Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (7 page)

Silius peered through the rain, trying to pick out more detail and, as he did, he understood his companion’s fascination. The town was all but impossible to access from the sea, given the steep cliffs and the fact that the whole headland was surrounded by partially submerged rocks. But the land approach was no better. The walls were as thick and high and impressive as any they’d seen these past two years in Gaul, but to even
reach
the walls, an attacker would have to descend the slope to sea level, crossing a narrow causeway that stood perhaps a hundred yards wide.

“That would be a killing zone if they had archers on those towers.”

Velanius shook his head.

“Better than that. It’s still a fairly low tide right now. That causeway will be underwater a lot of the time, and those nasty rocks will be hidden just below the waves. This place isn’t a town, it’s a damn fortress.”

As they descended the slope, the seaward dip and its tidal causeway disappeared from view. The first of a number of small copses rose up to either side of the road, granting blessed, if momentary, relief from the worst of the bleak drizzle that seemed to travel horizontally in this country.

Velanius opened his mouth to deliver a stinging retort, but instead his mouth formed into a shocked ‘O’ while his eyes widened. Behind his companion and the line of miserable cavalry troopers, a vague figure appeared like a ghost between the boles of the trees, a long spear thrusting out ahead. The tribune had not even the time to call a warning before the spear caught the nearest rider just under the ribs on his left side, plunging in deep through his torso, to emerge at the opposite collar bone. The shocked rider opened his mouth to scream and a gobbet of blood was all that issued as he toppled from the horse.

Velanius was aware that he’d shouted something, though he couldn’t remember what it was in the sudden confusion. They had no chance, and that was clear from the outset. There must be dozens of men lining the sides of the road, hidden in the trees, each armed with a long thrusting spear. Almost the entire cavalry guard died in the first few seconds of this brutal and well orchestrated attack.

“Ride!” bellowed Silius, jerking his knees to guide his beast around the falling horses and men to either side.

Velanius needed no further urging. The escort lines beside them were gone, horses and men alike on the ground, flailing in a growing lake of blood as the Gaulish spearmen stepped out of the eaves and finished their victims off with repeated stabs of those wide, leaf-shaped spear heads.

The men from the woods to the side had finished off the escort, while those both ahead and behind moved in on the van- and rear-guard. Time was up; any more delay and they would merely be caught between those same spearmen. With a last gestured to Velanius, Silius kicked his horse into speed and began to race toward the front doors of the trap ahead, grasping the mane. The four troopers that formed the vanguard were clearly in trouble. Two were already down and one was fighting to control his wounded horse.

As Silius, with Velanius close by, raced toward the scene, they saw the struggling trooper caught simultaneously by two spear thrusts that lifted him bodily from the saddle and vaulted him across and down to the turf.

The sound of pounding hooves attracted his precious attention and he was as surprised as he was relieved to see one of the rearguard troopers pulling alongside at a run, apparently with the same idea of escape.

Silius had been a rider from a young age, spending time on the family estate outside Aquinum exploring the countryside on one or other of his father’s horses. Seeing the distance left to ride and the height of the blockade, as the Gauls began to pay attention to the three men bearing down on them, he adjusted his posture, kicked as much extra speed as he possibly could and prepared himself.

The Gauls were well aware of what was happening and equally prepared to stop it. Silius was the first to reach them, leaping his steed high over the men. He closed his eyes and made silent vows to Fortuna as his horse sailed through the open space, the steed of the cavalry trooper close by to his left and behind.

When his hooves touched the earth beyond the Gauls, his heart soared, relief flooding through him, boosted all the more by the sound of the trooper’s horse reaching the ground once more.

The screech behind them told all too well of Velanius’ failure. A fair weather rider with little experience at the jump, the other tribune had left it too late. As he coasted low over the Gauls, several spears plunged into the steed, killing it before it even hit the ground.

Silius, already racing away from the scene with the one remaining cavalry trooper, afforded himself only a quick, sad glance back to see that Velanius had been thrown clear and had hit the ground hard, likely breaking bones with possibly fatal results. Several of the Gauls were running toward the heap that was the senior tribune of the Eleventh Legion.

Silius offered up a silent prayer for his friend as he concentrated on the terrain ahead. They would have to ride like never before to get out of Veneti territory. This was a coordinated attack, which meant that those villages and farmers they had spoken to, enquiring of the tribe’s capital, had been betraying their presence and plans to an unseen enemy.

He would have to tell Crassus…

His thoughts exploded into slivers of painful flashing light as a heavy stone cracked against his skull, knocking the sense from him and throwing him clear from the horse that, panicked by the melee and noise, ran on heedless of its rider.

Silius lay for a moment on the grass, stunned and confused. He reached around to the back of his head and his hand came away slick with blood. Not a good sign.

His wits began to return rapidly, but not before he realised he was done for. Figures were approaching, brandishing spears and swords: Celts. Silius craned his neck painfully and could just make out the distant, retreating figure of the cavalry soldier, fleeing the scene. At least word might get back to Crassus of this betrayal. Silius closed his eyes, painfully. The question was: what would Crassus do in response? The man’s only answer to trouble was the tip of a sword, which meant that Silius would be likely used as an example by the tribesmen.

He opened his eyes again and tried to roll onto his side to rise, but a heavy skin boot pressed against his chest and pushed him back to the ground. A Celtic warrior, missing a number of teeth and with patterns painted across his cheeks, grinned down at him and said something in his guttural language, gesturing with the spear point to emphasise his incomprehensible words.

Silius slumped back. Hopefully this grinning lunatic would make it quick.

A groan caught his attention and he turned his head slightly to see two more of the Gauls dragging Velanius across to him by the shoulders, his feet trailing in the wet grass. At least he must be alive. Silius would have company while he died.

The senior tribune was dumped, unceremoniously, next to him, and tried to rise slowly until another foot pressed against his back and pushed him to the ground. Velanius exhaled another groan and turned his head to look at his companion.

“I think we might be in trouble, Titus.”

“This depends upon your friends” a voice above said in passable Latin with a thick Gallic accent.

Silius turned back to look up in surprise, as did his fellow tribune. A new figure had joined the Gaulish warriors around them. His charcoal grey robes were decorated with animal images and strange designs, while his straggly beard appeared to have small bones tied in among the braids. The man held a long sword of the Celtic style, etched with further arcane designs.

“Druids? Great. Just when I thought we’d struck rock bottom.”

The heavy-set druid shook his head, like a disapproving father.

“The world is so much more complex and wondrous than you blindfolded Romans ever deem possible, and the people in it so varied and astounding. You, just as almost every other Roman I have ever met, have the manners of a goat.”

He turned to the warrior beside him and issued a command. As two of the Gauls disappeared on some unknown task, the druid leaned over them.

“We shall have to teach you a few manners if you are to enjoy the hospitality of Crosicum. The chief is less jovial than I and may take offence.”

Silius glared at their captor as the two warriors returned with a fishing net that they threw over the two Romans and pulled tight. Velanius tried to struggle out of the way, but a broken arm seemed to be giving him great trouble. Silius shook his head. They were at the mercy of this man now and trying to escape at this point was futile.

Craning his head and rising as far as the restraining net would allow, now that the foot had been removed from his chest, he followed the line of the huge fishing net and saw that it was attached to a rope which in turn led off to the saddle of a horse. With a heavy heart, he turned to his friend.

“Brace yourself, Quintus. We’re in for a rough journey.”

* * * * *

Decimus Brutus, staff officer and friend of the Julii, leaned against the outside wall of the headquarters along with Varus, the cavalry commander, and Felix, primus pilus of the Eleventh, passing a skin of wine back and forth. Leaning to the side, he pressed his ear to the door once more.

“Not entirely unexpected though. That trooper’s news was bad enough, but add to that the lack of any communication from Gallus or Terrasidius over the last two weeks and it begins to look like our good commander has made more that a mere tactical error. All this on top of the news that Galba and the Twelfth are on the way to restock from our stores. He’s having a bad day.”

Varus nodded.

“I’ve lost a few good men this week, if all the corn gathering missions have fallen foul of such Gaulish atrocity.”

“It’s worse than that” Brutus frowned. “This is the first sign of insurrection. It may not be a full blown rebellion yet, but that all depends on how we handle it. And you know damn well what Crassus will do. He can’t afford any blemishes on his precious reputation.”

A small party had entered the street below and were making their way up the hill toward the headquarters. A group of legionaries surrounded two men who led their horses on foot. The Gaulish warrior was no surprise, his bronze torc and mail shirt marking him as a noble. The grey robed druid by his side was, however, a different matter.

“Varus? Be a good fellow and go in to tell Crassus that he has company.”

Unhappily, the cavalry commander stepped across to the door, opened it gingerly and stepped inside. Ignoring the muted sounds of arguing voices from within, Brutus narrowed his eyes at the approaching party. A druid meant something important. This could be the opportunity they were looking for to smooth the matter over and avoid any further unpleasantness.

As the party came to the crest of the sloping street, the door beside them opened and Crassus emerged, head high and crimson cloak settled on his shoulders. Varus appeared at his shoulder, looking peeved. The only sign of the legate’s outburst and fury was the slightly wild look about his eyes.

The soldiers stopped in the street, saluted the officers and spread out to the sides, remaining alert. The two Celts, accompanied by the watch centurion, stepped forward. The centurion saluted and addressed Crassus directly.

“Sir, these two arrived at the gate seeking counsel with yourself. They have left their sizeable escort across the river and offered up their weapons as a gesture of goodwill.”

Crassus glared at the centurion and then shifted his obvious displeasure to the two Gauls.

“You are far from welcome here, and
your
presence in particular offends me, druid.”

The stocky, impressive man smiled a crooked smile.

“A sentiment echoed by the whole of Gaul toward yourself, Roman. However, I am not here to bandy insults, but rather to offer you an opportunity; some might say your
only
opportunity to keep your skins and your honour intact.”

Crassus’ wild eyes flashed dangerously.

“You dare to threaten me in my own camp?”

His voice had a high pitched tone that the officers recognised. Varus had moved forward next to the legate and Felix and Brutus joined him, reaching a position where they could prevent anything untoward happening.

The druid shrugged.

“You are invaders and, while many of our kin advocate a policy of fighting you until the last of us breathes and bleeds out, we are not all so short-sighted. We have the chance to coexist and avoid the bloodshed that others see as inevitable.”