Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (23 page)

A minute later the front ranks reached the line of the fallen walls, slowing once more as they stumbled over the rubble and into the stronghold itself. The first century set off along the line of jagged stone, only to discover that the deep grass here had been left deliberately long to hide the brambles and thorns that had been left there in a tangled mass.

Moments later the rest of the attacking force encountered the same conditions. The defending Veneti had clearly, as they left the walls, traversed narrow channels through the brambles, before disappearing into the interior.

Fronto gave an involuntary yelp as a thorn wrenched a long jagged cut across his shin, raking through his breeches with little trouble. Fortunately, the entire advancing Roman force, which had slowed to a virtual crawl, were mostly grumbling or shouting at the tearing and jabbing brambles.

If seemed like hours, dragging, wading and stomping through the painful undergrowth before the legions reached short grass and heaved a sigh of relief, examining their arms, legs and feet. To a man, the Eighth and Tenth legions had been scratched and raked, drawing blood in dozens of places. Hardly a great defensive measure by the standards of the Roman army but, Fronto had to admit, innovative and simple. The thorns had irritated and pained the legions and slowed their advance considerably.

Setting their sights on the square at the top of the gentle slope, the Tenth moved on, men fanning out down the hill and searching out any hiding places. The eerie quiet was all too familiar to Fronto and his spirits fell.

The Tenth reached the top of the hill to find, just as he’d expected, a deserted square, surrounded by apparently empty buildings. Irritably, he wrestled with his chin strap and removed his helmet, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.

“These people are seriously starting to piss me off.”

He spotted the heavy figure of Balbus, legate of the Eighth, striding across the square toward him from the right. The older officer, bald and tired-looking, had also removed his helmet and carried it under his arm.

A rumble of thunder announced the coming storm just as the first swathe of pounding rain began to fall, battering Fronto’s scalp and further darkening his mood.

“Campaigning in this bloody place is like drowning in depression. I am starting to take an intense dislike to the Veneti.”

Balbus shrugged.

“It
is
irritating, I’ll grant you, but you can hardly blame them, really. What would
you
do?”

Knowing exactly what he was going to find, Fronto nodded irritably, leaving his discarded helmet where it had fallen, and strode off with his opposite number toward the sea. The slope was gentler than at Corsicum and the cliffs lower and they were but a few seconds from the top when Fronto blinked as he took in the situation.

“Bloody hell, Quintus! We’re still in with a chance!”

Below, Brutus’ fleet sat like a dreadful wall of timber in a wide crescent out in the bay, safely away from the rocky shelf, but close enough to cut off any route to the open sea and close enough to flee to their safe harbour at short notice when the storm began to churn the sea too much.

“Carbo! Spread the men out. Start looking for hidden paths or tunnel entrances or some such. There’s a secret way down to the water.”

* * * * *

“Here, sir!”

Fronto’s head whipped round at the shout. A legionary was gesticulating from a rock near the grassy cliff edge. Slapping Balbus on the shoulder to get his attention, he jogged off down the slope.

“You got something?”

“Think so, sir. Looks like a tunnel.”

Fronto hurried down to the rock, blinking the water out of his eyes. The smooth boulder rose from the grass some ten feet from the edge of the cliff and the far side concealed what did appear to be an entrance to a passageway some five feet tall and just wide enough for a man.

“If this is the way they left, they couldn’t have taken all their gear through there.”

Balbus, behind him, nodded.

“But if they were prepared with enough time to spare, they could have lowered everything down the cliff before they left. Balventius has put out the call. The Eighth are on the way across.”

“Well, legionary Capito” Fronto grinned “time to lead the charge. Come on, but you’ll have to leave your shield; I don’t think there’s room.”

Even as he stepped into the passageway, Fronto could hear the men marching across the hill toward them. He examined the passageway ahead, descending steeply into the darkness. As the legionary clambered into the tunnel behind him, Fronto clicked his tongue irritably.

The first half dozen steps were easy enough, despite the wet and slippery rock beneath his feet, as there was a touch of daylight still filtering through from behind. As they descended though, the light faded, leaving an oppressive gloom. No matter how hard he squinted, Fronto could hardly make out the passageway ahead and had to move at a ridiculously slow pace, feeling his way as he went.

Ten more steps. A scraping of his cuirass on the wall and a grazed elbow. Yes, it would have been almost impossible to get down here with helmet and shield.

Eight more steps…

Thump.

Fronto almost struck out with his sword before he realised that what he had bumped into was solid rock. Capito walked into the back of him and apologised profusely.

“Shh.”

Feeling around, Fronto tried to determine where the passage went from here. This couldn’t be a dead end, could it? It could just be for storage? It…”

His hand disappeared into dark space. The passage turned to the left. Fronto nodded. Of course, it would have to turn back on itself or it would come out two thirds way up the cliff. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the space, feeling for more. Yes. It only went a few feet and then turned left again. Nodding with satisfaction, convinced now that this was the route the enemy had taken, Fronto explored with his hands. The passageway seemed to be opening out at this point, much wider and more spacious. Perhaps this was now a natural passage they were in? It was so hard to tell in this stygian darkness.

A few more steps brought him to the next turn and, as he carefully edged round, he was surprised by a yellow glow. Perhaps fifty feet down the long, straight passageway, a lamp flickered on a ledge, illuminating the tunnel. The light was low and small, but felt like the glare of the sun after the darkness behind him. Fronto smiled as he realised that this part of the tunnel was quite wide and high for most of its length.

He paused, blinking. The light had, of course, ruined his night vision, resulting in purple and yellow blotches dancing around in his eyes no matter how much he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut. Why would they leave a light to help…

It was only that sudden thought that saved his life.

The Veneti warrior who had been lurking in the darkness behind a section of jutting wall, his back to the light source and fully attuned to the dark, lunged forward with his blade aimed resolutely for Fronto’s neck. The legate was already moving to the side as the man leapt, the blade connecting instead with the shoulder section of his cuirass and scything through the fasteners. The shoulder piece flapped loose as the sword ripped on through it, deprived of a solid target, and the point hammered home into the wall of the tunnel.

With a breath of relief, Fronto stepped to his left twice, away from the blow, trying to get the flickering of the lamp out of his vision so that he could see better. There was a clunk and a shifting of weight as the front and back pieces of his cuirass separated at the shoulder, becoming instantly irritating and uncomfortable.

The Gaul was hauling his blade back for a second blow, though the long Celtic weapon was unwieldy in the confined space. The well-designed gladius in Fronto’s hand, however, was subject to no such restrictions. Unwilling to allow the man enough time to make another careful blow, Fronto stabbed with his sword repeatedly into the rough area of the Gaul, the dancing blotches in his eyes making targeting difficult. Still, given the closeness, at least three of his six sharp lunges connected and he heard a gasp and a gurgle.

Stepping back, he tried to focus. Slowly his vision cleared as he saw the body of the Veneti warrior crumple to the floor. Lucky… very lucky.

Fronto turned to the legionary behind him.

“Try not to look at the light. Keep your eyes low.”

Stopping for a moment to try and adjust his shoulder, he fidgeted at it irritably and gave up in disgust. The shoulder piece was ruined. A job for the armourers next time they had a minute. They didn’t have time now…

Back and above, he could hear the legionaries pouring into the tunnel, making a noise like a hundred iron plates being dropped into a well. So much for sneaky…

Gesturing to Capito, he moved on downwards. The way was easier, but they moved warily, watching for more hidden figures to left and right. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the lamp and Fronto gratefully turned left to peer down the next corridor, putting his back to the dancing light.

For the second time in as many minutes, he cheated death as he felt a hand grasp the broken backplate of his cuirass and haul him away from the corner. He toppled backward, caught surprised and off-balance, and landed on Capito whose hand was wrapped tightly around the bronze plate.

The arrow that would have struck Fronto square, and very definitely fatally, in the head sailed past and hit the passage wall with a crack. Fronto blinked.

Standing, the legate stepped forward gingerly to the corner and peered round the very edge, squinting. The next length of passage, perhaps forty feet long, was lit by dim reflected daylight. The end of the tunnel was sealed with some sort of gate, through which the light filtered. Outside was some sort of wide cavernous opening at sea level. The smell of brine and the distant noise of waves confirmed it. This was the end of it.

He could see two figures moving behind the gate, in some sort of undergrowth. There was the tell-tale stretch of a bow string again and he stepped back.

Fronto grumbled. He refused to get this close and be stopped by a damn gate. Behind, the first men of the Eighth legion rounded the corner and moved down to join them. A voice called out.

Hosidius paused for a moment and then relayed the question back through his men. There was a murmur of argument back a way and then a voice piped up.