Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (29 page)

He gestured at the scout as he poured another wine. ‘Where will we be best to go for information, and how far?’

Samognatos shrugged. ‘Divonanto.’ He announced. ‘The sacred valley lies upon the river Mosa, nestled beneath a mountain. There the nobles and druids alike will tell us everything that can be heard among the Condrusi.’

‘Are you sure the druids can be trusted?’

‘I would stake your life on it.’

‘That’s comforting’ Fronto grumbled in the face of that strange smile. ‘And we reckon how many days?’

‘I would say four if we rode fast and brooked no delays. With no change of horses available and a string of pack animals behind, I would comfortably estimate six days. Eight if you want to be unobtrusive and avoid encounters, which is what I am thinking?’

‘The faster the better,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Instead of making camp for the night, we’ll have three stops each day for a few hours and we can sleep in rotation. That way the horses will get more rest and we can move at a better pace.’

‘Dangerous, sir,’ Palmatus muttered. ‘Low sleep levels make soldiers less effective. Missile aim can be off, sword and shield reaction times drop.’

‘It’s a risk,’ Fronto agreed. ‘But I’m counting on avoiding running into trouble at least until after we’ve spoken to the Condrusi. We can have a proper rest once we’ve got there. But I want to get close to Ambiorix before we let up. Caesar is calling the Gaulish assembly and it won’t take long. It happens this time every year and the chiefs will be waiting for the call. And once that’s over, the army will turn back east and start to slash and burn again. We want to get as much of a head start as we can.’

‘’Scuse me, sir.’ Fronto glanced around to see Celer holding up his arm.

‘Yes?’

‘If we’s to be fair subtle and unobtrusive… well in all fairness, sir, we ain’t hardly unobtrusive, is we?’ He inclined his head meaningfully towards Masgava.

A chorus of nods greeted him and the Numidian reluctantly joined them.

‘True.’ Fronto smiled. ‘But that’s not the end of it. We’ve requisitioned from a local merchant a whole array of Gaulish trousers and long-sleeved tunics, as well as native wool cloaks, belts and boots and the like. I know some of you will baulk at the idea, but we’re going to dress native. If you have a mail shirt you can wear it, but remove any double layering at the shoulders and any accoutrements that label it as Roman. Likewise no plated belts. Leather only. I have shields for everyone in the stores, all painted up with nice Belgic motifs, and I’ve managed to lay my hands on half a dozen Gaulish helmets. Those of you with older, less decorative Roman helms can get pliers from the stores and rip off your crest holders and any decoration if you want and they’ll just about pass for Gallic at a glance. You can keep your weapons, though. Subtlety notwithstanding, I want everyone able to defend themselves at a moment’s notice. Masgava, you’ll have to keep your hood up most of the time.’

There were a number of groans at the thought of dressing in the itchy, all-encompassing Gaulish wool garments, but no open complaints.
Good
, thought Fronto.
Now we’re almost ready
.

‘Alright gentlemen. That’s it. Palmatus and Masgava have already formed you into tent groups, I understand. You will need to get to know each other well - to rely upon one another. But not right now. Right now, you need to go get some shut-eye. You’ve got nine hours to alter your kit and get some sleep before I want you all standing in the stores, raring to go and nail Ambiorix to a post.’

* * * * *

Over the four days since they had left Samarobriva, Fronto had noted a gradual change in the landscape. Slowly, they had left the wide, flat floodplain of north-western Gaul and moved into the foothills of the undulating Belgae lands. It would continue to change, he knew, becoming steadily more vertical, cut through by deep, cold rivers and covered with impenetrable forest.

The forest of Arduenna.

Priscus had warned him to steer clear of it.

‘From what I hear,’ Fronto had countered, ‘you sent Furius and Fabius out into the forest on their own to hunt men. At least I’m taking a small force with me.’

‘I think you missed the relevant fact there, Fronto.’ Priscus had smirked. ‘I
sent
men. I did not go myself and bring them along for the ride.’

Fronto had been disparaging at the time, but conversations with the men of the singulares had done little to allay his growing unease. It seemed that even the Remi were a little wary of the great forest, which was said to be home to a powerful, vengeful Belgic Goddess and protected by wicked spirits. Only the Treveri and the Eburones, who worshipped Arduenna above all, felt comfortable there. Even the Condrusi, whose land was hidden beneath the edge of Arduenna’s green veil, were wary of her, for all they prayed to her.

Still, that was a couple of days away, yet. They would not pass into the territory of the Goddess for another day or more. Here, they were in the hilly territory of the Nervii, not far from Remi lands. Here, they were inclined to be less wary, given the lack of life signs to be found. Upon returning from Caesar’s devastating campaign against the tribe only a week or more back, the Ninth had come this way and the evidence of their passing blotted the landscape every few miles. Burned, blackened villages. Empty, ruined farms. Piles of charred wood, surrounded by dismantled ramparts. And in two days of Nervian landscape not more than a handful of people to be seen, with even those weeping as they buried their loved ones or investigated carbonised houses in the desperate search for their possessions.

Fronto had agreed to an extent with Caesar’s campaign, and the Nervii had been habitual rebels, but the after-effects, now he had seen them with his own eyes, supported what Searix and Galronus had advised him. Any Gaul or Belgian who witnessed this would question the ways of Rome.

‘Stop!’ came a hiss.

Fronto almost rode into the back of Samognatos as the scout reined in sharply, close to the grey, smoke-stained bulk of a ruined farm house.

‘What?’ he demanded quietly. The Condrusi rider pointed off into the distance and Fronto followed his gesture.

‘Damn. Riders? Out here? How many?’

Samognatos shrugged. ‘More than us. And they are well armed, from the gleam of bronze and iron.’

‘They won’t be Roman out here,’ Fronto replied.

‘No. Hide your men. The riders are coming this way.’

Fronto turned in the saddle to see Palmatus and Masgava closing on him. ‘Get the men to that copse back there and hide them. Try and keep the horses quiet.

Masgava gave him a disapproving look.

‘I won’t endanger myself. I’m just taking a look. Do I have to
order
you?’

Still glaring at him, Masgava turned with Palmatus and trotted back along the track to the rest of the unit, who waited patiently. As the men made for the small knot of beech trees - tall and slender with a budding bright green starting to show amid the tops - Fronto followed Samognatos in dismounting and leading their horses into the shell of the ruined building.

Bucephalus seemed happy enough, and Fronto trusted him not to start making undue noise as he tied off the reins to a carbon-stained hinge. The scout seemed equally content to tie his horse up, and moments later the pair were edging along the sooty interior wall towards an aperture that still had one charred shutter hanging at an angle. The wide track that passed the farm and onto which they would be moving shortly was less than half a dozen paces from the window, raised on a slight causeway and unsurfaced, lacking the camber of a Roman road. Already the sound of cantering hooves was growing closer.

Fronto hunched down so that he could see through the cracks in the ruined shutter while remaining almost entirely obscured from the road. The scout found himself an equally hidden position, and the pair waited with bated breath.

Drumming hooves, and now the huff and snort of the horses. The shushing of mail and the jingle of fastenings rattling against armour and sheaths.

Fronto watched.

He had been in Gaul long enough now to tell the difference between some tribes, or at least
groups
of tribes. The Belgae tended to wear different shades to the Gauls of the west. They all had different skin and different colouring to the tribes of the south, beyond the Aedui. Some tended to strange animal shapes atop their helms, while others were more plain. Of course, he would not go so far as to say he could identify a tribe easily, but as the first rider passed, he noted their colouring instantly, which betrayed their southern origin. They were not Belgae, nor a tribe of north-west Gaul.

He glanced briefly at Samognatos without turning his head, and noted the scout narrowing his eyes in surprise at the riders.

More than twenty. He lost count as some of them were three abreast.
Certainly
more than twenty. Possibly thirty. Too small to be a war band of any kind, and they were too well armed and kitted out to be simple bandits. Their very presence here raised huge questions for Fronto and he found himself wishing he had persuaded Galronus to come along on this hunt.

And then he saw it.

A winged snake arm ring.

The symbol of Arvernus.

The last rider passed and the Gauls were gone, the sounds of thundering hooves receding into the east as the Arverni rode on.

Fronto waited for a count of fifty and then gestured to Samognatos with his hand and jerked his thumb back towards the copse where the singulares waited. The scout nodded and the two men untied their horses and retrieved them, walking them gingerly out of the ruins and scanning the horizon until they were sure that the Gauls were out of sight and earshot.

Sharing a quick glance, the two men mounted and began to ride.

‘I’m starting to think we should have taken them on,’ Fronto said breathlessly as they closed on the copse.

‘Dangerous thought,’ Samognatos replied with a raised eyebrow.

‘They were Arverni from the south. Whatever they’re doing in Nervian lands, even if it’s not connected with Ambiorix - though I am almost certain it is - it will be something underhanded that we could do with knowing. I would have liked to interrogate one.’

‘We’ll not catch up with them unless you cut loose the pack horses and we ride fast. And now you’ll have no further opportunity to set an ambush.’

‘I know,’ grumbled Fronto. ‘Shame. Confirms that we’re headed the right way, though, I’d say?’

The figures of Palmatus and Masgava appeared from the undergrowth at the edge of the small knot of trees, leading their horses.

‘Trouble?’

‘Arverni!’

Masgava frowned. ‘Same ones we met in Bibracte?’

‘No way I could tell. I wouldn’t like to discount the idea, though. Whatever the case, they’re up to no good this far north.’

‘I’m starting to think we might have been better just going with Caesar and burning the whole damn lot of them,’ Palmatus grunted, glancing quickly at Samognatos. ‘No offence to you.’

‘Arverni in the north and Ambiorix sending out ambassadors,’ Fronto sighed. ‘It’s all very dubious. I’d like to have a nice long chat with some of these people before Caesar brings the torch to bear.’

He turned to look back at the main road.

‘Let’s get to this Divonanto place as fast as we can. Even this smoking wasteland is starting to feel rather dangerous.’

* * * * *

The narrow wooded valley had descended for the last half mile or so, gradually steepening in its drop towards their destination. The muddy trail had wandered left and right between the thick trees and afforded no view of their goal until the last moment.

Samognatos the scout sat at the bend, waiting for Fronto to catch up, having spent much of the last day or two ranging a mile or so ahead in order to avoid any difficult encounters. There had been no further sign of the Arverni riders, for which Fronto was both thankful and troubled in equal measures. Now, the scout waved for his commander to join him, and Fronto trotted out along the path until he reached the bend where, as he passed the latest clump of trees, he was treated to his first view of Divonanto.

The Mosa river, wide and fast, cut a deep valley through the forested terrain, flowing from out of sight to the right, across before them and around another curve to the left. And across that torrent, nestled on the far bank in the glowing late afternoon sun that promised a good morrow, lay the sacred valley of the Condrusi.

This was no oppidum with walls of stone, earth and timber, nor was it a farmstead, undefended and poor. This was a thriving town with all the hallmarks of peaceful civilisation. Dozens of double-storey houses fronted onto narrow streets, intermittently held apart by wide, paved spaces. A wharf sat on the river’s edge, swarming with fishing boats and small trading vessels. Fronto was not sure what he had expected from a sacred place of one of the region’s lesser tribes, but this most certainly wasn’t it.

The feature that really drew the eyes, though, was the rock.

The far bank with its neat collection of streets and houses sat beneath a veritable mountain that towered up into the darkening sky. At the centre of the settlement, almost opposite the defile along which Fronto had approached, the jagged cliffs jutted out, creating a promontory with an apex two - perhaps even three - hundred feet above the settlement.

Fronto squinted in wonder up at the place. If
he
had ruled Divonanto, there would be a fortress above. Assuming a long slope away at the far side, it was perfect for defence. And given the value of this place to the Condrusi, combined with the pressing proximity of so many unfriendly tribes, such a construction would be eminently sensible.

His eyes told him a different story, though. Wattle fences were just about visible at the top, behind which jutted the regularly spaced shapes of tapering, well-tended trees. A temple, then. A ‘nemeton’ of the druids. It seemed as appropriate as a fortress, really. For all its defensive value, such a location was also a natural site to honour Gods. Romans were equally predisposed to building temples on the highest ground, after all.