Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  Unless they were not his men…

  "Shields!" Priscus bellowed to the column in general as he kicked his horse forwards, covering the gap between the two groups of men in four bounds.

  Even as Caesar opened his mouth to demand of Priscus what in the name of Venus he thought he was doing, the first arrow struck the nobleman's horse in the shoulder. Before the next could strike, Priscus launched himself from the saddle, slamming into the alarmed nobleman, knocking him from the horse's back so that the pair hit the ground in a tangle and rolled as arrows whispered through the air where the stocky nobleman had been moments before.

  Uproar suddenly bloomed along the column. The continual clatter or men turning and forming shieldwalls was dotted with the bellowed orders of centurions and optios, the panicked shouts of green commanders, guttural cries of the nobleman's escort and the screams of both his and Priscus' horse as half a dozen more arrows thudded into them.

  Instantly, Aulus Ingenuus was next to Caesar with the skilled manoeuvring of a veteran cavalryman, followed swiftly by half a dozen of his Praetorians, their shields creating a wall that protected the general. The last thing Priscus heard before his head hit the ground hard and shook his senses was the order for the release of pilum - the Tenth were prepared in advance and quick to launch a counter offensive.

  Trying to think through his ringing ears and whirling senses, Priscus forced himself up to his knees and unfastened his helmet with considerable trouble. Removing it he noted with great interest the deep groove where his head had struck the rock. Helmetless, he would likely have died. Turning the helm to look inside he could see a smear of blood on the ridge that corresponded.

  Blinking and trying to get hold of his brain through the roaring in his ears and the sickening, stomach-churning dizziness, he suddenly found himself being hauled upwards. As his eyes swam into focus, he realised that it was the Gaulish noble with the copper hair who was pulling him upright.

  "Thank you" the man said in a thick accent as half a dozen sling stones whizzed through the air above them.

  "Afnghhhh" was all he could manage in reply. Strange how a bump on the head made the tongue huge and numb and almost entirely useless. Blinking his rolling eyes again, he felt another hand come round to hold him steady and recognised in his swimming vision the chiselled, bristly face of tribune Furius.

  There was no other explanation, now with the head-wounds into the bargain: he was turning into Fronto!

  * * * * *

  By the time Priscus' vision had properly refocused and the nausea had abated enough to allow him reasonable movement, the 'ambush' was over. The Tenth had taken the initiative, given their readiness and their position close to the van, and had peppered the forest's edge with deadly pila. In a display of incredible forward thinking and adaptability from their new Primus Pilus, the Seventh had appeared at a run from further down the column, pausing only long enough to ready their own missiles before sending a second wave into the forest into the seething, screaming aftermath of the first.

  Priscus tried to bellow out an order, but his voice still seemed to echo quietly from somewhere deep in his chest, unheard by all but himself. He cleared his throat, wincing at the taste of bile, and looked around.

  The legions were ready, swords drawn and shields up, awaiting the command to attack, following up on their devastating missile cloud. Priscus opened his mouth to shout the command, but paused, tilting his head. Turning, he looked at the stocky Gaul and at Furius.

  "Did I hear music or is my head still playing funny buggers?"

  The Gallic noble nodded. "It is call for talking."

  Priscus frowned at the man. "I know you from somewhere." But before the man could answer, a small party of natives emerged from the forest's edge: another group of around a score, mostly noblemen in rich, heavy wool cloaks, with a small warrior escort."

  "Shooting before they talk? What are they: Parthians?"

  The men of the Praetorian guard, along with their drawn, eight-fingered commander, manoeuvred their steeds into a protective circle around the senior officers, all but blocking the view of Priscus and his two companions, now afoot.

  "What is the meaning of this?" demanded Caesar of the new arrival and then, down to the man Priscus stood beside: "out front!"

  As the stocky Gaul moved forward, the Praetorian horsemen stepping their mounts aside to allow passage, Furius and Priscus followed at his shoulder.

  The newly-arrived party fanned out, leaving one man at the centre, standing proud and tall in high-quality bronze helmet and a clearly-Roman mail shirt. Despite the profusion of nobles in the group, he was quite clearly the leader.

  "Man enemy."

  "That much is obvious" Caesar replied sharply. "But not necessarily my enemy. Identify yourself."

  A man wearing a russet-coloured cloak stepped up beside him.

  "This" he replied in good Latin with a faint Belgic accent "is Indutiomarus, chieftain of the Treveri."

  Caesar shook his head and pointed at the dismounted Gaul with the two Roman officers at his shoulders nearby. "This man is Cingetorix, leader of the Treveri. He has commanded his tribal cavalry for me on several occasions over these past years, so I am familiar with his face."

  The tall noble and the man in the russet cloak exchanged a look and a few brief words in their own language and then the cloaked man addressed the general once again.

  "Cingetorix is no longer of the Treveri. He is a crazed dog to be put down."

  Caesar glanced down at the Gaul close by and raised his brow questioningly.

  "Indutiomarus is a usurping liar, Caesar. You know my loyalty."

  The general straightened again. "I trust you understood those words, 'chieftain' of the Treveri? What say you to that?"

  Again, the two men glanced at one another. "Your former ally conspired against you with the Germanic peoples across the river, Roman. He is no friend of yours."

  "Indeed? And you are my friend?"

  'Russet cloak' took a step forward. "We have no love of Rome, it is true, but give us Cingetorix and we will give our oath to stop his German friends crossing the Rhenus."

  The man beside Priscus stepped out into the open, turning to Caesar. "This man lies, general. He already has allies from across the Rhenus along with a growing force of his people in the forest. If I cannot return to Tielo and raise my own, loyal, men then by summer time, this usurper will have brought enough thugs from across the Rhenus to flatten all of Gaul, not just the Romans within it."

  Caesar sat back in his saddle.

  "You put me in a difficult position. I have pressing business in the west, and I cannot tarry here long." He turned to look down at Priscus. "Take both these parties into custody and then have the Seventh and Ninth sweep the closest half mile of forest and round up anyone they find."

  "Caesar," Cingetorix snapped, waving his hands, "if you do this, you will give the friends of this son-of-a-German-whore time to build an army in the sacred forest; an army that will depose me and defy you."

  "I cannot set you free on your word alone, Cingetorix, regardless of your history of service. I will see that your enemy here is the first to be put to the hot irons to seek the truth of the matter, though, so you may yet walk free a friend of Rome."

  Priscus, looking back and forth between the two would-be rulers of the Treveri, suddenly focussed on the group recently arrived from the forest.

  "You!" he bellowed, pointing at the group. Caesar looked around and down in surprise at the interruption.

  The entire crowd fell silent at the sharpness of Priscus' tone and the new legate stalked out half a dozen paces towards Indutiomarus, Furius bristling at his shoulder like a shadow with violent intent.

  "You!" Priscus repeated. "The cloaked man behind the spokesman. Show yourself."

  The rest of the crowd now peered at the group, focusing on the figure lurking among the Treveri nobles, wearing a long, grey cowled cloak.

  "Come on!" he demanded.

&nbs
p; A tense silence fell over the scene - a silence broken suddenly as the man in the cloak turned on his heel and made a break for the treeline. The world exploded into activity as though the man had been a trigger. Indutiomarus and his group of nobles burst apart like a kicked seeding dandelion, each man hurtling individually for the trees in the wake of the cloaked runner. At the same time, the Roman officers all began bellowing orders, with Caesar shouting over the top of them to take the nobles alive.

  Priscus turned and gestured to Aulus Ingenuus, sitting in his saddle, impassively taking it all in, his primary duty the safety of the general.

  "Ingenuus! Get your men to chase down that cloaked man and bring him back alive!"

  The young prefect looked across at Caesar with an unspoken question. The general took a quick look at Priscus' face and then nodded. In response, Ingenuus gestured to two of his troopers and the three horsemen kicked their mounts into action, hurtling off at an impressive pace towards the woods and the running man.

  Priscus watched the chase, ignoring what was happening with the rest. The Tenth and the Seventh were moving to the woods to round up anyone they could find and to prevent the escape of the party of nobles. But the cloaked man had distance on them all, having broken first. It was touch and go whether he would reach the woods before Ingenuus and his troopers but, if he did, he was as good as free. These men knew the forest of Arduenna as well as their own skin, and no horseman could penetrate it with any ease.

  "Who is he?" Furius asked from close by. Priscus turned to him and saw Caesar leaning forward in his saddle behind the tribune, echoing the question with his own expression.

  "I'm not one hundred per-cent sure, but I saw his face briefly and the fact that he ran tends to support my suspicion."

  Ignoring the irritation of the general at his non-answer, he turned back to watch the pursuit.

  The man would only just make it. As he neared the first boles, he ripped away the cloak to give him a little more freedom among the trees and brambles but, with his back to them and the increasing distance, the view was no clearer. Ingenuus and his men were flogging the life out of their beasts to catch him, but they would not quite make it. Priscus smacked his fist against his hip in irritation.

  The fleeing man sensed his freedom in his grasp and dived towards the woods, desperate to reach its shadowy safety.

  Hauling back their arms, both of Ingenuus' men hurled their spears in a last effort to catch the man or to wound him at the very least. The first spear thudded into a tree bole less than two feet from the runner's head. The other, a magnificent or incredibly lucky shot, missed the man's thigh by a mere hand-breadth, but jammed into the leafy ground and stuck out at an angle, just high enough to catch the runner's ankle as he attempted to leap the obstacle.

  Priscus closed his eyes in relief as the fleeing man suddenly sprawled head first into the mud and leaf-mould at the forest's edge. By the time the man had recovered enough to pull himself partly up, he found that he was at the business end of three cavalry swords, the ever-professional prefect Ingenuus and his companions gesturing back towards the vanguard of the army.

  The Tenth's new legate watched the approaching man intently, wondering whether he would try and make another break for it. He would be stupid to try, with Ingenuus and his friends' swords at his neck, but sometimes desperation led a man into the trap of stupidity.

  Slowly, as he approached, the figure became more identifiable but it was only when he came close and raised his head defiantly that Priscus heaved a sigh of relief and felt the satisfaction of a task completed. Furius was still radiating confusion, but Priscus heard Caesar's breathing tighten.

  "Dumnorix" the general hissed, his voice laced with venom.

  Priscus nodded. Furius leaned closer. "Dumnorix as in the one we saw on that message?"

  Still nodding, Priscus turned from the sight of the weary prisoner and clapped his hand on Furius' shoulder. "The very same. Soon as you mentioned that name, I knew we were on to something. I've been hoping we'd get our hands on him, but I didn't imagine it would be this quick and easy. Fortuna smiles on us, Furius."

  "But who is he, sir? Some kind of Belgic chieftain?"

  "Oh no, Furius. No Belgian this one. He's Aedui, from down at Bibracte."

  "But the Aedui are long allies of Caesar."

  "Not this prick. When we last saw him he was a lot fatter and haughtier, but I know that face. Dumnorix was a ringleader of a plot four years ago, when we first set foot in Gaul; a plot which led to the death of a lot of good cavalrymen and the murder of a popular tribune, and almost the death of Fronto too. He was let off a bit too leniently, though, due to our need to stay in with the Aedui at the time - stripped of his titles and money and exiled. Soon as I saw his name on that scrap of message, I knew the knob-end was up to his old tricks, and what he's been doing since he was kicked out of Bibracte. And now we've got him without the need to keep the Aedui happy. This time I think the general might like to have him broken?"

  He looked up at Caesar, who was still unleashing the full force of the infamous Julian malice at the scrawny, dejected figure before them, eyes burning and lip twitching. "Bind him tight and strap him to a horse, none too comfortably either." He turned to Cingetorix, who was still standing beside Priscus. "My apologies for entertaining doubt, chief of the Treveri. Do you require our aid to secure your lands once more?"

  The intended humiliation of the question was not lost on the chieftain, who tried to stand straight and proud, despite having been saved from an ignominious death by the timely arrival of Caesar's legions.

  "Respectfully Caesar, now that your men are rounding up the majority of Indutiomarus' friends and warriors, I should have no trouble breaking his influence in the oppida of the Treveri. Should your legions remain to aid me, though, I fear it might send others running to his cause instead."

  Caesar nodded and looked up at the legionaries of the Seventh and Tenth herding captives from the forest.

  "Very well. We look to have around a couple of hundred prisoners now. I trust you will have no difficulty with my removing them from Treveri lands and putting them under close guard among my veterans?" He glanced down at Dumnorix and then across at the tall figure of Indutiomarus who was being propelled towards them, his arms folded behind his back, struggling against the four legionaries who held him. "And the interrogation of a few, of course."

  Cingetorix looked ready to argue for a moment, but lowered his head and closed his mouth, nodding silently.

  "Go and quell the rebellious spirit among your people, Cingetorix. I have urgent business this summer, and I would hate to have to interrupt it in order to return here and remind you of your oaths. Do I make myself clear?"

  Again the chieftain nodded, his head remaining bowed.

  Priscus smiled at Furius. "I couldn't have planned it any better. Two of the biggest ringleaders in chains at one accidental stroke. See? I'm wasted as a legate. We might just be able to avert this inferno before it builds ready to blow, Furius."

  The tribune nodded. "Let's get Britannia out of the way first, sir, eh?"

  Priscus grinned. "Time to kick a few British arses, eh? Shame Fronto's missing this. Wonder what he's up to? He'll be married by now. Bet he's pacing like a caged lion."

  Chapter Three

  IUNIUS

  "There won't be any bookmakers."

  Fronto smiled at Lucilia. "There are always bookmakers. Sometimes you need to know where to find them is all."

  The look in his young bride's eye seemed to be trying to convey some sort of warning, but Fronto shrugged off the worry. For the first time since last autumn he was in for a bloody good fight. He might not actually be involved in it - probably a good thing given how his knee was holding up and how he seemed to get out of breath even climbing a flight of stairs these days - but he would get to admire the skill at arms of professional fighting men. And perhaps make some money if he still knew form to any extent. And there might even be wine involved, since
Pompey had pride of place and they were joining him.

  The only minor irritation was that Galba was here somewhere in the throng but would not be in a position to share his encyclopaedic knowledge of the games. It was said that the stocky noble who had fought alongside Fronto for years now had such an intimate knowledge of the world of the lanista and his property that he had never yet lost a bet on a fight. He would certainly be a handy man to have close by, given the meagre amount of cash Fronto had managed to sneak out of the house. Lucilia had been adamant that Pompey was supplying everything they need so money was unnecessary. Not, Fronto simmered, when you knew where to look for a bookmaker.

  Lucilia was suddenly waving, though she stopped herself short of shouting at the noble lady - such would have been inexcusable behaviour for a Roman matron of patrician blood. Even the expansive waving was perhaps over the top. But then, most noble-blooded visitors to the monstrosity that stood before them would be borne by litter and accompanied by guards. Not so the Falerii. Fronto had suggested transport, but Lucilia had chided him and suggested a walk, given the lovely weather, and that was another thing that had set him glowering: after the walk all the way from the Aventine, his knee was already playing him up and he knew he would be sitting with a painful throb throughout the games.

  Perhaps wine would alleviate that.

  His gaze fell upon the subject of Lucilia's gesticulating and he noted with sourness that the lady Julia, daughter of Caesar, had just alighted from a ridiculously comfortable-looking litter. Pompey Magnus, her husband, stood at the front of the portable couch, speaking to a heavy-set man with the look of a professional fighter as half a dozen hired guards kept a space open between the pair and the bustling crowd all about. The gulf between the two noble families - Pompeius and Falerius - was brought home to Fronto when his view was suddenly obscured as a man reeking of fish bumped into him, almost knocking him over. He spun to berate the man, but already had no idea where he was in the press.