Chapter Seven

 

It took less than half an hour for the elation of swift victory to wear off.

Fronto stood in the main public forum-like area at the centre of Avenna, before a large stone-and-timber construction that seemed to have served as some sort of crude curia for the Nervian ‘senate’, with a temple to one of their hairy, hammer-wielding Gods off to one side and a number of shops around the periphery, a well - where they had gathered - in the centre.

Carefully, he examined the beautiful blade in his hand, lifting it so that the pale watery sunlight gleamed on the perfect Noric steel. There was no trace of the gore that had encrusted it half an hour ago - Fronto had always been careful to clean his blade after a battle, but since acquiring the murderous tribune Menenius’ astounding gladius, he had become almost obsessive over the matter. The great Gods of Rome smiled approvingly from faces of perfect glittering orichalcum. With a sigh, he slid it into the sheath and tried to block out the activity all around him.

‘Not pretty, is it?’ Palmatus muttered, and Fronto looked around in surprise at the statement only to realise that the former legionary - now officer of singulares - was actually speaking to his counterpart, Masgava.

Palmatus had dealt with the removal of the tower’s occupants with the casual brutality of a veteran legionary with experience of more than one war, and had then returned to help hold the wall top until the army broke through the defences and began the systematic destruction of Avenna. The result was that he now stood here in his drab, dun-coloured tunic, the same as the rest of theirs, so liberally splashed and spattered with mud and blood that it was difficult to tell where material ended and skin began.

Masgava, conversely, had stood in a line of soldiers - a fighting style totally unfamiliar for an arena trained combatant - and defended the gate from all comers until Antonius’ men had swept past them and relieved the small attacking force, and yet the only marks on him were three small lines and splashes of red. His gut wound had held up and stayed closed throughout his first real action, though he complained of discomfort. He did, however, look somewhat hollow-eyed and angry. Not at the battle - death was an old friend and constant companion to the big Numidian gladiator. No… what happened afterwards was the cause of his concern.

‘Why is this being allowed?’ the big man replied with his own question.

‘Because the general wills it.’ Fronto replied in a weary voice. ‘It is in the nature of the career soldier to take every opportunity to make the most of a situation for financial gain. And beyond simple loot, some are simply too blood-drunk to stop. Their centurions will eventually take control of them and instil order, but without the general specifically forbidding it, a little looting and destruction is almost expected. In fairness, Caesar is generally quite humane in this respect. He doesn’t often approve of wanton post-battle chaos, but in light of Ambiorix and Caesar’s need for revenge, the standing orders now have changed. At least he’s forbidden random rape and murder.’

‘Some of the things I’ve seen in the last quarter hour might challenge that.’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Random, I said. The orders to hold back only applied to those who surrendered willingly. Those who choose to resist have no defence, and Caesar won’t blink twice at their fate.’

Masgava still seemed unimpressed.

Fronto turned and took in the havoc he had been blocking out. Already, sizeable portions of Avenna were aflame. While legionaries had herded the captive survivors into the smaller squares here and there and roped them together for transport to Samarobriva and then the slave markets, others had begun the systematic looting and impounding of anything of use or value. Once an entire neighbourhood had been emptied, it was fired.

Here and there warriors, women, or even children fought back. Most of them were killed on the spot by the legionaries, who had little interest in struggling with a difficult native when loot was there to be had. Many of the struggling children had escaped where the legionaries had simply let them go rather than wrestle and then murder a minor, but the women had been treated worst, as was always the case in the aftermath of a siege.

Black, oily smoke poured into the air from three neighbourhoods and the crackle and roar of flames was periodically punctuated by the crash as a building fell in. Screams and shouts and occasionally the ring of steel on iron echoed across the city.

‘What was the final number?’

‘Five,’ Palmatus said with a satisfied tone. Fronto nodded. Five losses was more than just acceptable, given what they had achieved and under what conditions. Of course, five of eighteen was more than a quarter, but still, for their success…

‘One of the Remi, three of the good old boys from your Tenth and an archer, who just managed to get his fire arrow off before he collapsed.’

‘Somehow,’ Fronto replied quietly, ‘I can’t see replacements being a problem with Antonius backing us.’

‘I take it you’ve warmed to the idea of a singulares guard then?’ Palmatus smiled.

‘They have their uses, yes.’

‘Oi, oi,’ Masgava nudged Palmatus and the three turned to look in the same direction. Fronto’s remaining ten men were gathered in a knot nearby, rubbing their arms and feet and sloshing water down the nape of their neck, while at the corner of the square legionaries were dragging a reluctant future-slave from his ravaged house. Between the two groups, though, Galronus was trotting over on horseback with half a dozen Gauls behind him.

‘Not much for cavalry to do here,’ Fronto said as the Remi officer approached and reined in. It was sometimes hard to remember that Galronus was of the Belgae. Though his hair and moustaches were long and braided, and he wore a torc around his neck and the long ‘trousers’ of the Gallic peoples, his clothing was exquisite, sewn in Rome by a craftsman at an extortionate price in fabrics acquired from as far afield as Arabia and Hispania, and dyed the madder red of the legions. Indeed, his tunic was of a Roman cut anyway, cinched with a Roman belt buckled with a silver Medusa head. He even sat atop a four-horned Roman saddle. Fronto found himself wondering whether his ever-more-Romanised friend was a talking point among the men under his command.

‘Not a good place for my people to be at all,’ Galronus grunted as he swung down from the horse and gestured to another of the riders. ‘But I thought I would let you hear this yourself.’

Fronto waited patiently, Palmatus and Masgava edging closer to listen in.

After a moment of silence, the man Galronus had invited stepped around his horse and approached with a nod of recognition. Short and wiry for a Gaul, he was instantly familiar.

‘I know him. A scout?’

Galronus nodded. ‘Searix of the Condrusi. One of the senior scouts in the army. His tribe are as loyal as the Remi, but their lands are trapped between the Nervii, the Eburones and the Treveri. Danger lurks there for a supporter of Caesar.’

‘Then he’s to be commended for sticking to his oath,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Many tribes in less difficult circumstances seem to be having trouble doing so.’

‘That’s sort of the problem, Marcus.’

‘Go on.’ Fronto had a sinking feeling as he saw the darkness in the eyes of the scout. Galronus nodded to Searix, who moistened his lips.

‘The officers say that you are a man who listens without judging.’

‘The officers,’ Fronto replied carefully, ‘apparently do not know me that well.’

Galronus gave a meaningful frown and Fronto sighed. ‘Alright. Let me guess: you have a problem with something but will not take it to Caesar either because you think he won’t listen to you, or you think he will and then won’t like what he hears?’

Searix had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.

‘Go on,’ Fronto prompted wearily.

‘This is bad for the allegiances to Rome.’ Searix indicated the burning city with a sweep of his hand. ‘For those who took oaths.’

‘It’s considerably worse for the Nervii, who didn’t. Bear in mind, Searix, that the Nervii have never even claimed to ally with us and we are under no obligation to them. Whereas the Remi and your own Carusi -’

‘Condrusi.’

‘Them too - have a standing alliance with Rome and this treatment will never be visited upon Rome’s allies.’

Again, Searix looked uncomfortable.

‘That promise is not enough?’

‘For some,’ Searix replied in a defeated voice. ‘The Remi are in no danger and enjoy Roman favour. Other tribes, though, for all their oaths and loyalties, lie in direct danger from Rome’s most bitter enemies. My people sit as an island of your Pax Romana amid a sea of rabid Rome-haters. It will not surprise you to hear that there is always a small portion of our tribe that maintains we would be better discarding our oath.’

‘Of course. In their position, I might think twice myself,’ Fronto replied. ‘But two things remain fact. Firstly: Rome will win any war she sets her mind to. The world knows this. A hundred beaten enemy peoples know this. And siding with Rome is the fast track to a glorious golden age, while facing off against her is a sure path to destruction. Secondly: breaking an oath is the act of a coward and a traitor, and just as Rome hates an oathbreaker, the Belgae are also a people founded on the nobility of spirit and the reliability of a man’s word.’

It was truth. These two facts had become instrumental in Rome’s rapid expansion over the past two centuries, and every new campaign made them more central and certain.

‘Honour,’ Searix nodded ‘is paramount to a warrior. And our tribe honours their oath. But the more we watch your army act without honour, the more voices join that minority in our tribe that condemns Rome for a butcher. This new policy of Caesar’s is destroying his reputation among his allies.’

Fronto sighed and sagged back onto the well’s lip.

‘If you think this is the be all and end-all of Roman savagery, you really have seen nothing yet. Ask a Carthaginian about Rome’s vengeance - if you can find one! And Caesar is far from the most forgiving and peaceable of Romans. But the fact remains that these are our avowed enemies, and they are suffering for their actions. No such cruelty would be visited upon an ally.’

‘The Condrusi are still your allies,’ Searix replied somewhat stiffly. ‘We will remain so as long as those of us who respect our word outnumber those who fear your betrayal. But as I say this, remember that there are other tribes out there sending you grain, supplying you with horses and warriors, guarding your backs, who will be experiencing the same difficulty as us. And some of them may have less of a grip on their oath than us. If Rome is to maintain her alliance with the tribes and continue to enjoy their support, someone is going to have to turn Caesar from this most dangerous path down which he has us walking.’

Fronto rubbed his scalp and was surprised when his hand came away stained pink. Other people’s blood, of course, but still…

‘Thank you for confiding in us, Searix. See what you can do to reassure your people. They may be trapped, but the Eburones are a shadow of what they were and the Treveri are having too much trouble with Labienus to turn on them. And of course, the Nervii are now suffering.’ He saw the darkening of the scout’s expression and held up his hands defensively. ‘Frankly, Caesar is considerably less likely to listen to me than he is to you, but I will see what I can do. To some extent, I agree with what you say.’

Searix nodded and turned, striding back to his horse.

Galronus waved away his men, and they escorted the scout back through the city, in case he be mistaken for a Nervian and enslaved or butchered. At a gesture from the Remi officer, they took his horse with them. Galronus rolled his shoulders and produced a skin of wine from somewhere about his person.

‘Today I feel the need,’ Fronto grumbled and reached out as Galronus passed it over.

‘It is more serious than it sounds,’ Galronus said quietly.

‘What?’

‘Searix down-played the trouble for your benefit. But I have heard unhappy rumblings even among the Remi.’

‘That’ll be the fault of your turd-flavoured beer,’ Palmatus snorted, earning a gimlet stare from the Remi.

‘Still, Marcus, feelings are starting to turn against Rome at the sight of burning houses, enslaved grey-beards and dead children. Some feel that Caesar went back on his word here, whatever the general says about his actual terms. If he keeps to this course, he may soon find that he is facing all of Gaul rather than a few rebellious tribes.’

‘It’s all about bloody Ambiorix,’ Fronto snapped. ‘That one man is costing us dear. Far more than the legion and a half and some senior officers he’s credited with. Even with his tribe smashed, he manages to stir up trouble against us. But worse still, he’s earned Caesar’s wrath, and we all know that Caesar is not a man to turn from a path laid down in anger. The general is set to harrow all of the north in order to flush out that little Eburone rat, and nothing we say will likely turn him away from it.’

He threw an arm out to what he thought might be the north-east.

‘Somewhere out there is a town called Asadunon. Ambiorix or his runt advisors might be there - and pray he is, as that’d end this whole mess - so be prepared. In the morning we march to Asadunon and they will be lucky if they get half as good treatment as the people of Avenna. And it will continue to get worse until Caesar has his hands around Ambiorix’s neck and squeezes.’

‘Then something needs to be done.’

The four men fell silent for a long moment and finally Fronto grunted and stood, passing the wine skin back to Galronus. ‘I am going to find Antonius and try and pass this news on as nicely as possible. Thank you, Galronus. And you two? Best get everyone back to camp and rested and fed. We’ll be on to Asadunon first thing tomorrow. And start asking around for five replacements for our losses. Looking at the situation after the last fight, we could do with someone who knows their way around a poultice. Find a capsarius – preferably one who ignores orders from his patients. They’re the good ones.’

Masgava and Palmatus nodded and Fronto turned and left, seeking the army’s second most senior officer. Galronus shook his head sadly. ‘This gets worse year upon year. Four summers ago, when my tribe were first tied to Rome, we saw a future of mutual benefit, with greatness for us all. We made our mark in Caesar’s ledger, as did others, but we thought that by now there would be a lucrative peace. Instead we exist in a state of interminable war. I have seen enough of Rome now to know that there is no point in turning away from you. You will win in the end, and we are better to accept the tunica and the wine now and benefit than to disappear from the histories in a swathe of blood. But how long can this land stand continual war before it becomes a waste ground habitable only by scavengers and ghosts?’

Palmatus and Masgava seemed to be having an unspoken conversation, their brows and eyes doing most of the work. Galronus narrowed his own. ‘What are you two up to?’

‘You’re right, Galronus. Something must be done. And I think we know what it is.’

‘Care to elucidate?’

Palmatus shook his head. ‘Not at this point. But could you do me a favour? We need to replenish our men and - though Fronto wants a capsarius - I’d like to take on four of the five from Gallic stock. I’ll look into the Thirteenth and Fourteenth when we get back to them, since I hear there’s a lot of staunch Gauls among them. But I’d like another of your Remi, and one of the Con… the men from Searix’s tribe… if you can arrange that for me. Preferably one of the cleverest and quietest.’

Galronus’ already narrowed eyes almost closed with suspicion.

‘I will see what I can do.’

Masgava grinned. ‘I like the way you think, Palmatus, my friend.’

 

* * * * *

 

‘That is an oppidum?’ Antonius snorted.

‘After Avenna, it lacks a certain something, does it not?’ the scout said quietly. Galronus, sitting next to Searix, peered off into the mist, nodding at the other horseman’s words. The weather had warmed somewhat this morning for the march, but a thick, fleecy mist had overlaid the entire land and seemed unwilling to dissipate, or even to thin a great deal.

The party of a dozen senior officers, plus scouts and bodyguards, sat on a low rise with the best view afforded of the oppidum of Asadunon in the obfuscating mists.

It was, as Searix had noted, lacking.

Defence-wise it had a low rampart of the more basic form: a tall timber palisade, revetted with an earth bank that produced a walkway atop. The single gate - this place hardly needed more than one - was a simple matter of two wooden leaves that closed and barred. No walkway over. No tower.

There did not appear to be anyone on the walls, though the mist made everything uncomfortably indistinct.

Of the apparent size and complexity of the oppidum the scouts had reported less than a hundred inhabitants at an estimate, and perhaps forty houses. No public buildings or the like. No towers on the palisade for the entire circuit. Fronto estimated that a single century could overrun the place faster than they could put up their tents.

‘Tell me of the other compound,’ Caesar commanded quietly, his voice slightly muffled in the fog.

‘There is a sanctuary to Epona, the Lady of Horses, to the north. It is perhaps half a mile distant and the two compounds will probably be hidden from one another in the mist. The sanctuary has a similar defence system to this, a temple and a nemeton, both cared for by perhaps a dozen men.’

‘Do we take Asadunon first and risk our prey fleeing if they are in the druidic centre, or move on and attempt to take the religious compound and the village simultaneously?’ Antonius asked quietly.

‘Speed is now of the essence.’ Caesar sighed. ‘The more we tarry, the more chance there is of the Nervii becoming aware of our presence and our quarry escaping.’

‘If they’re here,’ Fronto noted sourly. Caesar gave him a sharp glance, but said nothing in reply. It was a possibility that had been discussed under people’s breath all day.

‘Take the cavalry out in an arc and secure the druids.’ Caesar gestured to Galronus. ‘One wing should be sufficient and your men will be comfortable in the terrain.’ He shifted his glance to the former legate of the Tenth. ‘Take Fronto with you - he seems to have acquired a talent for opening up tight-sealed clamshells.’

It was, Fronto noted, the first time since his arrival at Samarobriva that the general had actually indicated that Fronto was both present and of value. Despite the dark, unfriendly voice in which the general had addressed him, it was progress.

With a quick nod to Masgava and Galronus, who sat astride horses some twenty paces away, Fronto turned Bucephalus and walked the big black beast back towards the waiting army. The small knot of Fronto’s singulares who had been exchanging looks of mutual distrust with Caesar’s own Praetorian guard, turned their mounts with varying degrees of skill and bumbled after him like some sort of comedy troupe that would entertain arena-goers before the main events. Masgava had insisted that if Fronto was to be mounted it made sense for his singulares to acquire horses too, else how could they be expected to protect him. The decision had been warmly accepted by the Gauls, who were all-but born in the saddle, and by a few of the others, who either had experience on horseback in earlier life, or who simply relished the idea of not marching from A to B to C. Others were less impressed. Most particularly Palmatus, who clung to the fact that he would rather walk a thousand miles than ride a hundred. In the end, Masgava’s logic had overridden his defiance, and even Fronto could not find a reasonable argument against. The singulares were now a mounted troop, courtesy of Galronus’ gifts.

As the group closed on Galronus’ wing, Fronto pulled alongside the Remi officer, Palmatus and Masgava behind him.

‘It’s exceedingly unlikely that Ambiorix is here. Even if he is in the area, he won’t be around the druids.’

‘Oh?’

‘Remember that nobleman back at Bibracte? He was a friend of the druids but no friend of Ambiorix, apparently. If that’s the case, Ambiorix will not be here.’

The Remi noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘You realise that druids are not going to meekly surrender?’

‘A dozen men? I have more than that number of singulares, without your thousand cavalry, Galronus.’

‘But you must take at least one of them alive, for Caesar to interrogate.’

Fronto nodded. ‘I’ll do you a favour. None of your lads are going to be stunningly happy at ravaging a sacred grove. You lot surround the place and prevent escapes and we’ll go in and deal with it.’

Galronus nodded. It would sit better with his men not to be arresting and executing druids.

Moments later, they were moving off along the route the native scouts had taken, down into the shallow dip that led in a gentle curve around to the west of Asadunon, and then out onto a gentle incline that rose to the north beyond.

The terrain here looked like a ruffled blanket, with gentle humps and dips. The analogy brought back a flash of memory, and Fronto had a mental image as clear as day of the gentle and soft-spoken Crispus sitting opposite, surrounded by their friends, some three years ago and a lifetime away.

‘This land is somewhat like a lumpy sleeping pallet,’ the young legate had said. ‘You cannot sleep comfortably, so you have to flatten out the lump, but then a lump forms somewhere else. No matter what you do, there will always be a new lump forming somewhere. And the more you play with it, trying to make it comfortable, the more lumps you have until, in the end, there is nothing else for it but to discard the pallet and begin again with a new one.’

Asadunon and the Epona shrine were yet another bump in this seemingly-interminable lumpy pallet. And Crispus. Poor, young, promising Crispus, had been brutally murdered by Gallic traitors. A lump to be flattened. Caesar’s current policy may be dangerous, but there were times when Fronto could hardly deny the pull of it. Crispus would never rest well until revenge had been taken.

‘You stay safely outside. I’d send my Belgic singulares out with you, but they have to be reliable, and I have to know that they will do what must be done.’

Again, Galronus nodded.

As they neared the top of the slope they slowed, remembering the words of the scouts. Asadunon was now lost in the mist almost half a mile to the south. The white blanket that covered the rumpled pallet of the land deadened noise so effectively that he could hear no sign of the thousands of men less than a mile away, moving to take Asadunon.

At the crest of the low hill, they were afforded their first view of the shrine compound of Epona.

A low rampart with a palisade surrounded a circular area perhaps fifty paces across. Despite what the scouts had said, the rampart here was, to the experienced eye of a Roman officer, nothing like the one that enclosed the village. This was lower and simpler. More a social divide than a defence. Inside, the trees had been trained into two concentric circles, surrounding what appeared to be a paved, central oval, bounded by low steps and squat standing stones. At the northern end stood a small hovel - a shrine apparently, built in the stone-and-timber style of almost all northern Gallic structures. There appeared to be tall wooden posts standing to either side of that temple building, and half a dozen other structures evenly-spaced around the outer edge.

Only two figures were visible from here, both at the near edge of the central oval, one seated on a stone, while the other appeared to be raking or hoeing the ground. It looked so sickeningly peaceful and pleasant that Fronto had momentary cause to doubt his plan. Only momentary, though. Images flashed through his mind of druids cursing him, defiant as they drove the Gauls to rebellion, of the maiming and burning of horses and riders by Germanic priests back in their first year in Gaul, of that bastard druid with the sword and the iron crown in Britannia who had tried to carve him into a new shape.

Don’t be fooled by their apparent pacifism! He grunted to himself.

‘How do you want to do this?’ Galronus muttered.

‘Quickly and simply. Send your men out in both directions and surround the place, then close in until you’re just outside the rampart. In this fog there’s little chance of us getting a signal and Asadunon could already be under attack. We’ll go straight in.’

Galronus nodded and, with a couple of simple gestures, sent his riders off to the east and west to surround the sacred enclosure.

Fronto looked back at his small force. They were still short three men, until they returned to the rest of the army - Palmatus and Masgava had been adamant about saving space for someone, but with sixteen in total, and all fighting men, they could hardly expect trouble from a dozen priest-folk.

With the assurance of a force superior in every way, Fronto and his singulares rode down the gentle slope and towards the gate which still stood wide open. As they approached the defences, Fronto felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. For a moment, he chided himself on his over-superstitious nature, but then Bucephalus wrenched his black head this way and that, his muscles bunching unnecessarily, breath coming in short heavy snorts, steaming in the air, betraying his state of heightened nerves.

The shiver began and Fronto noted that several of his companions were looking apprehensively back and forth. The place was exuding an almost tangible aura of something unpleasant, and everyone felt it, especially the horses.

‘There’s no wildlife,’ Masgava whispered on his left side. Fronto cocked his head. There was certainly no birdsong and no rustle in the grass or undergrowth, but that was not necessarily a surprise, given the conditions.

‘Could be entirely natural.’

‘Why are the horses nervous?’ Palmatus added, struggling to control the steed over whom he had minimal mastery at the best of times.

‘Same reason as us, I guess.’

‘But isn’t this a shrine to a horse Goddess?’

Fronto’s shiver came back and brought some friends.

‘Swords out, lads. Something’s amiss.’

The men around him unfastened the carrying straps and lifted their shields from their backs, each still encased in its leather cover for travelling, shouldering the shields and drawing their swords.

Knowing that despite his nerves it was his duty to enter first, he pushed Bucephalus out front, Masgava and Palmatus hurrying to join him, the rest following on closely.

The gate remained open. There was no sound of movement from within. No shouts of alarm or running feet. All there was, floating almost ethereal on the top edge of the air, was a haunting melody of strings and a hollow, childlike voice, raised in sad song.

The family of shivers formed into a thorough, spine-tingling shudder as Fronto passed across the threshold of the sacred site and between the carefully manicured trees towards the central oval. It reminded him - somewhat unpleasantly - of walking down a darkened corridor to enter the oval floor of an arena, something he’d done once or twice in his life.

‘Can we just leave and say there was nothing here?’ muttered Palmatus, his horse struggling for dominance over the rider. Even Masgava, a master horseman, and a man Fronto had never yet seen fazed by anything, looked distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Just be prepared. Things could turn horribly ugly at very short notice.’

The Roman force, walking their beasts, moved into the centre of the sacred enclosure and Fronto reined in close to where they had observed the two men. A long rake stood leaning against one of the taller stones, the gravelled ground surrounding the oval ‘arena’ perfectly weeded and raked flat and neat. The taller figure had disappeared. The shorter one was still seated on the stone and Fronto now realised, as they closed on the youth with the delicate lyre, picking out a sad tune and warbling along to it, that it was a girl. With surprise, he found himself suddenly re-evaluating his plans. The death of pre-pubescent girls was not high on his list of priorities, whatever her religion or people.

While his eyes took in every part of the nemeton, a part of him wondered what the tune was, though a quick glance at the Remi and the Condrusi among his party suggested that he’d be better off not knowing. The colour had drained from their faces.

Despite the eerie stillness and the neatness of the place, there was a faint aroma of horse dung that they had not brought with them. Remembering the nature of this shrine, Fronto wondered if Epona had sacred horses in her groves and - if so - were they in one of the huts rather than roaming free among the trees?

Shudder.

‘This compound,’ he announced, his voice cracking irritably, ‘is now under the control of Rome, as is the oppidum of Asadunon across the hill.’

The girl seemed to ignore him completely, continuing her song. The reaction unnerved him more than ever. Quietly, he turned to the nearest of the Remi riders, who looked close to panic.

‘Your druids have girls with them?’

‘Uidluia.’ The man announced, his voice shaky.

‘And for those of us with less command of Gaulish?’

‘A seer-poet, sir. Revered. Blessed. Sacred.’

Well, Fronto thought to himself, he had wanted to test the loyalty and obedience of his new unit, and this looked like it would probably be the strongest test he could ever throw at them.

‘You,’ he gestured. ‘Girl? Where are the others?’

Expertly edging the lyre into the crook of her elbow so that she could continue the tune one-handed, the girl used her other to point to the small temple of Epona on the far side of the oval. He gestured to the capsarius in his group.

‘Damionis, come out front and watch her. Don’t hurt her.’ His words seemed to resonate well with his Belgic men, and they settled their skittish horses as best they could, as the reedy, pale figure of the capsarius rode out to the girl.

Fronto gestured for Masgava and Palmatus to follow him and, dismounting, he led Bucephalus to one of the larger standing stones which had iron rings driven into it, almost as if designed for a hitching post.

The three men continued on foot, crossing the oval and approaching the shrine. The structure was the same as most of the better class of Gallic buildings - of stone courses half way up the door frame, and then of timber and thatch. A step up from the wattle and daub of peasant dwellings, but still poor compared to the great temples of the Roman world. There were no windows in evidence, and the door was shut.

Fronto quickly pictured every possibility, from hidden archers in the darkness to traps devised to behead in the doorway, and approached the door nervously, reaching up with his free hand, the other wrapped whitened around the hilt of his glorious sword.

He swung the door open…

…and had to swallow down the bile that rose to his mouth. The smell of an abattoir hit him in the face, filling his nostrils with the stench of meat and blood and faeces and flies. He took a step forward, coughing up bile, and his foot skidded on the mess that had leaked as far as the door on its way outside. After all, the small temple was at least a finger-breadth deep in liquid.

But the source of that liquid…

Both Palmatus and Masgava gasped behind him.

The two horses, which had apparently been fine beasts, had been killed quickly, with a slice across the throat, but someone - actually at least three someones from the animals’ size - had taken the time and effort to prop them in a pose, slumped to either side of the old woman, their big, sad, dead heads on her lap. The woman had removed her own tongue and then cut her own throat, as was evident from the open mouth, the sheets of blood, and the knife still gripped in her hand.

It was a grotesque parody of the frieze that stood behind her, spattered with their blood, which showed the Goddess Epona with her twin sacred horses by her side, nuzzling her.

Around the floor were the rest of the druids and helpers from the shrine, all suicides, apparently - no warriors like that British nightmare with the crown, just old men in robes.

Getting as much of a grip on himself as possible, Fronto leaned down and prised open the mouth of an ancient, grey-bearded man, confirming his fears. The druid had also removed his tongue before slitting his own throat.

‘What in the name of seven hills of shit happened here?’ Palmatus breathed as he stepped back into the light with Masgava.

‘Defiance.’ Fronto sighed as he stepped out and joined them. ‘Defiance and certainty. They’re informing us they will never be taken alive, and the tongues are to be certain that they will never talk to us, whatever world they find themselves in. Stupidity.’

‘Why the girl alive, then?’

Fronto shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but let’s get her back to the army before…’

He heard a shout and turned to look across the oval arena, his heart sinking as he realised all too late that the song had ended just as they stepped back outside. He had only moved two steps before the dead girl fell from the stone, the lyre clattering across the ground beside her. The capsarius had leapt from his horse and run across, not quite in time to catch her.

‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ he yelled at the rest of his singulares. But he knew the answer. Well he knew it for two answers: None of them had expected it. And even Damionis, close by, had failed to react in time, so entranced was he by her song. And even if they’d had a week to react, the Remi who were nearest would not have stopped her. While he could easily throw his weight around and bring them up on charges, in all fairness, Fronto was not at all sure that he’d have stopped her in the same circumstances. There was something almost otherworldly about the whole event.

‘Saddle up. Ambiorix’s men are long gone and Asadunon is dead to us. We’ll find out nothing here, so let’s get back and hand the good news to Caesar.’ He looked down at Damionis. ‘You can’t help her; or any of the others.’

Reaching out to untie Bucephalus, he breathed deep of the fresh, misty air, trying to clear his nostrils of the stench of death and his throat of the taste of bile. He tried not to look down at the girl’s twisted, leaking corpse as he passed. The sooner this land was under Roman control the better, if only to get rid of the damned, sickening, idiotic and dangerously-unbalanced druids!

 

* * * * *

 

‘So what now?’ Antonius sighed, leaning against the gatepost of Asadunon and watching the last of the slaves being led away. The legionaries were occupied removing anything of value from the village, torching the buildings and tearing down the ramparts. In an hour’s time all that would remain to show that Asadunon had existed would be an encircling mound and a pile of carbonised timbers.

The general, his face lined with fatigue - and bubbling, barely subdued anger - looked around at his senior officers.

‘Since there is no sign of Ambiorix or any other Eburones here, we need to turn our attention beyond the Nervii. Their power centre is gone, the place of their treaty is empty and burned. Our trail has run cold and left us at their most distant border empty-handed.’

‘So which tribe is next?’ Rufio asked quietly. Despite having looked over the maps whenever he’d had the chance, the new officer still had only a tenuous grasp of tribal geography.

‘The Menapii,’ Priscus sighed where he leaned beside Antonius.

‘Is that a problem?’ Rufio asked, seeing the weary look on the camp prefect’s face.

‘We’ve gone at them before, but they just melt away into the delta and the forest and swamps like fog on a hot day - which I wish this was, incidentally. Then it’s a matter of hunting down and taking out endless small settlements on reedy islands or hidden in wet woods. Awful.’

‘And for which we need more men,’ Fronto noted. Even Caesar nodded at that.

‘The army will return to Samarobriva and wait for the arrival of the new legions,’ the general said finally and decisively. ‘Then we will have adequate forces to root out the Menapii and find the miserable little Eburone king. But I want the Nervii thoroughly downtrodden first. We have broken them, yes, but we broke them once before, and they simply rose whole again. This time I want them to be flattened and cowed and never able to rise beyond the ground. The army will divide: each legion - along with a quarter of the cavalry and adequate scouts - will take a different route back to Samarobriva, through Nervii land. Every Nervian settlement you find - regardless of size or importance - is to be enslaved, looted and burned. When we meet once more at our base of operations, I want to know that nine of every ten Nervians is face to face either with his Gods or with our slave traders.’

Fronto threw a meaningful glance at Antonius. After Avenna, he had spoken to Caesar’s friend about the concerns of the allied Gauls, and Antonius had wholeheartedly agreed with the problem, promising to speak to the general as soon as the opportunity arose.

Antonius took a moment to notice his look and then frowned in confusion. Fronto mouthed three words at him. ‘GAULS’… ‘BURNING’… ‘TROUBLE’.

Antonius shook his head dismissively, and Fronto ground his teeth for a moment and then took a deep breath.

‘General, if you continue to do unto the Belgae what Rome did to Carthage, you’re going to lose the support of the allied tribes. They grow restless.’

Caesar turned a cold look on him and Fronto rose to the bait, suddenly overwhelmed with the idiocy of his being here if he wasn’t to even be consulted or listened to, let alone given a command.

‘I know! You’re not happy with me. We all know it. It’s not a surprise to any man here, General, but the fact remains that whether you think you need me or not, you do need the allied tribes.’

‘Our forces still outnumber our enemies now, even without the allied tribes,’ Cicero said airily.

‘Not if you add those allied tribes to the enemy!’ Fronto snapped in reply. ‘Then it starts to look a little ropey, I think you’ll find. I only advocate a more restrained approach. As the medicus would say: ‘surgical’. You’d stand more chance of removing a gut worm with a knife than a mallet, if you get my drift.’

Antonius was glaring at Fronto, but Caesar simply narrowed his eyes.

‘I’d forgotten how outspoken and contrary you can be, Fronto, but you do have a point. Very well. You have proved yourself as resourceful as ever so far, so you find me a way to excise Ambiorix with a knife, and I will consider withdrawing the mallet. But if you cannot do so, I will continue with this course until either Ambiorix kneels before me or the entire northeast of this land is a smoking ruin.’

Fronto felt a small hard gem of hope somewhere deep inside. For the first time, Caesar had actually listened to him. Now he had to come up with some sort of plan, and a damn good one, if he was to halt this swathe of destruction sweeping across the Belgae.

‘Now attend your legions, gentlemen.’ The general straightened. ‘We march as soon as the slaves and booty are on the move. All proceeds when we return to Samarobriva will be divided as spoils among the men. Your legions will appreciate this, so bear it in mind as you pass like a cleansing fire through the Nervii. Every sestertius you tear from those benighted settlements will improve the mood and loyalty of your men. Now: off, gentlemen.’

As Caesar and the other officers dispersed, returning to the staff group or their individual forces, Antonius strode across to Fronto.

‘You have Gods’ awful timing, Marcus.’

‘You said you would speak to him!’ Fronto snapped in retort.

‘And I did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that the best way to help the Condrusi of your scout friend is to remove the threat from their border. If we keep going as we are, whatever their dissenters think, we’ll have removed the Nervii from the map, and that will give the Condrusi some breathing room - a cowed Nervii to the north and a preoccupied Treveri to the south, courtesy of Labienus. And if Caesar moves on to the Menapii and then the remains of the Eburones, we’ll have freed the Condrusi from danger entirely. Then we could even smash the Treveri.’

‘You’re talking about genocide here, Antonius, and of more than one tribe.’ The smell of wine on the senior officer’s breath was strong, and possibly even the stench of Gallic beer? When had he found the time? They’d been marching all day and then fighting! Fronto was impressed in a slightly worried way, Even at the times when he was deepest in the arms of Bacchus, he couldn’t have found the opportunities Antonius did. Probably wouldn’t have been able to stand, either!

‘The genocide of more than one enemy tribe,’ corrected Antonius, showing no sign of inebriation, ‘freeing up room for our allies.’

‘And there’s no guarantee that Caesar burning every house in the north will get him Ambiorix. In fact it’s more likely to push him into hiding or across the river to the dubious, white, flabby bosom of the Germanic peoples.’

‘Caesar is the one who cares about Ambiorix, Fronto - not me. My job is to make this campaign a success for him, and crushing these rebellious Belgae is part of that. If you want to go rooting out his obsession like an ‘attack ferret’ that’s up to you, Fronto, but I’m going to keep this war on course.’

With a last defiant look, Antonius turned and stormed away after Caesar.

Fronto spotted Masgava and Palmatus with the rest of his men standing not far away, looking tense. Quickly, once more grateful that his knee was strong again and his marching speed better than he could remember, he strode across to them.

‘Alright you two. Start thinking of any way we can get to Ambiorix. I want to come up with a near-to-fool-proof plan before we reach Samarobriva so that I can present it to Caesar. If we want to stop Gaul burning, we need to think hard and fast.’

‘Already way ahead of you there, Fronto!’ Palmatus said, winking at Masgava.

‘Do tell.’

‘We’ve been thinking on something along those lines,’ Masgava admitted. ‘Sometimes a large force can be a handicap. After all, you wouldn’t send a bull down a hole to catch a rabbit, would you?’

‘I just got called an ‘attack ferret’ by Antonius. Be careful how you proceed with this conversation!’ Fronto warned with a dark look.

‘And when we get back to Samarobriva,’ Palmatus added, ‘you might note a Gallic theme to your singulares.’

Fronto frowned. He had an inkling what they were suggesting, and it was a thought that had been rattling round his subconscious too. ‘Let’s go see Galronus. If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, he could be of great help.’