Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  "Who in Hades are they? They're armoured in mail - I can hear it - but that doesn't help."

  The commander nodded in satisfaction as the riders closed on the waiting cohort and he could just see figures slipping from the treeline behind them, forming a blockade across the track behind. Sharp thinking on behalf of either Crassus or the centurions of the Fifth cohort.

  His tension eased as the figures on horseback became more distinct and he could pick out details that labelled them Roman: the russet-coloured tunics and cloaks; the crest of a centurion; the formation of the riders. Then the tension heightened once more. Why would any other group of Romans be out here, especially riding in from the east.

  "Matrinius: have the courier ride back to the fort and place the entire legion on high alert."

  "Sir?"

  "Romans from the east means trouble from the east. Especially when they ride in fast at night. Get the Tenth ready to move on my order."

  Leaving the cohort's senior centurion to it, he turned back to the approaching riders. There were less than twenty of them. Two contubernia with some officers and hangers-on by the looks of it.

  "Halt!" he bellowed.

  The group slowed and the horses came down to a walk, the centurion pulling out ahead.

  "Baculus?"

  The grizzled centurion, primus pilus of the Twelfth legion and a veteran of the years of Gallic campaigning, nodded and threw out a weary salute to Priscus as he slid from his horse.

  "Thank Mars and my swollen, bruised, saddle-sore behind. Priscus of all people. Sorry, should that be Praetor Priscus, sir?"

  Priscus swept the comment aside. "What in Hades are you doing out here?"

  "Bringing news of the shittiest kind, old friend."

  As the two clasped arms, Priscus turned to his senior centurion again. "Matrinius: send someone to call Crassus and his men out of the trees. I think we're about to rush back to camp."

  "What happened?" he asked as he turned back to his old friend.

  Baculus gestured over at the motley collection of men behind him. "Representatives of two legions, Priscus. The rest of the Twelfth are on the march north through the great Arduenna forest. By now they'll probably be about where the Fourteenth used to be."

  "And where are the Fourteenth now?" Priscus asked tensely, images rising forth from his memory to remind him that Petrosidius and Balventius were stationed among that legion now.

  "Here" Baculus said flatly, pointing at his escort. "They now number three. We've got their eagle safe, but they all fell to a rising of the Eburones. All the officers are gone, including Sabinus and Cotta. Labienus decided to go try and track them down and make them pay, but he'll have his work cut out. It's a slow job negotiating that Godsawful forest."

  Priscus felt his stomach churn. Balventius? The man had always been an immortal: one of those centurions that could never fall in battle. Like Baculus, in fact. Like Priscus…

  "Anything else we need to know? Like where the bastards might be by now?"

  "Yes. We were most of the way here when we stumbled across a Gallic auxiliary who was sent to find you to warn you that Cicero's Eleventh are under siege and in trouble. Sounds like the Eburones have gathered a few more tribes to them - probably the Nervii for one - and moved west. Labienus ordered me to pull in any reinforcements I can get and keep passing word until I find the general."

  Priscus nodded - everything was starting to pan out very much the way he'd been fearing, though he'd not thought it would come to a head quite this fast. "Perhaps this mysterious Esus I've been hearing about is one of the Eburones." He straightened. "Time's of the essence, then. The general is in Gesoriacum with Fabius, Brutus and the Eighth. They're about the only other legion within reach - Trebonius' Ninth are too far west and the Seventh and Thirteenth are off down south. I would suggest that you race for Gesoriacum and get the general moving. If you and he are quick, we could meet up on the road near Cicero's camp. If the enemy are strong enough to keep the Eleventh pinned, then we'll need a sizeable force to break the siege."

  Baculus nodded. "I sent the Gallic scout back to the camp to tell Cicero to hold and that we'd be coming soon. We'll ride on through the night and mobilize the Eighth straight away. We could be there before noon tomorrow."

  Priscus could hear the sighs of dismay from a couple of the weary riders behind his friend.

  "There's a tiny shit-hole of a place called Turnaco on the main route to Cicero's camp" he replied, "just a native slurry pit, really, but we've used it as a muster place before. Have Caesar, Brutus and Fabius meet us there as fast as they can. From there we're only a few miles from Cicero."

  Baculus nodded. No attention to rank or deference - just all business, the way Priscus liked it. He gestured to the riders. "Those of you from the Fourteenth: you stay with us."

  As Baculus turned and rode off with his men, the three horsemen indicated trotted over, saluting. One of the legionaries was coddling a bundle that made the act somewhat troublesome.

  "You" Priscus pointed at him. "You seem to have been looking after that well. Congratulations… you just made standard bearer. Get that eagle on top of a pole as soon as we get into camp. Your two mates can gather whatever kit you need. While we're there I'll transfer a few men from the Tenth. Just half a century or so, but until the Fourteenth can be reconstituted, you're it. Make sure you stay alive and that eagle stays up. I'm thinking you'll want to use it to smash the brains out of whoever killed your mates, and I intend to give you the chance."

  As the hoof beats of Baculus and his riders retreated into the distant darkness, a fresh single set echoed on the road as Crassus reined in close by and slipped from his saddle.

  "Trouble?"

  "You could say that. Time to stop playing soldier now and prove yourself, young man."

  * * * * *

  Ariogaisos, shield man of Vertico, held his breath and crept lighter than any man had ever done, the balls of his feet barely grazing the earth with his passage. Around him the Nervian army seethed even at night, drink flowing freely, accompanied by song and humour. The gradual crushing and starvation of the Eleventh legion was a balm to the Gauls encamped outside and, with the exception of the pickets and sentries, ninety-nine per cent of the Gallic army relaxed and spent the hours of darkness drinking in celebration of their situation and then sleeping off their intoxication.

  They had, after all, little to do.

  By day they assaulted the Roman defences, which was dangerous work, yes, but far from the peril it had been early on. The Romans had run out of missiles for their engines and few spears remained. Each night they managed to manufacture a few more, or hack the cross piece from their marching poles and sharpen the end to create make-shift spears, but the tide had turned and now few Gauls were falling with each push, while swathes of Romans died each day.

  Ambiorix had given his men a week. The Gauls and Belgae raised against Rome had fought hard and won gloriously over the Fourteenth, obliterating them to the last man - so they believed - and they now had the Eleventh trapped and almost extinguished. The army had run far and fought hard and it was doing morale a great deal of good to spend a few days at a more relaxed pace while they whittled the Romans down. By the time of the new moon in a few days, however, Ambiorix would make an end of the fraught defenders and move on to the Tenth.

  In the meantime, the Nervii were actually enjoying the siege - especially at night while they caroused and drank the wine they had looted from the Fourteenth's camp.

  Ariogaisos nipped quickly between two tents, past a camp-fire where a small, compact Gaul was crouching, his face contorted as he blasted out a musical fart for the edification of his friends.

  Just a hundred paces to go and then he would reach the Gallic gateway and look out over the dead-strewn ditches to the beleaguered fort.

  He drew a deep breath and looked up at the spear tip that wavered in the moonlight above him, his breath frosting in the chilly night air. Winter had been late leaving the land
this year, but it seemed to be late returning, too. The silvery point dipped and he kept his eyes on his message tied to the haft just below the spear head and tightened his grip on the shaft.

  It was suicide, of course.

  There was no hope of him getting back into the camp as he'd told the centurion he would. Even if he managed to get through the Nervii - and the ones near the gate would be alert - the Romans would stick him before he ever got close to their wall. After all, why would they allow one of the enemy to approach during a siege.

  And so he had decided - resigned to the high probability of an imminent death - to try a different approach. He had no knowledge of the markings the Romans made on their parchments, even though his spoken Latin was not too bad, but he had drawn a fairly unambiguous picture. A small towered square that could only be the fort was surrounded by a circle of figures that could only be the Gallic army. Off to one side a group of men with crests and square shields ran towards them. Without knowledge of their 'writing' or anyone to help, it was the best he could do. He just had to hope they would understand and hold on. If they gave up or attempted to leave somehow, they would just hasten their fall and the relief would get here too late to help

  His eyes locked on the gate. The Gauls' confidence was so strong that the gate stood open, half a dozen inebriated warriors sitting in the gap, laughing.

  Tutting, he angled away and slipped between the tents towards the next gate, eyeing the top of the rampart as he went. There were men on the parapet and they looked more serious and alert than the drunks at the gate. Better the latter, then.

  The next gate along provided no easier option, with half a dozen men playing a game throwing daggers at a target. With a resigned understanding, he returned to the original gate. It was his best chance. At least they were drunk and that gate was open.

  Nearing the aperture once more, he began to pick up speed. As he passed a camp fire a voice called out in consternation, but he ignored it and ran. At this point there was precious little value to stealth.

  His breath coming in gulps, his legs swinging, feet pounding the earth, Ariogaisos passed out of the encampment, into the opening in the Gallic defences. The inebriated warriors struggled to their feet, drawing swords and spears, but he was too fast for their befuddled brains and before they were ready to stop this strange attack from within their own camp, Ariogaisos the Nervian was out into the open killing zone between the two armies.

  His fast, pounding gait carried him across the causeway and he started to wonder whether he might make it.

  The thrown spear hit him squarely in the back, slamming into his body and sliding between his ribs, punching through organs and gristle and then bursting from his chest in a fountain of blood, the droplets black and shining in the night.

  Ariogaisos fell but, despite the agony that was coursing through his body as his life attempted to flee its fleshy prison, he pulled himself upright and hauled his shaking arm back. Taking a deep, agonising, shuddering breath, he cast the message-bearing spear.

  He never saw where it went.

  The second thrown spear from behind hit him in the midriff, tearing out his bowels as it burst from the front, and an arrow sank into his neck as he fell.

  His eyes were glazing over before his head even bounced on the sodden muddy turf.

  Ahead and above him, his own thrown spear with his daubed message of hope quivered for a moment where it landed, stuck into the side of a tower on the Roman defences - just one among a number of others. Figures were appearing on the Roman parapet, trying to see what was happening out in the night.

  None of them looked up at the spear.

  * * * * *

  Turnaco was little more than a village, without a rampart or stockade, sitting atop the slope above a wide, glittering river. Some quarter of a mile from the native settlement stood a manually-flattened plateau where the legions had camped and mustered more than once before during the campaign. The now half-disappeared ditches and mounds that marked a camp large enough for three legions were still just about visible, and Priscus gave the order to have them raised and excavated and a new stockade put up, even if they were only likely to be here for a few hours. With what was clearly happening in the north of Gaul, only the suicidally unprepared would not take every precaution.

  Turnaco was one of those places scattered around the north where a small Romanised presence was permanently maintained, partially as a link in the ever-growing supply network, partially as a reminder of the existence and power of the legions in Gaul, and partially to house couriers and pass on messages, aiding the legions whenever they mustered here. Cita had begun the operation a couple of years ago, but Priscus had turned his fluid system into a web of small permanent almost-mansios where messages could be left.

  He snapped the seal on the wooden box as he strode through the dip that represented a future gate in the rising defences, and flipped open the leaves to peruse the message held on the wax within.

  To Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul, from Titus Atius Labienus.

  Greetings.

  Priscus ground his teeth at the memory of how much he'd had to argue - even wearing his senior officer's drooping knotted ribbon - to get the courier to hand over a message destined for Caesar. It wasn't until he'd had the young legionary by the testicles, quite literally, that the tablet had been handed over.

  The message had arrived here on its way to Gesoriacum the evening before the Tenth legion hoved into view, and as soon as Priscus had learned that a courier was present bearing a message from Labienus to Caesar he'd been determined to read it. The message would after all almost certainly have a bearing on his own decisions in the next few days, and must have been sent just after Labienus had sent his primus pilus to bring the news. His eyes skipped to the next line with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  I hope that my centurion Baculus has already delivered news of the Fourteenth's fall. I set out with the Twelfth to pursue the Eburones and chastise them this morning, but only three miles from the camp and before I even entered their sacred forest we stumbled across what appears to be the entire Treveri nation under arms. Their numbers are immense and I declined to meet them straight away, unprepared and in the field.

  I have therefore returned to camp with the legion and prepared to deal with them here. We are well stocked and provisioned and should be able to handle them. My apologies for my absence in the field against the Eburones, general, but I feel that to flee the region and join up with the Tenth and the Eighth would be foolish, leaving the south-eastern flank of the army open to Treveri attack.

  I will send further single mounted couriers with any developments as long as the way remains open to them, but I cannot risk dispatching any more small parties of seasoned soldiers as I may need them here. I await confirmation of your approval of my decision or your further orders.

  Regards.

  Your servant and commander of the Twelfth.

  Priscus nodded to himself. It was far from good news, but Labienus was absolutely right in staying there and keeping the Treveri occupied. If the east of Gaul was rising, better to keep them separate and busy while putting out whatever fires could be found. The most irksome thing of all was that Priscus had - earlier in the year - been completely on top of this revolt situation, unwrapping the layers of conspiracy one at a time, until the expedition to Britannia had intervened. Had he been left in Gaul with a couple of cohorts at his command, he could have had all this predicted in advance and been ready for it.

  The important thing now, though, was to save Cicero and hammer the crap out of the Eburones, the Nervii and their rebellious friends. That seemed to be the main thrust of the revolt. If Baculus and his men had ridden hard and Caesar, Brutus and Fabius were equally swift and efficient in breaking camp and marching east, then there was every likelihood that the Eighth legion would arrive in the morning. Then they could look at giving the rebellious bastards a good kicking.

  * * * * *

  Cicero stagger
ed out of his doorway and felt a spot of cold rain on his forehead. Despite his feelings about the Gaulish weather, this particular spot was surprisingly welcome. His fever had finally broken during the night and he felt better than he had done since they had first set up camp here. The spot of rain felt like Aesculapius pouring a libation to his recovery from Olympus on high.

  He spread out his arms to take in the next few droplets.

  His positivity was about to take a knock, he knew, but it was still welcome at this particular moment. Walking slowly and carefully, aware that he was still far from strong and his muscles were tired and underused, he made his way across the fort, noting the burned remains of the buildings and the makeshift shelters and tents that housed the legion as he approached the steps up to the rampart.

  Felix was in his habitual place, watching the enemy as though by careful scrutiny he might find a way to simultaneously burn them all to the ground.

  "Prefect." he greeted the man as he hauled himself wearily up the stairs.

  Felix turned and smiled as he saw his commander. It was the first time Felix had smiled in several days, but it was a hollow pleasure to see the legate up and about.

  "Good to see you back in colour, sir."

  "Thanks. Now I just need to regain enough strength to wield a sword and then we're sorted."

  The two men smiled at one another.

  "Looks bleak" the commander noted finally, succumbing to the need for truth and efficiency rather than coddling himself and ignoring the trouble they were in.

  "Very" Felix replied, clearly in a similar mood. "We're out of nearly everything. The men are on quarter rations and even that'll run us dry in a day or two - if there's anyone left to starve, of course. And missiles are gone. I've got a few men managing to hammer out metal from broken swords and armour and make a few javelin heads, but we're just about down to flinging our own shit at them now."