Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (35 page)

"But why? If…"

"Sego, you are blinded by your desire to fight these men. They are an enemy and an invader, yes, but there are many ways to scratch this itch. We cannot hold Wheat Fields against them. These people destroyed the greatest fortresses of the Belgae. We simply cannot beat them by strength of arms and we must therefore defeat them with guile."

"I do not understand" grumbled Sego sullenly, batting the cheek piece of the captured Roman helmet he held under his arm.

"Clearly. We cannot hope to defeat them, and so we must persuade them to leave us of their own volition."

"
Persuade
?" Sego gaped at his chieftain. The very idea that the great Cassivellaunus might be considering surrendering made his blood chill.

"Yes. This has all been a game of waiting, Sego. Of blocking, obstructing and demotivating. Do you really think I was planning to field an army against these people? Why then did we hound them all the way to the ford and back? Why did I throw our allies away at the river - where, by the way, you played your part admirably? With the exception of you and I and some of our more inspiring nobles, most of our people are absent. Have you not noticed?"

"I noticed that you moved our women and children to safety and made up the numbers here with the allied tribes."

"Because they are expendable. The Catuvellauni are not." Cassivellaunus stood slowly and stretched before reaching down for his huge, impressive sword. "Look not to the burning granaries, Sego. Look to the south rampart, where you will see their legions marching to quash us."

"What?"

"And that is where I have placed the Trinovantes in their bulk. Those dogs can bark and yap at the Romans and die for them. We have stretched Caesar to the limit and his army will soon break if he does nothing, but we have also strung him out long enough to close the door on another battle. At this point I simply intend to show Caesar how serious I am."

"But we
must
fight them!"

"Sego, you may join the Trinovantes at the wall if you wish, but I would sooner not see you throw away your life for no benefit. When the Romans are gone, we will have spent our allies' strength in the process and we will be the strongest tribe in these isles. The druids wish us to lend our support to our brothers across the water, but I feel their time is done. We will build our power here to ensure that the same fate as befell them will never befall us. But to do that we must be all-powerful here. Do you understand?"

"Hardly, my chief."

"Then come. Can you not hear the sounds of battle? Let us end it and all will become clear."

* * * * *

Fabius was laughing like a man possessed. Furius spared him a glance and rolled his eyes. It was not the role of a tribune to leap into the fray and bloody his sword. That much had been made abundantly clear not only by the other tribunes of the Tenth, but also by Priscus when he had expressly forbidden them from leaving the command section and getting involved in the fighting.

And yet here they were, surging up the slope, dripping, viscera-coated swords in hand, right in the thick of it. Priscus would berate them later, but he would also envy them. Once a centurion, always a centurion. It got into the blood and pushed you to become an example to the common legionary, not a horse-bound spectator.

They had bumped into centurion Atenos somewhere at the bottom of the slope, where the enormous Gaul had been busy carving a Briton into thin slices and the officer had bellowed something at them, but it appeared to be in his native language, so they had ignored him and pushed on. Carbo had caught their eye on the charge, too, but had wisely kept his mouth shut.

Again, Fabius' mad laugh cut across the battle, above the sound of killing. Furius turned in time to see him decapitate a Briton, his sword spraying blood across the advancing, struggling legionaries while his free hand lifted the head from the neck by the long, straggly mane.

One of the defenders pulled Furius' attention back to his immediate situation, leaping from the top of the rampart with an axe gripped in both hands and raised above his head. As his feet hit the ground, the blade already descending, Furius neatly stepped to one side. The axe continued to drop, gravity and momentum making it impossible to pull the blow, and it bit deep into the turf, the wielder becoming instantly unbalanced by the failed attack. Contemptuously, Furius kicked him in the side and paused only long enough to plunge his sword down through the man's back before tramping on up to the palisade.

Why were they fighting like this, the idiots? Any sensible commander would man the fence at the top and try to keep the Roman forces at bay below, but these lunatics were leaping over the defences and attacking them needlessly. It was almost mass suicide.

Another Briton lunged at him with a spear. Furius grabbed the shaft just below the head with his free hand as it passed his ear and yanked hard. The Briton, pulled forward and off his feet, tumbled away down the slope to be despatched by the mass of legionaries pouring across the wide, shallow ditch.

It was madness.

Fabius was the first at the defensive line atop the slope, grabbing a panicky defender by the shoulder and head-butting him so that the bronze rim of his helmet cracked the man's skull. A warrior suddenly appeared at the timber fence and Furius locked his gaze upon the man. Here was a leader of some sort. He was well armoured in what appeared to be a stolen Roman mail shirt, somewhat tatty and with patches of rings missing but largely serviceable, and with a strange helmet that bore similarities to a Roman design but with a ridiculous bronze bird rising from the crest and two enormous horns from which ribbons hung. He was gesturing with his sword, and Furius realised at last what was happening.

The warriors were not eagerly leaping the barrier to bring battle to the Romans. They were being sent over by their masters. Furius knew enough of the opposition by now to realise what that meant. These poor bastards were yet more of Cassivellaunus' hapless allies thrown at the Romans to keep them away. Was this nobleman one of the Catuvellauni then? A leader of the locals?

Angling himself towards the new target, he clambered up the last stretch of the slope, batting away a pathetic attack and ducking a thrown spear. His foot hit the lowest tree trunk in the defences and he leapt forward, his free hand grabbing one of the upright timbers, giving him the leverage to climb. The Briton had not yet seen him, so intent was the man on sending the lesser warriors to their doom.

He would be useful. Furius would draw a few helpful answers from him before his head went sailing from his body. With a grin, the tribune clambered onto the top of the defences and threw himself at the man.

His sheer battle joy vanished abruptly in mid-air as his target vanished from sight. Furius tucked himself automatically into a roll and hit the ground, quickly coming up to his feet and turning to try and find out where his target had instantly vanished to.

His eyes found the Briton noble quickly enough, lying on the ground, spasming his last as a Roman pilum stood proud of his chest, thrown with such force that even part of the wooden stock had penetrated the battered mail vest. His eyes tracked back over the attack and narrowed at the sight of a centurion, arm still lowering to his side from the throw.

"He was mine!"

Pullo, senior centurion of the Seventh, shrugged. "Thought I'd do you a favour.
Sir
."

Furius' teeth ground, which only brought a grin from the other man. "Best duck, sir."

The tribune did so, all the more irritated by the man's easy manner. A Briton's sword that had been meant to take his head whistled through the air and trimmed the top off his crest.

"I don't give a flying, turd-burgling badger's scrotum what you thought, centurion! That man was
mine
!"

Without looking round, he jabbed out behind with his blade and felt it bite into his attacker. Still facing the centurion, he twisted the sword and yanked it back, feeling the freedom as the man fell away in agony.

"My apologies, tribune."

"Furius! Look!"

The use of his name drew his attention and he turned to see Fabius pointing off into the settlement. Following his gesture, Furius frowned at what he saw.

A sizeable force had been committed against them here, while only a small group seemed to be dealing with the blaze off to the west, as though the granaries were not a great concern. But the majority of the place was empty space with scattered buildings, animal enclosures and the like. And in the centre, a party of riders was approaching at a casual walk, their horses stepping slowly and proudly as though at a parade rather than a battle.

"What fresh madness is this?"

"I dunno, but they've got their shields up over their heads. Reckon that means the same to them as it does to us?"

Furius shook his head in exasperation. "They're surrendering?"

* * * * *

Caesar's white mare stood calm, tail flicking this way and that as the general studied the approaching party. Next to him, Priscus, Cotta, Trebonius and Roscius sat astride their own steeds, trying to look as noble and haughtily victorious as possible. The other officers gathered behind them in an arc of crimson and silver, while the reserve cohorts of the legions fell in to attention. The majority of the army was sweeping the Wheat Valley settlement, impounding goods, finishing off the wounded and taking prisoners.

The approaching riders were, as Furius' messenger had intimated, a party of four noblemen and a dozen burly warriors. They rode with their shields above their heads and weapons sheathed in a sign that could mean all-out surrender, or perhaps just the desire to speak in a temporary cessation of hostilities. Accordingly, the Roman force continued to take full control of the settlement and was attentive and prepared near the officers.

"Which one of you is Caesar" asked a man with long red-gold hair, a golden circlet around his head, his arms covered with tattoos and whorls, his mail shirt extremely fine and costly and a strong, decorative sword at his waist.

"Cassivellaunus? Chief of the Catuvellauni?" Priscus responded with his own question.

"No" Caesar interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "That one is a druid. Cassivellaunus is the one on the right weighing me up with his eyes, next to the boy who glares at me as though I had killed his pet."

"Well done, general" the right-most Briton answered with an easy smile. "This is Almanos - as you so astutely note, a member of that most sacred people." He smiled and turned to the druid. "Go to your people, Almanos, and thank you."

The druid fixed Caesar with a long glare and finally nodded, turning to ride away. Priscus flicked a glance at the general that managed to carry the question as to whether he should intervene. Caesar gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head as the druid rode off.

"You play a strange game, chief of the Catuvellauni."

"You seem unsurprised, Caesar? But then I hear you are a thinker as well as a leader. A player of the game."

Caesar gave a light laugh that drew looks of surprise from his men.

"I could say much the same of you. You have led us a merry dance across your island only to give yourself to us so easily now?"

The chief of the Catuvellauni shrugged and glanced up at his shield. "Would you mind if I lower this now? Symbolic it may be, but it is also as heavy as a roast hog."

At Caesar's nod, Cassivellaunus lowered his shield and passed it to the young warrior with a Roman helmet and a perpetual snarl next to him.

"You speak exceptionally good Latin," noted Caesar, "and with little accent."

"We have dealt with your traders for many years. A leader must know all the tongues of his enemies. It prevents misunderstandings."

"It does."

"And I want no misunderstandings here, Caesar."

"Go on."

"This is not a surrender."

The Roman party sputtered their disbelief at the arrogance of the man, some even barking with laughter. Caesar ended the noise with a single swipe of his finger.

"You have the tone of a man who has just spotted the deadly opening in his enemy's formation."

Cassivellaunus shrugged. "I like to play games when I know I have already won, or at the worst forced a respectable draw."

"I shall be interested to hear your reasoning for that statement."

Cassivellaunus rolled his shoulders. "What I offer you, great Caesar, is the chance to claim this idiotic foray into our island as a victory and leave with your skins intact."

Several of the officers leaned forward and started to sputter their anger at once, but again Caesar cut them off with a slice of his finger.

"Tell me first why I have not simply won. I suspect I know, but I would like to have it confirmed all the same."

The Briton rubbed his neck with his hand. "In all this time, all I have done is throw valueless allies at you - simple chaff to keep you busy. The Catuvellauni are not to be found here, barring a few of us who opted to stay and command. You have won a glorious victory over the Dobunni; the Trinovantes; the Bibroci; the Cenimagni; several others who are but dogs at the feet of the Catuvellauni. If you wish to destroy our tribe, you will find it a harder proposition than the small victories you have thus far won. Even we are dispensable to our tribe and of little inherent value to you."

"I thought as much. But we have time yet" Caesar added archly.

"Not much, if you wish to cross back before autumn. And you will, I fear, find your beach camp in some disarray. You may even find you need to repair your ships again."

"Explain."

Cassivellaunus shrugged with a smile. "By now the Cantiaci and their other allies south of the great river will have launched an attack on your beach landing. They are not expecting a solid victory. They were to do as much damage as possible and then flee. I believe you are familiar with the tactic."

"You have introduced us to it at length."

"So you are tight on time to repair your fleet and return to your own shores. You certainly cannot afford the half year it would take to even bring my people to battle. And in the meantime your men starve."