Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (47 page)

‘Get out of the way!’ he snarled, stomping towards the door.

Without changing his evil expression, the Belgic officer stepped back out of his way, moving to one side not quite enough to clear the door, obliging Basilus to push him out of the way as he exited. His glorious mood at this unexpectedly easy victory was already gone in the face of impertinent natives, disobedient cavalrymen and a failure to take the leaders alive. He would settle his mood by burning the entire place to cinders and throwing any survivors they found onto the flames. The Eburones would hear of the campaign of Basilus and quake in fear. He would…

He almost jumped out of his skin for the second time in the day as once again a hand gripped his shoulder and hauled him around. His sword came up again automatically, but this time he had every intention of using it.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ snarled an old-ish man in a mail shirt, with a five-day growth of beard, heavy care-lines on his face and salt-and-pepper hair. It took Basilus half a heartbeat to realise it had spoken perfect Latin with a southern - Campanian? - accent. His sword was already on its swing but the man was remarkably fast, a gladius of unsurpassed quality easily knocking aside his own.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Basilus snapped, ‘but if you touch me again I will have you torn to pieces, soldier.’ It was an assumption that the man was a Roman, but a reasonable one - possibly one of his dismounted cavalrymen. Everyone was being so damn insolent today!

‘Fronto?’ said the impertinent auxiliary cavalry officer behind him.

‘Galronus?’ said the scruffy soldier in front with equal surprise.

Basilus, suddenly very confused, was further baffled to see other scruffy soldiers falling in behind this new irritation, one of them a black-skinned Numidian with more scars than there appeared to be room for on a body. A horrible feeling thrummed through Basilus and his blood chilled a little. He’d heard the name Fronto before. Something to do with Caesar and the staff.

‘Fronto?’ he asked weakly.

‘’Sir’ to you, you pointless moron,’ the scruffy soldier snapped, smacking the flat of his glorious blade painfully on Basilus’ forehead. ‘Declare yourself and your unit, soldier, before I have Masgava here tear off your arms and feed them to you.’

Basilus floundered, trying to understand what was going on, while a bruised lump began to form on his forehead. He found himself weakly announcing ‘Lucius Minucius Basilus, vexillatory cavalry commander, ravaging the Eburones on the general’s direct orders.’ He realised he was saluting like a junior tribune and almost stammering, and yanked his arm back to his side. ‘And you are?’

‘Marcus Falerius Fronto, former legate of the Tenth Legion, staff officer, commander of a small insurgent force, hunter of Ambiorix, and - most importantly - bloody furious!’

‘Sir?’ Basilus realised he was shaking, but couldn’t stop it.

‘What’s all this about, Galronus?’ Fronto asked, looking straight past Basilus.

The Belgic officer who’d been so insolent stepped past Basilus, eyeing him as though he were something the man had trodden in and would shortly wipe off his boot.

‘What he said. But he was told to steer clear of towns. Seems he is as tactically foolish as he is cruel and stupid.’

Basilus felt his ire rise, but he was still shaking with some unidentifiable fear.
Fronto
. He remembered hearing stories of the legate of the Tenth. A man who was usually to be found standing in the line with his men rather than at the back, directing things. A man who’d insulted Caesar and got away with it. A man who fought duels with assassins. Basilus suddenly felt the uncontrollable urge to urinate.

‘Well, Lucius Minucius Basilus, commander of whatever-you-said, have you any idea what you just did?’

‘Put the fear of the Gods into the Eburones?’ he said, weakly, it coming out more as a question than the proud statement he’d intended.

‘No, no, no,’ Fronto said, his brow lowering as he wagged the forefinger of his free hand in admonishment. ‘No, Basilus. What you have just done is ruined a month of my work, disrupted my hunt, laid waste to a settlement that was about to declare loyalty to Caesar and, prize of all your blunders this morning, spooked the traitor king Ambiorix into flight!’

Basilus felt panic set in and his stomach churned unpleasantly. He urinated a little.

‘Sir?’

‘Ambiorix was here. In my sights. In a matter of hours he would have been in my
hands
and spilling every secret he knew about rebellions in Gaul, while his brother king helped bring the Eburones back into the arms of Rome as an ally. Instead, you and your men blundered in from the forest and Ambiorix turned tail and fled, or so Ullio tells me.’

‘Ullio?’

‘The Eburone who has played host to my men and I in our sojourn here.’ Fronto thumbed a gesture towards a furious local, who was fiddling with the point of a wicked-looking knife. ‘Ullio could possibly track the villain, though he might be disinclined to try, given what YOU HAVE JUST DONE TO HIS KINSMEN!’ The spray of spittle that accompanied this last hoarse shout spattered across Basilus’ face and his bladder finally gave in and let go.

Fronto rolled his eyes and pushed the man aside.

‘Galronus, you’re now in charge of this debacle. Try and rein the men in and halt the madness. Take this piddling little moron with you and try and keep him out of trouble. I’m going to see Cativolcus and find out if there’s any way we can salvage anything from this.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Palmatus said quietly, emerging from the king’s house and shaking his head. ‘The king’s bodyguard are all dead and he appears to have taken the yew-poison meant for Ambiorix.’

Fronto reached up and cradled his forehead in his free hand.

‘Today just gets better and better.’ He gestured at Basilus with his sword. ‘Get out of my sight and do whatever Galronus tells you. If I see you again today, I might just gut you myself.’

He turned to Ullio as Galronus led the disconsolate, leaking commander away.

‘I cannot adequately express my regret for what happened here, Ullio. Hopefully we can halt the damage before it becomes absolute. I would like to lay the blame at Basilus’ feet, but for all his lunacy, he was acting on the general’s orders, and Caesar is unaware of what we know. I suspect the only hope for your tribe’s peace just evaporated.’

Ullio nodded. ‘There is now one undisputed king of the Eburones, and while many might not approve of him, while he has druids on his side, no one is going to challenge him. Perhaps if he were to meet his end, one of my lord Cativolcus’ kin would step in to rule us.’

‘I know I have no right to ask this of you, Ullio, especially after what just happened, but is there any way I can persuade you to helping us track Ambiorix down?’

The hunter sagged. ‘Ask me again later, after we have attended to the dead and the wounded and I have had my fill of beer. And,’ he cast an evil look at the retreating form of Basilus, ‘after I have looked for my sister-son and learned whether he and his family are alive.’

‘Would you like help?’

Ullio shook his head and turned, walking away down the street. Over the top of the chaos, the sound of Galronus’ call to muster outside the walls rang from a dozen horns.

‘Disaster,’ muttered Fronto.

‘So close,’ added Masgava. ‘We should get going and see if we can pick up his trail.’

Fronto shook his head and rubbed his thumping temple. ‘We stand virtually no chance in these woods. Our best hope is that Ullio will help us. He knows these lands like no other, but he must have today to recover and mourn before we consider trying to follow.’

‘What will happen to Basilus,’ asked Palmatus quietly.

Fronto felt the thumping head worsen. ‘Knowing Caesar, he’ll probably get a bloody decoration!’

Behind him, Aurelius peered off into the forest with a mixture of resignation and fear and made the signs to ward off evil.

* * * * *

Caesar rubbed tired eyes, sagging in his campaign chair as the officers assembled on the low grassy bank beside the Rhenus. The past few days had not been good for the general. Half a week it had taken to bridge the great river - a speed and efficiency that had stunned even those who achieved it. The bridge was every bit as strong and wide and powerful as the one they had both built and dismantled upriver a few years ago, and this one was planned to stay, at least until the season ended.

As soon as the bridge was complete, Caesar had marched across it with his officers and the Tenth Legion’s First Cohort and met with the local Ubii leaders, who had gathered there, curious to ask the general why he had once more bridged their river.

The Ubii had confirmed that the Suevi had retreated into their great forest, skirmishing with the locals as they passed, likely frustrated at being cheated of battle, victory and spoils to the south. They had also assured Caesar that Ambiorix had not crossed the Rhenus anywhere in their territory or that of their allies. Caesar had drawn from them renewed oaths and the promise that if Ambiorix appeared anywhere in their lands they would send the general his head. All had seemed to be to the good, especially when that same day the advance scouts of Labienus’ army had arrived from the south, the rest of the three legions and the baggage hoving into view during the afternoon.

Then things had begun to decline.

Caesar had avowed his intent to move into the great forest of the Suevi and chastise them for thinking to invade Roman-protected lands, but the Ubii had made their own signs against evil and had warned Caesar in fearful voices not to pursue the Suevi into the great forest of Baceni.

The general had sneered at their superstitious attitude and announced that he held no fear of Gods-protected Germanic forests. If the domain of Arduenna held no fear for him, then neither would
this
forest. The Ubii had shaken their heads and intimated that this had nothing to do with Gods, as the Suevi believed only in blood, death, meat and what they could touch and see. The Baceni forest, they said, was a place haunted by evil things and even the Ubii who lived within its shadow would not go beneath its canopy willingly.

Scoffing, Caesar had dismissed the Ubii and taken three of his legions into the woods, along with a few cavalry scouts and the senior staff. Priscus had seen nothing to suggest the presence of spirits or monsters among the twisted, densely-packed boles of the forest, but something about the oppressive darkness of the woodland and the constant cracks and scuttles of wildlife made it… eerie in some way. The men of the legions had certainly shown their colours beneath its unhallowed boughs, every soldier clutching his luck charm or divine pendant, uttering prayers in an almost constant stream.

When they had come across a wooden frame some twenty feet long, decorated with the disembowelled and charred bodies of the Suevi’s latest victims, the general uneasiness among the soldiery had blossomed into genuine fear.

And yet still, even a day’s march into the forest, there had been no sign of the Suevi or their settlements. That morning, Caesar had called Priscus and Antonius to his tent, pitched in the widest space between the trees, and had admitted to feeling exceedingly unwell. He had not slept during the night and had become pale and drawn, vomiting up anything he attempted to consume.

That morning, only an hour from camp, the general had passed out in the saddle and only the quick reflexes of Aulus Ingenuus had prevented a bad fall. A brief confab between the officers had resulted in the decision to abandon the Suevi to their endless forest and to turn back to the Rhenus. Even Priscus, wishing to buy Fronto as much time as he could, had been grateful when the general, barely able to lift his head, had finally nodded his assent to their recommendation.

The army had managed to return from the forest in half the time it had taken to push within - a testament to the intense desire among the men to be away from its oppressive darkness and evils.

Rumours were rife among the men that the Suevi had somehow cursed the general and that he had succumbed to the evils of the Baceni forest. Caesar, too weak to walk among the men, tried to assure them that he had succumbed only to a perfectly natural fever brought on by exhaustion and the damp, unhealthy conditions of the lands they had recently traversed. The medicus had confirmed this diagnosis, assuring the officers and men that in a matter of days Caesar would return to full health, and the fact that many of the men were suffering from some form of fever or foot-rot supported the announcement, but soldiers will be soldiers, and they will always be superstitious.

Now, back at the Rhenus, the general was still too weak to walk for long or move among the men, and his colour was still lacking, but his appetite had begun to return, and he had picked at a plain meal that morning. Some of the sparkle had also returned to his eye.

Now, as the staff assembled, he looked almost eager.

‘Ah good,’ he said in a tired but enthusiastic voice. ‘Is everyone here?’

Priscus nodded and Antonius went to help as Caesar struggled from his seat, but the general waved his assistance away and stood, swaying slightly for a moment.

‘I am returning to health, gentlemen.’

A slight stagger forced him to grip his chair and force himself upright again.

‘I intend to begin moving into the Arduenna forest on the morrow, but I have been thinking about our position. It seems to be the opinion of natives, officers and scouts alike that the great forest is not suitable terrain for the army to move in its traditional form, with horse, baggage carts and artillery.’

Nods all round.

‘And the continued threat of the Suevi, who remain unchastised, must not be underestimated.’

More nods. No one wanted to move against the Eburones with the possibility of the Germanic peoples following on their heel.

‘This crossing point must therefore be defended against incursions. I intend to garrison the area against continued threat.’ He peered around the officers assembled and his gaze settled on a man in the uniform of a senior tribune. Priscus recognised him vaguely as a long-standing tribune of the Ninth. ‘Volcatius Tullus?’