‘ Their sort shouldn’t have been in Aquitania, surely?’ Fronto said, pulling his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose against the smell of aged death and the ever-present insects.
‘Not from what I understand,’ Decius replied, peering at them. ‘There were merchants out here, and soldiers, but the only nobleman would be the prefect at Lapurda . Togate figures? Where did they come from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fronto said through layers of muffling linen, ‘but it’s yet another goad for us. They’re not messages. I think we’ve got the message loud and clear by now. These are purely made to draw us on, as if we needed the incentive now. But if Caesar had seen this? Well these men represent the very basis of Roman rule. And they have to have come from the Narbonensis province or Hispania Citerior , which means this king has a long reach.’
‘Shit!’
Fronto turned and frowned at the outburst from one of the cavalrymen – something he’d not expected from a veteran in the presence of his officers, but something about the trooper’s face cut off his angry retort. The man had gone rather pale and was leaning forward in his saddle , peering at the nearest of the six bodies.
‘What is it?’ Fronto asked.
‘I think I know him, sir. It’s kind of hard to tell, but I reckon you will too, Legate.’
‘What?’
The trooper handed his reins to his friend and slid from the horse, approaching the hanging body. Fronto closed with him, and the pair ended side by side before the grisly remains.
‘How could you recognise him,’ Fronto queried. ‘The birds have had his eyes and most of his face.’
‘But sir, you were with the Ninth, back in the old days. I was with you when we went against the Cantabri – when we met up with Caesar’s army in the north. You remember Valerius, sir?’
‘The Ninth? Valerius?’
‘Limpy, sir.’
Fronto’s frown deepened and then his eyes widened in recollection. ‘Valerius. Cavalry decurion. I remember him. Had one leg a bit shorter than the other. Good man in the saddle, but leaned to one side when he walked.’ As he spoke, so his eyes dropped to the feet of the man on the cross. Unlike the other five, who had had a nail driven through their feet to keep them in place, this man had had to have both feet nailed separately, as they were not at the same height. ‘Surely not.’
The cavalryman approached the body, wafting away the flies and reached up, grasping the edge of the body’s tunic sleeve. ‘See, sir? A tribune’s tunic, I reckon. And look.’ As he lifted the stained material, Fronto could see revealed on the upper arm a tattoo of a horse’s rear end. ‘Result of a failed bet with another of the horse officers. I remember him getting it done in Tarraco after the campaign. Got infected. Left him a mess for weeks. This is Valerius.’
Fronto nodded, hardly believing his eyes and ears. Ghosts were rising to assail him from all sides this spring. ‘So what happened to him to end up here with five , what, city councillors I reckon? ’
‘He suffered a fall, I remember, sir, a bout a year after the campaign. Probably about the time you left for Rome. But his family are prominent, so instead of the usual sick dismissal, he got promoted to tribune and shuffled into some desk job in supply for the governor in Tarraco. That would be, what, nine years ago, maybe, sir? Looks like his career stagnated there.’
Fronto nodded. ‘So we assume that Valerius never left Hispania Citerior and stayed a tribune to the end. That means that he and these five others came from across the mountains in Hi spania . Where from? I mean, how far into our lands has this bastard been? Are they from Osca? Ilerda? Gerunda? Are they from Tarraco itself? The more I see of this bastard’s handiwork, the more I want to beat every little secret out of him.’
‘There’s something else about this, too,’ Galronus muttered.
‘What?’
‘Caesar is the connection in all this. They think you’re him. They think they’re luring Caesar into a trap or a fight. And now a man turns up dishonoured and murdered, and he happens to have been an officer in an army Caesar led on campaign? That cannot be a coincidence, surely? Whoever this man is, he has a grudge against Caesar strong enough to destroy nations to satisfy it.’
Fronto nodded. Ghosts. Too many ghosts.
* * *
The Pyrena e i were impressive. Fronto had seen them from the eastern reach as they dropped to the sea not far from Narbo, and he had skirted their southern fringes as he rode with the army across Hispania to join Caesar all those years ago, but he had never had cause to push into the valleys that led up to those giant snow-capped peaks.
The valley that led into Arenosio territory from Conveno was one of the most pronounced in the entire range. From that empty town it snaked up in to the heights, curving this way and that, narrowing into defiles and widening out into green valleys, and all the time rising ever higher into the mountains. And throughout the journey no other towns seemed to crop up. Fronto figured they must exist, and the scouts presumed them to occupy side-branches of the main valley, but they could ill-afford to divert the army up each branch just to find other town s , for there was every chance that any settlement they found would be empty anyway. So they marched on up the valley, encountering only abandoned farmsteads in the more fertile areas and tiny empty hamlets near the treeline.
Six days the legion slogged up the winding valley, the supply train rumbling along slowly at the rear, struggling every foot of the way. It was becoming ever more troublesome with each passing mile. Horses were becoming an issue now. Lameness of cavalry steeds and of pack beasts had drained the spares, and now every mount was needed every day, and numerous cavalry steeds had been commandeered to aid the supply train, leaving cavalrymen walking alongside the legionaries. The only bright spot was that the scouts had informed them this morning that they had passed into Arenosio territory, and so the end was now close. Fronto just prayed they would have the strength and the manpower to achieve victory at that end.
The legate’s gaze wandered ahead, from where he rode at the front of the column, with Aurelius so close they were almost sharing a saddle. The valley once more curved here, veering off to the left. He was now rather turned about due to their winding path and only during a few hours early and late in the day could he judge the direction from the sun. By his best estimate, the valley was turning east again. A huge spur of land reached out from the mountains like a giant’s hand grasping at the earth, his fingers green and welded to the ground, and Fronto peered once again at the small tower atop it. The scouts had confirmed the watchtower was empty half an hour ago, but Fronto could only assume that it had only just now emptied. Why have a watchtower if you have no watchers in it? Clearly the men there had seen the lead elements of the army and abandoned it before the scouts arrived. Fronto was certain they’d been being watched now for at least two days, and that all meant that the enemy knew they were here. There would be no hope of surprise as at Biguro . No, the enemy would be fully prepared this time. And they would not be led by wavering idiots like the Begerri. The Arenosio were supposedly led directly by this very smiling king in the mountains, and would be of steely resolve.
‘Sir?’
His thoughts reeled back as the scout that had been riding toward him reined in and walked his horse alongside the legate.
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve found another execution, sir. Thought you ought to see it.’
Fronto nodded and urged his horse forward in the wake of the scout, Aurelius and the six cavalrymen staying close behind as the y rode on . Some mile ahead of the army, the scout reined in at the top of a steep slope and pointed down it. Fronto peered into the river valley. The torrent that flowed all the way down the valley and became the Garona as it flowed wide and powerful through Tolosa and finally Burdigala into the great western sea was here perhaps twenty paces wide, chest deep and as cold as a senator’s heart. It was also extremely fast flowing and had cut a deep defile along the centre of the wider valley, and more than one man and hor
se had fallen foul of the slope and the current in the past few days, such that the army now steered clear of the river except in places where the banks lowered.
Here, almost at the spur where the valley turned, the rocky heights came down close enough to the river that the legion would be forced to cross the river or suffer the difficulty of moving the supply wagons along the side of a steep slope, which would be difficult and likely to result in at least one wreck and lost vehicle. Appropriately, the scouts had picked out the best route, which led down a track to this point, where an old stone bridge just about wide enough for a cart crossed the torrent , high above . The banks had been washed away in places by some recent flood and the army would have to be slow and careful on the approach to the bridge.
But it was not the terrain they were here to see. Fronto peered at the body on the bridge and, handing his reins to the scout, dismounted. Aurelius followed suit, and the pair of them slowly and carefully descended the bank to the riverside path. Skidding on grass, they ran the last few paces of the slope and out onto the bridge. The sound of the Garona here was deafening. The torrent thundered down its rocky path beneath the stone bridge with a sound like a cavalry charge . A gibbet had been hastily erected on the side wall of the bridge – just a single huge, curved branch dropped into a socket made in the stone. The rope had been tied to a protruding woody knot at the top and from it, in the noose, hung the body of a rich native. He was young, only just out of boyhood, but he wore the clothes and bronze and silver adornments of a noble, as well as a chieftain’s torc around his neck. Though he still wore his clothes, he was devoid of weapons, headgear or boots. His hands and feet were a black- purple colour , his face a blue-grey and lined with little blood-marks, while his eyes bulged and his tongue protruded. The legs were caked and stained with urine and faecal matter , and an awful lot of dried blood, the mix also visible as a mark on the stones beneath.
‘A chieftain,’ Fronto noted.
‘Recent, too,’ Aurelius added with a sniff and a sour face.
‘One of the Begerri perhaps? A punishment for their failure?’
The bodyguard nodded. ‘Makes sense . What caused the blood, I wonder? You don’t see a lot of blood with hangings.’
Fronto nodded and drew his sword, using the tip to lift the hem of the tunic. The trousers beneath were saturated through with old clotted blood at the groin. ‘Whatever happened to him before he was hanged, it was nasty and it happened to his manhood. Don’t think I’m fascinated enough to look any closer, but I can only hope for the poor bastard’s sake that the blood loss had knocked him out before they strung him up.’
‘No such luck,’ Aurelius said with an air of authority. ‘The colour of the extremities and the voiding is all stuff that happens when you hang a live, conscious man. And look at his fingernails. He’s ruined them clawing at the rope around his neck.’
Fronto shot an unpleasant glance at Aurelius. ‘I shan’t ask how you’re such an expert. How recent do you think , since you’re the authority?’
Aurelius shrugged. ‘The blood’s separated. See how it’s hardened into a solid clot and left a yellowing stain?’
‘I’m not looking that close. Just give me a time.’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’m not that much of an expert. But more than an hour I’d say. Certainly less than a day, too.’
‘So he was put on display for us a few hours ago. That suggests to me that we’re close to our destination. A few hours would mean anywhere within maybe twenty miles at a guess . I think we’ll find our king and his Arenosio army in the next couple of days. Give me a hand. I want to tip this poor sod over and drag him away into the bushes. Then some of your men can clean the bridge down. Stuff like this unnerves people.’
Aurelius nodded emphatically and made a warding sign against bad spirits before he reached up to the body.
* * *
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Decius muttered, his horse dancing slightly, impatient to move in the barren, cold terrain. Fronto grunted his agreement as he peered down at the fortress in the wide valley bottom.
The scouts had found the place, an unrecorded site whose name was unknown, a few hours ago and had hung around just long enough to confirm that it was most definitely occupied and by a visible force before pulling back in case they were seen by the enemy. Fronto had shrugged at that. He was sure that the enemy were already well aware of the location and size of the Roman force. So he had once more left Masgava commanding the diminished legion of less than three thousand men, bringing them slowly up the valley at the painstaking speed of the supply train, while he and a small command party had ridden ahead to check out the fortress.
This outpost of the Arenosio sat on a pronounced hillock to one side of the valley, the river Garona flowing past a few hundred yards away, fed by another stream that looped below the fortress . Due to the approach and elevation, the only way they could achieve a good overview of the place was from higher up the valley side. A nd so Fronto and his friends had very carefully and slowly climbed the northern slopes almost a mile down the valley, which at this point stretched east to west, as evidenced by the blinding sun early that morning before the clouds began to set in, rolling over the world like a fleecy blanket. The way had been treacherous up to the heights, almost a thousand feet above the valley, and the landscape at the top was forbidding and bleak, all scree and scrub grass, with scattered sick-looking trees, in stark contrast to the slopes directly above the fortress on either side, which were thickly wooded. Here, though, for all its bleak appearance, the view of the enemy position was unparalleled, and Fronto could even see inside the compound.
The place had been fortified by nature and improved by man. Sitting at a point where a lesser valley ran off to the north east , it guarded a crucial meeting place of routes through the mountains. The ramparts, which had been formed of what appeared from a distance to be dry-stone-walling, were twice the height of a man , and just as thick, backed by turf slopes . The whole place was roughly ‘L’ shaped, with the short side facing the lesser north ern valley and the long point jutting out into the main vale . Two gates stood in the walls, one at the long end, facing the valley bottom and the other in the short side, facing the north east . A small river ran down from that lesser valley and contrived to form a loop around the place to the east , south and west , effectively cutting it off from the wide valley with a deep gulley. That defile was crossed by means of a narrow stone bridge that carried the approach to one gate. The north-western reaches w ere not protected by the cold torrent, but there was no flat approach , for the rise upon which the fortress sat dipped only to meet the great slope of the wooded valley side.
‘That, Fronto, is a shitty place to contemplate,’ Carbo said, echoing Decius’ sentiments.
‘It’s mostly the problem of terrain,’ the legate murmured. ‘The walls are no better than Biguro’s, and probably worse. For all their appearance, they’re just packed stones, which can be pulled apart or climbed without too much difficulty. But getting men to the walls is going to be troublesome.’
He turned and peered at the silver serpent that was the legion moving up the valley toward them. There had been an appreciable increase in pace among the men, for their destination was almost in sight, and no matter how hard the battle at the end of it might be, each man in that column would be grateful simply to stop marching up the same seemingly-endless valley. In half an hour the lead elements would be in place, mapping out the terrain for the camp. He returned his gaze to the fortress.
‘What’s your opinion, everyone? Biorix?’
The engineer scratched his chin. ‘ Getting a battering ram up to a gate would be the work of Hades himself. Both gates are at the top of slopes, and the men would be fighting the gradient with all their strength, leaving little for actual attacks. No siege engine will fit across that narrow stone bridge, even if we had one. Crossing the gulley en- masse would require some quick-built temporary bridges. The engineers could knock you up s
ome wooden trestles to span the gap in half a day , but you’d still have to get down the steep slope, across them and back up the equally steep slope at the far side. The northern approach is the obvious one, but between the slope and the woods there’s no way to encamp a legion up there, so any attack we make will have to completely skirt the place from the valley bottom before we try for the walls. Either way, siege-wise your best weapon is probably going to be siege ladders. Essentially, as soon as the defences are constructed , I’ll get the lads cutting timbers on the far side of the valley and bringing the timber into camp. We’ll start on siege ladders and then bridges. If we work hard we could have the ladders all ready for maybe noon tomorrow, and temporary bridges by sundown.’
Fronto nodded unhappily. ‘If that’s all we can reasonably use, then that’s the way we’ll go. Get your men on it, and take as many legionaries as you need to speed up the process. I want to be able to launch a full-scale attack by tomorrow afternoon.’ He turned. ‘Decius?’
‘Hmm. Sling shot range for my lads is maximum about two hundred paces, but at that range it’s only good against targets the size of a barn. About seventy to a hundred paces is our usual battle range, and anything less than fifty paces and they could take out an eye. Archery’s not much different . My Cretan lads can hit a human sized target one time in three at about a hundred and fifty paces. Less than a hundred paces and they’re more or less spot on.’ He frowned, breathing slowly. ‘Of course, the angle of attack makes a difference too. I reckon that river gulley is just under two hundred paces from crest to walls. So if I got my men to the top of the gulley we’d stand a reasonable chance of doing damage across the walls. It’s too far for careful targeting, but we’ll take a few out and keep the heads down. Of course, we don’t know whether they have archers and if so how good they are. It’s plausible that they can do the same back to us, and we won’t have the benefit of walls. Only way to learn that is to test it, which makes me nervous. From the northeast, up the lesser valley, we’d be too low. Arrows and stones wouldn’t make it over the walls. And from the northwest, by the time we get far enough up the slope to negate the elevation problem, we’d be in thick woods and at the limit of range. Essentially, missiles are only feasible from south and west, across the gulley.’
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 21