Marius' Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis

by S. J. A. Turney

  He sighed as another rivulet of blood blinded his left eye. Unseen hands suddenly loosened the wrapping and the blood came again. Then there was the feel of something slimy being slapped on the wound. Honey. Dear goddess Minerva let it be honey and not one of the dung-based poultices used by some hopeless medics. He felt some relief as a fresh dressing was tied in place, and a damp sponge – not a shit-sponge, please – wiped away the blood from his face.

  A concerned, young face appeared in front of him.

  ‘What is your name, centurion?’

  ‘Atenos, primus pilus of the…’

  ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘Four, if you count the thumb as a finger.’

  ‘You’re fine,’ the capsarius pronounced. ‘Took a bit of a knock there, centurion. You might want to stay seated for a while until your brain stops rattling around in your skull.’

  Atenos wanted to berate the young medic for any implication that he had a small, wizened brain, but as he turned sharply, he felt suddenly very sick and had to concede that perhaps the man had a point.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked, wincing.

  The medic shrugged. ‘Into Hades by the moment. ‘Scuse me, but my talents are required.’

  Atenos nodded at him, and the man was gone.

  He took a moment to look around himself. Whoever had pulled him out of the fighting line had not only got him back to safety and a capsarius, he had thoughtfully kept him in the vicinity of the fight. He sat with his back to the earth mound, the creaking, smouldering tower looming above him, the ropes maintaining its stability passing above him, anchored there at the other side of the spring.

  He was next to the spring.

  Finally he registered the fact that it was raining very heavily. The angle of the rain was such that the tower was keeping it from him and he sat in its lea, a small, dry island in a land of downpour. The surface of the spring’s pool seethed. Last time he had seen it, it gurgled with small ripples as the flow poured from the rock, and the excess flowed out over a lip into a channel that distributed it into the earth down towards the woods, where it became one of the numerous tiny streams that fed the river below. Now, however, the surface of the water churned and stippled as a million raindrops pounded it.

  Somewhere across the mountainside, he could hear the general order to fall back being called.

  At last the general had seen sense.

  But could he not have done so without such dreadful loss of life?

  He glanced back down at the surface of the water. Above him the sky clashed with the sound of Vulcan’s hammer striking. The storm was in full flow and would not be abating any time soon. He sighed and tipped his head rather painfully back – his neck had apparently taken a jolt from the blow. The rain battered his face and he was rather grateful for the experience.

  At least he wasn’t dead.

  Now, the Tenth and Fifth were sounding their recall. All around him the men were moving. He could hear them even if he couldn’t see them, preparing to abandon the hard-won ground and retreat down to the camps. Presumably someone would come and help him down. He wasn’t at all sure he could stand unaided without throwing up.

  Another rumble of thunder.

  And another.

  His brow furrowed in concentration, and that hurt more than he could possibly have imagined. The previous peals of thunder had been perhaps a count of twenty apart. Those last two had been so close together there was hardly time to count at all.

  Another rumble.

  What in the name of divine Taranis was going on?

  His eyes widened in disbelief and alarm as the ground gave a shudder and suddenly all the water drained from the spring as though someone had removed a plug at the bottom. Despite his pain and discomfort he leaned forward, peering into the depths. Amid the dark rock, the slimy green weed and the coins thrown in as offerings, Atenos could see a number of wide fissures that had opened in the rock.

  What in Hades?

  And now the mouth of the spring itself was sputtering, odd gouts of brown water leaping from it into the empty pool. And then nothing. The spring was gone.

  There was another rumble and the ground bucked like an unbroken horse.

  Hands were suddenly beneath his arms, helping raise him to his feet. ‘Time you were away from here, centurion,’ announced the unseen helper. Atenos could not agree more, baffled as he was. As he struggled upright, the ground gave another ominous creak and groan and in a moment that almost stopped his heart, a swathe of woodland vanished into the earth in a long avenue down the hill.

  As he boggled at the sight, the capsarius at his side helping him down the slope, he spotted the water seeping and saturating the ground down at the end of that flattened avenue. With a slightly painful grin, he spotted the figures there and finally understood.

  Engineers, one officer, and perhaps two centuries of legionaries, all covered in earth and muck. Sappers.

  All the time the tower at the top, the desperate fight of Atenos’ men and even the general advance had been keeping the defenders busy, the general had been undermining the hill. And finally, all at once, the tunnels had broken through to the spring’s underground source and diverted it way down the hill. And then the tunnels had been collapsed as the miners left them.

  The only readily accessible source of water for the oppidum had been denied them. Where the water now came up from various places it would be undrinkable for some time, but would regardless be too close to the Roman lines for safe use and too far from the walls of Uxellodunon for the locals to defend.

  The old goat had done it.

  Atenos was grinning from ear to ear all the way down the slope and the appearance of the limping Decumius carrying his fallen phalera only made it all the wider.

  * * * * *

  Antonius glared at Caesar.

  ‘Isn’t it bad enough that you keep your surprises even from your senior officers without being unbearably smug about it as well?’

  The figure of Aulus Hirtius was busy striding up the hill towards them, his lean, gaunt figure gangly and ungainly, as though he had too many knees for one human being. The pinched face had an odd expression that might be a mix of satisfaction and abhorrence. He’d somehow managed to get himself drenched, and the sopping white tunic and cloak clung to his frame making him look all the more like a crane fly.

  ‘All goes well, then, Hirtius?’

  The man stopped and saluted. While Antonius and Caesar stood in the shelter of the porch of the general’s forward observation tent, Hirtius remained in the torrential downpour, sheltering his forehead as though that made the slightest difference in his soaked state.

  ‘The engineers and men of the Fifteenth acquitted themselves well, Caesar. The nearest accessible flow to the walls now is around a third of the way up the slope,’ he turned and pointed. ‘Somewhere near that large elm. We can cover the site with both artillery and archers with little difficulty from our lines. The enemy will not be able to get within fifty paces of water.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The general turned to Antonius. ‘Might I be allowed just the slightest hint of smug, now?’ he winked.

  Antonius rolled his eyes. ‘If Fronto were here he would be standing a foot from your face, bellowing by now.’

  ‘If Fronto were here, Antonius, he would have been the one at the mines.’

  Caesar peered up through the torrent and spotted Varus wending his way down the hill towards them. Turning, he spotted an older soldier, unarmoured and with a voluminous, hooded oiled-skin cloak wrapped tight around him against the rain. His favoured sacerdos. The priest of the Tenth, with the knowledge of ritual and some skill at divination. With a crooked finger, he beckoned.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Can you tell me what Jupiter Pluvius has in store for us?’

  ‘Of course, General. Despite the current downpour, I expect the sky to clear before sunset and lead to several days of dry heat. The ass’ manger last night was bright and uno
bstructed, and that speaks of good weather. Also a crow gave three distinct calls above the camp at dawn, which I thought to be at odds with the coming deluge, but now I see presaged a good period to follow. In the…’

  ‘A simple ‘good weather’ would have done, man. Thank you.’

  The old soldier nodded and retreated five steps and into his hood once more.

  ‘We have to assume that they have good residual water supplies in the oppidum, and every cistern and reservoir they have will be uncovered to catch the storm rain. Still, they have many thousands of warriors up there in addition to the general population and the large number of animals to provide sustenance. They cannot have been expecting to lose their water supply, and this will be a very final blow to them. Their water will soon run dry in fine weather.’

  Varus approached and saluted rather soggily, his face tired but satisfied.

  ‘What’s the lie of the land, Quintus,’ asked Antonius.

  The cavalry commander stretched and rolled his shoulders. ‘We took serious losses near the spring. It was a good call assigning the Tenth under Atenos. That man would hold the gates of Hades itself against Cerberus if you asked. I hear he took a place in the front line and suffered a head wound, but is in no danger. The general estimate is somewhere around eight hundred dead. Wounded are few. Nearly anyone who engaged the enemy is gone, rather than injured. As soon as the spring disappeared, the enemy lost heart and pulled back. The other varied assaults suffered minor casualties, but never really got the chance to involve themselves before the mines did their job.’

  He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. ‘The enemy are already starting to come down the slopes in twos and threes, testing our resolve and trying to get close to either the new spring spouts or the tributary rivers. They’ll get a nasty surprise. I watched one of the scorpions finding their range and the artillerist put three bolts into the same tree way beyond the water, so unless our men fall asleep there will be no water for Uxellodunon.’

  ‘Shame we can’t get anyone inside to ruin the water supplies,’ Antonius mused, and Varus nodded his agreement.

  ‘No matter, gentlemen,’ Caesar smiled. ‘In my experience, Gauls are impetuous, and only a strong leader can impose any true order, in the Roman sense, over their forces – they are too individual in their ways. They have no leaders, for Lucterius is fled and Drapes is ours. The Gauls will drink their water in desperation, without thought for a long-term plan. Where their supplies might be made to last weeks, in current conditions I would expect it to manage only days.’

  Somewhere behind Varus, in the trees at the lowest slopes of the oppidum, the distinctive sound of artillery at work cracked and thumped and echoed, their victims adding counterpoint with screams and cries of alarm. The Cadurci were learning a hard lesson, it seemed.

  ‘There will be a night and a day of such attempts, I think,’ Caesar mused. ‘They will want to try the cover of darkness, and will hope that we become complacent the next day. We must continually rotate the units of archers and artillerists on watch and make sure we plug any gaps, and then the day will be ours, gentlemen.’

  ‘Will they not make an attempt to break out?’’ Antonius mused.

  ‘No. Not without their leaders to drive them. They are surrounded by our defences and outnumbered, with six legions here. And their life expectancy in the oppidum has just been reduced to almost naught in a matter of hours. Tonight there will be desperate last attempts, and throughout the morning, especially if it remains misty in the valleys as seems the norm. If we continue to deny them water, I will expect their first emissaries after noon tomorrow. By the kalends of the month, we will be dividing the spoils and the slaves, reducing the oppidum and assigning winter quarters.’

  ‘I somehow expected a fight,’ Antonius frowned.

  Varus cocked an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t voice that sentiment near Atenos and the men of the Tenth and Fifth if I were you.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ grumbled Antonius.

  Caesar smiled and slapped his friend on the back, raising a shower of rain droplets. Above, the rumble of thunder had moved off, southeast. ‘Not every season need end with an earth-shaking contest of arms, Marcus. Be grateful that we have thwarted their army here and now. Gaul, my friends, is pacified. We will be forced to make an example, of course, to prevent further risings, but I do believe that this winter we can begin the grand task of turning this place into a province.’

  Varus nodded wearily. By autumn, there was every chance that many of the legions would be disbanded and settled strategically in colonies among the Gauls. And where would that leave the officers? Where would that leave him? Back to Rome to climb another rung of the Cursus Honorum, chasing on the heels of his little brother Publius, who had flouted the family’s ties to Caesar and thrown in his lot with Pompey? To be rewarded for his long service to this army with a comfortable provincial governorship, where he could grow fat and slow as slaves fed him peeled grapes and rich, red Rhodian? After eight years of cavalry service in Caesar’s army, it would take a decade to remove the constant smell of horse-sweat and oiled leather from his nostrils.

  He laughed at the thought of Varus the Senator.

  ‘Something amuses you?’ mumbled Antonius.

  ‘Oh nothing really. Just pondering on the vagaries of the future, picturing myself joining the ranks of men like Fronto the wine merchant and living the peaceful life.’

  The three men smiled at the thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  OSTIA steamed in the early summer heat. Despite its coastal location, no matter how much Rome seemed to drown under spring and autumn rains, Ostia had seemed universally parched and warm whenever Fronto passed through. The trierarch of the Black Eagle, which had brought them from Massilia as part of the military escort, was bellowing commands to his crew as the vessels prepared to unload Caesar’s huge convoy. Ten huge, wide, shallow-bottomed barges waited to take the precious cargo on upriver to Rome, where the larger military triremes would have difficulties navigating. The Black Eagle was an escort – a trireme with little space for cargo – and thus had only a tiny fragment of the entire convoy to unload. The great trader vessels that formed the bulk of the flotilla carried the lion’s share of the loot and slaves. Three sailors carried the small party’s gear down the boarding ramp and deposited it close by. There was little of the usual array of bags and boxes that followed Lucilia whenever she left home. They travelled light.

  ‘I do not like this,’ Masgava said for the fifth time that morning.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Fronto sighed. ‘There are ten of us and we are all good men, Masgava. You trained most of us, after all. Seven of them in an unfamiliar and hostile city. Ten of us, a number of who know every guardhouse, courthouse, storehouse and whorehouse in Rome.’

  He caught a look from Lucilia and grinned weakly. ‘Or some of those, anyway.’

  Masgava continued to look unconvinced.

  ‘Lucilia’s safety is more important than my own, and so is that of the boys. You and Arcadios have a responsibility to them. With half a dozen of the lads I expect you to take good care of them.’

  ‘Andala is competent with a blade, also,’ his wife added with a warm smile, ‘and Galronus will be there.’

  Fronto felt a sad little tug for a moment that he was continuing on into peril in the heart of the republic, and not with this small group who would soon be reunited with his old friend the Remi prince, as well as his mother and sister. ‘We’ll come to Puteoli as soon as we’re finished in Rome. Perhaps we’ll even stay for the autumn and winter. It’s been some time since I enjoyed a Campanian break.’

  Across the dock, Catháin came scurrying lop-sidedly, still unable to shake off the rolling gait of the practised sailor. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, grinning, and Fronto couldn’t help but smile. For days now the strange northerner had been almost vibrating with excitement at the chance to reorganise the very root of Fronto’s business at the wine production ce
ntres of Campania. Catháin coughed. ‘The captain of the Cassiopeia will take us for a very good low fee. He is stopping at Antium to unload a cargo, but otherwise is straight to Puteoli and then Neapolis and Pompeii.’

  Fronto nodded his satisfaction. Nowhere would be safer for the others than the family villa.

  ‘Sure I can’t persuade you to join them?’ he murmured, glancing across at Balbus, who was busy settling his heavy, bulky toga in place.

  ‘Hardly. A threat to Rome is a threat to all Romans. And I owe these animals for what they did at my villa.’ The old man cupped Lucilia’s chin in his large hand. ‘Be safe, daughter. We will join you soon.’ Stooping, he reached out and hugged Balbina who remained silent as usual, though the pain in her eyes at his departure was almost tangible. ‘Look after your sister and your nephews. Don’t let that reprobate Galronus have you drinking his nasty Gaulish drinks.’

  Straightening, he nodded to Masgava, who reached out to Fronto and clasped his hand. ‘Be careful. These are not Hierocles’ muscle. They’re dangerous and, to have got to Rome intact, they must be clever and careful. Don’t underestimate them, and remember: you may not be able to carry a sword in the city, but to a gladiator anything can be a weapon in the right circumstances.’

  Fronto smiled and let go as Catháin waved the small party on towards a Greek merchant ship that wallowed at one of the jetties, loading cargo as efficiently as possible in a harbour filled to the gills with Caesar’s fleet, another twenty ships still waiting out at sea for their turn. Fronto watched his wife and children and their eminently capable guards make their way across the wide dockside, ready for the next leg of their journey south to safety, three of the hired hands from Fronto’s small but trustworthy force carrying the bags on their backs and shoulders.

  ‘They will be safe,’ Cavarinos said, as if reading his innermost thoughts. ‘Greek sailors know the Middle Sea like no others, and each man with them – and the women, in fact – are strong and trustworthy.’