tone. Fronto nodded. Five losses was more than just acceptable, given what they had achieved and under what conditions. Of course, five of eighteen was more than a quarter, but still, for their success…

  ‘One of the Remi, three of the good old boys from your Tenth and an archer, who just managed to get his fire arrow off before he collapsed.’

  ‘Somehow,’ Fronto replied quietly, ‘I can’t see replacements being a problem with Antonius backing us.’

  ‘I take it you’ve warmed to the idea of a singulares guard then?’ Palmatus smiled.

  ‘They have their uses, yes.’

  ‘Oi, oi,’ Masgava nudged Palmatus and the three turned to look in the same direction. Fronto’s remaining ten men were gathered in a knot nearby, rubbing their arms and feet and sloshing water down the nape of their neck, while at the corner of the square legionaries were dragging a reluctant future-slave from his ravaged house. Between the two groups, though, Galronus was trotting over on horseback with half a dozen Gauls behind him.

  ‘Not much for cavalry to do here,’ Fronto said as the Remi officer approached and reined in. It was sometimes hard to remember that Galronus was of the Belgae. Though his hair and moustaches were long and braided, and he wore a torc around his neck and the long ‘trousers’ of the Gallic peoples, his clothing was exquisite, sewn in Rome by a craftsman at an extortionate price in fabrics acquired from as far afield as Arabia and Hispania, and dyed the madder red of the legions. Indeed, his tunic was of a Roman cut anyway, cinched with a Roman belt buckled with a silver Medusa head. He even sat atop a four-horned Roman saddle. Fronto found himself wondering whether his ever-more-Romanised friend was a talking point among the men under his command.

  ‘Not a good place for my people to be at all,’ Galronus grunted as he swung down from the horse and gestured to another of the riders. ‘But I thought I would let you hear this yourself.’

  Fronto waited patiently, Palmatus and Masgava edging closer to listen in.

  After a moment of silence, the man Galronus had invited stepped around his horse and approached with a nod of recognition. Short and wiry for a Gaul, he was instantly familiar.

  ‘I know him. A scout?’

  Galronus nodded. ‘Searix of
the Condrusi. One of the senior scouts in the army. His tribe are as loyal as the Remi, but their lands are trapped between the Nervii, the Eburones and the Treveri. Danger lurks there for a supporter of Caesar.’

  ‘Then he’s to be commended for sticking to his oath,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Many tribes in less difficult circumstances seem to be having trouble doing so.’

  ‘That’s sort of the problem, Marcus.’

  ‘Go on.’ Fronto had a sinking feeling as he saw the darkness in the eyes of the scout. Galronus nodded to Searix, who moistened his lips.

  ‘The officers say that you are a man who listens without judging.’

  ‘The officers,’ Fronto replied carefully, ‘apparently do not know me that well.’

  Galronus gave a meaningful frown and Fronto sighed. ‘Alright. Let me guess: you have a problem with something but will not take it to Caesar either because you think he won’t listen to you, or you think he will and then won’t like what he hears?’

  Searix had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘Go on,’ Fronto prompted wearily.

  ‘This is bad for the allegiances to Rome.’ Searix indicated the burning city with a sweep of his hand. ‘For those who took oaths.’

  ‘It’s considerably worse for the Nervii, who didn’t. Bear in mind, Searix, that the Nervii have never even claimed to ally with us and we are under no obligation to them. Whereas the Remi and your own Carusi -’

  ‘Condrusi.’

  ‘Them too - have a standing alliance with Rome and this treatment will never be visited upon Rome’s allies.’

  Again, Searix looked uncomfortable.

  ‘That promise is not enough?’