Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow

by S. J. A. Turney

  Again, a flicker of surprised recognition in Magurix’s eyes.

  Palmatus, grunting, stepped forward. ‘I am going to knock your bloody head off, sonny.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ Fronto growled. ‘He’s mine. And I want him alive to answer a few questions!’

  * * * * *

  Magurix stepped back into the open ground in front of the hut, backing out into the sunshine, as the singulares in the hut followed him out, tensely, their hands on the grips of their weapons. Even Aurelius seemed to have been jolted from his violence and stood with them, slick with blood from head to foot.

  Celer and Iuvenalis, standing at guard positions around the other ruined building shells, turned in surprise as the group fanned out around the big Remi traitor.

  ‘What happened?’ Iuvenalis shouted over.

  ‘We found the traitor,’ snarled Palmatus, ‘but not before he did for bloody Ambiorix!’

  ‘I’ve got a name,’ Fronto said, his voice dark with impending violence. ‘But I think this bastard knows more yet.’

  ‘What if he just takes his own life?’ hissed Palmatus to his side.

  ‘I don’t think so. He may be a traitor and a murderer, but he’s also a Remi warrior. He prides himself on that, don’t you, Magurix?’

  The Belgic warrior shrugged as he drew his long blade and hefted the weight.

  ‘And I don’t think he’ll just off himself when he has a good opportunity to kill me first.’

  Again: a shrug.

  ‘So how about it, Magurix? Think you can take me?’

  The warrior simply gave his sword a few test swings and set himself in a fighting stance. Fronto drew his own beautiful blade, the orichalcum hilt glittering in the sunlight, the images of Gods watching events unfold.

  ‘See, Aurelius?’ Fronto said, taking a few steps forward. ‘Arduenna has always been with us. It’s this twisted turd that’s been cursing us all the way. Your Goddess and her bats had nothing to do with it.’

  Magurix swung his long sword in a slow figure eight, the blade thrumming through the air, the huge muscles in his arms moving around each other like cats lost in a sack.

  ‘Come on,’ Fronto sighed. ‘You’re boring me.’

  The big Remi stepped a couple of paces forward and lunged, at maximum distance, the tip close to Fronto, enticing him to step into range. Fronto simply knocked the tip aside with his gladius. ‘Better. Now try and hurt me.’

  Magurix back-stepped a single pace, and turned slowly. Fronto smiled as the big man kept turning, changing the move into a huge swing, allowing the weight of the sword to carry him two steps forward with the swipe as it came back full circle on Fronto.

  But Fronto wasn’t there. As the big man’s back had turned, he’d taken three big steps forward, and was inside the swing. With almost subconscious precision, he delivered quick jabs with his gladius to the spinning, surprised Remi, one in the belly and the other in the shoulder. Neither penetrated deep enough to ensnare the blade but, as Magurix staggered in shock and Fronto danced back out of reach, the sword arm dropped to his side weakly and a small coil of intestine poked out of the wide hole in his belly.

  ‘See, the problem, Magurix, is that you think of me as an average Roman. I’m not an average Roman.’

  Magurix frowned as he tried to lift the sword and, realising his arm was useless, changed hand with the blade.

  ‘In fact, I was trained by the best,’ Fronto went on conversationally. ‘By Masgava over there. And I know a few things about where to hit a man to cause him real trouble.’

  Magurix snarled, but stayed safely out of reach.

  ‘Also,’ Fronto smiled wickedly, ‘I have spent years fending off one bastard or another. Rogue tribunes, assassins, murderers, traitors and big Germans. And I’m a little bit sick of always being on the receiving end. When I came back to the army, I decided it wouldn’t happen again.’

  Without warning, he kicked up dust from the yard with the toe of his boot. The cloud of grit and dust engulfed the Remi warrior’s head, and he bent, choking and trying to clear his gaze. Even as the big Belgian attempted to straighten again, blinking away the dust, Fronto was on him like a cat. His left arm went around the big Gaul’s neck, while his right brought the tip of his gladius to rest on Magurix’s throat-apple.

  ‘The slightest wrong move now, Magurix, and it’s going to be agonising. Now I’m going to ask you a few pointed questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction, I will give you the benefit of a good, clean, quick warrior’s death. If not, I will cause you intense pain and then you will be bound and gagged for the journey back to Caesar, where you will be handed over to the tender ministrations of some extremely skilled men and their collection of hot knives. Do we have an understanding?’

  Magurix strained and gave a hoarse rasp.

  ‘Don’t nod’ Fronto added with a wicked smile.

  The Remi’s eyes changed for a moment. Fronto frowned at the shift in expression, wondering what he was up to and realised only too late what it was: resignation. Acceptance!

  He tried desperately to pull back his blade, but Magurix had let go of his own sword and grasped Fronto’s right hand in his huge, enveloping meaty grip. With a single jerk, the Remi traitor pushed Fronto’s hand, driving the glittering gladius through his own throat and deep into his spine, where it crunched.

  Magurix went limp with a defiant, unpleasant smile.

  Fronto ground his teeth as he let go of the big warrior and the body collapsed to the dust. As he did so, the collar of Magurix’s mail shirt shifted, and something caught Fronto’s eye. Crouching over the gurgling, dying traitor, he reached beneath the collar and pulled out the leather thong that hung around his neck, gripping the thing that had caught his attention. He peered at the small silver figure. A cloak clasp in the form of a naked girl… Drusus’ most prized possession.

  What he found came as no surprise as he worked along the thong: an iron-work sigil in the shape of some Gallic spirit - a trophy of Brannogenos, a man sacrificed to be play scapegoat for Magurix’s traitorous activity. A beautiful, decorative, copper-and-gold arm ring that had belonged to Galatos, who lay dead in some alleyway back in Divonanto. A surgical hook taken from Damionis’ medical satchel. A Medusa-image ring that had lived on Valgus’ finger. It was a catalogue of murder. Trophy evidence of Magurix’s deeds.

  Slowly, drained of energy by the violence of the past half hour and the dreadful realisations of treachery that had dogged their every footstep on this hunt, Fronto rose like some Titan of legend, his face a mask of Jupiter’ thundery wrath.

  ‘Someone get back inside and take the heads off Ambiorix, that other noble, and the druid. Find a sack for each and then get your gear packed tight. It’s time we got back to the army, and there’s a fair way to go.’

  Palmatus wandered over to him, rubbing his neck wearily.

  ‘It’s all been a bit of a waste of time, hasn’t it?’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Perhaps. We didn’t get to stop the destruction of the Belgae, and we didn’t get much of an interrogation in, but I do have one prize… a name: Vercingetorix.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Camp of the legions.

  Antonius and Priscus paused at the entrance to the timber headquarters in the camp - formerly Cicero’s domain, but now firmly in the grip of Caesar. All around, the camp was flooded with the noises of legions settling in and repairing the damage done by the Germanic warband, burying and burning the dead and gathering the supplies they so badly needed. Ten legions in this one camp was a squeeze, even given the enormity of the place, and two of the legions had been forced to resort to temporary camps outside the ramparts.

  With a deep breath and a shared glance, the two officers opened the door and strode inside, having been cleared for admittance by the Praetorian horsemen on guard.

  The large main room of the building - simply a wooden recreation of Caesar’s command tent on campaign - was empty apart from the general, who sat at his table before
the strewn maps and tablets, lists and parchments. Antonius frowned and Priscus felt a moment of concern when he realised that the general, leaning over with his head cradled in his hands, looked unwell in some way. Caesar, realising sharply that he was not alone, sat straight and the pair noticed - again with concern - the froth of spittle at the corners of his mouth and the strained, drawn paleness of his face.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Antonius asked quietly.

  ‘Fine. Mostly fine, Marcus. In actual fact what I am is not ill, but rather concerned.’

  As admission of worry from the general was so almost unknown that the pair exchanged their own anxious glances.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘News from Rome.’

  Priscus felt his spirits sink. News that travelled all the way from the city to the northern fringes of Gaul was never trivial, and given the general’s expression, it was far from good. A pensive silence filled the room and Caesar tapped a scroll case before him. Priscus noted the use of Caesar’s ‘Taurus’ seal in the wax. Very few people in Rome would have the authority to use that seal. Apart from close family, the only one Priscus could name was Publius Clodius Pulcher, Caesar’s pet thug and master criminal.

  ‘Our good, stable triumvirate is teetering, prepared to fall.’

  Priscus cocked his head in incomprehension, but Antonius stepped forward and placed his palms on the table. ‘Pompey? Has he…’

  Caesar was shaking his head. ‘Crassus.’

  ‘The Parthians?’

  A slow nod. ‘And not killed in battle like his son Publius. He was captured in ignominious surrender and then executed. The King of Kings made sure to send a detailed account of his end back to Syria and thence to Rome.’

  ‘Then you and Pompey...’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Since Julia’s death we are hardly on the best of terms. And Pompey is busy building a reputation for magnanimity in Rome, garnering support wherever he can. I am faced with a dilemma: to stabilise Rome, or to stay and see Ambiorix finished. Whichever I choose, I damn myself to failure with the other.’

  Priscus cleared his throat and stepped forward to join Antonius. ‘Have you told young Crassus?’

  Caesar shook his head and indicated another sealed scroll on the table, bearing the mark of the Licinii. ‘This came to me first. Crassus has been summoned and should be here any moment. Cicero, also.’

  The two officers shared a look again. Cicero’s meeting with the general had been delayed by the need to settle the legions, and everyone knew the legate had spent almost two days now sitting in his quarters, sweating, awaiting the dreaded interview.

  ‘You’ll punish him, of course,’ Priscus prompted.

  ‘’I will upbraid him, of course.’

  ‘Upbraid?’ snorted Antonius. ‘For his stupidity and disobedience, the man should be nailed to a cross and burned.’

  ‘A slight over-reaction, Marcus?’

  ‘Well you’ll at least strip him of command and send him back to Rome in shame?’

  Caesar shook his head slowly and both officers frowned again. ‘Why?’

  ‘With the situation in Rome,’ Caesar explained quietly, ‘I need to preserve every connection I have there. Cicero’s brother is one of the most respected orators in the city and with no small political influence. He has already been outspoken against me in the past, and we have recently settled into a mutual quiet discontent that harms neither of us. If I send this idiot home in disgrace, I most definitely turn his brother against me. The elder Cicero will blacken my name through the senate and beyond. No. We must, for now, mollycoddle our wayward legate.’

  With a sigh of understanding, the pair nodded.

  ‘The larger problem is what to do with Rome and Ambiorix. I have pledged to Rome and to Venus herself to remove the man from the face of the world, and I cannot leave such a vow unfulfiled - it would be political suicide. And yet to stay here, concentrating on him, and leave Rome to a few lackeys without the wit to peel an apple unaided would display an incredible lack of foresight.’

  Antonius wandered across and sat in one of the chairs at the side, crossing his legs and producing the inevitable wine flask from his belt.

  ‘Not a decision anyone can make for you, Gaius, I’m afraid. We can advise, but nothing more.’

  Before Caesar could reply, a knock echoed round the room, and Caesar raised his voice.

  ‘Come!’

  Crassus strode into the office in dazzling armour and freshly laundered and pressed tunic and cloak. He looked glorious, for all his youth and inexperience, with his helm tucked beneath his arm - like one of the statues in the forum of generals of old.

  ‘Crassus. Good. Sit.’

  ‘I would rather stand, General.’

  ‘You might regret that decision in a moment, but as you wish. I am the bearer of news, and I am afraid it is not happy news.’

  Crassus faltered very slightly, his leg shuffling into a new position to mask a slight shake. Priscus was impressed. ‘My father, General?’

  Nod.

  ‘The Parthians?’

  Another nod. ‘And there’s more, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Publius?’

  ‘Yes. It seems your father agreed to parlay with the King of Kings when his army was destroyed, and he suffered an ignoble end, but your brother went to Elysium like a true Roman, buying time for his cavalry to leave the field. It saddens me to relay the news, but better, I thought, to come in sympathetic tones than in a cold written missive.’ He held out the unopened scroll and Crassus took it and tucked it away without cracking the seal. His arm quivered a little, but Priscus was still surprised at the show of control.

  ‘Your situation in Rome will have changed, General.’

  Again, Priscus noted with surprise how suddenly the young, enthusiastic officer was almost gone, subsumed by a shadow of his father and brother. He’d heard of the legate’s command in the forest and the burning of the survivors, and marked it as another step down on the ladder to his family’s harshness of spirit. Every passing month brought the young man a little closer in resemblance to his brother and now, here, Crassus was speaking to Caesar as something of an equal. Priscus was almost waiting for Caesar to take exception, but the general simply nodded and smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Indeed, but do not let my situation concern you. Your continued command here is assured, should you wish it, but I will also quite understand if you wish to resign that command and return to Rome. There will be much to administer and take care of with your father gone.’

  Crassus nodded. ‘Thank you. I will - I must - resign my commission, sadly. As you say, Rome will require my presence.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘I will prepare appropriate communiques to confirm that you have distinguished yourself in command and that your short term was in no way a reflection upon your abilities but rather on family tragedy. Also, rest assured that any help I can provide in Rome, I will. You have but to ask myself or any of my factors or clients.’

  Crassus nodded and a small, humourless smile crossed his face.

  ‘Fear not, General… I am your man, not Pompey’s. Though I owe you naught but gratitude for my term of service here, I will never align my family with that fat lunatic - my father’s shade would haunt me the rest of my days if I did. In return for your support in my endeavours in the city, I will reciprocate and help balance things against Pompey. If that is all, Caesar, I must begin preparations. Rome is a long journey.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘The Gods go with you, Marcus Licinius Crassus. Be well.’

  The young legate saluted, turned on his heel and opened the door to leave, at which Cicero, paused outside, almost comically fell into the room.

  ‘Eavesdropping, Cicero?’ Antonius sniped with a malicious grin.

  ‘Hardly,’ snapped the legate, nodding professionally as Crassus left the room and closed the door. Cicero saluted, and Priscus had to stifle a smile as Caesar deliberately turned to the other two and made no sign that he’d even seen Cicero.

&n
bsp; ‘Crassus will be useful in Rome, I think. It eases my concerns a little to know that he hates Pompey so vehemently.’

  ‘Frankly I’ll be glad to see the back of him,’ admitted Priscus, and Antonius and Caesar both frowned. ‘In just one season,’ Priscus explained, ‘he’s gone from being an inexperienced and ineffectual youngster to being an unpredictable martinet. I see a fire growing in him that reminds me greatly of his kin. The Tenth will certainly be better without him.’

  Caesar smiled. No matter what role he assigned to Priscus, the man always thought of himself as a member of the Tenth. Cicero, standing in the background, cleared his throat meaningfully. He, they noted, was not wearing freshly pressed tunic and polished armour. In fact he resembled a battle-worn soldier, with mud on his boots. Despite the temptation to see it as a façade, Priscus knew enough of Cicero’s past few years to afford him a little leeway. Despite that idiot call while in command of the camp, Cicero had distinguished himself more than once in Gaul, and had earned glory over the winter in his defence against the Eburones.

  ‘Ah, Quintus. Sit, man. You are not on trial.’

  Priscus saw Antonius’ expression before the man covered it with the mouth of his wine flask. The senior commander clearly thought otherwise. Cicero simply stood, looking tired.

  ‘I’d rather stand, sir.’

  ‘Everyone would stand today. Ah well. Know that I am disappointed in your inability to follow my instructions, Cicero.’

  The tired-looking legate opened his mouth, bridling, but Caesar waved his hand and spoke first. ‘I gave you specific orders not to split your force and leave the fort, and I gave you my word that we would be there for the kalends.’

  ‘We were facing the danger of legion-wide starvation, General, with many additional wounded sapping the food supplies.’