Marius' Mules VII: The Great Revolt (34 page)

‘Antonius? Have the legions fall in down there once the camp is marked out and have them get to work. I want all six legions working on it, since we’re in no immediate danger. Fronto and Rufio? I want the Tenth and Eleventh, as soon as the works are complete, to camp on the eastern side of the camp, far from the river and in the most wooded area you can. We are about to deceive the enemy, gentlemen. It is time we crossed that river. And with any luck we will surprise the Gauls enough that we can thrash them on the plains without having to move on Gergovia after all.’ He smiled darkly. ‘Antonius, fish out your best red cloak.’

* * * * *

Fronto sat in the cover of the trees, the first heavy raindrops of the downpour that had been threatening for hours falling from the leaves and dinging off his helmet, blotting his cloak. In the early post-dawn glow, he could just make out Antonius on Caesar’s white horse, red cloak whipping in the breeze as he led four legions and the baggage on south along the Elaver’s east bank, the force carefully spread out to fill as much space as six legions normally would.

He glanced back at the Tenth and Eleventh, who had taken advantage of the darkness and moved out before dawn, slightly north and east, where they now lurked behind the hill, barely visible from this position and entirely hidden from the army across the river.

Caesar and Rufio stood close by, the rain battering them as they all watched, tense.

‘Now to see if they take the bait,’ Caesar huffed and pulled his cloak tighter about him to keep off the worst of the rain. The three men stood in edgy silence as the muted sound of the legions receded across the grassland to the south, soon to be lost from sight among the trees.

‘The men the Aedui were supposed to send us are taking their time,’ Rufio sighed as he watched.

‘If they come at all,’ muttered Fronto darkly, earning a piercing look from the general. He was about to add something in his defence when he clamped his jaws shut again and strained his eyes in the dim light.

‘I think they’re moving,’ he said, finally.

‘’Yes,’ Rufio agreed. ‘Large units of horse are heading off south.’

‘And the rest of the army is decamping, also,’ Caesar smiled. ‘It appears they fell for our little ploy.’

Fronto took a breath and rolled his shoulders. ‘With permission then, Caesar, I’ll move into position.’

* * * * *

Numisius flexed his arm muscles and checked the knot of the rope around his military belt.

‘Are you sure you can do it?’ Fronto asked, shivering and folding his sodden arms across his chest for the pitiful warmth they provided. Though the weather was fairly temperate, and still warming daily, the deluge dragged down the temperature of those out in it.

Numisius, one of Fronto’s remaining ten singulares, grinned. ‘Bit late to question me now, sir?’

‘Look, I know you can swim. Masgava tells me you used to hurtle around that pool in Massilia like an eel, but it’s less than a year since that arm of yours was smashed to pieces. Are you strong enough for
this
?’

‘Piece of piss, sir.’

Fronto opened his mouth to question him further but before he could speak, Numisius gave a wink and then threw himself backwards into the water, having carefully selected a deep section to enter. Fronto glanced back at the tree, and Palmatus was there, checking and tightening the knot at the other end of the rope.

Turning back, he watched the pale form of Numisius break the river’s surface and begin to make for the far shore, his arms coming up and over, slicing down into the dark like some sort of machine, tearing him through the choppy water at surprising speed. His head came up to the side rhythmically for breath, and he somehow continued to adjust his angle so that he was pushing into the current rather than across, with the net result that he was making directly for the tree opposite.

Fronto watched in amazement as in just a few heartbeats’ time, the man was clambering up the far bank. How that man could swim! Fronto would barely have managed a quarter of the distance in that time. Of course, he would probably have drowned on entry anyway. Never the best swimmer, he dunked in the rivers occasionally to perform his ablutions while on campaign, but his preferred method of swimming was to lie on his back in the warm basin of a good bath house, wiggling his toes and wondering what to have for lunch.

Readying himself, he adjusted the sword and pugio hanging at his side, fastened to the belt rather than the more usual baldric. It felt odd not to be bearing the beautiful blade he had taken from a villain those years ago, but he would not risk that blade either coming loose and sinking to the bed of the Elaver or suffering damage from the water, and so he had borrowed a standard issue gladius from the stores for today. It and the dagger both seemed jammed in tight, and he had used twine to fasten them down, too, just in case. He shivered in the sodden tunic. No armour or cloak for this task. No shield or helm. Just a tunic, boots and a sword. Still, he was about to get a sight colder and wetter.

He watched as Numisius carefully hauled in the rope so that it trailed along the river’s surface in a straight line, neither sinking too deep nor rising taut in the air, and then tied it off to the tree opposite. Once he had tested the weight and given an affirmative gesture, Fronto nodded and stepped to the edge. With a deep breath, he jumped in, hands coming up and grasping for the rope slung across the river.

The cold was mind-shattering. He hadn’t realised how warm the air had actually become with the advent of spring until the chilling water brought it home to him. It felt as though his blood ran with ice, and in moments he was beginning to lose the feeling in his extremities. Concentrating on the task at hand, he kept his grip tight on the rope as he hauled himself across, slowly but steadily traversing the river. He felt the rope jerk sharply and almost lost his grip for a moment, glancing back in panic to see that Masgava had jumped in and grabbed the line. Fronto wished he had a free hand to grip the figurine of Fortuna around his neck, praying to his patron goddess that the rope would hold their combined weight as he hauled himself onwards.

The journey seemed to take an hour, though it had actually been a quick crossing, Numisius assured him, as the soldier leaned down and helped him from the current, scrambling up the bank and onto the grassy slope. He stood shaking like a leaf for a long moment before he could control his limbs enough to make sure his sword and dagger - not to mention his fingers, toes and ears - were still present and correct.

Stamping his feet to bring life back into them, he watched Masgava clamber up to join them, hardly puffing with the effort, testing his reflexes and unfastening his sword.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know, sir?’ the big Numidian reminded him.

‘Just concentrate on making sure none of them get away.’

The pair watched as the rest of the singulares crossed. Once Palmatus had come over, Carbo, the last of the party standing on the far bank, unhooked the rope and fastened it to a sheaf of pila that had already been tightly bound together. As he gave a nod, Masgava started to pull in the rope, dragging the sheaf of javelins across the river and finally up the bank and onto the grass with them.

‘How many were there again?’ Fronto shivered.

‘Pila?’

‘Gauls.’

Masgava undid the knot and began to separate the weapons. ‘I counted thirteen. There might be one or two more, mind. It was hard to be sure with all the foliage.’

‘Typical Gauls. They can never do anything in sensible numerical divisions like a Roman. What kind of unit numbers
thirteen
?’

‘That one,’ Palmatus jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the small knot of horsemen the enemy army had left behind to watch the bridge site.

‘I hate this weather. Miserable weather to fight in.’

Masgava smiled. ‘The enemy will be almost as wet as us. Besides, we should be thanking the gods for this rain, not blaming them.’

‘Oh? How’s that?’

‘It if was sunny and dry, those thirteen Gauls would be lounging out on the open grass and sunning themselves. They would see us coming a mile off and ride out to Vercingetorix, telling him what we were up to. But the rain has driven them to shelter in that small copse, and that will allow us to close on them unseen.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Fronto conceded, ‘but I’ll still be glad to dry off later.’

Fronto waited sodden and impatient as Masgava distributed the pila to the other ten men and kept back two for himself. Fronto gripped the pair of weapons uncertainly. It had been a very long time since he’d thrown one, and even a couple of years ago back in Rome, when Masgava had set him on a very gladiatorial training regime, there had been little work with javelins. Plus, despite Masgava’s insistence they bring them, he couldn’t see pila being much use in woodland. Perhaps he might find a reason to discard them yet…

Shuddering in his freezing wet tunic once more, he scrambled up the last few paces of the slope and leaned carefully around the edge of a bushy juniper. The small copse in which the scouts had taken shelter from the weather was perhaps two hundred paces from the river, but Palmatus had chosen the site well. Between here and there lay a low hedge, crossed by a rough track that ran from an abandoned and burned farmstead down to the ruined bridge. So long as they kept low and moved quietly, only a truly alert scout would stand much chance of spotting their approach.

‘Ready?’ he asked the singulares. Each of them nodded or murmured their assent.

Palmatus stepped up to the juniper and with a quick glance at their target, ducked out into the rain and made the ten-pace dash through the open to the hedgerow, disappearing behind it. Numisius followed on, vanishing behind the bushy vegetation after the officer, and Fronto took his chance to sprint ahead of the next man. Despite the shortness of the run, the distance from the enemy, and the added obfuscation of the heavy downpour, Fronto felt the familiar thrill of nerves as he passed the open stretch.

As he reached the cover of the hedge, the men in front were already moving along it at pace, keeping slightly bent to prevent their heads showing over the top. Breathing steadily, Fronto ran on, stooped, along the edge of the burned-out field, keeping his eyes locked on Palmatus at the front, his ears straining to hear anything of the enemy through the battering of the rain.

A quick dash across the gateway in the hedge and over the rutted, worn, farm track, and then back into the hedge’s cover, closing on the copse. Then, quicker than he’d expected, they were there. Palmatus had stopped at the end of the hedge, where it gave way to a ramshackle fence that separated the farmland from the trees. It was a low, partially broken affair that would present no obstacle to the Romans, but it was not for the fence that Palmatus had paused. As the rest of the men caught up, the former legionary used hand signals to silently relay what he saw, given the proximity of the enemy. Fronto concentrated. Thirteen men, all huddled close together and trying to light a fire in the relative shelter of the pines. The forest floor would be largely clear due to the season, but would still be sodden and unpleasant.

Palmatus was now motioning something else: the corral of horses, off to the other side of the copse, away from the river. Fronto nodded. That was at least as prime a concern as the men themselves. If the horses were secured, none of the Gauls could ride for the rebel army and warn them. Fronto turned to see Quietus looming behind, and gestured for the man to come with him. Quietus nodded and Fronto turned back to Palmatus, making
horse
gestures with his hand and then pointing to himself and Quietus. Palmatus nodded and then lifted his hand, ready for the signal. As he confirmed that everyone was here and watching, he tensed and drew his blade as slowly and quietly as he could, the other ten men following suit.

As Fronto drew his sword, he smiled gratefully and jabbed his pila down into the ground, leaving them behind. Masgava may consider them useful against the men, but they would be of little advantage in dealing with horses. Quietus followed suit.

Palmatus waited until all were ready and poised, and his hand came down in a chopping motion. Fronto moved in the wake of the two men in front, using his free hand to vault the fence, wincing as his knee, still troubled by the wet weather, jarred upon landing, but not allowing it to slow him. And he was running, Quietus keeping pace at his heel. Now, he could see the horses through the trunks, eating the lush grass close to the trees. They had been tethered by thin ropes attached to the harnesses and variously tied off on branches or to pitons in the ground.

By the time they were closing on the beasts, which were whickering and stamping nervously at the sudden commotion nearby, the sounds of battle rang out deeper in the copse, where the rest of the singulares were dealing with the thirteen scouts. Fronto burst from the trees and the rain came back with a force once out in the open, smacking him in the face like a slap. Blinking away the water, he ran to the nearest horse and brought his blade down on the thin rope, freeing the animal, which trotted a few paces away from him and hovered nervously. Quietus arrived and freed a second horse, and Fronto crossed to the next, slashing through the rope.

Again and again, the two men cut bonds and shooed the horses, which invariably danced out of their way and the legate rose from his latest rope, looking around for the next tether. Quietus was nearby, busily sawing through a rope that was thicker and hardier than the rest and had resisted his initial cut. Fronto blinked out the rain once more and opened his mouth to shout a warning.

He was too late.

A Gaul, hitherto unseen at the edge of the woods and presumably set to guard the horses, was on Quietus from behind, that long Gallic blade sweeping out and down onto the big Roman’s neck, where it hacked through the tendon holding neck to shoulder and through muscle, lodging itself in the bone. Quietus gasped, his head tipping involuntarily to the side as his body began to register the fact that he was dying, the spinal cord snapped and blood fountaining from his severed artery.