Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (14 page)

The column came to a halt outside the east gate of the fort that had been constructed by Sabinus' force and which had only the facilities to accommodate those two legions and the command party. Caesar issued a number of commands to his couriers, who turned their mounts and rode down the line with instructions for the individual commanders. The mounted clerk reined in before Priscus and saluted - a salute that was returned somewhat wearily and half-heartedly.

"With the general's complements, Legate, your men are to encamp off the south wall of the fort as best you can. He realises that you may have to remove some of the treeline to accommodate the legion, but space around the fort is at a premium and as soon as the wind changes the legion will be embarking anyway, so he hopes your discomfort is short-lived."

Priscus rolled his eyes. "Thank the general for his concern and inform him that we will do so and I will attend him presently."

As the clerk rode off once more, Priscus gestured to the two recently-raised tribunes. "As I said, take command of the prison detail and get them slammed up. You might even want to give that Aedui bastard a bit of a going over. If we can deliver a nugget or two of useful information to the general it might stop him being such a miserable and vindictive sod."

Furius and Fabius saluted and rode away along the line of the legion towards the roped slaves. As they left, Priscus turned to the primus pilus, whose shiny pink head was brighter than usual after the sweaty day's march.

"Carbo? I presume you overheard the general's instructions? Get the legion settled in, set the watch and passwords, make sure the standards and eagle are secured at the legion command tent, check on ration distribution and then meet me in the headquarters for a briefing at the sixth watch. And bring whatever booze you can track down among Sabinus' supplies.

Carbo saluted and began to issue the orders to his centurions, directing the setting up of camp in the narrow strip of clear land between the timber stockade and the dense forest close by. There would have to be more than just a little deforestation to give the legion any security. To have the treeline right at the edge of the camp would be to grant any potential interloper the opportunity to get so close they could climb into bed with the men before they were even seen.

Furius and Fabius reined in ahead of the four roped lines of captives, who were guarded by men of both the Tenth and Seventh legions who'd had a hand in their capture. An optio from the Seventh was busy walking up and down the lines, smacking shins and shoulders with his stick, moving the prisoners into straighter lines.

"Optio? We'll take charge of the prisoners from here. You can return to your unit."

The optio frowned for a moment and then saluted with a slight shrug.

"All yours, sir and good riddance to the shit-stinking heap of 'em."

"Wait a moment" barked a deep voice. Furius looked up to see a familiar face approaching. The Seventh's new primus pilus was striding along the column, vine staff jammed under his arm, an air of haughty irritation about him.

"What can I do for you,
centurion
?" Furius smiled, adding a stress to the title. The primus pilus frowned at the tribunes sitting astride their mounts by the prisoners.

"I know you… sir."

"Yes. We met in the snowy woods hunting Gauls a few months ago. Pullo, yes?"

A sour look passed across the officer's face. "Yes, sir. Field promotion, sir?" Furius smiled indulgently, feeling the warmth of successful one-upmanship flowing through his veins. "Sadly, I had to vacate my previous position so that you could fill it."

Pullo reined in his anger with visible and somewhat understandable difficulty. "Legate Cicero has ordered that I take the captives and put them to work on the trench and rampart for the Seventh's camp."

Furius turned to Fabius and pursed his lips. "It's a good idea, really. Shame to let the Gallic bastards sit in comfort while good legionaries dig and sweat." He turned back to Pullo. "I'll compromise with you, centurion. The nobles are all going straight to the stockade, but there's almost two hundred others. Split them half and half. Take one lot with you to build your camp and the other can go and serve the Tenth in the same role. Good enough?"

Pullo mulled it over for only a moment - just long enough to almost count as an act of defiance to a superior officer, and then nodded. "Very well, sir. I will inform the legate of your request."

"Decision."

"Sir?"

"It was not a request. It was a decision. If your legate has a problem with it, he can argue the toss with ours."

Again, Pullo paused and pondered. Furius and Fabius could almost see him weighing up the likelihood of Cicero even considering entering an argument with the veteran of the Tenth and coming down on the side of 'not even on a quiet day in Hades'.

As the primus pilus turned and left with no further salute, Fabius pulled his mount alongside. "You're going to have trouble with him and his mate. I reckon he sees you as a rank-jumper. He's going to want to one-up you at the first chance he gets."

Furius shrugged. "Let him try. Him and his pet… Vorenus was it? We're not new to that game."

"You could always just drop him in the shit for back-talking a superior?"

"Not likely. It's only a stroke of luck that separates us rank-wise - he's just another 'better-than-you senior centurion'. If he wants a pissing contest, I'll beat him on his own level. The chain of command's one thing, but a little competition between units is healthy and you and I both know that the Seventh is still far from its best despite all our work, while the Tenth has gone from strength to strength. I can piss higher than him on my worst day and then wash the floor with his face. Come on."

Turning, he rode back to the rear of the Tenth, where an optio of his own legion was changing the men on prisoner duty.

"Optio? Separate out all the leaders and nobles, have them roped together and led to the stockade in the camp. Then work with the officers of the Seventh to divide the rest and put them to work on the defences; but before you get to that, detach Dumnorix from the lines. We're taking him with us."

The optio saluted and the two tribunes sat and watched patiently as the Aeduan nobleman was wrenched clear of the lines, his hands still roped together, a legionary from the Tenth holding the end of the cord.

"Where do you want him taking, sir?"

Furius made a dismissive gesture and reached down to grasp the rope. "You go about your work, soldier. I'll take this shitbag."

As the legionary obediently let go, Furius tied the rope tightly to his saddle horn leaving just enough play for the captive to stand five or six feet from the horse.

"Walk!"

The Aeduan glared sullenly at him. Furius smiled. "I'd
advise
you to walk. The alternative is uncomfortable."

Still, Dumnorix poured his immobile malice and scorn at the two tribunes. Furius pursed his lips and flicked the reins, urging his horse into a walk. As Fabius fell in beside him, Dumnorix suddenly found himself wrenched from his feet, one of his shoulders dislocating with the sudden jerk, and dragged along the floor, his knees bouncing painfully from the rocks, roots and packed earth. By the time Furius had counted to ten, the Aeduan was on his feet and stumbling alongside, groaning at the pain in his shoulder.

On the brief ride up to the fort gate, the tribunes amused themselves by occasionally increasing the pace and then relaxing it, forcing Dumnorix to run for short periods, during which he invariably fell, further wrenching his damaged shoulder and bouncing along the floor before he could find his feet again. At the gate, the legionaries from the Eighth on guard duty did not request a password, given that officers, scouts and cavalry from the entire column were pouring through in a constant stream, but they did watch with interest as the captive Gaul bounced from the gatepost on the way, grunting and cursing in his own language.

"Which way to the latrines?" Fabius said quietly.

The legionary, a curious look on his face, gestured to the right side of the gate. "Nearest one's away to the south, sir, but you really don't want to go in there. The better, clearer one's up there."

Furius nodded. "Thank you, soldier, but the shitty one will do nicely."

Angling his horse south along the intervallum road that followed the inside of the rampart to the south, and with Fabius at his side, he rode on to the latrine - a small affair separated from the camp by a dozen leather tent sections tied together in a fruitless attempt to contain the horrendous odours.

The drifting aroma of ammonia and faeces easily escaped the surrounds and the two tribunes found their eyes watering as they approached. The gate guard had been right. This latrine was ready to be closed down and backfilled. Perfect.

Dismounting, Furius whistled, attracting the attention of a legionary standing near his tent and emptying the half-eaten contents of his mess tin into a slop pile. The man turned and, recognising the uniforms of senior officers, saluted.

"Take our horses to the cavalry compound, hand them over to the equisio, tell him they belong to the Tenth's tribunes, and then you can go about your business."

The legionary saluted and grabbed the reins of the horses, waiting until Furius had untied the rope and dragged the panting Gaul to one side before leading them off at a respectful walk towards the centre of the camp. Dumnorix stood, hunched despite his bad shoulder, and glared defiantly at the two tribunes.

Furius dropped the rope. "Get in the latrines."

Dumnorix stood motionless and Fabius took a step forward, wrenching the pained man around to face the doorway, raised his leg and gave the Gaul a hefty shove with the hobnailed sole of his boot, sending him staggering forwards into the stinking leather room, where he collapsed onto his knees in the reeking muck of the churned ground.

"Juno, someone in the Eighth must have shit himself to death in here" Fabius exclaimed as the pair stepped through the gap between leather walls and hauled the prisoner to his feet, pushing him further inside, past the dogleg entrance that provided minimal privacy for the occupants.

The temporary latrine was some ten feet by fifteen, the three sides without an entrance occupied by deep turf-cut trenches that were now almost entirely filled with the unthinkable. Only one had even the slightest room left. The tent sections that formed the walls were streaked with stains and marks and the ground had long since lost any sign of its original grass, now displaying only rutted and churned mud and other less pleasant substances.

Fabius pushed Dumnorix until he fell on his knees again.

"He's still way too defiant" he said matter-of-factly.

Furius nodded. "Let's give him something to think about, then."

Reaching out, he grasped the knot that bound the man's hands together so tightly it had rubbed his wrists red raw and stained the rope with dried blood. As Dumnorix still stared silently at him, he raised an eyebrow and then, suddenly, jerked the knot upwards and over the Gaul's head. The Aeduan noble screamed in agony as his dislocated arm was almost wrenched clear of his body with the motion. At the end of the move, his bound hands were together behind his neck, still held by Furius, who began to tug them slowly down his back, putting painful pressure on his good shoulder and sending waves of blazing agony through the bad one.

Fabius leaned close to the man's face as Furius relaxed the pressure a little.

"You're going to tell us everything we want to know, you Gallic turd. I just want to make sure you understand that. We've practiced interrogating giant African thugs, Parthian zealots, drugged Greeks and even veteran Roman soldiers. You hardly present a challenge. And even if you exhausted all our techniques, there are men around more expert than us. So do yourself a favour and start singing out now, so that we can all avoid the worst of this."

Dumnorix hesitated for only a moment and then spat in his face.

Furius jerked down hard, causing a howl of pain from the Gaul. Tears flooded the prisoner's eyes.

"Care to reconsider?" Fabius asked, wiping the spit from his eye with his scarf. Dumnorix hawked to spit again but Fabius stood and moved out of his way with a shrug. "Shit face?"

"Shit face."

Hauling the Gaul painfully around, Furius pushed the man forward, flat onto his face, having positioned him carefully so that his head fell into the fullest of the latrine trenches, his face deep in the foulness. As the Gaul struggled to breathe in the muck, Furius kneeled on his back and almost casually snapped his little finger at the top knuckle.

Dumnorix howled in pain and made an unpleasant wet gargling sound.

"Nasty" Fabius commented. "Didn't want to open your mouth at this moment, eh?"

After a pause of three counts, Furius broke the next finger, slightly slower so that the dreadful anticipation could build along with the physical pressure. Another count of three and he stood, the two tribunes hauling the spluttering, coughing man from the trench. A fresh waft of foul air circulated in the partly-contained yet roofless room and both officers winced, closing their eyes.

"Ready to chat yet? Fabius asked, his voice hoarse with the conditions of the barely-breathable air.

Dumnorix coughed up a foul black liquid and then heaved and retched his guts out for a long moment. Furius and Fabius, aware of the very real possibility of their charge drowning or suffocating if they were not careful, relaxed the pressure on his arms and let him haul in a dozen ragged breaths before the grip was tightened again, pulling his arms up.

"So…" Dumnorix tried, collapsing immediately into another coughing and gagging fit. After a moment more, he straightened and took another breath. "So that you can just kill me anyway?"

Furius grinned evilly. "If you think death is what you need to be afraid of, have
you
got a surprise coming!"

Fabius nodded. "We're pretty good at this, but by the standards of some people we're still novices. There are men on the general's staff who could keep you alive for a year. 'Course you'll be half burned by then and missing most of your extremities. Your face will be lacking all its recognisable features and your remaining stumps will be all smashed and jellified. If he's got a man anywhere near as good as Pompey used to have, he can even peel off a lot of your skin and keep you going to watch it happen. You'll be
begging
for death in an hour. All we're up to here is a gentle threat. Feel like talking yet?"