Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow (35 page)

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Fronto reined in the column yet again on the interminable journey deep into the forest. Celer was cantering back along the track towards them. Sensing danger, Masgava and Palmatus joined Fronto with Samognatos at the front, waiting for Celer, who halted inexpertly, his horse dancing and stomping, his breathing heavy.

‘What is it?’

‘Company,’ Celer pointed back down the road, where it curved sharply to the left. ‘I found the side track Samognatos was talking about and was just looking at it when I heard the sound of armoured men in the distance. They were quite a bit further down the main road and moving quite slowly so I went and had a look. There must be two dozen of them, and they’re well armed Gauls. Local ones too, from the colouring.’

‘Well done.’ Fronto looked around and then to Samognatos. ‘We’re out of Condrusi lands now?’

‘Yes. This is Segni territory.’

‘Then we can’t assume they’re friendly, given that Ambiorix has been in their lands and they’re apparently tooled up for war. Equally, I’d rather not have to fight them, given that they probably outnumber us slightly, and we’d suffer a number of casualties. But… it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere here we can get out of sight with so many horses.’

He turned to Celer. ‘Can we all make it into that side track before they get here?’

‘There’s a good chance, sir.’

‘Then we’ll do that. The road’s mostly turf and mud here, so the horses aren’t making much noise. Everyone secure their mail, scabbards and helms. Try not to clank. If Celer heard their armour they could hear ours. We ride fast, get into that side track and then stop and wait, quietly.’

Without waiting for confirmation, Fronto kicked Bucephalus into action and they rode off to the bend in the road, the rest following close behind. Around the bend, the road ran straight for some distance before disappearing over a ridge and into a dip.

‘Where’s this track?’

‘Just there,’ Celer said, riding alongside and pointing ahead. Fronto peered into the gloom and spotted the dark opening into the forest on their left, which would take them away from Segni lands and towards the heart of the forest and the Eburones.

Fronto strained his ear, but couldn’t hear the approaching Belgae over the sounds of his own hooves and those of the men beside and behind him. Pushing the big black animal for an extra turn of speed, he raced down the track and, with a sigh of relief, veered off into the narrow path that led into the deeper woodland.

‘There!’ Samognatos indicated a clearing off to one side of the narrow path and Fronto nodded, nudging Bucephalus into it. Behind him, the rest of his mismatched band arrived and moved off the path into the handy clearing, sliding from their horses and holding the reins to keep the beasts quiet.

Fronto looked around the clearing and noted with some distaste the large rock standing at the farthest edge - the reason for the clearing’s existence. The huge stone, some two feet taller than him, was of rough granite, but the side facing the clearing had been sheared off and chiselled to a frieze of a bare-breasted, squat, malformed woman with a bow, a huge hound to one side, a stag by the other.

‘Isn’t that Artemis?’ Masgava muttered. ‘Diana to you?’

‘I think you’ll find that’s Arduenna. If Diana was really that shape she’d have been cast from Olympus centuries ago for upping the ugly-quotient of the divine. Let’s hope she listened to her druid friends, anyway.’

‘Shhhh!’ hissed Samognatos, who had crawled into the undergrowth near the stone. Fronto glanced across and realised that where the man lurked, the clearing went back almost as far as the main road, affording a view of the approaching Gauls between the bushes. Taking a deep breath, he gestured for everyone to be quiet and crossed the clearing, ducking into the undergrowth and joining the Condrusi scout where he crouched.

The itinerant Belgic warriors were close now, approaching along the main road, their armour clinking, swishing and jingling as they made jokes among themselves and laughed in their guttural voices. Fronto peered through the foliage. Celer had been right: they were northerners. Locals, though of what tribe he could not tell. Not Arverni, though. One thing was certain: they meant business, their torsos covered in heavy mail shirts, helms and shields in evidence and swords at their sides. It was tempting to see them as a border patrol, since they were just leaving Segni territory, but clearly that was not the case. The Gauls did not do such things, did not think in such rigid terms. Moreover, these men were moving with purpose. They were taking a fight somewhere, either into Segni or Condrusi lands.

Behind him a horse neighed loudly. Fronto’s head whipped round to see Luxinio looking panicked and embarrassed, trying to calm his steed, who was dancing around. He froze at the sound of Gallic voices raised in alarm, and slowly turned his head to peer through the greenery once more.

The warriors had halted and were pointing at the trees and talking animatedly.

‘Ah, shit,’ Fronto exclaimed under his breath as he saw one of the warriors drawing his sword. Moving back just far enough to be able to make out the figures through the leaves but provide a less ready target for them, Fronto noted with interest that they were starting to move towards the undergrowth at the side of the road. Not locals, then, if they didn’t know about the side track ahead. Turning, he gestured to Masgava, made a ‘five’ sign with an open hand and pointed to the track. The big Numidian nodded and pointed to five of the men, making his way back onto the path.

‘Arm up!’ Fronto bellowed. ‘On me!’

Ripping his glorious blade from its utilitarian scabbard, he stepped back to a more open position, waiting for the enemy to push through the undergrowth. Beside him, Samognatos had moved into a better position, while eleven men rushed across the clearing, drawing their swords and hefting their unfamiliar Gaulish shields.

Almost comically, the first of the warriors appeared through the undergrowth face-first, his broad, ruddy features framed with greenery like the mane of a strange floral lion. Even as the image sank into Fronto’s consciousness, he was lashing out with his blade, which smashed, point-first, into the man’s cheek, scattering shattered teeth and rasping across bone, tearing through muscle and tendon and sliding into the man’s brain.

The eyes widened, but Fronto had no time to pay any further attention, as the man was rudely elbowed aside by a companion, almost ripping Fronto’s sword from his grasp.

The second man leapt for him, blade glinting in the bushes and Fronto ducked to the side, shieldless and unable to parry until he’d withdrawn his blade from his last victim. It was a near thing, the Gaul’s blade whispering past his shoulder, only to meet the sword of Iuvenalis, who had fallen into position on Fronto’s left, hampered a little by the plant life. A grunt drew Fronto’s attention and his head whipped to his right to see a blade ripping towards him through the undergrowth. For a heart-stopping moment, he realised there was nothing he could do. His sword was not yet free of the falling body and he had thrown his weight to the right, out of the way of the previous strike, straight into the path of this one. Samognatos was at his side, but already busily engaged with another Gaul.

Fronto braced himself for the blow and then blinked in surprise.

The sword had stopped. He stared at the tip, only a hand-span from his eye and then looked back along the blade. The Gaul gripping it seemed equally surprised, and their eyes both dropped to the sword, where the hilt had snagged on a bramble. Frantically, the warrior waggled the hilt, trying to free it for a second strike or push it on through the greenery. Spurred into desperate action, Fronto tore his blade from the face of the fallen man and leaned back to afford himself room. Unable to bring his blade round in time, the Gaul having forced his own sword free, Fronto settled for smashing the glittering orichalcum pommel into the man’s face.

The warrior fell back among the greenery, blood spattering the leaves, and Fronto was annoyed to realise, as he moved back and righted his blade, that a small dent had been left in the smooth pommel by the Gaul’s hard head.

Bastard!

Now, more Gauls were pushing through the undergrowth, and the rest of the men were with them, lunging and stabbing into the green, shields to the fore. It was by far the best position to fight from, the enemy hampered by the tangles, while the Roman party fought mostly in the open, dealing with them as they appeared and preventing them from coming in force.

Again, Fronto had to bring his sword round and knock aside a strike from the bushes. Turning his parry into a swing, he brought the blade down through the wrist of the attacker, lopping off the hand, which fell to the earth still clutching its sword. The gladius was designed for thrusting, but a sensible soldier always kept the edges razor-sharp to allow for every eventuality.

A sudden cry from beyond the bushes announced that Masgava and his men had fallen upon the rear of the Gauls. What had been a mad push into the greenery to get to Fronto and his men suddenly became a desperate, panicked fight for survival. The men coming through thinned out as they turned and tried to deal with the new threat and Fronto, grinning, launched himself forward, crawling across the Gauls’ bodies as he pushed on towards the enemy survivors.

A quick mental count led him to the conclusion that there couldn’t be more than half a dozen of them left.

‘Masgava! Prisoners!’

Pushing himself from the bushes out onto the main road once more, Fronto took in the scene as he righted himself and brought up his sword.

Eight enemy warriors remained, two busy to either side of him, trying to halt the advance of the Romans who were now pushing through the greenery after Fronto. The other six were engaged with Masgava and his men. A legionary - Pontius, he believed - was lying on the ground with a spear protruding from his chest, wavering in the air as he shuddered, and Magurix the Gaul was still fighting, but clutched his chest with his shield hand, where a jagged rent had been torn through his mail shirt and blood had begun to stain the broken links.

The Belgae clearly had no intention of halting the fight, and despite Masgava’s best efforts to bellow an order for surrender over the din, they continued to fight like men possessed, even to the last.

With a sigh, almost casually, Fronto stepped up behind the man struggling with Masgava and brought the pommel of his sword down on the man’s head with a ‘crack’ driving the wits from him as he sank to the ground unconscious.

Giving the man a quick kick, partly to be certain of his condition, but partly through sheer irritation, Fronto turned and drove the point of his gladius between the shoulder blades of the man fighting Magurix. Now, others were at his side again, and the last of the Gauls were being hewn down like saplings.

‘Get this pissflap tied to a tree. I want to know who they are.’

The last enemy collapsing, clutching his torn gut, his men began the grisly task of going among the fallen and driving their blades into necks to be sure of the kill, then piling the bodies to the side of the road. Masgava and Iuvenalis dragged the unconscious Gaul back to the clearing and tied him up. Other soldiers appeared, dragging the form of Myron the archer from the bushes, a huge crimson bloom on his mail where the death blow had been dealt. Pontius and Numisius also seemed to be down, though the latter was still grumbling about being badly manhandled. Pontius, however, was clearly moments from the boatman’s journey.

‘Any more wounded?’

A few men shouted out, but a quick count suggested that the archer and the legionary were the only two complete losses. A few scratches and scrapes and bruises, along with Magurix, who was swearing and trying to tie his bloodied mail shirt together with leather thongs, and Numisius who seemed to have lost the use of his left arm, broken when his shield had given to a blow.

Two gone and two injured. More casualties, but not at all too bad a showing against a larger force. And all the enemy dead, barring one prisoner.

‘Luxinio, try and keep your damned horse quiet in future!’

The Hispanic slinger’s face was thunderous as he turned to Fronto. ‘Not my fault, sir,’ he snapped in his thick accent. ‘Some pisser kicked my horse and set him off. There’s bloodied stud-marks in his leg from a boot!’

Fronto frowned. ‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No sir. Too busy keeping the poor sod from bolting.’

Fronto’s glare passed around the clearing, falling on every man as it passed. It
had
to have been accidental. Who would kick a horse in that situation… unless someone here wanted them to be caught? The very idea set his teeth on edge. He would have to be very observant in the coming days and keep his guard up at all times. Palmatus and Masgava would need to be told. Other than them, only Biorix and Damionis made it to his ‘trustworthy’ list. He would have to make sure that one of them was on watch at all times. Irritating, given that all four had specific duties that could not be replaced: command, engineering and medical, and they should be excused things like watch duty.

Damnit!

A commotion drew his attention and he turned angrily to see Damionis yelling up at Magurix, his neck craned, the latter a good foot and a half taller and still trying to tie up his mail.

‘What is the problem?’ the commander snapped angrily.

‘This man will not let me look at his wound,’ the capsarius grumbled, fishing in his leather satchel.

‘I have had worse wounds shaving,’ Magurix snapped as he tied a thong off.

‘You’re bleeding profusely, man. Get somewhere soft and quiet, get that mail off and let the capsarius tend your wound.’ He pointed at the medic. ‘Anyone more urgent?’

‘No,’ Damionis shook his head. ‘Lots of minor abrasions, two men beyond my help, and a broken arm that needs splinting, but who’s not bleeding and in no immediate danger.’

‘Right. Get Magurix seen to, then deal with the arm.’

‘That was my plan, sir.’

Fronto turned his attention to the enemy warrior tied to the tree, slumped unconscious.