Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  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.’

  Fronto grinned. ‘You’ve got the directions?’

  Ullio nodded. ‘Very close. Fronto?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I cannot go further with you.’

  Fronto’s smile slipped a little. ‘What?’

  ‘You must have known that I was never going to help you torture and kill my king, no matter how much I dislike him? I cannot help you at the end. I have brought you this far, but what Rome must do to my king, she must do without my help.’

  A sad smile crept across Fronto’s face. He’d never given thought to what would happen when they caught up with Ambiorix, but in retrospect it would be harsh and unrealistic to expect Ullio to take part in Ambiorix’s end. He reached out a hand. Ullio looked at it for a long moment, and then responded, clasping forearms in the universal gesture of comradeship.

  ‘Where will you go? Back to Espaduno?’

  ‘Soon. First I will travel to Atuatuca with these people. Perhaps we can all aid one another. The Eburones will need a great deal of strength and unity to come back from the brink of the pit into which your general has driven us.’

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Whatever happens in the coming months, I hope you escape it unharmed. Decent Romans are hard to come by.’

  Fronto laughed quietly. ‘Can’t say I disagree with that. But it is equally good to have travelled with a decent Eburone. When we are done, I will make sacrifices to Arduenna for your continued wellbeing.’

  Ullio smiled and turned, pointing off down the trail.

  ‘Follow the main track until you find a split oak, which the locals call the Horns of Cernunnos. It’s quite striking, so you’ll find it hard to miss. It stands at a crossing of paths in the forest. Take the right side, down a steep slope i
nto the narrow valley. After a very short walk you should be able to see the farmstead in the bottom. Approaching will be difficult, the old man says, but there is a stream bed which is dry in the summer, and might afford you a reasonable approach.’

  Fronto stood for a moment, committing the directions to memory, and clapped his palm on Ullio’s shoulder. ‘I think we can take it from here. Good luck with your people, Ullio. I hope your family are well. Perhaps, when things have returned to normal, we will bump into one another again.’

  ‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Fronto, but I hope we don’t. Arduenna shelter you until your task is complete.’

  The Roman stood on the path and watched the refugees file away towards the south-west, Ullio walking with them. None of them spoke to the singulares as they passed, and precious few even spared them a glance. He continued to watch silently until they rounded a corner and were gone from sight, and then cleared his throat and turned to his men.

  ‘This is it, lads. Less than a mile away, our quarry hides in a derelict farm. He hides from the Condrusi, apparently. Let’s give him something else to worry about. Everyone ready?’

  A chorus of affirmatives greeted him, though unenthusiastically. Despite now being moments away from their goal, the reality that they had lost so many comrades and still faced dangerous odds weighed heavily, given that they had already failed to prevent so much destruction in their extended mission. No one would feel good about it.

  Except Fronto. Because he was sure that Ambiorix would be a repository of vital information on the druids and their planned uprisings. And he was going to squeeze every last morsel from the fugitive king before he wrung his neck.

  He breathed deeply, his sense of purpose renewed.

  ‘Right. Let’s end this.’

  * * * * *

  The farmstead had been destroyed by Caesar’s men in the preceding days, which provided both a hazard and a benefit to the small group of singulares as they moved into the valley. Of the four structures that had formed the farm, only one retained its roof, and even that was damaged in places, and was charred - hardly rainproof. That narrowed down the choice of location and defensive positions, which was a bonus. Caesar’s ravaging, however, had destroyed the small field of crops and had burned back the undergrowth and trees, giving the building a good defensive line of sight, which was bad for Fronto.

  The ten men crouched among the trees halfway down the dry stream bed - a nature-provided path of gravel and smooth stones that gave easy access through the forest and down the slope.

  ‘See there?’ Palmatus pointed, and the rest followed his finger.

  ‘I see them. Three of them, in that ruined building.’

  ‘It was a granary,’ Samognatos said quietly. ‘If you look carefully you can see the shadows of the stilts upon which it stands.’

  Fronto snapped a glance at Masgava, who smiled and nodded, turning to the others. ‘Iuvenalis, Celer and Magurix: reckon you could get to the granary without being seen?’

  Magurix grinned with what Fronto thought was perhaps a little too much eagerness for comfort. ‘With ease!’ Celer and Iuvenalis looked at one another for a moment and then both nodded their agreement.

  ‘Alright. You’re the first ones in, then. Get underneath that hut and mark your targets. As soon as the rest of us make our move, deal with them as quickly as possible. As quietly as you can, too, but speed will be more important than stealth. Be fast.’

  The three men nodded.

  ‘No sign of anyone else, but we reckon from rumour there’s a dozen of them. That means nine more. There can’t be nine in that one intact hut with any level of comfort. Six or seven at most.’

  ‘Wait!’ Masgava whispered. ‘There!’ he added, pointing out across the valley. The rest tried to pick out what he’d seen, and it did not take long to spot the warrior leaning against a tree, alert but bored, halfway up the far side of the valley.

  ‘Crap. If they’ve got men out on watch, there’s probably more,’ Fronto hissed. Every pair of eyes scanned the trees pensively, and Samognatos clicked his fingers and then pointed. The rest peered into the woods and eventually picked out the man not far from their own position, sat on a rock and leaning back sunning himself, eyes closed and almost asleep.

  ‘We’re bloody lucky he’s not bright. If he’d been looking the right way at the right time, he’d have seen us coming down the stream.’

  Palmatus rubbed his neck and sighed. ‘If there’s one at the valley head and one on the far slope, you can bet there’s at least one more somewhere along this side, where the slope lowers, probably.’

  ‘Too many to send men to. If we set a man to each, we might not have sufficient force to take the house,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s a problem.’

  ‘I will deal with them.’

  Fronto turned a frown on Samognatos and the Condrusi scout shrugged, his strange grin at odds with the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘They are far from alert, and are spaced out. I am the only man here who can move through the woods with any degree of stealth. It makes sense. I will remove the outer watchers one at a time.’

  Fronto looked into the man’s eyes and, seeing only resolve and confidence, nodded. ‘Do it. There is no need for you to come down to the main settlement, then. When you’re done, keep watch out here.’

  ‘Which leaves the hut,’ Masgava said quietly. Six or seven men at most. You, me and Palmatus, Arcadios, Quietus and Aurelius. Six men. Roughly even… odds I can live with.’

  Fronto nodded his agreement. ‘With one exception. Arcadios? You once told me your aim was unerringly true. What’s the range on that Cretan bow of yours?’

  ‘From here, sir? Pretty much anything in the farmstead with a good degree of accuracy.’

  ‘See that rock the picket’s sunning himself on? That’s got a lovely view. As soon as Samognatos takes him out, you take his place. You’re our last chance. Follow Samognatos with your arrow and if he gets into trouble, help him. Then train down on the farm. The three in the granary. If any of them live through our assault, deal with them. Then concentrate on the main hut. There’s only one door and we’ll be going in through it. But there’s a couple of windows, and anyone that manages to get out of the hut gets an arrow in the leg. Stop them running, but no killing blows. Understood?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Fronto looked around his men. They were not the Tenth Legion. In fact they were a terribly mismatched, non-military bunch. A former gladiator, a retired veteran, three legionaries, an engineer, an auxiliary bowman and two Belgae. But he’d come to think of them as a unit, and they were, frankly, as good a command as he’d ever held. They all bore hard expressions of determination.

  ‘Samognatos. Move out.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto and his eight companions crouched behind a wind-felled tree, just off to one side of the stream. The undergrowth would crack and rustle, but the area by the stream was mostly grass, so not too bad, whereas their nailed boots would clack and crunch on the stone of the stream bed and would be far too noticeable as they closed on the enemy.

  Each man watched tensely as the strange, silent, ghostly shape of Samognatos moved through the woods. Since the man usually travelled with the rest of the singulares he rarely had need for stealth, and none of the others had truly appreciated his skills until they watched him in the valley. He’d barely left the stream bed before he vanished from sight among the trunks, only appearing here and there in brief flitting glimpses. Moreover, while the rest of them would have made a noise like a war elephant crashing through that undergrowth, they heard nothing of his movements, the slightest whisper of his passage concealed beneath the breeze gusting through the leaves.

  ‘Shit, that man’s good,’ Palmatus hissed as the Condrusi scout vanished once more among the leaves and then suddenly appeared almost from nowhere immediately behind the picket who sat on the rock enjoying the sunshine. They never saw what happened to him… the man simply disappeared
from sight behind the rock, Samognatos’ arm round his throat. A moment later the scout stood and signalled them before moving off for the watcher at the far side of the valley.

  ‘This is it, then,’ Fronto hissed. ‘Arcadios, get to that rock and take aim. Magurix, Iuvenalis and Celer, peel off to the left as soon as we reach the bottom and make for the granary. As soon as you’re in position, we’ll break cover for the main hut door and everything will happen at once. Be ready.’

  As the three men nodded and the Cretan archer moved off, Fronto took a deep breath and scanned the woods once more. Brannogenos was still out there somewhere with treason and death on his mind. What if he were here, in this valley? It would not take much to cock this whole thing up.

  He reached up and grasped the twin figures of Fortuna and Nemesis who hung on a thong at his neck, the latter a recent addition. They felt cold. Unseasonably, given the summer’s warmth. Something was wrong, but there was not a thing he could do about it without knowing what it was.

  * * * * *

  He never saw the second picket die. One moment, as he descended the rough grass by the stream bed with his men, Fronto had seen the man peering out across the valley. The next moment he was gone and Samognatos was visible only as a distant movement in the leaves, making for the lower valley end and the likely position of a third watcher.

  This was it. Praying that Arduenna was still watching over them now that Ullio had left, Fronto gave his favoured Goddesses a last squeeze and gestured left.

  Magurix, big and muscular, shieldless and with heavy blade in hand, moved off, with the hardy figures of Celer and Iuvenalis at his heel, using an old, charred fence and hedge to close on the ruined granary where the three Eburones waited. Fronto felt himself shivering with the tension. All he wanted now was to get in that hut and pin Ambiorix to the floor. He’d been so close before now, and to be this near was making him twitch, especially with his strange sixth sense playing up.