Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica

by Turney, S. J. A.

  A commotion caught their attention, and both officers turned to see half a dozen legionaries and a couple of the Begerri leading three men on knotted ropes. Prisoners with all the accoutrements and garb of nobles.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked as they approached.

  ‘Sir, these friends of ours say they are mountain men, sent by the Convenae to control the Begerri.’

  ‘Popular now then, I’ll bet. ’ Fronto turned to the warriors accompanying the legionaries. ‘Can you translate for me?’

  The soldier who’ d spoken smiled weakly. ‘It’s a bit complicated, sir. I’ve a passing command of a Gallic tongue from around the Bituriges, and this warrior can speak both that and the tongue of the mountain people. Talk to me and we’ll do what we can.’

  ‘Alright,’ Fronto said, straightening as the rain gradually washed the remaining blood from his skin and armour. ‘Tell these three that one of them is going to be granted a very quick, clean death, and he’s the lucky one.’

  The legionary relayed the words to the warrior, who translated them into the jagged tongue of the southerners. The three men threw sour expressions of defiance at Fronto.

  ‘Tell them that the one who gives me useful information can die clean. The others I’ll give to the loyal Begerri, and I think we can all picture how that’s going to end, since they owe all this death to these three men and their smiling king.’

  Again the words were translated. Fronto was gratified to note a slight uncertainty – even fear – cross their faces before they became steadfast and defiant once more. Good. Three men left him a spare.

  ‘Go and find a dozen angry looking Begerri, give them each a knife and direct them to the Pax Gallica altar,’ the legate smiled unpleasantly. Two legionaries hurried off, and Fronto, Arruntius and the others dragged the three prisoners over to the open square. ‘Tell these lot that there’s no point in cleaning it any more. It’s about to get messy again. Tell these three that they have about twenty heartbeats to talk to me.’

  The words were relayed, but still defiance greeted him in their eyes. A few moments later, the two legionaries returned with twelve sour-faced Begerri, armed with sharp knives. Despite their ongoing recalcitrance, Fronto could now feel the fear emanating from the three Convenae leaders.

  ‘You,’ Fronto pointed at the strongest looking one. He turned to the twelve Begerri. ‘He’s yours.’

  The legionaries cut the rope anchoring the noble to the other two, and his eyes went wide as they pushed him into the waiting arms of the Begerri. Fronto intensely disliked torture. It was not a noble thing and often failed to achieve its goals. But once in a while there was call for it, and he forced himself to watch what the angry Begerri did to their captive. The legion’s torturers could learn a thing or two from watching the twelve men work, he thought, his gorge rising into his throat with each laceration or each peeling. The captive noble continued to shriek for half a thousand heartbeats, even after his tongue was taken, the screaming then accompanied by a horrible gurgling.

  The other men forced the two remaining captives to watch the whole thing, and Fronto noted, glancing at them, that both men had gone deathly pale. When finally, after what seemed like a week, the Begerri’s victim finally died with a sigh of relief and a final twitch of the leg, Fronto stared down in disgust at the small pile of parts the torturers had cut off.

  ‘One of you is going the same way,’ he said in a flat voice, waiting as the translation was carried out. ‘It’s up to you two which one.’

  Quarter of an hour later, Fronto and Arruntius stalked off, leaving the grisly scene of the Begerri’s revenge and the single grateful Convenae noble lying with his throat cut .

  ‘Not much really,’ Fronto said. ‘Perhaps we could have pressed for more.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Arruntius replied. ‘They were terrified. They‘d have sold out their mother by now. The simple fact is they didn’t know much. They were lesser nobles, sent here for a purpose. The man running this whole thing is cunning. Clever enough not to put important men or nobles with too much to say in danger of capture. ’

  ‘And they were given specific instructions to save Caesar for their king? Do they think I’m Caesar? That’s how it sounded to me.’

  ‘To me too. Perhaps that is what this whole thing is about. They’ve been luring us in all this time, but they think Caesar is with us. They think it’s his army and that you’re him. I suppose to these people any man with a plume and a cloak could be Caesar. They probably don’t know the difference between a general, a legate and even a tribune. They’re trying to lure Caesar, and they’ve hooked you instead.’

  ‘This king is going to live to regret that,’ Fronto said emphatically. ‘So the Convenae are a growing group of tribes all across the mountains, based at this place they call Conveno. Clearly that should be our next stop. Did you catch where they said that was?’

  ‘About forty miles southeast of here, up one of the deepest valleys.’

  ‘And they said the king was among the Ar e nosio?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Well that makes sense in one way but not in another . The direction you’re describing must be roughly between us and Arenosio territory from what I know. But the Arenosio are a tiny tribe. Small and not remotely influential – or at least they were a couple of decades ago. We had them working alongside us back in the day, when Caesar was up in northern Hispania. Scouts from the Arenosio were with my army . I cannot fathom how they could be important enough these days to lord it over the other Aquitanii. Still, at least we now have a name and a direction. I’d best get back down to the camp and speak to the others. I’ll send another cohort of men up to help sort things out here, but could you stay and oversee the clearing of it all ? We’ll tarry for two days and help the settlers set up here, then we move for Conveno.’

  Mid Maius

  SNOW remained upon the peaks and in the deep saddles of the passes , glowering over the fortress nestled on a dome of rock at the end of a narrow spur at the heart of the wide valley. The sky was a clear, almost pristine, blue which turned the snowy heights into an absolutely dazzling sea of white . There was nothing soft, though, nothing colourful about the fortress. This was no civilian town or fortified oppidum of the lowlands. This was little more than a garrisoned castle, with stout grey walls rising from equally colourless rocks, heavy dark timber buildings inside matching the gate that stood like a monster’s maw facing down the valley. A forbidding and cruel looking place, constructed for defence and to both impress and oppress those who saw it.

  And the maw was opening, for half a dozen riders had approached along the road up the valley, climbing the last stretch to those steadfast ashen walls. They were mountain men – scouts equipped for fast riding and reconnaissance, and they were tired and travel-worn , one with a spare horse, a figure draped across it like a human saddle . A guard met them at the gate, and the riders entered, the drumming of their hooves on the rock in the gateway causing reverberations that brought fresh sprinkles of snow from the arch above.

  The riders slid from their horses, stamping their feet to b r ing life back into cold limbs, and then the leader, a man with more years of battle behind him than most men had years of life, handed his reins to another and directed the men off to one side. He himself shrugged off the cloak over his shoulders, gave it to the guard, and marched toward the fortress’ central structure . All around the walls warriors watched the passes and the valley, and many more moved among the interior buildings, going about their daily business.

  The king’s hall was an impressive thing. Built of the same hard grey stone as the rest of the fortress, the walls were iron-coloured to the height of a man, then formed of stout, adzed timbers above, the whole surmounted by a roof of huge trunks that formed a triangular lid, their bases driven into the ground, their tips meeting at the apex . Smoke billowe d up through a hole in the roof, the fire that warmed the building roaring away inside and keeping at bay the cold that howled through the
passes even into lat e s pring. Then there would come a sudden change with the arrival of summer, and the temperature would rise, clearing the valleys, while the white would cling to the peaks and highest places. But for now, what was spring here could easily have been winter to the lowlanders.

  The scout reached the door and nodded to the next guard, who gestured inside without moving to stop him. The door creaked open under his chapped hand and swung inwards, allowing a blast of welcome warmth to sweep across him. The rider paused for a moment to relish the experience, and then stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him.

  The king’s hall was a single room, large enough to accommodate a feast or a council of war, a fire roaring in a stone-lined pit at the centre, a stripped carcass slowly rotating over the flames by the hand of a young boy, sending greasy, porcine smoke roiling up through the room to that hole in the roof. The windows were unshuttered, despite the cold, allowing light to penetrate the gloomy interior . The mezzanine level w as reached by a ladder, and was pitch black, for the king sat upon his throne in the main room, with his closest advisors by his side. There was no movement above. The king had no family, and took no girls to his bed. In the early days men had joked about that. They had soon learned not to.

  ‘What news, Korisos?’

  The scout approached the fire, the smell of the cooking pork bringing a rumble to his hungry belly. He bowed from the waist, then straightened .

  ‘Caesar’s army overran Biguro, my king. It was the most astounding thing I have ever watched. From boyhood my father always told me the Romans were like women, only able to fight because of their numbers and their armour. The men that took Biguro were warriors that would make Belenos proud. He took few casualties and destroyed the Begerri, even taking some back into his arms.’

  ‘That was to be expected. I never imagined that the Begerri would do more than inconvenience Caesar – whittle down his army a little. The general is simply that good, and I have told you many times not to underestimate the legions. They are no feeble warriors. They train to kill every day, whatever the weather. But what of his numbers. Have more legions joined him? I had presumed that reinforcements would arrive by the time they reached Biguro.’

  The scout shook his head. ‘If anything, his force diminishes with each passing mile. He has little more than half his legion left, now. He keeps leaving men to found settlements along the way.’

  Again the king nodded. ‘Roman policy, and sensible too. He increases the Roman presence in the lowlands, preventing any further risings and solidifying their control on Aquitania. But if he is settling men, then they are veterans. Are his whole legion such old men, I wonder? If so, the general has more self-belief than even I credited him with.’

  ‘They are all ancient grey-hairs, my king. They are little more than fleshy skeletons circling their own tombs , but they fight like maniacs. I bring the young chieftain , whose failure is now complete. My men have him in the yard, though he cannot tell you how tough the old Romans are, for he fled like a coward once his people were in danger. ’

  The king clucked his tongue noisily for a moment. ‘Even with half a legion, Caesar will be a tough proposition. But we must punish the surviving Begerri for their menfolk’s failure and easy capitulation. Have half the women and children executed and send the rest back to Biguro carrying the heads of the dead. That will send a clear message of my disapproval to those cowards who went back to the Romans, and will help unsettle the veterans who have remained there. Hand the Begerri boy over to Ategnio. He will make an example of him . And then everyone need s to begin preparations. Caesar will move on Conveno next, and then from there, he will come up into the passes to our very gate.’

  The scout nodded and, understanding the instructions to carry an innate dismissal , turned and left the room. The fire crackled and the pig hissed and spat, filling the strange silence that followed, until the old man sitting two seats to the left of the king leaned forward.

  ‘We have the most defensive walls across all the mountains, my king, but I worry about the Romans. If they can take Biguro so easily, perhaps this fortress is not as safe as we assumed? How do we ensure that we keep Caesar out?’

  The king’s head snapped round, his brow arched, which created a strange facial architecture along with his vicious smile . ‘Keep him out? Caesar will not be kept out, no matter how hard you try. Gods, man, if the general’s army cannot overcome our walls, I will swing open the gate for him myself. Do you not understand yet? You are the fortunate few, for you ride with me on my great journey, but no others matter. The Begerri were a slingshot to cast at Rome, and nothing more. Similarly the Convenae – all of them. They are but tools to an end. And this place? This is not a home, but a tower from which to spit at Caesar. You think I care about this place? About the Arenosio? I would leave them, each and every one, to be pecked at by crows if i t took me further along my path. I have no care for any man, and mercy is not in my soul. By the summer months I will have Caesar at my feet, begging for a mercy that I cannot grant. Then he will learn the hardest of lessons – that the world is cold and cruel and the F ates are as merciless as I.’

  The silence returned, and each man in the room with the king once more thanked his personal gods that he was one of the k ing’s chosen few.

  Chapter Eight

  C O NVENO proved to be nothing like Fronto’s expectations. Physically it matched what he’d heard and extrapolated from such information .

  The centre of the grand new federation called the Convenae rose on a low hill some two hundred feet above the wide flat valley that snaked between spurs which jutted from the mountains. Behind the hill, separated from it by a narrow vale, rose a horseshoe of wooded slopes another two hundred feet higher, and beyond that the great peaks and troughs of the Pyrenaei rose, hazy and blue in the distance.

  Conveno was not a new installation. Fronto had somehow assumed that this place had been purposefully constructed by the order of this shadowy king to accommodate the new super-tribe he had created. He had expected new walls and a fresh, ordered city.

  What he now saw was clearly an old settlement, presumably once belonging to one of those tribes that had now gone, wholly subsumed by the new federation . Conveno consisted of a ramshackle collection of old houses and farms surrounded by a rampart and a wooden fence . And while the settlement itself was nothing that Fronto had anticipated , neither was the situation, for he had expected this, the heart of the Convenae, to be bristling with warriors and full of the tribe’s civilian population, huddling defensively against the Roman threat approaching from the lowlands.

  Conveno was empty. That was plain even from a distance, just as the scouts had reported. The gate stood open and there was no smoke, no sound and no movement. Clearly the Convenae had vacated their town and moved into the peaks , possibly upon receiving news of the Roman victory at Biguro. Had they run for the hills to save themselves, hiding in the lofty valleys of the mountains? It would not stop Fronto. Once they had confi rmed what seemed to be the case – that Conveno was a city of ghosts and nothing more – the legion would move on up into the mountains, into the lands of the Arenosio, who they now knew to be at the heart of this strange localised rebellion.

  The scouts had, once more, circled the place and examined it as closely as they could, checked out the surroundings, and then reported back to the army’s commanders . Consequently, Fronto had taken his companions forward to examine the place. He had left Masgava and Carbo to run the legion, taking Galronus and Decius, as well as the omnipresent Aurelius and a small cadre of guards. After Fronto’s fight at Biguro, Aurelius had treated him to a half h our diatribe on the necessity of tak ing a b ody guard with him even when he wa s not expecting danger, on how important he was to the legion, how little point there was in having a bodyguard if he was to be consigned to the wagons whenever Fronto fancied a punch up, et cetera, et cetera. Fronto had caught sight of old Arruntius, busy washing the gore from his arms and face, grinning at the
same rebuke that he had so recently himself given. Since then, throughout the ensuring five day journey , Aurelius had left Fronto’s side only when he was lying in his bed or crouched over the latrines, clinging to him like a limpet every other moment. Worse still, between them, Aurelius and Galronus had selected six cavalry to serve as a guard unit, and Fronto could now not even ride alongside the army without being watched and surrounded by men.

  Still, now, as he rode up the slope toward Conveno , and the oppressive feel of an empty, haunted place settled upon him with a shudder, he felt rather grateful for the nine soldiers with him and the two scouts that accompanied them all.

  The eleven horsemen entered Conveno by the south gate which stood inviting and wide, and along a wide thoroughfare lined with empty, sad-looking buildings. The road curved up to an open square at the centre of the town , and as they reached the edge of that wide space, Aurelius gestured and the six cavalrymen spread out and circled around the periphery , leaving Fronto and his three officers to stare in dismay at what awaited them in the square.

  It no longer caused horror. The things that had been done across Aquitania in the name of this king in the mountains had been so damned unpleasant and unbelievable that Fronto had become inured, almost numb to the endless display of cruelty. And yet every time they encountered this series of grisly scenes the followers of this smiling king had seemed to be able to add a new aspect of terror to what they had done.

  Crucifixion was not new on this campaign , nor was the death of Romans.

  S i x bodies hung upon crosses that stood in an arc in the square, surrounding a heavy, unusual blueish stone stained with telling dark rivulets and standing amid a dried pool o f that same dark liquid. As the Romans closed on the dead men, Fronto peered up at them. They were Romans, and more clearly so than the other victim s they had seen so far across the region . They were not traders, nor unfortunate engineers. The four officers dismounted, tying their reins to a post near the main road that led to the gate, and strode across to the dead men. Flies in their thousands buzzed around the centre of the square and Fronto tried pointlessly to swat away clouds of the things as they approached the crucifixes. All six victims were well-born Romans of quality. Their clothing was of high standard, and each wore the torn and bloodied remains of togas, strands of the shredded garments dangling down toward the ground. Though they had clearly been dead for some time, Fronto spent every heartbeat on edge, half expecting one of them to move suddenly, and he was grateful when the cavalrymen finished their circuit and crossed to join them.