Fronto’s gaze rose above the struggle and spotted the king’s house, as it must be, rising slightly above the surrounding roofs . That had to be Fronto’s goal, and as if to confirm it his gaze caught sight of that tall standard with the swaying pendants bobbing through the crowd toward the back of the Arenosio army. A small band of warriors emerged into the open space and paused. Fronto peered at the royal party , and could see that the king was looking back across the fight at the small group of Romans above the gate. There was too much distance between them for Fronto to make out the king’s features, and couldn’t tell what made him the ‘smiling king’ of whom he’d heard. Presumably he wasn’t smiling so much now , anyway . He wondered for a moment whether the king could see that the officer on the parapet wasn’t actually Caesar, but he doubted it. If Fronto couldn’t make out the king’s details, then the same presumably held the other way round. One of the warriors in the small party said something to the king and the group turned and strode off toward the houses.
There was a creak next to Fronto and he turned to see Arcadios with his bow string stretched, that last arrow nocked and ready. The legate opened his mouth to tell the archer to low er his bow, but he was too late and the arrow hissed off into the night.
It was a spectacular shot, arcing up into the darkness, where it fell perfectly on target . And as if laughing at fate , or chance , or both, the king simply took a step to his left without looking. The arrow slammed into the back of the man who’d been walking in front of him, and that warrior cried out and fell to the dirt. The king never looked back.
‘There’s a god protecting that one,’ Aurelius said quietly.
‘There’s a legate’s going to jam a foot so far up his arse before dawn that he’ll be able to bite my toenails from the inside.’
* * *
The Arenosio fought hard, and Fronto had to grant them more than grudging respect , but as the first quarter of the hour passed and more and more legionaries flooded into the fortress, constantly pushing the natives back across the open ground toward the buildings, so the heart drained from the enemy. Then , with a collective sigh, the enemy front finally broke and the Arenosio turned and fled.
Fronto watched from above the gate as the first groups of warriors broke off and ran for the illusionary safety of the narrow streets . Then more, and more, and then the whole force was on the run, the yelling legionaries released into centuries by their commanders and pursuing with purpose and organisation. At the command of Arruntius, each centurion took a street and led his men there, others moving around the ramparts and encircling the place, rushing to cut off any route of escape at the far end. They would ring the town and then squeeze until every last one of the Arenosio was dead or captured.
Fronto watched the legion swamp the fortress, then smiled at those with him.
‘What are your names?’ he asked the three men with them.
‘Egilius, sir. ’
Lecanius, sir. ’
‘Ulpius, L egate.’
‘Right,’ he said, gesturing to the man with the lame leg. ‘Egilius, get yourself back to camp. Lecanius, you help him. When you find the medici, tell them to send for the legate’s wine, and the pair of you get as royally drunk as you like. You’ve done more than your bit.’ He then gestured to the third man. ‘Same will go for you later, Ulpius, but I could do with a hand for now. We’re all very weary, but Arcadios , Aurelius and I are going to go have a quiet word with this king before we can rest again , and I’d like to have you along.’
‘It’d be my pleasure, L egate,’ the man grinned.
Fronto smiled and took a deep lungful of air, then almost fell over. Surprised, he straightened and put the weight on his good knee. He was exhausted, despite the brief rest atop the gate, and only now that he’d stopped running was he realising it, as the adrenaline of battle finally drained away. Still, he flexed his knuckles, it was almost over now. And he would find extra reserves of energy to see him through this last leg. For he was about to meet the smiling king of the mountains , and nothing was going to stop that .
The noises of battle were now oddly muted. What fighting there now was had become a sporadic thing in pockets around the fortress, the sound muffled by the buildings and the projecting thatched roofs .
‘Come on. It’s time.’
Leaving the legionary with the wounded leg and his mate to head back to camp slowly, Fronto and his three weary companions carefully slid down the embankment and picked their way between the stinking torn bodies of Roman and Arenosio alike, ignoring the desperate pleas of the wounded and dying and avoiding those enemies who still looked capable of lashing out. Sickening moments of treading in filth and gore later, staggering through an all-encompassing cloud of metallic-tinged stench, they emerged into the open space where only a few corpses lay widely scattered, cut down as they ran. The legate paused at the body of the royal bodyguard – for this was all Fronto could assume he was – and bent down. Arcadios ’ arrow was still lodged in the spine and the shaft broke as the legate turned the body over. He was not a young man , and clearly of noble rank . Fronto removed two silver arm rings from the body, each beautifully crafted with images of leaping stags, and passed them to Ulpius. ‘A prize for making it through the place with us.’
The legionary smiled and nodded gratefully, taking the precious rings and slipping them into his belt pouch as they walked on toward the nearest street. Oddly, as they passed into the alley from which they’d emerged half an hour ago , Fronto found he could picture the various turns and directions, and they swiftly moved through the fortress toward the king’s house . The signs of battle were evident wherever they went, bodies and parts of bodies scattered through the streets, legionaries left in doorway s with spears through them, unidentifiable wobbly, squishy things underfoot , a miasma of gullet-clotting stench, and blood – so much blood.
Around one particular corner, they came across two legionaries busily hacking at a desperate, dying warrior. Around another, a panicked looking native came running at them, an axe above his head, his eyes rolling and wild. Fronto ducked to the side, meaning to stab at the running man, but his knee gave way at the las t moment and he fell to one si de . The warrior died a heartbeat later as Ulpius drove his sword into the chest, while Aurelius reached out a hand for Fronto. The legate bit down on an angry retort that he wasn’t a helpless old cripple. It was blindingly clear that all four of them were so wearied they were near the point of collapse. It had been a long campaign and a long journey into the mountains, punctuated with hard fights. Then there had been the failed attack yesterday, the hike over the mountains after dark, and finally the fight through the fortress . No wonder they were shattered. With a smile, he took Aurelius’ hand and hauled himself up, rubbing his knee.
‘Almost there.’
Another two corners, and Fronto spotted the king’s house, just past the raised granary. The door was shut and half a dozen bodies lay in the street, four natives and two legionaries. This fight had been costly. Fronto found himself beginning to feel the edge of tension, a touch of nerves. He was going to kill this king. No slavery. No parading through Rome or languishing in a cell like Vercingetorix. This piece of shit was going to meet his gods tonight. And yet the very thought of facing the man who had done all this seemingly to bring Caesar to his threshold sent a shiver of fear through him. The sense that the gods were rolling dice again and that even the F ates were looking elsewhere was strong in him.
A moment later, Fronto’s fingers were reaching for the handle of the door – a section of a stag’s antler cunningly driven in to the timber. He frowned as his hand gripped the smooth bone, and twisted. The handle tilted on some drum set into the door and he heard the latch come up on the inside. Lovely workmanship. He pushed, and the door swung open to reveal a dim room with a mezzanine level reached by a ladder. Braziers heated the place and a fire burned in a central pit, its smoke rising toward a small central hole in the thatch and gathering in the rafters around it.<
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A small knot of warriors stood in the centre of the hut, well lit by the fire and the braziers despite the gloom, and Fronto took in the scene in the single moment he had. Eight men, each big and burly, one holding aloft that standard beneath which, Fronto now realised, the metal things that had clonked against one another were fasci na – replica phalluses for luck – which was a curiously Roman thing for a barbarian. All had swords drawn . But at the centre, standing in front, was the king of the Arenosio. T he reason for his name was suddenly clear as Fronto shuddered at the dreadful smiling wound . The king was dressed better than those around him, not armoured but armed, for he had a bow raised and an arrow nocked ready, and as Fronto had stepped through the door, that gleaming tip had turned fractionally to centre on Fronto’s chest.
It all happened in a heartbeat and Fronto stood no chance. He’d not even the time to drop to the floor. In that single blink when he took in the locals and the manner of his death , he realised there was nothing he could do. And in that curious slow-motion that occurs at such times, Fronto saw the triumphant glee on that savage, savaged, ever-smiling face turn to disbelief .
And the arm moved even as the arrow was released. The missile whispered across the room, glittering in red firelight, tearing through Fronto’s sleeve and scoring the tiniest line across his arm before it struck, with a thud, wedged in Ulpius’ chest. The legionary peered down in surprise at the feathered shaft jutting from his torso, then gave a short gasp and folded to the ground.
Fronto was aware of shouting, but his eyes were on the smiling king. A look of utter shock was about the man . There was something odd about him beyond the smile that nagged at Fronto. He was clean shaven, which was almost unique among these mountain men. His hair was long, but clean and neat and not wild like the others. His dress was austere but wealthy. In short, h e was not the sort of chieftain Fronto was used to meeting. And the frayed edges of Fronto’s mind were trying to tell him something. Then Arcadios and Aurelius were pushing past Fronto with swords raised, and the king’s warriors were running forward to meet them. More legionaries seemed to be arriving through the door from the street, shouting and running to help, but Fronto could not take his eyes from that face.
And the king was gone.
Fronto blinked, then blinked again, as if a spell had been broken. The king had disappeared behind his warriors. Fronto frowned, and then started to run , even as the door behind him opened once more to Latin shouts . The legate skirted the edge of the room, moving around the growing fight now fi lling its centre. When he reache d the far side, there was no sign of the king. H ow had he disappeared so easily? Snarling, the legate found the ladder and began to climb. Four heartbeats passed and he cautiously poked his head over the lip. The mezzanine was empty. Only a low bed and a simple desk stood there . Just in case, Fronto clambered up and searched the place. The king was not there, hiding behind or beneath the bed as he’d momentarily fancied would be the case. Thwarted, he returned to the ladder and, placing his feet either side of the uprights, slid down to the ground again . The king had gone . More legionaries had clearly come from somewhere and the fight was ending as he crossed to the centre of the room. On a whim, he counted the Arenosio bodies. Six. That figured. Not only had the king escaped somehow, but one of his men had done so with him.
‘Where is he?’ Aurelius shouted, puzzled.
‘No idea,’ Arcadios replied.
‘He somehow g ot out before the fight started,’ Fronto snapped. ‘ This lot bought him enough distraction to make an escape somehow , though I can’t see how. Bollocks! ’
‘He won’t get far,’ Galronus said, limping into the room, one leg trailing blood. ‘We’ve secured the whole place. The fighting’s almost over and even a mouse fart wouldn’t get past the ramparts with our lads on watch.’
But Fronto knew better as he picked up a stool and flung it at a wall in anger .
‘He’s gone, Galronus . The clever little prick’s gone. Somehow he’ll get out of the fortress , too . We won’t find him. And until we can track him down, he’ ll remain a threat. This won’t be over. But I don’t know what he’ll do now. He was read y with a bow. He was going to kill Caesar as he walked in, but when he saw it wasn’t Caesar, he mis-shot on purpose and killed Ulpius. But I don’t understand that. Why not kill me anyway? I’ve still got so many questions. Round up any survivors you can find and have them confined in a house . We can’t deal with them yet, but as soon as we have the chance, I want to hear from every tongue in the place until we know what this king wants and where he’s gone.’
And then I’m going to find him , Fronto added silently, and I’m going to kill the bastard very slowly .
Late Maius
THE king was grateful for Ategnio’s presence, though the other three warriors were less helpful and more of a hindrance. Slipping through the hidden exit in the wall had been easy enough, though – t he wattle and timber s had been hinged and the whole thing painted with daub to look like the rest . One thing he had learned in his time was that even kings were never truly safe and that a means of secret egress was more or less a requirement of the position. And Ategnio had done an excellent job of directing his guards’ attention at the Romans while he slipped quickly out the back, followed by his most loyal warrior. They had made their way swiftly to the east, picking up three Arenosio warriors on the way. None were of his loyal guards, but with a legion of Romans in the fortress and scant time to make an escape, beggars could not be choosers.
Even then, he was starting to become irritated with the three as they neared the rampart. One kept asking in a panicked voice what they were going to do now, another had a limp from a foot wound that was slowing them down, and the third? Well he was just irritating for no clear reason. The king just disliked him. Perhaps he smelled.
‘That’s the one,’ the k ing said, pointing to a house near the ramparts. Ahead, at the end of the alley, the grassy embankment rose to a walkway now patrolled by legionaries, and the three warriors huffed nervously.
‘How do we get past them?’ asked the nagging one, while the limping one slowly caught up and the third stood there being dislikeable .
‘For a start,’ the king hissed in reply, ‘we silence the ones who make too much noise.’ The warrior’s frown of incomprehension turned to a gasp of shock as Ategnio’s hand flattened against his mouth and the tip of a knife drove into his brain through the ear.
‘Then we make sure we are uninhibited ,’ he added, turning and raising his sword just as the surprised one with the limp arrived. The heavy blade slid into his chest and the king’s hand flattened across his mouth to stifle another gasp.
As the two men fell dead, the third warrior stared in horror.
‘Anything to say?’ hissed the king.
‘No, lord.’
‘Good. I’m feeling irritable , but you might yet prove useful .’
Ategnio pulled open the door to the house the king had indicated and the three men entered, the trusted second closing the door behind them. It took the king only moments even in the dark to find the trapdoor.
‘Always have adequate precautions in place,’ he advised his two remaining men, swinging the trapdoor open. ‘You go first,’ he added, indicating the dislikeable warrior.
‘Me, lord?’
‘Yes. There are no guarantees the Romans have not found it, and I am tired.’
Nervously, the warrior dropped down into the underground hollow. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom , but the darkness was near absolute , and so the pause was no help . Taking a nervous breath , the warrior used his free hand to feel his way slowly forward, his sword out ready. Behind him, the king dropped into the tunnel, then Ategnio, who pulled the trapdoor shut.
Over a thousand paces the narrow passage extended, partially carved from rock, with some sections dug through earth and shored up with rough timbers. The three men were filthy and scratched by the time they saw the feeble starlight marking the end . Slowly, caref
ully, they emerged with relief into the night air and took a deep breath, turning. They were in the river gulley below the walls, the exit well concealed by a shrub next to a tree whose roots formed part of the tunnel roof.
‘Where are the horses?’ the king whispered to Ategnio, peering up at the distant shape of legionaries on his fortress walls.
‘With the outmost pickets two miles upstream. The Romans won’t have gone near there, else we’d have seen a signal.
‘Good.’ He turned to the warrior with them. ‘Sadly, there are only two horses.’ The warrior blinked as the king lashed out with a foot, breaking his leg just above the ankle. As the man made to scream, the king’s hand clamped itself across the mouth.
‘Your friends are dead. You might yet live. But you must be silent until we are gone. Then you will crawl slowly back to the fortress with a message for the Roman officer.’ He held his hand there, staring quizzically at the warrior until he nodded, his eyes watering in pain. Slowly, the king removed his hand , replacing it as the warrior inhaled.
‘Ah, ah, ah. No shouting, or I gouge out your eyes too.’
Again, he removed his hand, and this time the warrior stared, baffled and terrified, into his eyes.
‘Tell the Roman commander that you wish to barter healthcare and your freedom in return for information. He will agree. He is not like normal Romans. He will have a surgeon and field medics with him who can set your leg . The information you can use to barter your freedom and your life is this…’
The king bent and whispered into his warrior’s ear. The man’s eyes widened for a moment, but finally he nodded as the king rose. ‘Come on, Ategnio.’ The two men left the whimpering warrior , descending to the stream’s bank , and began to pick their way up the valley until they were away from the fortress and relatively safe from Roman attentions.
Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica Page 27