Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica

by Turney, S. J. A.

  ‘I’ll go down,’ Arcadios said, irritably. ‘I lost it.’

  ‘And look at you,’ Fronto said, rather more sharply than he’d intended . ‘You’ve wrenched all your muscles. Not much hope there. You stay here and keep the other beasts steady. And don’t feel guilty,’ he added, experiencing a touch of remorse himself over the tone he’d just used. ‘It was bound to happen somewhere up here. Galronus and I will go. Biorix , Aurelius and Masgava are the strongest, so you three can lower u s on ropes. ’

  ‘Er…. Your arm?’ Aurelius noted, pointing at the limb strapped to Fronto’s side.

  ‘It’s getting better. I can feel it. And I only need one arm to go down the rope. My other arm’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not clever,’ Aurelius said, disapprovingly.

  ‘I’m going,’ Fronto said flatly. ‘Live with it.’

  He turned to the Remi noble as the others tied the horses safely and took out the ropes, looking for a good place to anchor them and then throwing them out over the edge of the path. The ropes were thin but strong, legionary manufacture, and each covered almost forty feet. Two tied together should just about reach the unfortunate beast. The two men donned leather gloves from the pack on one of the surviving horses.

  ‘ This might cost us the time we need to get over the high section. If so we’ll have to camp near the far end of the lake tonight.’

  Galronus nodded. ‘Speed is important, but not at the cost of lives.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Done,’ shouted Masgava, and Fronto and Galronus wandered across, peering over the edge into the gloom, where two long strands of rope descended. Masgava held one, braced, and Biorix the other. Aurelius hovered where the two ropes were tied to projecting rocks, ready to grab them if they slipped.

  ‘Into Hades,’ Fronto said in a dark tone as he dropped to the rocky ground and slowly climbed out over the edge, gripping the rope with his good gloved hand . Galronus followed suit on the other cable and a moment later the two of them were slowly rappelling down the ropes toward the darkness below. After a descent of maybe ten feet, Fronto found the rocky slope and pushed his feet against it, bouncing down in bursts of zipping rope . Galronus was close behind him.

  Then suddenly Fronto’s world ended and his heart leapt into his throat as he reached the tip of the rope and fell. The legate almost laughed out loud as his shriek of panic was driven from him along with his breath when he hit the ground just a few feet below. Nursing a bruise or two, he rose stiffly to his feet as Galronus landed lithely on his toes a few paces away.

  ‘Exhilarating,’ the Remi smiled in the shadow. ‘You descend a rope, Fronto, with all the grace of a pregnant cow.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Slowly, their eyes adjusted to the dim light and Fronto spotted the poor horse. At least it had died quickly, its neck snapped and its head at an unpleasant angle. It had not hit the ground and then suffered. The pack had exploded on impact and the goods were strewn around the gravel, mottled here and there with small patches of extant snow. Fortunately, a lack of glinting metal suggested that the coin bag had not split, which was a mercy. Hunting individual coins across the ground would be painstaking slow work.

  ‘I can see the tent section,’ Galronus said, gesturing off to the left. Fronto nodded and bent to the horse, gathering up whatever he could find and then concentrating on trying to remove the saddle bags from the poor beast so they could use them to lift everything back up on the ropes. Galronus carried the leather tent section over and dropped it, then scanned the ground.

  ‘Think that’s the coin bag,’ he murmured, gesturing toward a slope down toward the water. Leaving Fronto to his work, the Remi noble stalked toward the lip of the slope, and bent to pick up the bag .

  Fronto grunted as he heaved the saddle bags out with his good arm , bracing his feet against the horse . The leather bags came free suddenly and Fronto tumbled backwards, upsetting his bad arm and causing him to yelp. He’d planned to return to the path by gripping the rope and letting the muscly trio at the top lift him, but was forced to recognise that he’d been rather reckless coming down here anyway in his state, just as Aurelius had said, and that the return journey might just see him follow the horse to Elysium. Still, they would all be skirting the lake. Once the goods were back up top, he and Galronus could descend to the water from here and meet up with the others further along.

  Moments later the pair had all the goods worth preserving gathered, and together they stuffed what they could in the saddle bags, discarding various bits and pieces that would be unimportant in the grand scheme. Quickly they attached the bags to one rope and Galronus tied the tent flap to the other. Fronto leaned back and cupped his good hand to his mouth.

  ‘Haul away.’

  The pair then stood and watched as the bag and the tent section were slowly pulled up the side of the steep slope to the top. There was a pause, and then the ropes came down again, with the empty saddle bag attached to one. With careful organisation, they packed the rest of the fallen gear and sent it back up.

  ‘Haul away and that’s the lot,’ Fronto shouted. ‘The way down to the lake is easy here. We’ll meet up with you further along.’ At a shouted acknowledgement from above, the two of them wai ted until the ropes were hauled to the top and then turned, leaving the dead horse for the crows and strolling down the gentle incline toward the lake.

  They scrambled here and there over rocky shelves and skittered down patches of scree, and finally came to the side of the lake. The path the rest were following kept pace with them above, gradually descending to meet them, and Fronto was starting to recover from the shock and the exertions and once more enjoy the breath-stealing scene when Galronus grabbed him and stopped him, mid-pace.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look.’

  The Remi noble took a few steps toward the slope and gestured into the shadow. Fronto followed him with a quizzical frown, and spotted the bodies a moment later.

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Two. Seems odd, don’t you think? I would reckon they’re Arenosio. Neither’s the king we’re looking for, but they’re warriors and they’re recently dead.’ Galronus crouched by the corpses, both of which were dressed in thick furs, armed and sporting impressive beards and wild, shaggy hair. ‘Got to be Arenosio, and surely they have to have been with the king?’

  ‘How long dead, do you reckon?’

  ‘They look fresh. Could have been half a day, maybe a day, but it’s hard to tell up here. It’s so cold that things are preserved easily. For all I know they could have been here three days. ’

  ‘Looks likely we’re still on his trail, though,’ Fronto noted. ‘I wonder why they’re down here. It’s a weird accident that sends two people together over the edge of a cliff. Unless maybe they were fighting and they both fell in a grapple?’

  ‘You don’t suppose Verginius is leaving you a trail of breadcrumbs to follow?’ Galronus mused. ‘Like the trail of crucifixions and the like he left all the way up into the mountains when he thought you were Caesar? I mean, he could surely have slipped past up here with out the locals down in the valley seeing where he went?’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t know we’d be below the usual path. I just don’t think he’s bothered about hiding his tracks. He undoubtedly has his reasons for everything he’s done, and I wouldn’ t be surprised if thes e two are his doing. Ah, shit, Galronus, we’re just stabbing in the dark. We can’t even guess what goes through his mind. Come on. Let’s see if we can make that last climb before dark.’

  * * *

  For the first time in days, Fronto felt relief looking ahead instead of nerves. Four more days had passed, crossing that high saddle beyond the lake, camping here and there wherever the terrain and flora best allowed. Once past that high point, the deep valley high in the peaks had led them out to a wider valley that more resembled the one where they’d fought the Convenae. Speaking to the occupants of a small mountain village there, they had noticed a distinct
change in the accent, which Fronto had confirmed was more of a Hispanic twang. Those natives had explained that the river running down the valley was the Nucario, which would eventually join the great Iberus down near the coast. The valley would take them all the way down through the foothills. Fronto had hea ve d a sigh of relief. The Nucario was a name he knew, for it flowed through the Roman colony of Ilerda , where Fronto had spent the night once or twice during his time in Hispania.

  Once in that valley, their pace had picked up, following the meandering deep valley southwards into Roman territory , for the land became easier. The snowline now lay far behind and the terrain was soft and grassy, with scree slopes around and stands of scrubby trees.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Galronus, gesturing up to a spur to one side of the valley. Here, in the foothills, the river was wide and fast, and the peaks to either side often high, but more hill than mountain. Fronto’s gaze followed his friend’s pointing finger, and he picked out a single turret on the spur.

  ‘Roman watchtower. It’ ll be long since abandoned . There’s a whole scattering of them around the hills on the periphery of Hispania Citerior . They go back a hundred years, to when the lands had only just been added to the republic. Aemilius Lepidus, Scipio Aemilianus, Brutus Callaicus – half the great names of Rome in that era fought war s around Numantia and against Carthage and as a result much of this area became Roman. The watchtowers were built early on to main tain control over the virgin territory. But despite their age, many are still standing. I spent the night in one not unlike this after the battle where Verginius fell. ’

  On a whim, Fronto smiled and beckoned. ‘Come on.’

  Urging Bucephalus into a faster pace, Fronto made for what was clearly a local shepherd’s trail up the spur’s side , Galronus coming on close behind. Aurelius, complaining about his reckless master once more, peeled off to follow, while the other three led the horses on down the valley below at a steady pace.

  The three riders crested the spur, which was somewhat overgrown at the edge with low twisted trees and scrubby brown undergrowth. They approached the tower and Fronto dismounted lightly, flexing the fingers of his bad arm as he tied his mount’s reins to a tree branch. His arm was improving all the time now, and he felt certain that he would be able to remove the sling in a few days, though he also felt sure a medicus would tell him not to.

  As the others s imilarly tied their horses, F ronto approached the doorway of the tower. It smelled of animal dung, and the door had long since gone, but the squat, square tower was otherwise still in good condition, a staircase of timber climbing inside to a roof-cum-walkway.

  Crossing the dark interior, wary of stepping in either animals or what animals might have left behind, he gingerly climbed onto the bottom step and tested his weight. It groaned like an old man rising from a chair, but otherwise seemed solid enough, so he slowly, warily, climbed the staircase to the top. Emerging onto the roof, he looked around. The timber floor had weathered well, and there were no holes or missing boards. Once more , carefully, Fronto stepped out and slowly put his weight on the floor. It held well, and, gaining confidence, he strolled across it to the southern parapet. One or two stone blocks had fallen, but otherwise it was in sound condition.

  His gaze fell upon a grand scene and he smiled. A moment later , Galronus and Aurelius were by his side, and he could feel the awe emanating from them in a silence broken only by the twittering of birds.

  The river widened out here and there ahead to a series of small lakes as it meandered along the valley into Hispania. The spurs and hills to each side as the flow marched south gradually lowered, so that from this tower, Fronto could see at least thirty or forty miles , by his estimation. And the morning dew was now burning off under a hot sun, so that each side valley and hollow was filled with a gentle blanket of mist. And far away, far in the distance, Fronto fancied he could see flat land.

  ‘This is Hispania?’ Aurelius murmured. ‘It knocks the shit out of Gaul for scenery.’

  Galronus simply nodded, his gaze scouring that stunning landscape.

  ‘There’s more to it,’ Fronto said. ‘I’ve crossed most of it in my time, though maybe not as often as Gaul. Further south it’s drier and browner, more like southern Italia. And down near Tarraco, it’s so similar to the villa lands at Puteoli in places that it makes me homesick. It’s a great land. I always loved Hispania. More than Italia really. One day, when the boys are grown, I think we might move here for a while.’

  ‘Where’s Tarraco, then?’ asked Aurelius.

  Fronto gestured vaguely ahead. ‘Somewhere over there. Out of sight yet . The first big place will be the colony of Ilerda, about thirty miles downriver. Ilerda’s in a wide basin of flat land, then there’s another lower range of valleys and peaks between there and the sea. We’ll be there soon enough, but I want to stop a night in Ilerda and see if we can pick up word of their passing. If he’s been leaving bodies in his wake, I wonder how many men he still has with him.’

  The two men nodded at his words and all three stood silent, looking out over the scene ahead. Whatever the future held, they were in a new world now. Left behind were Gaul and A quitania, the legions and battle. Now they were simply six Romans in their own lands, moving through Hispania Citerior, chasing down a dead man who beckoned them on at every turn.

  ‘Come on,’ said Fronto, straightening. ‘Time to go.’

  Early Junius

  Verginius stood and peered at the monument.

  ‘I honestly believe he thought he had made things right. A simple altar in a sea of bones.’

  ‘This is where you fell?’ Ategnio asked, peering around.

  ‘It is. Something of a detour, but I felt the need to come here. Fronto will, too, when he realises how close he is. This,’ the king said, pointing at the simple stone altar with its lichen and weathered Latin, ‘is a monument not to the fallen. It is a monument to arrogance. To stupidity. To cowardice. To betrayal. This is nothing more than a salved conscience for the tribune Fronto who left men to die while he fled with his skin intact to drink himself to death like his wastrel father.’

  ‘You are so filled with hate for this man Fronto? I had never heard of him until the fight in the mountains. I thought it was Caesar you hated.’

  ‘Oh you Aquitanii are so literal and straightforward, Ategnio,’ Verginius shook his head and leaned over, both palms on the surface of the altar. ‘Yes, I hate what Fronto has done to me, but I never hated him . How could I? He’s my brother. More so even than you, Ategnio. Fronto is half my soul and has been since the first day I drew a gladius for Rome. That is what makes his betrayal cut so deep. Caesar? That’s different. I was under his spell for a while like Fronto. But while Fronto still is, I started to see Caesar for what he was: vain, callous, selfish and corrupt. With Fronto in my grasp, I wouldn’t know whether to wring his neck or embrace him. Caesar I would just humiliate and execute. That’s why I slipped with the arrow and missed him. I simply, in that blink of an eye, couldn’t decide how I felt about it all. But now things are different. I've had time to think and I have a route planned out for him. Fronto will live through everything that was done to me. I knew a Jew in my youth back in Rome and his people had a very straightforward view of vengeance. Lose an eye – take an eye . Simple. Fronto will suffer as I did, and it will be catharsis for both of us, for the Fronto I know will have spent a decade torturing himself over his mistakes.’

  He turned and gestured to the gathered warriors.

  ‘Have you full bones yet?’

  The others approached the altar and began to lay out a vague skeleton from the ossified remains they had gathered, scrabbling in the dirt of the battlefield. When they were done, Verginius peered critically down at their efforts.

  ‘There are plenty of bits missing, but the main parts are there. You can tell it’s human. It has a head, ribs, pelvis and all the limbs. It’ll do. Who has my sword?’

  One of the warriors approached respectfully, cradling a gla
dius in a black leather sheath, decorated with silver filigree, its bone handle intricately worked.

  ‘Took me a year to get this back. Now I’m just throwing it away. Oh well.’

  Fishing in his pouch, Verginius dropped an officer’s torc on the broken skeletal neck and then, lifting his arms and bracing himself, drove the blade down through the ribs into the stone. It was soft red sandstone, local to the region, and there was already a crack there. The tip slammed into the crack and sank into the altar. Verginius let go and stepped back.

  ‘That’s it. One more surprise for Fronto, then it’s off to Tarraco. Come on.’

  Chapter Twelve

  THE field was just how Fronto remembered it, though perhaps a little smaller. His memory had gifted the site of the battle with a grander scale than it had in truth. But when he closed his eyes – and he’d quickly learned not to do that – he could see the Ilergetes charging. He could see the grizzled centurion who had saved the unit bellowing his orders and the desperate survivors running for their lives as the tribesmen whooped and jeered beyond. And worst of all, he could see himself, staggering, crouched, blood pouring down his arm and his leg, clutching the body of Verginius and dragging the lifeless limp form toward the Roman square, hope fleeing him with every step.

  Galronus stood at the altar Fronto had paid twice the normal price for from a local mason. It had been a rushed job, but a good one, and money was nothing to him at the time. The body atop the altar was supposed to be a facsimile of Verginius, clearly in some twisted attempt to increase the feelings of guilt that surged through Fronto with every heartbeat. The fact that it was Verginius’ own sword standing proud of the ribcage and, Fronto was pretty sure, that heroic centurion’s torc around the collapsed neck, did nothing to help matters.

  Galronus had the oddest look on his face. This whole dreadful drama had been picking at Fronto’s nerves and making him shiver ever since the king’s identity had been revealed in the mountains, but he’d given precious little thought to how it affected Galronus. And his friend was just as much a player in the tragedy of the Falerii these days. In half a dozen years the noble – a Belgae warrior of the Remi, of all things – had very much taken the place that Verginius had once held. A friend so close he was almost a brother, and who, when his wedding finally took place, would become an actual brother. For Galronus had also supplanted Verginius with Faleria. How was he taking the discovery that the man he’d replaced in so many ways was now proving to be very much alive. Did he worry what that meant for Faleria? Possibly. The Remi noble was often inscrutable in matters of the heart or soul. One thing Fronto felt certain of was that Galronus did not worry over Fronto’s friendship. The two of them had been through too much now for their relationship to be sundered by something so uncertain. And Verginius remained something of an unknown quantity. How much of the young Roman officer remained behind that permanent chilling smile? Not much, Fronto suspected.