Sons of Taranis (55 page)

DYRAKHES and Biorix lounged at a table in the open front of the Huntsman’s Head, their conversation ribald and varied, their drinks well-watered, their attention constantly on the carcer and its surroundings. Fronto ran up from the Argiletum, panting and sweating, the others behind him, and the two men watching from the tavern rose in surprise.

‘Sir?’

‘No sign of them?’ Fronto panted.

‘Them? The Gauls? No.’

The former legate turned his eyes to the sky and blew a kiss. ‘Thank you, Great Lady. I won’t forget this.’ He looked back at the pair in the tavern. ‘Go to the shed at the back and arm yourselves, and bring a few extra staves and knives out with you too.’

Biorix’s frown was a question in itself and Fronto nodded. ‘They’re coming. Now.’

‘You’re sure, sir?’

‘As we can be. Time to try and secure this place.’

As Biorix and Dyrakhes disappeared behind the tavern to retrieve the better makeshift weapons, Fronto peered across at the heavy door of the carcer. Behind him Cavarinos, Balbus, Agesander and Procles stood tense and ready.

‘How do we do this, then, Marcus?’ Balbus asked. ‘You’re the strategist.’

‘Perhaps if we secure all the approaches…?’

‘Do it fast, then,’ Biorix hissed, reappearing around the corner of the tavern and pointing down the street. This time in the early evening there were not so many people around as there had been at the height of the day, and towards the Porta Fontinalis a strange tableau was approaching. A Roman merchant and his family were moving along the street, drawing interested looks but little more. Fronto’s eyes were, however, first drawn to the hulking Gaulish giant accompanying them, then to the cloaked figure pushing their cart. His keen gaze quickly picked out a variety of what could only be gaunt and dirty Gallic slaves weaving their way through the crowd. Suddenly he was unsure about this. The numbers were extremely uneven.

‘We don’t want a war in the street,’ Balbus muttered.

‘And it would go badly for us,’ Cavarinos added. ‘We are outnumbered almost three men to one.’

Fronto nodded absently. They couldn’t hold the street against that lot, and even if they did, civilian casualties would be unacceptable. They were out of time and out of options. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he ran across to the carcer door and hammered on it. The other six crowded behind him and as he hammered again, and then a third time, Fronto’s eyes kept being drawn to the approaching cart and its panoply of oddly-garbed Gauls. For a heartbeat he wondered at their dress, then the reason dawned on him and he peered at the cart, knowing what it contained even if he couldn’t see the iron itself. The ‘merchant’ was bellowing his offers and wares, and it would sound perfectly normal to anyone who hadn’t spent the last eight years in Gaul and couldn’t spot a Gallic accent even when faint.

Finally, the door of the carcer creaked and opened inwards, emitting a waft of stale, fetid air. The face that appeared in the narrow gap was broken-nosed, lined with three distinct scars and bore the short hair that was the norm for a legionary.

‘Yes?’

‘No time to explain,’ Fronto barked. ‘You need to let us in.’

‘Piss off.’

The door started to close and Fronto stepped forward, jamming his foot in it as he spoke. ‘Listen, you… ow!’ The muscular legionary had pushed the door with every nuance of strength in his large arms and though Fronto’s foot had definitely stopped it closing, there was a crunch and a flash of blinding pain shot up his leg as foot bones broke. The legionary frowned in surprise as the door failed to close and tried again with the same force. This time, Fronto’s foot was further in and he felt the heavy timber close on his ankle, scraping the flesh from it and almost breaking the vital joint.

‘Listen,’ he hissed through teeth gritted against the pain, ‘there are some well-armed and very determined men coming here to free one of your prisoners and they outnumber you three to one. Let us in.’

‘Only my centurion…’

Fronto shoved hard and the door slammed inwards, smashing into the surprised legionary’s face and sending him reeling back. In a heartbeat, Fronto threw the door open and ushered the others in, taking a swift look back out along the street. Perhaps fifty paces away a bunch of street urchins had arrested the cart’s progress, ribbing the
merchant
and making lewd suggestions, comparing the phallic lamps to their owner.

Thank you lady Fortuna
, he smiled again, and turned to see a tense stand-off in the guard room. The last time he had been in this chamber he had been in the company of Pompey and it had been
his
men staffing the place. Pompey had ruled the carcer a ‘non-public’ place, and had allowed his men blades. It seemed Marcellus was sticking rigidly to his law-abiding persona beyond reason. Even the carcer’s guards now carried only wooden batons. All six of the place’s staff were here in this room, their bowls of food and game of dice forgotten in the face of this intrusion. With the discipline of legionaries – a level of which Fronto heartily approved – the half dozen men had armed themselves and stood even before all the arrivals were inside. Three of them had moved to block access to the heavy armoured door that led through to the cells.

As Fronto’s men gathered in a small knot and moved into the place, Fronto dropped back the latch and peered at the keyhole. No key. Stepping away from the door, he approached the three most threatening men, the ones guarding the way to the cells. In the absence of the centurion, he didn’t know who might be in charge, and the leader was far from evident.

‘Listen, you lot. There are near a score of Gauls coming to free your prisoner and they’re all armed with swords…’

Before he could get another word out, one of the guards had lunged at him, almost knocking the short staff from his hands. Fronto jabbed back in automatic response and as if that exchange were a trigger the room erupted into chaos, the guards and Fronto’s companions alike jabbing and blocking with their batons and staves.

In the chaos, he heard a voice shout ‘Go tell Crispinus!’

He turned, his broken foot agonising, but the man who was intent on stopping him smacked him painfully in the knee with his club. Fronto wheeled and shoved the man, sending him lurching back. Again, he turned to the entrance to see the man with the broken nose who he’d hurt on entry unlatching the door.

‘No!’

But his attention was drawn again to the man facing him who’d recovered and was swiping again with the short length of ash.

‘For the love of Bacchus, will you lot
stop this
?’

Again he shoved his attacker out of the way and glanced over his shoulder. The door stood open, the doorman gone, running to find the centurion. Even as he turned to run and close the door again, a knife thudded into the oak frame, thrown from somewhere in the street.

‘Shit!’ yelled the guard who’d sent his friend running – the man in charge now, Fronto presumed. The man leapt over to the door and peered out. Pressed in the struggle, Fronto couldn’t get a reasonable view outside, but he saw the guard’s eyes widen and could picture the scene in the street. ‘Shut the bloody door!’ he yelled.

Nodding in shock, the guard did so, dropping the latch.

‘Carcer!’ the senior guard yelled above the din, ‘Ad Signum!’

The call cut through the chaos and the effect was instant. Whatever trouble the guards were causing for them, Fronto found himself impressed with the way, even after years of retirement, the call to standard pulled the men immediately from what they were doing. A moment later all five were lined up to one side. Fronto’s men, panting, huddled together again. Miraculously everyone was upright and there appeared to be no broken bones or major wounds – just a few bruises and contusions.

‘Who are you?’ the speaker asked, addressing Fronto.

‘Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of Caesar’s Tenth Equestris, retired.’

The five men saluted automatically and Fronto had to brush aside the etiquette.

‘Who are
they
, then, sir?’ the man asked.

‘A bunch of Gaulish warriors and slaves. The five with the cart are all very dangerous. They’re coming to try and free Vercingetorix, and they won’t stop ‘til they’re all dead. Find the keys. Lock that door.’

The legionary’s face folded into an expression of contrite embarrassment. ‘Afraid Paulinus had the door keys, sir.’

‘Let me guess: Paulinus is the one who just left to warn your centurion?’

A nod.

‘Turds! The latch won’t hold them for long. Still, your commander might bring help. Where is he?’

‘He’ll be at barracks, sir, up on the Viminal, top end, near the walls.’

Fronto made a quick mental calculation, assuming the barracks to be that house he’d found the records of which had formerly belonged to Pompey. A little over a mile from here to there, he reckoned, and all uphill. Paulinus was clearly fit – all these former soldiers were still in good shape – but still that would be more than a quarter of an hour. Plus the same back, or slightly less allowing for the downhill. Plus any time taken by Crispinus to gather and arm men in between.

‘No help coming for three quarters of an hour or more, then, so it’s down to us. There are twelve of us, and nineteen of them altogether. We can manage that, I figure. Most of them are half-starved slaves.’

The door suddenly erupted in a din of thuds, thumps and bangs as the Gauls outside began to hammer at it. The latch immediately groaned and strained, and Cavarinos gestured to Procles. The two men grabbed the heavy table with the meal accoutrements on it and tipped it sideways, jamming it up against the exterior door.

‘Hang on, sir,’ the senior guard said, and ran over to the corner where two cupboards stood. Shoving one aside roughly, he scrabbled around in the grime behind and withdrew something, turning in a cloud of dust and holding something out. Fronto stared at the two gladii in the man’s hands. Both were very standard military issue and clearly unused for some time, from the thick coat of muck.

‘Left over by the previous occupants, sir,’ the man said. ‘We meant to get rid of them, but you know how it is.’

Fronto grinned and grabbed one of the blades, tearing it from its scabbard. It was pitted with rust from lack of care, but well-edged and still eminently usable. He hefted it comfortably as the guard pulled the other and did the same.

‘When they get in, don’t mistake my men in the press for theirs, will you.’

The guards nodded, peering intently at Fronto’s companions and committing their faces, shapes and clothes to memory.

A thought struck Fronto. ‘How many prisoners do you have?’

The guard frowned. ‘Just the two, sir.’

‘Vercingetorix and the Comum decurion?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Do you still have keys for the cells?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then get in there, let the decurion out and give him a club.’

‘I can’t do that, sir.’

‘You damn well can and you damn well will. We need all the help we can get and Marcellus notwithstanding, the decurion is a Roman. Get him out and arm him.’

‘But sir, he’s still badly torn and in agony, and all wrapped up in dressings.’

‘And yet he could still hold a club. Get him out.’

Reluctantly and with a shaking of the head, the guard scurried off, opening the door to the cells and disappearing within. Fronto turned to the rest. ‘Everyone prepared? Whatever we do, none of the attackers get to the cells and none of them get out alive. Even if we all have to die to stop it.’

Nods all round.

Across the room, the latch gave an ear-splitting shriek and then tore in two with a crack. The door jerked in a foot or so and the table butted up against it crept backwards.

‘This is it. Be prepared. No quarter.’

With a noise like a siege tower collapsing the door burst inwards, the table clattering across the floor. Fronto could hear the sound of keys and muffled conversation in the cell chamber, and the eleven men in this room levelled their weapons and planted firm feet. Fronto winced at the pain in his foot as he did so and gritted his teeth, bracing for the enemy.

A man two heads taller than him and twice as wide at the shoulder barrelled through the doorway. The big man hefted the longest, heaviest sword Fronto had ever seen, one that made the grand long Gallic blades he’d seen look like fruit knives. The Gaul’s face was oddly happy, a mix of release and exultation, as he leapt forwards, his first side-swipe taking one of the guards in the left arm, ripping it in two and slamming home deep into the man’s torso. He screamed and fell away, tripping one of his fellows and taking him down in the flurry. Procles was there in an instant, a decade’s experience fighting off pirates and raiders aboard triremes and merchant vessels lending him useful skills in dealing with restricted space. The big Greek former marine hammered down with his club at the giant’s hand, trying to disarm him of that great sword. His blow struck but glanced off the sword hilt, bruising the big man’s hand at best. As the marine reeled back, lifting his club for the next strike, his eyes widened in surprise. He’d not seen the huge Gaul’s other hand whip a knife from his belt. The force of the blow from that ham-sized hand was such that Procles felt his ribs and sternum crack and splinter, the knife driving the bone apart as though it were butter in its search for the heart.