Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto turned in the saddle to see Palmatus and Masgava closing on him. ‘Get the men to that copse back there and hide them. Try and keep the horses quiet.

  Masgava gave him a disapproving look.

  ‘I won’t endanger myself. I’m just taking a look. Do I have to order you?’

  Still glaring at him, Masgava turned with Palmatus and trotted back along the track to the rest of the unit, who waited patiently. As the men made for the small knot of beech trees - tall and slender with a budding bright green starting to show amid the tops - Fronto followed Samognatos in dismounting and leading their horses into the shell of the ruined building.

  Bucephalus seemed happy enough, and Fronto trusted him not to start making undue noise as he tied off the reins to a carbon-stained hinge. The scout seemed equally content to tie his horse up, and moments later the pair were edging along the sooty interior wall towards an aperture that still had one charred shutter hanging at an angle. The wide track that passed the farm and onto which they would be moving shortly was less than half a dozen paces from the window, raised on a slight causeway and unsurfaced, lacking the camber of a Roman road. Already the sound of cantering hooves was growing closer.

  Fronto hunched down so that he could see through the cracks in the ruined shutter while remaining almost entirely obscured from the road. The scout found himself an equally hidden position, and the pair waited with bated breath.

  Drumming hooves, and now the huff and snort of the horses. The shushing of mail and the jingle of fastenings rattling against armour and sheaths.

  Fronto watched.

  He had been in Gaul long enough now to tell the difference between some tribes, or at least groups of tribes. The Belgae tended to wear different shades to the Gauls of the west. They all had different skin and different colouring to the tribes of the south, beyond the Aedui. Some tended to strange animal shapes atop their helms, while others were more plain. Of course, he would not go so far as to say he could identify a tribe easily, but as the first rider passed, he noted their colouring instantly, which betrayed their southern origin. They were not Belgae, nor a tribe of north-west Gaul.

  He glanced briefly at Samognatos without turning his head, and noted the scout narrowing his eyes in surprise at the riders.

  More than twenty. He lost count as some of them were three abreast. Certainly more than twenty. Possibly thirty. Too small to be a war band of any kind, and they were too well armed and kitted out to be simple bandits. Their very presence here raised huge questions for Fronto and he found himself wishing he had persuaded Galronus to come along on this hunt.

  And then he saw it.

  A winged snake arm ring.

  The symbol of Arvernus.

  The last rider passed and the Gauls were gone, the sounds of thundering hooves receding into the east as the Arverni rode on.

  Fronto waited for a count of fifty and then gestured to Samognatos with his hand and jerked his thumb back towards the copse where the singulares waited. The scout nodded and the two men untied their horses and retrieved them, walking them gingerly out of the ruins and scanning the horizon until they were sure that the Gauls were out of sight and earshot.

  Sharing a quick glance, the two men mounted and began to ride.

  ‘I’m starting to think we should have taken them on,’ Fronto said breathlessly as they closed on the copse.

  ‘Dangerous thought,’ Samognatos replied with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘They were Arverni from the south. Whatever they’re doing in Nervian lands, even if it’s not connected with Ambiorix - though I am almost certain it is - it will be something underhanded that we could do with knowing. I would have liked to interrogate one.’

  ‘We’ll not catch up with them unless you cut loose the pack horses and we ride fast. And now you’ll have no further opportunity to set an ambush.’

  ‘I know,’ grumbled Fronto. ‘Shame. Confirms that we’re headed the right way, though, I’d say?’

  The figures of Palmatus and Masgava appeared from the undergrowth at the edge of the small knot of trees, leading their horses.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Arverni!’

  Masgava frowned. ‘Same ones we met in Bibracte?’

  ‘No way I could tell. I wouldn’t like to discount the idea, though. Whatever the case, they’re up to no good this far north.’

  ‘I’m starting to think we might have been better just going with Caesar and burning the whole damn lot of them,’ Palmatus grunted, glancing quickly at Samognatos. ‘No offence to you.’

  ‘Arverni in the north and Ambiorix sending out ambassadors,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s all very dubious. I’d like to have a nice long chat with some of these people before Caesar brings the torch to bear.’

  He turned to look back at the main road.

  ‘Let’s get to this Divonanto place as fast as we can. Even this smoking wasteland is starting to feel rather dangerous.’

  * * * * *

  The narrow wooded valley had descended for the last half mile or so, gradually steepening in its drop towards their destination. The muddy trail had wandered left and right between the thick trees and afforded no view of their goal until the last moment.

  Samognatos the scout sat at the bend, waiting for Fronto to catch up, having spent much of the last day or two ranging a mile or so ahead in order to avoid any difficult encounters. There had been no further sign of the Arverni riders, for which Fronto was both thankful and troubled in equal measures. Now, the scout waved for his commander to join him, and Fronto trotted out along the path until he reached the bend where, as he passed the latest clump of trees, he was treated to his first view of Divonanto.

  The Mosa river, wide and fast, cut a deep valley through the forested terrain, flowing from out of sight to the right, across before them and around another curve to the left. And across that torrent, nestled on the far bank in the glowing late afternoon sun that promised a good morrow, lay the sacred valley of the Condrusi.

  This was no oppidum with walls of stone, earth and timber, nor was it a farmstead, undefended and poor. This was a thriving town with all the hallmarks of peaceful civilisation. Dozens of double-storey houses fronted onto narrow streets, intermittently held apart by wide, paved spaces. A wharf sat on the river’s edge, swarming with fishing boats and small trading vessels. Fronto was not sure what he had expected from a sacred place of one of the region’s lesser tribes, but this most certainly wasn’t it.

  The feature that really drew the eyes, though, was the rock.

  The far bank with its neat collection of streets and houses sat beneath a veritable mountain that towered up into the darkening sky. At the centre of the settlement, almost opposite the defile along which Fronto had approached, the jagged cliffs jutted out, creating a promontory with an apex two - perhaps even three - hundred feet above the settlement.

  Fronto squinted in wonder up at the place. If he had ruled Divonanto, there would be a fortress above. Assuming a long slope away at the far side, it was perfect for defence. And given the value of this place to the Condrusi, combined with the pressing proximity of so many unfriendly tribes, such a construction would be eminently sensible.

  His eyes told him a different story, though. Wattle fences were just about visible at the top, behind which jutted the regularly spaced shapes of tapering, well-tended trees. A temple, then. A ‘nemeton’ of the druids. It seemed as appropriate as a fortress, really. For all its defensive value, such a location was also a natural site to honour Gods. Romans were equally predisposed to building temples on the highest ground, after all.

  ‘Impressive,’ he muttered, scanning the town.

  ‘Tonight we rest in the town and speak to the council of elders. They will have had men in the forests, watching, and will know we are here. In the morning we climb to the nemeton and commune with the druids.’

  Fronto turned, prepared to argue the necessity for speed, but there was a quiet reverence in the scout’s face, even straighte
ning his permanently-smiling mouth a little, and the Roman found his words dried in his throat. If it were true that there were druids here who would actually help, it would be a good idea not to irritate them. He still felt uncomfortable with the very idea, though. He’d never yet met a druid who hadn’t either spat bile at him or tried to kill him.

  Behind him, the others rounded the bend and there were a few whistles of appreciation at the sight of the sacred settlement.

  ‘We’re bound for an inn first.’ Fronto straightened in his saddle. ‘Once there, I will take six men with me, as well as Samognatos here, to talk to the leaders. The rest of you get the horses fed and stabled, store the kit and secure the rooms. Send out a few men to replenish the supplies we’ve used so far and then wait for our return. In the morning we’re to visit druids and I want to be sure we’re ready for anything.’

  As he turned and began to walk Bucephalus down towards the river, with the column moving along behind, he leaned across to Samognatos.

  ‘How do we get across?’

  ‘Ferrymen,’ the scout replied. ‘Pay them well.’

  Fronto looked at the fast, wide and deep river and nodded. ‘Believe me, I will.’

  By the time the party had assembled on the near bank, horses snorting gratefully and taking the opportunity to rip at the lush green grass of the valley, the ferrymen were already on their way. Clearly they were used to dealing with vehicles and beasts of burden. The ferries were wide and flat with high sides, large enough to accommodate a cart with oxen, and there were two such vessels ploughing through the rippling water towards them. As the first approached with surprising accuracy, making for the bank directly before Fronto, the commander noted the iron rings driven into the timbers of the boat and the ropes stacked in a corner for tethering skittish animals during the crossing. As he watched the men work, he realised they were using a line submerged beneath the water, running through a ring on the vessel, to pull themselves across with such accuracy. As one of the ferry’s two occupants leapt ashore and began to haul the boat up onto the gravel, the other entered into a brief exchange with Samognatos.

  ‘He says three men at a time. No more. One silver coin a trip. A sestertius would do.’

  Fronto nodded his agreement as he made a quick mental calculation and fished seven coins from his purse. ‘Sensible. Ask him if he’s transported any other groups of riders this big in the last couple of days.’

  The scout relayed the question as the ferryman gestured for the first three to board. Fronto dismounted and motioned to Palmatus to join him, leading Bucephalus onto the wooden deck.

  ‘He says no group of this size,’ Samognatos relayed, dropping from his own steed. ‘A party of foreigners came through here yesterday, but there were only five, and they were not stopping in the town.’

  ‘Were they the ones we saw?’

  ‘They were southerners, he says.’

  ‘So, yes, then.’

  Palmatus led his horse aboard, rubbing his sore posterior in relief, and Samognatos joined them as the second ferry approached and Masgava selected three men to cross first.

  ‘I don’t like the fact that Arverni have passed through here. I don’t trust the druids at the best of times, and that Arverni warrior had close links with them, he said. Everyone stays in the inn except for collecting supplies, and I want them out in pairs for that, too, and armed.’ Palmatus nodded his understanding. ‘Do you think they know we’re out and about?’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think they’re on their own business, but I’d sooner they didn’t learn about us, just in case.’

  The three men fell silent and leaned on the side of the ferry, watching the slate-dark water slide past as the ferrymen hauled on the rope, dragging them back across to the town. The imposing bulk of the tall cliff became ever more impressive as the ferry drifted towards it and the shape, which already loomed, took on an extra level of ominousness with the knowledge that druids who may or may not be in league with the Arverni sat atop it waiting for them.

  Fronto was busy trying to make sense of it all when the ferry crunched to a halt on the town-ward side, and he had to grip the timber strake to keep his footing. Moments later, the three men had led their horses from the vessel and the ferrymen had slid their watery steed out into the river once more, making for the waiting horsemen. The next three were already halfway across.

  ‘There will be no inn that can provide proper accommodation for nineteen men,’ noted Samognatos. ‘Either we split between two or three inns, or many men will have to sleep in a bunk house together.’

  Fronto pursed his lips.

  ‘That’s an inn, right?’ He pointed to a large building at the very end of the wharf, with a ground floor of stone and a timber upper, lights shining in the shuttered windows already and a painting of a mug on the wall by the door.

  ‘It is. Not a large one, though. I was going to suggest the one in the town’s centre, which will accommodate the most men appropriately.’

  ‘They’re soldiers. They’ll just be glad they’re not in a tent. I like the place. Right on the edge. Come on - let’s go and introduce ourselves.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto straightened as he approached the large, well-constructed ‘council building’ of Divonanto. For a moment he wondered what the hell he was doing, but the image of the burned-out, desecrated landscape of the Nervii insisted itself into his mind’s eye once again, and he steeled himself. Caesar would not stop until Ambiorix was dead, for he had vowed it to Venus. And he would burn Gaul to cinders to do it, if Fronto couldn’t bring him his quarry first.

  It came to him as he took in the surprisingly sophisticated town around him that, whatever his ostensible reasons for trying to prevent the searing of this land, as much of it was down to his growing respect for Gaul’s potential as for the security of the army’s auxiliary forces. Just as Galronus’ closeness over the past few years had Romanised the Remi nobleman beyond any expectations, Fronto realised that he had come to respect the Gallic aspects of his friend, too: his inordinate strength and self-belief. His honour and his truthfulness, which far exceeded any to be found in the Republic’s seething capital. His love of - and protectiveness of - his family and tribe. There were things about the Gauls that should make Rome look to its own morals. And soon, if things proceeded apace, Galronus would be his brother. There would be a great deal of trouble for the family with the die-hard patricians who still believed that no one born outside Latium ranked above cattle, but the Falerii were nothing if not adaptable and hard-skinned.

  His reverie was interrupted as Samognatos reappeared in the doorway and beckoned. Fronto glanced round at Masgava and his men. He had wondered whether bringing the dark-skinned Numidian would put the locals on their guard - a reminder of just how foreign their visitors were - but had settled on the ex-gladiator for two reasons. Firstly he was softer spoken and more accommodating than his fellow officer, and secondly, Palmatus had a legionary’s grasp of defence, pickets and passwords, and was therefore plainly the man to leave in charge of the inn, with its stores, horses and men.

  ‘Come on.’

  Putting as much confidence in his stride as he could muster, Fronto strode into the building after Samognatos, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the interior lit by a central fire-pit, whose smoke drifted up through a hole in the roof, and by three braziers spaced out around the edge.

  The upper floor took the form of a mezzanine around the central smoke-hole area, reachable by ladders. Shuffling in the darkness above announced the presence of people on that floor, though they were invisible from below.

  The ordo - the council - of Divonanto sat on a set of stepped benches at the far end of the room, for all the world like a Gallic version of the senate, though undoubtedly with more conviction, morals and sense than the Roman ruling body. Eight old men, each with a torc and silver and gold jewellery in evidence. None were armed or armoured, which gave Fronto cause for relief, since he’
d left his own weapon outside with Quietus, along with that of each of the four men he’d brought inside with him.

  ‘Well met, ambassador of Caesar,’ intoned one old man, holding up a hand in greeting.

  ‘And to you, elders of Divonanto,’ he replied, pleased at the level of introduction. It seemed no one was going to stand on too much ceremony here - at least the cacophonic carnyxes were auspiciously absent. ‘We seek your counsel’ he added.

  ‘So we are led to understand. You seek news of your enemies?’

  ‘Of one enemy in particular,’ Fronto scanned the faces of the council. Impassive, but curious. Not the faces of deceivers or enemies. He felt his posture relax a little more.

  ‘You seek Ambiorix of the Eburones,’ the old man said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘We do. We understand that he has made contact with the Nervii, the Menapii and the Treveri. Though we have not heard as much, we also suspect him to be initiating contact with the tribes beyond the great river Rhenus, as well as possibly wresting what remains of his own tribe from the control of his brother king, Cativolcus.’

  ‘First tell me,’ the old man asked, leaning forward with an interested frown, ‘why a small unit of Romans hunt their great enemy, shunning the trappings and symbols of your Republic?’

  Fronto nodded. It was a very fair question and one whose answer he was sure could only strengthen their position.

  ‘The general - Caesar, that is - has pledged to one of our greatest Gods to bring down Ambiorix. He will burn the world if he has to in order to complete that vow. I am sure you, living in such a sacred place, will appreciate the importance of a vow to the Gods?’

  Nods all round.

  ‘The Nervii have already suffered his wrath for treating with Ambiorix, and he will do the same to other tribes until the rebel king is his. While the Nervii deserved what befell them to some extent, I seek to close the matter early and save the rest of the Belgae from further destruction. Some Romans see the only solution for the troublesome tribes to be their removal. Others - myself included - see that the level of cooperation that exists between our two peoples could be extended to all, and as such, we would prefer to avoid potentially opening a crevasse between our peoples with such destruction.’